Work Text:
Haurchefant sat down in the armchair by the hearth with a weary sigh, letting himself sink into the plush cushions and warmth of the fire.
He could admit to himself that perhaps he had pushed it a little too much today, bringing a hand to cover the still healing wound on his torso. Pain waxed and waned with every passing hour ever since he awoke nearly two weeks after the events of the Vault, but under the watchful eyes of the best chirurgeons Ishgard could provide, it was slowly but surely ebbing to a dull ache. Or, well, it had been, until he’d been cleared for light- light- duties and he, with the need to do clawing under the skin from the many days of idleness led him to the training ground behind the manor with sword in hand to do some minor stretches and slow forms.
And every day since then he’d been having to slowly make his way inside with the pain a crescendo that made his entire body throb with every heartbeat sooner and sooner.
He knew his father worried, knew what he wanted to say in every sad glance and yet kept his peace. Artoirel had no such qualms, telling him point blank what he thought with that furrowed pinch in his brow that gave away his own worry. Emmanellain was ever trying to be optimistic, if only so Haurchefant could return to Dragonhead and relieve him of his (hopefully) temporary duty as commander.
The problem was that Haurchefant didn’t think he could return.
He spoke of it to Francel once, when he’d stopped by to visit, spoken lowly over tea to spare unwanted ears of hearing his doubts. He knew what the chirurgeons said, but it hadn’t quiet set in upon first mention. The injury he had sustained in the Vault was one he should not have survived to start, the foreign aether bolt searing through flesh and eating away at everything it touched in its biting blue glow. But on that rooftop had been his friends- two others besides young Alphinaud who were healers in their own right or had been training in the arts. It had been said that Mi’ar, only learning the basics alongside learning to read the stars and the cards of an Astrologian, had, from what the chirurgeons could tell, dumped enough raw aether from his person into him to heal a dragon, and less said about the utter madness of magic Virgilio possessed when he donned either of his soulstones, the better.
The fact remained was that while Haurchefant lived, there would be long lasting consequences resulting from his injury. Possibly even for the rest of his life.
He knew that everyone else knew that the chances of him returning to his life as a knight were growing dimmer with every failed attempt to walk through even the slowest of the basics. His sword was comfortable in his hand, and his footwork was quickly remembering the steps of years of honed perfection, but his wound spiked with needling pain whenever he so much as twisted too far to one side. By Fury, Yura had to carry him up the icy steps back to the manor door just the other day because he ached so terribly he couldn’t get himself to climb out of the training yard.
The fact was quite clear - he would have to hang up his sword and shield.
Yet Haurchefant couldn’t help but cling onto that hope that, maybe, one of these days he’ll wake up and the pain would be gone. That he would go through the steps and nothing would hurt. That pain wouldn’t accompany him every time he so much as thought to moving his waist or flexing his abdomen in an involuntary flinch.
His whole life, his dream had been knighthood. To protect and serve his country and his people. To prove he was worth his place within the Fortemps family regardless of his tainted pedigree. Certainly he could move into a more administrative roll, and there were plenty available with Ishgard shifting out of a theocracy as well as juggling reconstruction and maintaining peaceful accords with the Dravanians. But Haurchefant had never been a desk commander. He had always made sure to join patrols with his men, to walk through their ranks during training sessions, to merely traverse the length of Dragonhead’s walls, lest he be sucked into the mountains of paperwork for eternity. But with his main weapon of choice becoming increasingly difficult to bear, and most other common weaponry for Ishgardian knights demanding equal if not more amount of stress upon his body, he may not have a choice.
Haurchefant closed his eyes as he leaned back in his chair, the ache from his scarring wound keeping time with his heart under the weight of his palm. Francel had been talking much about his upcoming project in rebuilding the Firmament- the hints so bold they were almost glowing above his head. Working with his dear friend would be malms better than any other task that would undoubtedly be offered to him. Aymeric with his weighty guilt would offer any open job available under his preview if he so much as thought of asking, but Haurchefant had never been a political type, and no matter how the Lord Commander tried to bow out, the Lords and Commonmen would drag him back to the podium kicking and screaming if he were a man of lesser decorum.
He would give it until the end of the week, he promised himself with a heavy heart. The Fortemps’ private chirurgeon would be checking on his progress then, and he would lay bare the truth. That his healing was being exasperated by the most basic of stretches and some days he could barely bring himself to bend down to unlace his boots afterwards. It would put him back on bedrest, and the official report would be given to his father and the Lord Commander- that his days of being a knight of Ishgard had drawn to a close.
And then he would left adrift.
Years of training until every muscle ached and palms bled, of evenings doubling down on his convictions to become a knight with the surefire certainty that he would succeed, of immeasurable comments of his worth simply from the circumstances of his birth, his dreams… would it all end here?
