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At the knock on my outer door I awake with a start - the calloused hand on my chest presses down, gently, and I turn my head. He is already awake, looking down on me, gifting me with a quiet smile.
The door comes open in the foyer and my maidservant calls out, “Morning, my Lords.”
He grunts. “No Lord am I, madam.”
“And no madam am I,” she says with a laugh, as she sets down the breakfast tray. I hear her cross to the fireplace to start building the fire. “If you’ll not be letting us use the other title, I’m afraid you’ll just have to settle.”
I clear my throat. “Pray, do not trouble yourself with the fire this morning. I know not what the day has in store for us.”
She stops, and hums to herself. “Been far too long, if you ask me. Enjoy your day of rest, my Lord, and Master ——.” (She nearly says his family name without betraying her smile.) “Snow is light, but the wind will pick up come evening.”
She leaves us. I look to my companion, and find his quiet smile has become softer still. “Good morning, my dearest. You were already awake, it seems?”
He nods. “You slept long, and well.”
“And you did not?”
“Well enough.” His thumb makes little circles against my chest. “My dreams were troubled. To look on you was better rest for me.”
“If you crave rest still, we might simply stay abed all day.” I lean up and kiss him, lightly.
He hums, and settles his head down on my chest. “Perhaps.”
I truly cannot recall the last time I awoke without a plan for what the day might hold. Having seen to every urgent need in the wake of the battle on the Steps of Faith, and having finally written my last missive and a long-overdue letter to my father besides, finally I might take some measure of rest.
And none too soon, for my dearest one must make for Ul’dah on the morrow, to be lauded and heaped with well-deserved praise, along with the Scions. No doubt the Grand Companies will pat themselves heartily on the back for their contributions as well, meager though they were. But it is only our due after these twenty years of silence and barbs, with not even a promise of further talks to draw them to our side. Visitors to the Steps, only, even with the great wyrm bearing down on our city. Truly, I am shamed by this.
I breathe in, deeply, and close my eyes as a memory rolls over me from that day: his look, after he had given so much of himself, to keep me and mine safe. So tired, so relieved… and he’d asked of me, with such a sweet play of words, for an improper thank you. Again, my hesitation shames me. That for even a moment he thought that this small want of his was too much, that I made him question himself -
I saw his look, and fell to my knees before him, like a man sent to prayer; I said no, please and took his face in my hands and kissed him, and kissed him. He held me against him and sighed so that I felt it through my very armour, and I kissed him until he had taken all that he desired, for that is what he will have of me.
He asks so little of me, if I am truthful. He knows my oaths, my duties; even in sharing with me the truth of his encounter with Midgardsormr, he made no requests of secrecy. He told me, knowing full well that I might take this directly to our Temple Knights. There was a time when my faith would have compelled me to do so, even if I had loved him so. But now, having seen what blind faith can do…
Would I trust Ser Aymeric with this, if truly pressed? If ever there was a man of power who might balance faith and reason, it is him; and I have heard him speak of my companion in no less than glowing terms. But the webs of decorum pull at him, no less than I, and his strands find their purchase on powerful pillars indeed.
“The letter you laboured upon,” says my dearest one, gently rousing me from my dream-like reverie. “You said you asked your father to meet with me?”
“I did. I know not if he will. I will send the letter when I see you off to Ul’dah on the morrow, and then… we will see if there is an answer awaiting upon your return here.”
“Do you think him like to refuse?”
“I…” A long breath escapes me. “Truly, I know not. I fear I have waited too long to try and… know what it is he expects of me, if anything.”
He hums. “He is a good man, or so you have said. I would hope he sees that you fulfill your duties gladly and well.” He raises his head from my chest to show me a roguish look. “And that your choice of company is beyond reproach.”
“Oh, do not tempt a man of Ishgard to find a means for censure,” I say, through a laugh. “Though I dare say, you would soundly test their skill in such things.”
His smile dims slightly. “You praise me overmuch. And you accept too little yourself.”
“Praising you is easy, my dearest. And to do so brings me joy. Would you deny me this pleasure?”
He moves up and kisses me. “I deny you no pleasure,” he says. “But there will be a toll. If you praise me, I shall pay you a kind word in turn.”
“Hmm. What should happen, then, were I to tell you that your features struck me with their beauty from the very first moment I laid my eyes upon them?”
He smiles. He seems not to mind this form of praise. He thinks for a long moment. “I would tell you that the kindness in your eyes made me feel safe here. From the very first.”
“I am… full glad to hear this.” I give him a slightly goading smile. “I won’t even hold it against you that you didn’t choose to lavish me with false praise of my looks.”
