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“We were not too late, my friends!”
Worry finally looses its’ grip on his heart at the sight of Niveia and Zolzaya, alive and well and no worse for wear. The women nod, Niveia’s toothy grin complimenting Zolzaya’s small smile. Together, they turn to face the Archbishop’s back.
(He has never been much of the religious sort, turned away mostly by the Countess’ relationship with it, but to have the Church- the foundation of Ishgard- betray them, hiding secrets that could help Ishgard’s people, to finally allow them to heal and build towards a better future, is such a betrayal that rattles his faith in the Holy.)
“Why must you do this, Father!?” (How his heart breaks for Ser Aymeric, knowing that this is how low his Father would fall, how desperate he is to keep even a hint of power- another thing that will be a mark against his friend for now he is not just a bastard, but a bastard with a power mad Father.) “Nidhogg has fallen! There is no need for further deception! Now is the time to renounce the lies which led us down this path- to start anew!”
(How his friend always looks toward the future, for something greater and brighter for Ishgard.)
Archbishop Thordan’s shoulders rise and fall, a great sigh escapes him (like he is the one carrying a great weight, a weight that he refuses to put down so their beloved city can heal) . “And tear down the very pillars of our society- our history, our values- everything we have built over a thousand years? A fool to the last.”
(Built on lies, on deception and darkness, on false promises and stories. What good is a foundation if it is rotting and cracking and threatening to swallow everything whole?)
Haurchefant breaks his gaze from Aymeric (from the heartbreak, the betrayal coloring his face) and glances at Niveia and Zolzaya, the duo nodding in time with him. Then they were off, running after the Archbishop, feet stomping against the long-paved aisle.
A dangerous humming fills his ears from behind them as they make it halfway to the airship, and he turns and sees it coming, a pillar of light, aimed at Niveia and Zolzaya.
At his lover, at his friend.
“Look out,” he cries out, sprinting after the women in front of him. They turn and look at him, eyes narrowing at the light coming their way and glance at each other before looking back at him. (The brilliant gold of Niveia’s and the almost eerie white glow of Zolzaya’s limbal rings, so intense in their stares, it amazes him that it’s not enough to stop their enemies from raising their blades.)
Zolzaya runs back to him, gripping his chainmail and pulling him behind her, right into Niveia’s waiting arms, her lance crossing against his back (like a threat, that to harm him means death) . His head whips around as the light collides with Zolzaya’s shield, air and Aether whipping around them. “Zolzaya!”
The dragon woman (“Au Ra, my Lord, and despite first appearances, there is no common blood between dragons and I”) does not flinch, her feet planted firm and her back straight (for being so small, barely coming up to his waist, there’s so much strength in her frame, having sprinted with Emmanellain over her shoulder during their rescue of him). The shield shakes and threatens to break, but still she stands, holding her guard, the metal starting to crack and creak. Niveia’s grip on him loosens and he glances at the woman, only to swallow his tongue at the steel in her eyes, locked on Zolzaya’s back.
In a flash, her dragoon armor and lance vanish, replaced by white robes and a staff, unwavering eyes never blinking. “I got you, Zolzaya,” she says as she raises the staff, magic and Aether gathering in the weapon and her hands.
The paladin nods, never glancing back, “I know, my Lady.”
At that moment, her shield breaks, the light instantly swallowing part of her ribs and hip, fading away as she starts falling backwards. At the same moment, Niveia casts a spell, magic and Aether filling in the missing pieces, as he lunges forward and catches her. He kneels with Zolzaya in his arms, manic panic filling his body at the missing flesh, at the blood trailing down her chin.
“Keep her steady,” Niveia commands, at his side in an instant, more magic and Aether pouring out of her and into Zolzaya, flesh and muscle growing and piecing themselves back together as it fights against the lingering Aether. Without looking up, she calls out (deceptively casual, fury and coldness barely lurking underneath the thin surface) , “Archbishop.”
Haurchefant looks behind him to see the old man turn, locking eyes with them, Estinien and Lucia running up to them, Aymeric limping closely behind them. Alphinaud slides in, hands glowing with teal blue, pressing them against the devasting wound, his magic merging with Niveia’s. He looks back at Niveia, who raises her head, golden eyes colder than Shiva’s ice. “I’m going to kill you and every single one of your knights,” she promises casually like it was merely a comment on the weather, like it was insignificant in the grand scheme of things.
The Archbishop merely looks away as the airship flies off, quickly becoming a dot in the sky before vanishing completely.
“Lady Zolzaya!”
Their companions quickly surround them, kneeling and hopelessly watching as Niveia heals Zolzaya. The Au Ra woman’s eyes fluttered open, glancing at all of them before landing on Niveia. “Don’t...you mean... that we will kill them,” she asks, a laugh escaping Niveia.
“Of course, I do. I don’t remember freeing you from your contract.”
“Of course... my Lady,” Zolzaya hums, thoughtfully, sinking back into Haurchefant’s hold, before she looks up at him with a smile. “Do not worry... Lord Haurchefant, my Lady.... excels at healing despite it... not being a main class of hers.”
“Do not worry!? You could be dead!”