“Well there’s some heavy thinking if I ever saw it.”
Haurchefant’s eyes snapped open, the warm haze and quiet thoughts dissipating like vapor under his surprise.
“Stephanivien!” he couldn’t help but smile, dropping his hand from his wound as he offered the twin chair beside him. “What a lovely surprise! It’s good to see you, my friend. I had not heard you were to be stopping by.”
“Was something of a surprise.” Stephanivien matched the smile with his own, setting down a large crate he had been lugging around over one shoulder with ease before sweeping down to press the affectionate greeting kisses to his cheeks. “’tis quite late, and I needn’t wish to disturb the Count- Lord Edmont. Artoirel let me in after a little persuading.”
“Artoirel?” Now that was a surprise. His oldest brother wasn’t one to bend proper mannerisms, shacked to the prim procedure of high society. Haurchefant had always thought of Artoirel to live exceptionally lonely. He never had many friends in his youth, nor was he outgoing like Haurchefant himself or could make friends in the strangest of places like Emmanellain. He had always been the quiet one, the Countess’ good son while Emmanellain had been her favorite son and Haurchefant had been the stain on her otherwise perfect life. If it weren’t for the demands of him to be Count, Haurchefant was positive his brother would hole himself away and become a recluse, if from nothing but not knowing what to make of society at large.
He’d caught glimpses of Artoirel’s slow emergence from his shell since his father accepted Mi’ar and the two remaining Scions as wards. Mi’ar was equally quiet, his words only spoken through La Noscean sign, nor did he try to make a scene like Yura had done when she showed up a handful of weeks later at the Steps of Faith. But he’d seen out of the corner of his eye and through cracks of doors not quite closed, of his brother and Mi’ar existing in quiet space together when he knew his brother never liked being interrupted when he was working.
Mi’ar had that effect on people. The tall Au Ra had a heart big enough to encompass the entirety of Eorzea and still have room for more, his large hands always gentle when he cared for everyone around him even if they weren’t receptive to his kindness. Wayward had said once that it was his greatest feature and greatest flaw- to care too much. But it was something Haurchefant loved about the giant, silent man who had fallen head first into being a Warrior of Light, that heart. That kindness. To keep on offering that steadfast quiet love to people even as the world around him seemed bleaker than the day before and with enemies baying for his blood.
Against a man who offered an open hand to foes who bore a blade- Artoirel stood no chance.
Stephanivien was a bit of surprise, but perhaps Hauchefant should have expected it all the same. With the Ironworks and the Manufactory working under one roof for much of the remainder of the Dragonsong War, Mi’ar had been a constant presence in and around the machinists and engineers. Haurchefant himself had gone to visit many times when he could risk leave from Dragonhead, and even Stephanivien had mentioned once or twice about seeing his brother, but he hadn’t given it much thought. Seeing the Haillenarte heir now, with his collar famously unbuttoned and snow melting in his golden locks as he flopped unceremoniously down in the proffered seat after making a courteous brush down across his backside to knock of any lingering soot he may have acquired, perhaps there was something more going on here than Haurchefant had first realized.
After all, he knew Artoirel well, and Artoirel wouldn’t let just anyone come into the Fortemps Manor through the back door and all the scandal that accompanied it.
“Should I be expecting your company more often then?” Haurchefant couldn’t help but tease with a raised eyebrow and knowing smirk. “Perhaps refrain from mentioning that a certain third window from the corner has a broken latch and that there’s a servant’s stairwell to the right that takes you up to my dear brother’s wing?”
“I know not what you speak of,” Stephanivien sniffed indignantly, bringing a hand to his chest as if offended. “I am a proper noble’s son. I would come and go through the front door like everyone else.”
“Francel comes and goes through the front door,” Haurchefant pointed out with a wry grin. “You, my friend, wouldn’t know what a front door was lest it bit you in the arse.”
Stephanivien laughed, bright and clear and all sorts of improper as he threw his head back and exposed his throat as he guffawed. Haurchefant joined him in his mirth, getting out a few chuckles before giving in to wincing and pressing his hand once more to his aching flesh, mouth still pulled up in a smile.
“I haven’t come all this way for just to be teased by you, nor to simply catch glimpse of Artoirel’s somber visage, as wonderful it may be. How have you been fairing?”
“I’ve been well.” A sudden sharp needle in his gut made him grimace and alter his words. “Or, I am back on my feet, as Halone grant me all but an ilm of mercy. I was ready to scale the walls. A day longer I may have followed Ser Estinien’s footsteps and escape the city entirely, if only to put myself as far from the scent of medicines as I could manage.”
“Unlike Ser Estinien, you would have a quiet shadow following you soon after.” Stephanivien kicked his leg up to cross over the opposite knee, the corners of his green-stained eyes crinkling as he continued. “Ser Aymeric may know to forever wait patiently for his lover to return on his own terms, but Mi’ar would convince himself he had erred somewhere and would strive to fix it.”