His head snaps up and he has an expression akin to pain. “I did not mean… my love.” He sits up, and takes my hand, and looks down on me so tenderly. “Know you not how beautiful you are?”
I laugh. “Oh, my dearest, I am sorry. I only meant to fish from you a small compliment. I like my looks well enough, worry not. Flattery is not required.”
“I do not flatter you.” His ears have gone flat - he seems almost angry. “I have made you think that I look only to your mind, your heart. That I find you attractive only because you find me so.”
“I… had not thought about it, my love. Truly. I am only elated that you look on me so fondly.”
He looks down on me; he would speak, but he takes his time to consider how he might begin. “When first we came, I did think your looks striking. But I cannot separate from this all else that I learned of you, in that first meeting. How you spoke so warmly, your voice bright. How open your smile. How your men, your women, looked upon you. You watched us, so that I knew you listened, your eyes calm but their gaze sharp, attentive.”
He is quiet a moment. He squeezes my hand, but does not meet my eyes. When he goes on, it is almost at a whisper.
“When you bade me to join you in your rooms, that night, I… hoped. I know not for what. Perhaps only to be near you. To not be alone. And when you… offered me your warmth, your bed. When you showed your body to me, and smiled so…” He closes his eyes; a shiver runs through him. “Oh, my love, I wanted you. Though I knew not yet how.”
I have no words. Is it his hand that trembles, or my own?
He goes on, his voice a little more sure. “Each night, when you opened your door, and so warmly looked upon me, and greeted me… how lovely I found your eyes, your lips.” He has opened his eyes again, but he still does not meet mine. “And then when you would bare yourself to me, how well-shaped your shoulders, your chest, your back. I thought… how beautiful you are. How fortunate, how blessed am I. To touch you, to be near you. To look upon you.”
A long moment passes before I find my words again. “My very dearest. I… if only I had realized…”
“You could not. For I did not, fully.”
“I only wish I -”
“I would change nothing.” He looks to me now; his eyes are so bright. “I was not yet ready. If you had pressed me, even a little, I would have drawn away.”
“Oh dearest, I would never.” I sit up. “If I thought there was even a chance…”
“I know.” He smiles. “Always, you waited. For me, to come to you, to touch you, that you might see how I would be touched. When at last we spoke of wants, and you spoke so plainly… I knew I had found my comfort with you.” For a long moment he looks on me. “I… am sorry. I cannot separate my love for you from your beauty, Haurchefant. They are as one, for me. You are as beautiful a man as I have ever known. And I love you.” He kisses my hand. His eyes are shining; his lips tremble against my skin. “I love you.”
I pull him against me, and wrap my arms around him. My breath has quickened in my chest. For I knew - I had seen - I had felt - and yet how he looked, as he said he loved me…
Oh, Halone. I will treasure that look.
Our tea is cold by the time we finally leave the comforts of bed, but our tarrying has made us somewhat ravenous, and so it is enjoyed in all due haste. The snow has cleared a little, and I have suggested a course we might take on this one day of luxury. As ever, he is happiest to be moving through the world, and so he agreed, even allowing me some small measure of secrecy as to our final destination. I expect he will guess, for I have spoken of it; still, the theatre of mystery is enticing.
We don our armour and overcoats, and beg of the kitchen a repast that we might bring with us, for our travels will have us about for a few hours at least, even on chocoback. And so saddled and ready, we head north, taking our time to avoid the more lively fauna. In a little less than a bell, we find ourselves passing the remnants of the Steel Vigil.
“Here,” he says, sidling his chocobo up to a broken-down wall. “I found Francel here, all those moons ago.”
All too easily I can picture him, huddled here, cursing his lot. “I should have been here,” I say, as I take in the scene. “I know not how I will live with the shame of bowing to decorum for even one moment while he was in danger.”
He looks to me, pensive. “You… your people… have many weights upon you. But you did what many would not. You sent me in your stead.” He smiles. “I performed this task well, did I not?”
I sigh. I am still frustrated with myself, but I will not allow melancholy to claim me. Not this day. “My dearest, if only I’d known that I was sending the damnable hero of the realm in my stead, I might have slept a little easier.”
His smile softens. “Then I am glad you did not know. For you might not have sought out my company that night, had sleep found you instead.”
“Quite right. I suppose we cannot alter the past… and in this case, I would not dare it. But enough of my prattling, for I have another destination in mind for us.”
As we leave the Steel Vigil and head west to the lookout at Providence Point, I find myself muttering prayers for a clear view. There is some snow in the air, but surely not enough to -
“There!”
As we crest the ridge, Ishgard comes into view, the great soaring walls and pillars only slightly fading into the swirling mists and snows as they roil through the sea of clouds. The Steps of Faith stretch out to meet the city, perched proudly on the great spire of rock.
