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Familiar steps took Alphinaud down the avenues of Ishgard, and to the Pillars where he could see the alicorn spire of House Fortemps. Familiarity, and nothing else, because Alphinaud had given no thought to navigation – his thoughts were already too occupied, treading the same dreary ground over and over since he learned Minfilia might never return. As he passed the lords and ladies promenading in the afternoon air, he caught snatches of conversation, hushed and whispering, or loudly tutting about the whole business at Camp Dragonhead and the bungled peace talks.
Peace had seemed so possible, just a scant few days ago. Still stumbling on its feet, but held aloft, like a child on a dragon’s wing.
But Alphinaud no longer had the excuse of ‘reconnaissance’ for eavesdropping. Simply morbid curiosity, a self-punishing impulse to hear how bad things could get. The Pillars were abuzz with the most cynical speculation, and Alphinaud couldn’t keep it from assailing his ears or infecting his outlook. What if this all falls apart?
What if Ysayle’s sacrifice was for nothing?
He was trying, and failing, to block it all out when a childish voice pierced through the clamor – a voice directed at him . “You’re not still mad at me for tricking you, are you?”
It was Lord Hamlet. The Warrior of Light’s nephew, leaning on some lord’s garden wall, proffering a sheepish, peacemaking smile.
“No,” Alphinaud said. Though that was less than truthful. “Not entirely . I suppose the fault is mine for assuming anyone is who they say they are — I know it to be naive of me.”
“I never lied to you, exactly. It wouldn't have been as fun if I did.”
“Then are you here to have more fun at my expense?”
“No! Not entirely …” As Alphinaud turned away, Hamlet hastily side-stepped him, spinning around so they stood face to face. With his long Elezen limbs it looked strangely graceful, like a move in a dance. “I wanted to talk to you. What are you up to now? Are you going to the Grand Melee?"
“I … thought it best to take some time for reflection,” Alphinaud confessed. Calmly, he hoped. “I trust the Warrior of Light to comport himself well, but I cannot help but ruminate on the losses left behind us. It makes it … difficult … to step confidently into the future.”
“ Ah .” Hamlet nodded as though he understood – no matter how opaque the words sounded to Alphinaud himself. He was still fumbling in grief, and no words seemed to suit. “I think that way sometimes, too. When Lord Helsingore goes to war with the dragons, I wonder whether he’ll come back … I even wonder whether it would be better if he didn’t go. There are a lot of orphans in Ishgard, you know. It’s hard to be surrounded by heroes and watch so many of them fall.”
“You call your father Lord Helsingore , even when you’re not playing a servant?”
“He’s still my lord. You dress like a lordling, isn’t it the same for you?”
Alphinaud didn’t think his father would approve of anything he’d done in Coerthas, for the sake of peace or no — but no matter. What mattered to Alphinaud was that … “These clothes were tailored for me,” he said, “by a dear colleague and friend.”
“Which is something artistic lordlings say. Trust me – I am one. Your father’s someone important enough to be called lord somewhere, if at age sixteen you have friends you call colleagues who privately tailor fashionable clothing for you. Am I wrong?”
“That implies …” Alphinaud struggled to grasp what it implied, but whatever it was, he didn’t care for it. “Regardless, I don’t dress this way because it’s the fashion. I dress this way because it is cold in Ishgard and … my friend is thoughtful, and has good taste.”
“Oh, you’re cute .” Hamlet laughed long and lilting at him. “Are you blushing? Because I called you fashionable? Please tell me that’s a real blush.”
“I will tell you no such thing. Even if it were true … how could I confirm it? I cannot see my own face.”
This was silly . It reminded Alphinaud of how little time he spent with children his own age – were all of them this silly? (All of them other than Alisaie, of course. But even she could be … challenging.)
“It’s as plain as the nose on your face. Here.” Moth-light, Hamlet brushed his fingers over Alphinaud’s cheek. “You’re warm! It must be a blush!”
“Your hands are cold !” yelped Alphinaud.
Quick as the shout, Hamlet pulled himself away. His arms folded tight over his chest, keeping his hands imprisoned, harmless. “Sorry,” he mumbled. He suddenly sounded very young, and looked … very small.
Only Alphinaud’s age, wasn’t he? And here was Alphinaud, thinking he was above it all because his concerns dwelled higher than fashion and fathers. “ I am sorry,” he made himself say. “I should not have raised my voice at you. It was … unmannerly.”
A stifled laugh. “Spoken like a lordling.”
Alphinaud rolled his eyes.
“Sorry! Sorry. Please don’t be mad?” Hamlet held his hands up, as if – what? As irritating as the young lord Hamlet could be, Alphinaud wasn’t about to summon Carbuncle over it. But Hamlet cowered when Alphinaud glared at him, and his hands shrunk back to shield his face. All because Alphinaud raised his voice?
Hamlet’s uncle behaved much the same way, come to think of it. The Warrior of Light battled primals without fear, but when tempers frayed and voices raised, he went still, and quiet. He held his hands up to show them empty, or folded them behind his back.
Alphinaud admired the Warrior of Light’s equanimity, his refusal to be drawn into an argument — but now he wondered whether, growing up in the same household, Hamlet and his uncle simply grew to fear the same things. Not dragons, but something closer to home.
With a sigh, Alphinaud tried again. “Why was it you wanted to talk to me?”