“He would,” Haurchefant agreed, a soft smile soothing over his features as he turned his gaze towards the merry fire.
It had started as intrigue at first, a curiosity of an adventurer wandering into Dragonhead. Au Ra were so scarce in Eorzea that Haurchefant had only heard of them by name only a handful of times, but the misconception of their supposed Dravanian heritage was prevalent upon sight. It was what first drew Haurchefant out from behind his desk that cold morning when the Au Ra had been denied entry through the gates when he had merely wished to pass through simply on how he looked. He was dressed to bear the weather of Gridania, not the chilled slopes of Coerthas, and gestured multiple times to the Aetherite before Haurchefant had arrived to mediate the situation.
After he had vanished in a swirl of aether, Haurchefant had thought the situation settled and let the mind interest dissipate.
But then the Au Ra returned, with Cid and Alphinaud in tow, tired and still ill dressed for the weather, yet went out and completed task upon task that was dropped upon his shoulders in hopes to sway the people of Coerthas to help them search for their lost airship. He saved Francel, he took back the Stone Vigil, he slew dragons and primals with naught but his bare hands. From further reports he saved Eorzea from a Garlean invasion, took out van Belsaer and his Allegan contraption-
And somehow, somehow Haurchefant found him sleeping in the chocobo stables one icy evening, huddling against his chocobo for what meager warmth they could share between them. All because some of his knights refused to give him proper shelter for having scales and horns, and had been sleeping in any stable or pile of hay he could find in whichever settlement he’d found himself in within Coerthas’ borders.
The Hero of Eorzea… the Warrior of Light… forced to sleep with the animals because his people were wary of him and he were too kind to argue his worth to them.
Haurchefant couldn’t put his finger on the moment when his intrigue turned to interest turned to something more, but he knew that moment of seeing the Warrior of Light- of Mi’ar, curled up in the cold when there were rooms and beds and warm hearths to sleep by, it had flipped the switch into fierce protectiveness, to show this man he was cared for and loved with equal measure he gave Haurchefant’s people, to kiss that crease in his brow whenever he drew himself deep in thought, to curl his hands over that ridiculously pretty little waist and tug him closer.
Haurchefant didn’t simply want a bedfellow for an evening, not out of Mi’ar. And with every visit, every morning waking up to Mi’ar endearing himself and winning over the entirety of Camp Dragonhead by cooking them hot breakfast with foods hunted and foraged from the surrounding land and eating hot, sweet pastries and beautifully buttered bread, it made him all the more besotted.
By the time the knights at the gate carried a badly injured and horribly crashing Mi’ar with a panicked Alphinaud in tow following the incident with the banquet, Haurchefant had already confessed to Francel that he was going to court that man, proper conventions be damned.
Getting Mi’ar to understand his not-so subtle gestures had been an entirely different battle. None of his stalwart friends would tell him either, finding far too much humor in Haurchefant’s increasing boldness and Mi’ar’s cluelessness to help. It had taken him until after being given a chocobo from one of Haurchefant’s personal breeding stock and Emmanellain’s exuberance for the Au Ra to come to him in a mix of panicked shyness, but by then Haurchefant was so very much smitten by his obliviousness than turned away that he threw all caution to the wind and ignored his fluttering signs to kiss all his worries away.
For Haurchefant to leave without a word, Mi’ar would have taken it personally, and would’ve moved mountains and entire empires to correct it.
“He’s in Azys Lla last he told me,” Haurchefant added with a low hum. “I believe I could make a few malms outside of Coerthas before he’d catch up to me. Would bundle me up and carry me right back to bed in his strong arms.”
“From what I hear, Yura’s done a good enough job doing that for you in his absence.”
Haurchefant shot Stephanivien a look, but there was no pity in his gaze, his head tilted slightly like a tall blonde crane. It made the knight sigh, long and slow to not strain his injury any further as he let his smile drop from his face.
“Francel has told you, then?”
“You know how he is- his worry is palpable, always fretting, and he cannot lie worth a damn. But nay- it wasn’t just my dear brother. I think no one wished to push you when you needed to come to it on your own terms, but they’ve all said something to each other one time or another.”
“Ha.” Haurchefant dropped his chin to his palm, elbow crooked against the arm of his seat as he turned his eyes once more to the fire. “Done a poor job hiding it, haven’t I?”
“You can’t hide something that’s so obvious, my friend.” Stephanivien’s calloused hand was warm against his arm, giving him a fortifying squeeze. “It had been a trying time indeed, when you slumbered, unknowing if you would awaken. And then all that came afterwards in the span of a short week… to say we were all thankful and relieved when you stirred nary described it. But we all knew, whether we voiced out thoughts then or not.”