Oh, my city, my splendid city. I could never tire of looking upon it.
“Is it not spectacular from here? I know you have seen it from the Steps, and certainly it is quite beautiful and imposing from that angle. But here, here, it is as though we are looking at one another as equals, eye to eye. From here, you might truly take your measure of her.”
I look to him, and watch him as he takes in the full scope of Ishgard, the shape of it. Then he looks to me, and smiles. “Beautiful.”
We alight from our chocobos and ensure they are fed, then set out our small repast upon a blanket and make ourselves comfortable. The snow is clearing, but with our late start to the day, a little wind is coming along now as well; we must not tarry overlong. He asks me for my remembrances of growing up in Ishgard, and I tell him of some of my adventures with Francel, lighter stories; I would not wallow overmuch today.
“Is it for these memories that you think on it fondly, still?”
“No, but… that’s certainly part of it.”
I look to my city, that I might take my cues from her; so many feelings do I have, and not all pleasant, not all joyful. But they are mingled together with so much pride and awe, so much certainty of my place in this world, for good or for ill. How might I explain this, to one who knows nothing of his own origins?
“In Ishgard, there is a feeling of being a part of history, even as it’s being made. To walk the streets where thousands and more have walked, for nigh on a thousand years. These people, these Elezen of eld, who fought this same war, and lived, and flourished, and made way for us; they are still here, for they shaped this city with their lives, their hopes.”
I look to him, and find that he is watching me, his look pensive and soft.
I sigh, and shake my head. “Ishgard… is not a place. It is a dream, made real through force of will. And troubled though it may be at times… by the Fury, it is mine.”
He looks on me for a long moment. “I should like to see it, some day.”
We are quiet for a spell, as we finish the small repast that we have brought. All that remains is a skin of spiced wine, which he offers to me. I sip at it leisurely, hoping the casual nature of this act will better embolden me to speak on this next point. “So. If the heretic threat has largely passed - at least, the part that most keenly called for the Scions’ aid, here in Coerthas - what is next for you? Where might you find yourself on this great continent of ours?”
He looks at me, utterly seeing through my question to my real concern. “Where I am needed, I go,” he says. “When I am not needed, when I have time to take my rest… I wait. Here.”
“And you are content with this? Truly?”
He lets out a breath; the steam dissipates slowly in the humid air. “You worry on this, still?”
I take a moment to think, looking out toward the city; the snow has all but cleared with the gently rising winds. “I am accustomed to being but a stop on the journey, in these things. My position - in the sense of my duty as well as my post at Camp Dragonhead - is one in which the world seems to roll on around me. And I know you find much of your comfort in moving through the world.”
“And I find my stillness, my home with you.” He holds out his hand for the wineskin and takes a small draught. “I require both. And I will take both. For as long as I am able. And for as long as you will have me.”
“Thank you. I thought as much, but with all that has changed since the battle on the Steps… I did not want to presume.”
He hums. “Yet you presume that I would meet your father?”
I laugh. “I suppose I did presume this. I… have not yet sent my letter, if you -”
“I tease you, only, my love.” He squeezes my arm. “I would meet him. For me, he is but a shade, made from your stories, your worries. I would take my measure of him.”
“I… have not always been open with him about my life, since I became a man. Likely, he thinks me something of a shade, as well. Dutiful, of course; honourable, I hope. Too easy to open my doors and my casks; too fond of the sound of my own voice.” I look to him; he sits next to me, just slightly leaning against me. “Never have I had a change in my life that I thought worth his notice. But you… you have wrought a change that is well worth the reckoning.”
“Does he know? Or did he, before…”
“Before the Steps? A certain half-brother of mine would have almost certainly heard that you had made of Camp Dragonhead a frequent home… and that you had taken my rooms as your own.” I shake my head. “I should have told him. Before he heard, by way of rumours and jests.”
“Has he asked you of your… intimacies, prior?”
“Oh, no. Not at all.”
“He need not ask for details. But the burden of his unknowing is not yours alone, my love.” He turns his gaze back to Ishgard; the sun is lower now, shining from just above, soon to disappear behind her great vaulting heights in a long sunset. “Thank you, for showing me this. For sharing with me what you see.”
“Do you ever wish you had a place like this? To feel as… a part of something that endures?”
“I… do not know. For me, to be still in such a place would be difficult.” He looks to me. “You feel a part of Ishgard, still? Even at your post?”
I smile. “Oh, my dearest. Always.”