“So could you,” she says, eyes starting to flutter close once again, breathing evening out, “and... I rather prefer... you alive. Lady Niveia and I are... quite fond of you.” One tiny hand squeezes one of his in comfort (like he was the one bleeding out, Death looming over his body) before her eyes fall shut. All eyes shoot towards Niveia, panic and worry crawling even higher up their spines. She stands and beckons them to follow, “She’s stable but she needs to be moved!”
Without another word, Haurchefant (carefully, mindful of barely healing flesh) scoops up Zolzaya, following Niveia, a reluctant smile appearing on his face at Sir Aymeric’s surprised gasp, Estinien no doubt picking up the man to keep pace, ever mindful of his injuries. A startled chuckle did escape him when Niveia wrapped her free arm around Alphinaud, the lad clinging to her shoulders (“Excuse me?!” “You’re small.”) . Through sacred halls, under Halone’s watchful gaze, they ran, bursting out the front doors, scaring Hilda’s men.
But they paid them no mind, one goal in their minds. Haurchefant catches Alphinaud’s eyes, worry and fear plainly on the boy’s face. All Haurchefant could do it nod, the smile on his face feeling wrong, before he looks down at the unconscious Au Ra in his arms, her head rolling against his chest.
“What a mess,” Lord Edmont sighs, sinking into his office chair, rubbing his temple. Haurchefant couldn’t find it in himself to disagree.
Emmanellain and Honoroit are pressed up against him, his younger brother clutching his arm. Estinien leans against one of numerous bookcases, Artoriel standing near him. Lucia, once she was reassured that any changes about Zolzaya’s and Ser Aymeric’s conditions would be passed along, returned to the Congregation for damage control.
Niveia was with Zolzaya and Ser Aymeric, working on healing them both (“Look, I know I’m not usual a healer, but the Conjurer Guild is always up my ass about wanting me to stay with them. I got this.”), Alphinaud insisting on helping still (“what good am I if I cannot heal our dear comrades?”). Tataru was scurrying about, bringing in potions and bandages and fresh water. Last time he peeked in, she was feeding Niveia and Alphinaud pieces of cheese.
(If the circumstances were different, he could have laughed at the startled expressions on his family’s faces, Artoriel almost swearing as Emmanellain and Honoroit screech, as they came rushing in, the parlor doors violently slamming open and bouncing against the walls. As it were, the second that Lord Edmont caught an actual look at them, he was yelling at the servants to grab everything useful that they could find. Emmanellain ran and found the closest free room, Artoriel rushing in behind them with clean water and cloths. Honoroit ran off to get Tataru.)
“That’s an understatement,” Estinien growls, fists flexing where they were crossed against his chest, “between Zolzaya’s almost death and the Archbishop escaping.”
“But they’ll be okay, right,” Emmanellain worries, his grip on his arm tightening slightly, “Niveia said that they’ll be alright.”
“Yes, yes, that’s true, and knowing Zolzaya, she will be back on her feet in no time,” Haurchefant agrees, desperately trying to hide the tremor in his voice, gently squeezing his brother’s arm in reassurance (‘she will be fine, they will all be fine, nothing will go wrong, it cannot go wrong’).
Pinching the bridge of his nose, Lord Edmont breathes in deeply, letting it out in a slow sigh before he looks at everyone around him. “There is nothing that we can do now besides rest and gather our strength.” He raises a hand before anyone could speak, “We will rotate in shifts to watch over our injured comrades and our healers with I taking the first watch.” He lifts up his cane, pointing at each body in the room, “There will be no arguments, to bed with all of you.”
Haurchefant helps Emmanellain and Honoroit to their feet, smiling pleasantly, “You heard Father, to bed with us.” As they start to file out of the office , a soft “Haurchefant” stops him, peering over his shoulder at his Father, who beckons him closer as he stands. The knight softly shuts the door behind Artoriel (who looked like he wanted to say something to him, but could not find the words, instead squeezing Haurchefant’s forearm, the most physically affectionate he has shown since they were little) .
“Is everything alright, Father?”
Wordlessly, Lord Edmont pulls Haurchefant forward in a crushing embrace, cradling the back of his head against his shoulder (like when he was a small boy, and the Countess was off elsewhere and Father was carrying him to bed after having tucked Artoriel in for the night) . “Father?” He questions, even as his arms come up to wrap around the older Elezen, who squeezes him even tighter.
“I worry for Zolzaya,” Lord Edmont swears, voice low and wobbly, like he is trying to hold back tears, “and when she wakes, she will be greeted with a lecture. But-” And this is where his voice cracks, trying desperately to hold back tears, “how grateful I am not I do not have to bury a son today.”
His fingers twisting into his Father’s coat, Haurchefant buries his face into the other man’s shoulder, the reality of today (and everything that could have happened ) finally crashing down around him, his shoulders dropping the weight as he was just held.
(As a knight, he swore to uphold his vows, to be willing to lay down his life for his comrades and countrymen. But to come face to face with that and be able to walk away- it is a whole different feeling.
And watching someone he cares about take a hit for him, to stand in the face of Death and say ‘you shall not have him’- never again. A point he will make when Zolzaya is better and awake, forced to listen to lectures about her safety and health.)