Hamlet unfolded himself, lowering his hands from his face. He looked at Alphinaud straight on, and Alphinaud could see Hamlet’s eyes were moon-grey and clear – like the Warrior of Light’s. “Not to have fun at your expense. I just think you’re intriguing, and cute when you blush. And you,” he said, “really don’t know when someone’s flirting with you – sorry.”
That made Alphinaud blush. “I would venture to suggest you are not very good at flirting , if your flirtations can be construed as insults.”
“Oh, so can you do better?” A smile returned to Hamlet’s lips, eyes light and merry with mischief. “Can you show me? No, don’t worry – I can see you don’t want to flirt. What’s on your mind?”
Pacing and brooding did little to improve Alphinaud’s mood. He might as well speak his mind. “What you said earlier, about being surrounded by heroes … perhaps I feel the same. I greatly admire my friends and colleagues for the risks they willingly take upon themselves, but I still wish I could do more for them. I wish I could keep them safe, and whole, and wholly themselves … but there’s precious little I can do. I have my words, what good they are, and my knowledge, but it seems there is always someone who knows more , and I never know enough . Yes, I come from a family of some means, but means alone can only go so far. Indeed, it’s when I make use of my means that I cause my friends the most trouble. I caused your uncle no end of trouble in Ul’dah, because of my folly.”
“You mean,” Hamlet asked, affecting wide-eyed innocence, “Lord Claudius didn’t assassinate the empress of Ul’dah in cold blood?”
“You know he didn’t. The empress of Ul’dah is attending the Grand Melee.”
“I’m joking, I’m joking. It’s the way people talk around here. They’ll believe any terrible rumor about Lord Claudius — that’s not your fault. I even believed it for a while. I thought if I talked up how evil he was, then my father would stop comparing me to him.”
“Did that work?”
“No, not at all. I have my own flaws to be lectured over, anyway.”
“You aren’t that much alike.” Other than the wry, cutting humor. And the aversion to direct conflict, preferring to snipe at their enemies from afar … but Hamlet looked more comfortable now, and Alphinaud still had to explain why his jokes cut so cruelly. “After Ul’dah,” he said, “I was mired in melancholy. When one’s best efforts end in failure, it’s tempting to give up entirely. Were it not for Claudius moving us forward, and for our friend Tataru who noticed my difficulties in the cold … I might have lost hope. I owe a great debt to them, and to House Fortemps. Yet I know there’s not an amount of money I can pay to deserve the friends I have. So … perhaps it stings, to have you attribute their friendship to nothing more than proof I come from privilege. It is a privilege to know them, but it has nothing to do with my father, or …” Or did it? Alphinaud used to believe his friends at school had nothing to do with his father, but more often than not, they did. He had fans, more than friends, when all he’d wanted was to draw well enough to impress his classmates by the merit of his skills.
Hamlet watched Alphinaud grow more and more flustered, turning arguments and counterarguments in his head. With surprising kindness, the young lord leaned in and asked, “Do you want to know the real reason I had to talk to you again?”
“I can’t imagine.”
“You told me I didn’t have to be ashamed to be myself.” Hamlet laughed – that was it. He spread his arms wide, baring all secrets. “No one’s ever told me that before – ever. If you can give that to your friends, if you can allow them to be more themselves, and support them full-heartedly … that’s better than being strong or smart enough to keep them out of trouble. Your belief could be what gets them out of trouble, when they need it the most.”
Did Alphinaud say that? He did, when Hamlet was pretending to be someone else, casually discussing his ‘young lord’ who always seemed to be in trouble with his father. Alphinaud felt compelled to defend the young lord Hamlet, who he presumed wasn’t there to defend himself. It didn’t occur to him until now how much that defense could mean. “Did I … really affect you so strongly?”
“Yes! To some people, words like yours … they could feel like a reason to exist. To keep trying, to have hope. To think the next conversation is worth having.” Crossing his arms behind his head, Hamlet turned his gaze to the grey afternoon sky. Not so long ago, Midgarsormr soared through that sky, bearing home the Warrior of Light. “It’s like these peace talks, isn’t it? The sort of people who don’t want the talks to happen are the sort of people who would lay down their lives in war. If they could be convinced that their lives are worth living, and they’re worth more than keeping some ancient grudge alive, then you could convince them to start talking. That’s not an opinion of House Helsingore,” he added. “I only meant that you shouldn’t underestimate the influence of a few words. And you shouldn’t underestimate how much your friends … well, I shouldn’t have made it sound like you don’t deserve them. I’d be honored to be counted as one of them.”
Hamlet’s sincerity stunned Alphinaud. The young lord had been so mercurial, shifting from one mood to the next, all but impossible to pin down or interpret plainly. Yet something about him was compelling and familiar – most of all when he spoke from the heart, not on behalf of House Helsingore. And Alphinaud couldn’t deny the power of a kind word. “You wish to be friends with me?”
“If you’d like. If you’d like, the two of us could attend a performance! Sometimes bards sing in Foundation, by the Aetheryte – when there’s a whole troupe they’ll make re-enactments to the music. It’s quite the sight to see. Or,” Hamlet suggested, excitement glinting in his moon-bright eyes, “we could tour an art exhibition. Most local art’s religious art, but it’s fun to talk about it with a friend.”
“I do draw, a little,” Alphinaud admitted. He could hear Krile teasing him now … “A local art exhibition might be interesting. An opportunity to study new techniques.”
“There you are! Make use of that time for reflection.” Hamlet smiled — not the sheepish smile he first greeted Alphinaud with, but something full and shining — and held out a hand. “Let’s go together.”