We arrive back at Camp Dragonhead a little while before supper, and a thought occurs to me. “My love,” I say (rather relishing the freedom I have lately claimed to say such things in general company; for my men and women all well knew, but the spell of feigned ignorance in the name of decorum is no more.) “I have a mind to send word to Skyfire Locks, that my dear friend and any attending Rose Knights might join us in our repast this night. I am certain he would be overjoyed to see you ere you depart. But I leave it to you; I would not argue with a quiet night alone.”
He thinks a moment. “It has been too long,” he says. “I would enjoy his company. And some… merriment, as you say.”
As ever, Francel answers the call with enthusiasm. I have not seen him since before our victory on the Steps, as he has been busy as well, seeing the defences at the Locks restored. I greet him with a hearty embrace, and am quite glad to see my companion follow suit. Francel laughs, and blushes; so easily the colour leaps to his cheeks. “I dare say, it has been too long,” he says, straightening his hat. He looks to me. “Thank you, dear Haurchefant, for your hospitality.”
“It is hardly hospitality, as I would have you consider this more of a second home, my friend - and well you know this. But come, we will fill your cup, and I will have of you all your news. I am desperate to hear how your siblings all fare in the wake of the battle on the Steps. And yourself, of course, no less than all.”
He shares what news he may, while word is sent around to all who might join us this night. It is our first opportunity to break bread in the wake of our victory, and better that it come from a humble origin, a visit between Houses, rather than an official celebration. For many faces are absent, this night; to make too merry would seem callous indeed.
I watch Francel’s eyes as they follow my companion, who has just excused himself to fetch us a round of mulled wine. Ever since his arrival, Francel’s eyes have been on him, noting every time he touched my arm, or looked to me with his customary quiet smile.
“Say it.” I lean back in my chair and fix Francel with a steely smile.
“Say what?”
“What is on your mind. You have been watching him all this time. Have you taken your measure of him?”
“I… He looks happy. You both do. It’s only…”
I know what he would say; of our easiness together, here where all might see. I lean in. “I have penned a letter to my father,” I say, a little quiet, just for him. “I told him all. And I… asked him to meet him.”
Francel’s mouth hangs open. “You… truly? Will he, do you think?”
I shrug. “I know not. I suppose, in the asking, I will learn something of his opinion of me, at the least.”
He is quiet for a moment, his eyes downcast. “My father spoke at length, when last I saw him, of what happened between you. On the Steps. I think he hoped to impress upon me what a wretched influence you are.”
“Do you intend to heed his advice?”
He smiles. “When your invitation came tonight, I did not hesitate.”
“Full glad am I, for it would be passing dull here should I not have the pleasure of your company.”
“Even with your seemingly constant companion?” He is blushing, which often he does when attempting to tease me.
“Hardly constant. I count myself lucky if I see him more than once a fortnight.” I fix him with a chiding gaze. “He said the same words you did, when I suggested inviting you this eve: it has been too long. He rather enjoys your company as well, my dear; and to be truthful, I should think it would do him good to add to his count of friends. Particularly those who might do well to do the same.”
He frowns, on the verge of pouting. “Not all are as easy with their feelings as you, my friend.”
I smile. “Then I shall continue to pull you along with me, that you might shield yourself in the wake of my feelings.”
My companion arrives with our mugs of wine; Francel thanks him, his look still a little shy. I find I am in a merry mood, and so I would cajole him a little. Leaning toward my love ere he sits down, but still looking to Francel, I say: “Dearest, would you say that Francel is taller now than when you met him first?”
“I -” Francel stammers while my companion takes his cue from my look and makes a show of considering him.
“I cannot say,” he says. “You Elezen have so much height in your legs and torso both. You must stand.”
“No, that’s quite all right,” he says -
Of course, now I stand, and fold my arms. “I dare say, you might finally have the advantage of me. Come now, let us see.”
He sighs, and stands. My companion looks to us, and then strides over to him, looking up in study. “You may be right, Haurchefant. He is passing tall, indeed.” He favours Francel with a smoldering smile. “Though you will forgive me, my friend, if I do not climb you to make sure of this.”
“Climb me?!” He’s sputtering now, as I laugh, and my companion chuckles, his look roguish indeed.
Now we have the attention of others, who have joined us in laughter; the ice has been broken at our impromptu feast of friends. I leave the two of them to converse while I make the rounds and ensure that all in attendance are seen, and properly greeted, even though many among them are men and women of my garrison.
How Francel hates the expectations of the host, fearing always that he will misstep, or forget, or slight. Whereas I, who was never required, never expected to take up the mantle of stewardship of a manor… I relish every moment.
If our places were reversed, would he be happier? To have less expected of him might suit him, but I fear it would leave him with less recourse in his life. For I have made my life, forged it out of want and spite and a desperate need to shore up my fealty; to bind myself to this House whose name I was denied. My dear friend has many strengths, more even than he knows or sees; but the fire to fight for himself is not chief among them.