“Is there the moment you break the news? To be the voice of reason?” Haurchefant smiled, thin and wane at Stephanivien, but there was no anger or bitterness to his voice. How could he be, when they were the very same thoughts he has stewed over for days now. “We are not as close as others who may volunteer- less feelings to be hurt, is it not?”
“Nay, never!” Stephanivien’s hand slid down to grasp his hand instead. He leaned forward in his chair, staring into the depths of Haurchefant’s soul with unwavering determination. “In fact, it is quite the opposite.”
“You-?” He stared back, feeling as if the taller Elezen had punched him in the chest instead of mere words. “You wish to tell me to keep being a knight? When it is clear I may never be fit to serve again?”
“Oh, not that either. I may not have seen your struggle, but I’ve heard enough to know that a sword and shield won’t be a permanent choice any longer. But I have a different thought in mind- well, Mi’ar brought it up once before he left, and I thought it to be a wonderful solution to all your problems!”
“Mi’ar-? What-?”
Nonplussed, Haurchefant watched as Stephanivien happily slipped off his chair and onto the plush rug on his knees. The chest he had been carrying upon his entry was pulled across the floor, a delighted gleam in his eyes as he waved for the Fortemps’ bastard to join him on the floor before the hearth.
With a swallowed groan, he gingerly settled himself down on the carpet as well, the chest churned so that the latches faced him.
“Come on, then,” Stephanivien was barely containing his excitement, vibrating on his knees as he grinned. “Open it! See for yourself!”
The chest had seen better days, with the latches tarnished in spots and the varnish of the wood worn and scratched, but it was clear that the chest wasn’t what Haurchefant was supposed to be inspecting. So with some amused trepidation, he cracked open the lid, lifting it up to reveal a glimmer of shining, polished metal off a long barrel.
“Oh!”
Haurchefant knew enough from watching Yura with her gunblade to know to not handle the firearm carelessly, instead carefully cradling it in both his hands longways, keeping the barrel pointed away from them. It was clear it was brand new, with the barrel freshly oiled and accents polished to a beautiful shine.
“-and you can be back on your feet in no time!”
“Excuse me, what?” Haurchefant blinked, yanked back to reality at Stephanivien’s words. “I don’t understand- are you giving me a gun?”
“Of course!” Stephanivien beamed. “And not just a gun, mind you! I had to beg and curry favor from Vulpine for your new threads, but once she realized it was for you and it was Mi’ar’s idea, she went to town on it!”
“No, no wait.” Haurchefant lowered the gun to his lap, confusion riddling his expression. “Why are you giving me a gun? I’m no machinist, Stephanivien.”
“Ah, but you see, anyone can be a machinist, Haurchefant. From commoner to noble, if you have the means and the will, a beggar from the Brume to a priest of Halone can wield a gun. You will need to practice, of course, but I assure you it takes a lot less movement and stress than traditional weaponry. And the distance added between you and your target will certainly do you and your healing body favors. Just point and shoot- no fancy twists and turns, no resistance and unyielding under a shield. Just properly planted feet, good posture, and a steady hand is all you need.”
“I…” Words failed Haurchefant as he gazed down at the gun in his lap before glancing over to the folds of leather and fabric still in the chest. “You…”
Stephanivien shifted, leaning forward until he was in Haurchefant’s sight. His delighted grin had softened, a kindness in his gaze even in his twisted posture.
“You can still fight, Haurchefant,” he told him gently, certain. “You want to keep fighting, to serve and protect. Everyone can see that. Mi’ar could see that. All this was his idea, I merely ran with it. And even if you cannot fight for Ishgard, you can still stand with Her alongside our quiet Hero.”
Hot tears slipped from his eyelashes, trickling down to drip onto his- his!- new firearm.
“Look what you made me do,” he sniffled, wiping his sleeve against his face with a watery laugh. “You’re making me all soppy.”
“If it makes you feel better, this falls directly into my evil plans on converting Ishgard to a realm of classless heathens with guns.”
“Stephanivien!”
The man had the audacity to laugh, rocking back to sit on his heels as Haurchefant scrubbed his face clean, eyes still damp as he smiled under the pressure of so much hope blooming in his breast.
“You will show me how to use this?” he asked, carefully taking the gun properly in his hands. His nimble fingers curled around the grip, knowing just enough to not to blindly grasp around the trigger.
“Well, I can certainly show you how to clean and care for it properly! Hilda and Joye have already jumped on the chance to help show you the ropes for the actual firing part, as are many of my machinists, always eager to get another in our ranks.” His smile turned sly, teasing and with lips upturned enough to show teeth. “And maybe by the time Mi’ar comes back, you can show him personally how thankful you are.”
Haurchefant couldn’t help the flush to his ears at the comment even if he laughed.