When I return to my dearest ones, I am gladdened to find them in the thick of conversation - though they mark my presence as I approach and cull their words. I sit next to my love, laying my hand on his back; to my delight, he leans in against me, that I might slide my arm around him.
“Out with it,” I say, feigning resignation. “I would know what wretched things you have been saying of me. Make it quick, to lose the sting.”
They share a look. Francel is blushing something fierce. “I… merely asked how long you had been -”
“Intimate?”
“Not as such! Only… I hadn’t realized that it was back when the accusations were against me, that you first came to truly know one another.”
“Ah yes. I suppose it could be said that you played a key role in this… for which I must thank you, quite fervently.”
My love makes to speak, and I watch as realization and horror spread across Francel’s face at what he might divulge. “I told him that you wooed me by simply offering me the warmth of your bed.”
“I - I did not ask for details -”
I laugh. “Oh, my friend, but did you bid him hold his tongue?”
He puts his face in his hands and sighs; I reach across and pat his arm. I cannot stop laughing.
“It was… effective,” my dearest one says. Francel lowers his hands, a little resigned. My love favours him with a gentle smile. “It was warmth, only, that I could see to take. I am less bold than the tales would make of me. In truth, I required… patience. And kindness.”
Francel is still blushing, but his posture is a little easier, hearing him speak thus. He returns the smile. “I can’t imagine a man better suited to provide you both.”
“You flatter me overmuch,” I say, having quelled my laughter with a long draught of wine. “I have hardly been known to be patient - not in my youth, at any rate.”
“Not with yourself, perhaps.” Francel is smiling at me now. “But you could have hardly endured my friendship if you did not afford it to others. What other child of twelve, already so sure of the course he would take in his life, would suffer a shy tag-along of six summers only, if he did not have patience by the cartload?”
My love hums. “He knew, even then, that he would be a knight?”
“Oh yes,” Francel says, and he lays out the tale of our first meeting. In truth, he remembers it better than I, for my thoughts were much clouded that night, as they often were. I remember the cold, most of all; how freeing it felt against my skin, how the sting made me want to be stronger. That I might better withstand the cold, without and within.
We while away the evening, until it is past time that my friend should take his leave. My love begs a slightly early farewell, and makes to retire to our rooms. At my questioning look, he only says: “I must attend something.”
As the hall empties, I walk with Francel to the south gate, to bid him and his knights a safe trip home. The rest move on ahead, some few dozen yalms, that we might have a moment of relative privacy for our farewells.
“I hope all goes well,” he says. “With your father.”
“Thank you, my dear friend. In any case, I should be glad to see you again soon, be it to celebrate or drown our sorrows.”
His posture shifts; his shoulders draw in a little. “I only… you make it seem so easy.”
“Make what seem easy, pray?”
He takes in a quick breath; his brow is furrowed, and he does not quite meet my eyes. “Meeting people. Being with people. Like him. Like… others, before.”
“Oh, my friend, of all those I have met, passing few have lingered overlong. There are many who I have asked who have politely declined; some few less politely, in fact.”
“How do you ask, then, when you know they might…?”
I smile. “Because of what else they might. More than once, of late, I have sent someone to converse with you, thinking you might.”
He meets my eyes, passing shocked. “You - really?”
I laugh. “I will endeavour to be more obvious.”
“I - can’t. I couldn’t.” His eyes are downcast. “My father would -”
“Your father does not live your life, my dear. Your happiness is yours to take.”
He shakes his head. He lets out a breath, clouding the air between us, staring at the ground. “When I came here, to the Locks, I - I thought it would be different. That I would be different. But I’m still that same stupid boy I always was, trailing after you. Wishing I could - wishing you might…”
“You were never that boy.” My voice is a little hard; I let out a breath. “You were my friend, when I felt so alone. I would not be here if not for you.”
“Because they made you a knight for saving me.”
I put my hands on his shoulders. “Because I let myself love someone.”
His head snaps up. “Haurchefant, you - what do you mean?”
“For so long as a boy, I had thought to abandon feelings, abandon love. I felt that they only made me weak, that they opened me up to naught but rejection and disappointment. But you - you were kind, and true, and constant, everything I needed in those awful years of my youth. How could I help but love you? I nearly lost my mind when those brigands took you -” I take in a hasty breath and find that my hands are quaking, slightly, as that memory passes through me - I shake it off and meet his eyes again. “But instead of making me weak, I found my strength in love.”
“But I… I am not like you.” Again he looks away. He thinks for a moment; at length, he blinks back tears. “All I can think is how much it hurts when - when someone you love is taken away.”
I reach out and turn his chin so that I might meet his eyes. “Oh, my dear friend. Nothing can take love away.”
He searches my face, seeming almost lost.
“You are a better man than you know. A fine man, who deserves every happiness.” I kiss his lips, lightly, and look on him; to his surprised expression I smile, softly. “You will find your strength in love, my dear. On this, I would stake my life.”
Having at last sent Francel on his way, I return to my rooms. My dearest one sits in my chair, which he has drawn up to the fire; he has doffed his sabatons and changed his shirt for a favourite dressing gown. There is something small in his hands, which he quickly conceals as I enter.
“Francel sends his well-wishes, though I know you took your leave of him prior.” I cross to him, and bend to kiss him. One of his hands comes up and gently cups my cheek as I do, his skin lovely and warm from the fire. “I must rid myself of this armour, and then I am utterly yours until you depart.”
“You think yourself immune to my attention while you still wear your uniform?”
“No, but I expect you would rather not sleep upon chainmail.”
He watches me doff my armour; as I pull my gambeson over my head and bare my back to him, I recall what he said this morning, about those days when we first came to know one another. How he had wanted me, even if he did not yet know how. I glance over my shoulder, and his look is one I have oft seen him wear of late: as a coeurl, waiting languidly, until the time is right to pounce.
And when he will have me… by the Fury, I will be his prey. Gladly.
When I return from my bedchamber, still fastening my dressing gown, he stands; still he hides something in his hands. He looks to me, and makes to say something, but ere he does he casts his gaze away. “I have… made you something.”
He holds out his fist, palm down, bidding me to receive something. Into my hand he places a small, flat piece of wood, the shape of a kite shield.
“It is not perfect,” he says, quietly.
I bring it up to my face that I might examine it more closely. It is indeed a shield - my shield, only thrice the size of a gil coin; for carved into it in relief is the unicorn and laurel of my House. I know not what I expected of him, from the little carvings I have occasionally seen him work upon with his knife, in rare moments of idleness, but it was not a thing of such small and delicate detail that I imagined. I find it difficult to speak, but I must - I feel his trepidation, even now. His vulnerability.
“My very dearest,” I manage, finally. “It is perfect.”
“You need not flatter me.” He is tracing lines against his hands, as I have seen him do when wearing his customary ringbands; he gently turns one of the rings he wears to and fro. With some effort, he meets my eyes again. “Doubt not that I think of you, when I am away. For I do. Often, and warmly.”
“You made this. In the moments between…”
He nods. “For perhaps two moons, I have made some small progress. I wanted to give it to you, when I came before. When the wards fell, after I faced the keeper of the lake. In case you…” He shakes his head. “But it was not ready.”
In case it was a final parting gift. I turn it about between my fingers. That he made this lovely thing, thinking of me… “I have no words. I…” I close the small distance between us and wrap my arms around him, pulling him tight against me. He breathes out, long and slow; I feel some of the tension leave him. “Thank you,” I say, again wishing those words could touch the feeling; for it is so, so much more.
For a long moment I hold him; how lovely and quiet it is, after our evening of merriment. And while I do not regret those bells spent in company, I find myself wishing now for as many more again. Even on this day, in which I have had the joy of his presence nearly every waking moment, to know that he will again be gone on the morrow…
I wish I had a parting gift for him.
When I pull back to look upon him, I smile; I would ease some light back into this time we have remaining to us. “Well, my love, I am yours. What would you have of me?”
He considers me a moment. “In a little while, I would have you.” There is a little more easiness in his smile. “For now, I would sit by the fire.”
I set the small wooden shield on the mantelpiece, that I might look upon it at my leisure, while he sits, legs stretched out before him on the rug. I sit next to him, and - remembering the night he first returned to me, all those moons ago - I lay down with my head on his lap, gazing up at him. How softly he looks down upon me.
He runs his fingers through my hair; I note that he carefully avoids my ears as he does. I do not recall speaking to him on it, how I do not like for them to be touched, for I have some disturbing remembrances from my youth of pain inflicted upon them even as mocking words assaulted them. Perhaps he has intuited this, for he is perceptive of such things. Or he may simply recall my telling him of their sensitivity, their vulnerability.
How safe it feels, being with him. How easy.
“It was your hair, which first struck me.” It seems his mind has returned to our conversation from this morning. “It is a lovely colour. How well it falls about your face, your ears.”
I chuckle. “There have been times when I have cursed it.” He frowns down at me; I forget that he has not made direct acquaintance with others of my family. “My father, my brothers, all have lovely raven locks. I, however, have much taken on my mother’s colouring, which clearly marks me for what I am. I am certain that this is no small part of why the Lady of my House despised me so.”
“Despised you?” He huffs. “You, who had no choice in your parentage? This seems passing cruel.”
“Easier to loathe me than my father, I suppose.” I close my eyes, as a memory rolls through my mind. “When I was very young… I wanted to please her. To have what Artoirel had. A doting mother, smiling, proud of his every accomplishment. But she never saw anything in me but my father’s betrayal.”
“She did not look for anything else.” He moves his hand to my cheek, gently caressing it with the backs of his fingers. “I am sorry, my love.”
“I am… shamed to admit it, but when she passed, I hoped…” I find I cannot finish this thought. I shake my head. “I feel sorry for her. The many webs of decorum were heavy upon her, I know. It cannot have been easy.”
“Know you much of your mother?”
“Passing little. She was a servant of our house. My father never spoke of her openly, out of consideration of my Lady’s delicate ears. And I had long made my home here, by the time she passed, and the air cleared for such discussions. My opportunities to ask about my mother have been… few.”
“You might ask now,” he says.
I know he is right; I might. But will I? Perhaps; when next I speak with my father, or perhaps in the future still. If he has not refused my request, to meet the man who now strokes my hair; the man who fashioned a delicate remembrance for me, with only a knife and a cutting of wood, with those self-same hands.
A thought occurs to me. I sit up, and put a hand on his shoulder. “A moment,” I say. I roll to my feet and make my way back to my wardrobe. Within, there is a small box of jewellery and little keepsakes that have come to me over the years. I draw out the ring, a silver band set with a grey stone laced with a simple pattern, and return to the fire, sitting next to him. “This was hers,” I say, holding it before him that he might examine it.
He takes it and turns it about between his fingers. “It is beautiful,” he says. “From a distance, seeming simple. But the markings are… delicate.”
“I know not if it was a gift from my father, or if it came to her by other means. Nor do I know how he obtained it, after her passing. He simply told me that he thought I should have it - I must have been a boy of twelve or thirteen summers, around the time I first came to know Francel.” Still he examines it, as though he is searching for something. “I used to look at it as you are now - for some meaning, some secret key. I… sometimes imagined that it was an heirloom of some forgotten kingdom; that it meant my surname was of royal lineage, and not a marker of my status.”
He looks up at me, brow furrowed. “Then… Greystone is not…”
“Not her name. No, there are many stories of the origin - some say it is due to the bastard’s lot as a cast-away, as a pebble on the side of the road. I know not if I believe it, but it matters little. I can but do this borrowed name of mine the honour of serving my House and Ishgard well; perhaps this will lighten the burden, for the next poor bastard who must bear it.”
He looks to me, his smile a little sad, but there is a roguishness in it. “You could take a silly childish name for yourself, as I did. Perhaps an Ishgardian dessert.”
“Is this not precisely how you named your chocobo?” I laugh. He holds out the ring to me.
I reach out - and with both of my hands, gently close his fist around it. He frowns at me. “You… cannot -”
“I can.”
He studies my face, for a long moment. “Why do you do this?”
“Because I would have you know that I think of you, when we are apart. Often, and warmly.”
He shakes his head. “My love, you have so few remembrances of her.”
“And this one has been mouldering in a drawer these past fifteen winters.” I release his hands; he seems to study the ring anew. “I will see it more oft, if you are to wear it. Assuming you wish to do so, and that it fits; it is a little too small for me, at any rate.”
Cautiously, he tries it on one of the fingers of his right hand, where it fits neatly. He turns his hand about; its simple elegance suits him. He looks to me; I find his expression difficult to read. “I do not wear this lightly,” he says, his voice low. He is quiet for a long moment. “Thank you, my love.”
I take his hands in mine, and kiss them, one after the other. Oh, how softly he looks at me; I fix this look in my mind, that I might call upon it at my leisure, that I might drink deeply of it when we are apart.
He kisses me, sweetly at first, but with a hunger that grows as I release his hands and slide my arms around him. I expect him to pounce, now, to push me down, as often he does - but instead he leans back, drawing me over him, pulling me on top of him. I kiss his neck, his chin; he pulls open his dressing gown and slides his hands into my hair as I move down his body, kissing him, dragging my teeth across his skin. His breath quickens, and his body rises to meet me with every kiss, every gentle bite.
I pause at his navel, looking up at him; I smile, making no effort to hide the desire in my eyes. “It has been a while since we took our pleasure by firelight,” I say; his fingers tighten in my hair. Again I kiss him, slowly, my hands moving to his hips. “But would you not rather enjoy the comforts of our bed?”
“Do not tease me so,” he fairly growls. “Please, have me - take me, here.”
Oh, Fury, I will prey upon him. Gladly.
When the morning knock comes on my outer door, my love bolts up from his slumber and nearly leaps from the bed, ears flat, tail puffed and straight -
“My dearest,” I say, holding out my hand, but not touching him; his body is tense, until he looks to me. I see him return, behind his eyes, and now I touch him, squeezing his arm gently. He lets out a shaky breath as the outer door opens and my maidservant makes her way into the foyer.
“Morning, my Lords.” She leans on the word a little. He says nothing this morning, looking to me.
“Good morning,” I say. “Do I see sun in the window?”
“Indeed, my Lord. Skywatcher says it will cloud over, so take your fill of it while you may. Would you like the fire built up this day?”
“Not for the moment, thank you.”
“Then I take my leave. Safe travels, Master ——.” And she is gone again, leaving only the breakfast tray in her wake.
He lets out a shaky breath. “I am sorry to have startled you.”
“I was surprised, only, when you seemed so distressed. Is aught amiss, my dear?”
“No.” He passes a hand over his face. “I am well. Thank you.”
“Were your dreams troubled this night? It seemed you slept well. I think my body must have craved some measure of sunlight, for I awoke at first light this day.”
“Mmm.” He moves himself, that he might lie upon my chest and look up at me. “I… dreamed I met all of your family. There were many people, more and more. And they all seemed to find me lacking, or have strange requests of me.”
I cannot help but smile. “That sounds like a dream taken from my very life, my dearest. But I very much doubt that they will judge you so harshly… whensoever the time comes that you might meet them.”
He frowns. “You seem unsure.”
I sigh. “All will be known soon.” I feel my breath slightly quicken in my chest at the thought of posting my letter to my father. In it, through the power of the pen, I made myself out to be so confident, so sure. But it will be in speaking with him after that I learn what he truly makes of me. Then, I will have nowhere to hide.
“You worry, still.”
“I suppose I can’t help it. I wonder, do all men still fear their father’s wrath, even well into their third decade on this star?”
“I… would not know.”
“I am sorry, love. I spoke thoughtlessly, yet again.”
“Is it his approval you crave?”
“I suppose so, yes. I only…” I let out a breath while I put words to this want. “I would have him treat you with the same courtesy he might extend to a… proper suiter, by Ishgardian reckoning.”
He chuckles once. “And what makes a proper suitor?”
I shake my head. “To be truthful, for me at least, I know not. Were I an heir of House Fortemps, or even if I bore her name, I would be expected to wed a noble Elezen, of one of the other High Houses, that our ties might be strengthened to one another. And most preferably an Elezen woman, that I might personally shore up our numbers.”
“But as you are not an heir…”
“I expect much the same, though perhaps to someone sworn in service rather than born of the High Houses. With an understanding that my duties here would demand a spouse that is not desirous of living in Ishgard… or else, that they would not mind overmuch if I was absent more often than not.” I sigh. “This, I think, is what my father wanted of me, or what he thought me willing to do. Perhaps he expected me to continue taking what pleasure I may here, as I have always done. To live one lie in Ishgard, and another in my rooms at Camp Dragonhead.”
He is quiet for a spell. “Might he… forbid you to be with me?”
“I do not ask his permission.” He looks at me, pensive. I reach out and brush his hair back, that I might more clearly see his face. “I have told him what is true: that I have pledged my heart to you. That I will not hide this, for I am not ashamed - nay, I am proud to have you in my life. And that if I am to serve Ishgard fully, then I must be whole to do so. To hide my heart, to deny you… I cannot fulfil my duties as half a man.”
He is smiling up at me now. “How bright your eyes shine, when you speak thus. With such passion.”
I sigh. “I have been told that I oft speak with an excess of passion. That I am overly lyrical in how I might express myself. I suppose that I cannot deny it… so please, my dearest, forgive me this excessive prattling. Scant time remains to you; I would not fill these precious bells with a surfeit of words.”
“I find no excess in your… prattling.” He sits up, and takes my hand, and kisses it, quite languidly; he speaks with his lips still against my fingers. “I adore your prattling.”
I sigh as he kisses my hand, my fingers, again and again; on his hand, the ring with the lovely grey stone suits him so well. How glad I am to see it; how glad that he did not refuse this gift. For it is mine to give, and whatsoever my father may think, full glad am I that he should have it. For his gift to me came from his own hands; in a way, this has come from mine.
He leans over me, slowly; oh, how he enjoys this, making me wait for it, making me near ready to beg for the press of his lips against mine. His body sinks down upon me and he kisses me, and though it be the thousandth time I thrill at the feeling of it, of him. Of his body, which I hold against me.
“Our tea will go cold again,” I say, when he breaks away; as I catch my breath.
He smiles down at me, and I see that he is hungry for something else this morning. As am I. “Today… may it turn to ice.”