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I should let him sleep, this early morn, for so peaceful he looks next to me. He has turned about in the night; when sleep finally took me, after bells of whirling thoughts and imagined conversations, he had been laid across my body like he has many times before, claiming me in his usual way. Sleep has not always come to him easily, these past days, as we have slowly had our news from Ul’dah - or lack thereof, more like. And while the Crystal Braves still seem to be moving in the world with impunity, they have not tested our borders.
What remains are rumours only, whispers; and though this is the food of my people, our palette is discerning. His recent deeds of heroism have not yet been forgotten here. And so my course is clear, and there is no more for us to discuss this morning. I might leave for Ishgard at my earliest convenience.
How strange, to think of leaving him here, in my bed, while I venture forth. So many times has he left me in the early hours, having stolen some moments with me between his many duties. Though always he would come and kiss me ere he left, so gently and quietly that I might have dreamed it. And so as I finish donning my armour, I return to my room and kneel next to the bed, and kiss his temple.
He breathes out, and his eyelids flicker. He hums. “Love.”
“I am to set out for Ishgard, dearest. All is well. Take your comfort here tonight. I will return on the morrow.”
He blinks his eyes open, with effort; he unfurls his arm and cups my face in his warm hand. “You worry. But you will prevail.” He smiles. “Would that I could hear your words. Your passion. But he will hear.”
“Oh, my love, I pray only that he does.” I kiss his lips, lightly. “Thank you.”
It is an early departure, ere the sun has risen, and so Camp Dragonhead is still much in the mode of night-time. In the quiet darkness, I find my mind returning to me pictures of these last days: our warm welcome in the great hall after our harrowing night together out in the squalls, where the chirurgeons took their measure of us and demanded that we take an easy day, at the least, if not a full day of rest. While I took my place and pored over missives, Mistress Tataru insisted that my dearest one and Alphinaud join her and any idle knights present in some games of cards.
When the sun set on that strange day, he asked if we might take our supper alone in our rooms, and while the warmth and comfort of company was appealing as always, so too was the prospect of quiet and an early rest. Our meal was not hasty, but short none the less, for neither of us seemed to have much appetite.
That night, as we make ourselves ready for bed, he says: “I… have a small request.”
I turn to him, having removed my gambeson. “What would you have of me?”
He does not meet my eyes; he removes his second sabaton, a little slowly. “When we go to bed, would you… lay upon me? I mean not to take our pleasure, only I…”
I think back to those moments when we took our warmth together, when he spoke of how he felt when touched lightly, in times of uncertainty. “You feel a little uneasy still?”
He nods. “The pressure, I think, would be welcome. For a little while.”
Now in breeches only, I gesture for him to climb into the bed first. Once he has made himself comfortable, I move over him, gently lowering my body onto him. As my weight settles fully, he sighs so deeply, his arms coming up around me and squeezing me. For a long moment he breathes, my body raising and lowering a little with each breath. At length he releases me with his arms and I prop myself up to look down on him.
“Thank you,” he says; his eyes are tired, but there is relief upon his face.
Smiling, I shift myself and curl up next to him, my head upon his chest, as he has so oft done to me.
He chuckles. “Would you sleep thus?”
“Perhaps, if I could find my comfort, as long as I ensure my ears are unfettered.”
“This is why you sleep on your back, yes?”
“Essentially. Some Elezen find their comfort easily in other positions. I have not, though on occasion I have tried.”
“Mmm.” He runs his fingers through my hair for a spell. “You feel unsafe, if they are touched.”
“More a… remembrance of feeling unsafe.” I look up at him. “How did you know? I don’t recall speaking on it.”
He smiles, so softly. “I watch you.”
I think, not for the first time, how safe it feels being with him. How comforting his fingers feel in my hair. “Would you… like to touch them?”
His brow furrows slightly. “You desire this?”
“I have let those memories hold power over me for a long while.” I prop myself up a little, so that I can better see his face. “I do not expect that I will ever relish having them touched, but… I would like to fashion some better memories.”
He moves his hand, gently stroking my cheek with the backs of his fingers. “You trust me with this.”
“With all my heart.”
Slowly, he moves his hand, tracing the line of my jaw, and then up to my ear. I take in a calming breath and watch his face, so focused, so careful, as his fingers gently touch the top of my ear, following it down to the tip. “Is this well?” he asks, his voice so quiet.
“Yes… it is. Here,” I sit up and remove the clasps that I wear, casting them aside; he sits up as well, and moves onto my lap, that he might better reach my ears.
This time he puts his hands on my shoulders and moves his lovely calloused fingers up either side of my neck; with his eyes almost closed, he traces my ears, so slowly, so gently, underneath them and out to the tips, then softly along the tops. For some moments I simply breathe and let him touch them, in this comforting rhythm, until a sudden memory comes unbidden - I wince and draw in a breath.
He moves his hands away instantly, holding them where I can see them as though to prove it. His look is concerned.
I take in another shaky breath and expel it slowly. “I’m sorry, dearest -”
He shakes his head. “You owe me not access to your body. Need you that I move?”
“No, it’s all right. Thank you.” I sigh. “Another time, perhaps?”
“May I… do one small thing? It is well if you do not wish this, today.”
I furrow my brow. “What small thing?”
“May I kiss them?”
I shiver, just a little, at the thought. “… Yes. Please.”
He leans toward my ear, so slowly; and with a gentleness that is hardly more than a breath, he kisses my ear. Before he kisses the other, he looks upon me, checking that I am still well; I nod, and with the same care he leans in and ghosts his lips against my other ear. “To help you make better memories,” he whispers, and he looks on me again with his quiet smile.
I have no words, and so I simply kiss him, lightly, and rest my forehead against his, and sit with him as I affix this memory in my mind. That I could press the others out - that one memory, at least, the look of childish malice upon his face as he reached out toward me. Strange, how of all those who tormented me thus, and often much worse, only his face lingers so. But this sour memory must also share the space, now, with this new one; this act of care and love.
We both have difficulty finding our rest this night, sleeping fitfully if at all, despite how desperately we crave it. I awaken from a jarring dream, of prowling an empty waste of snow, my throat hoarse from calling his name… and I realize that he is not with me in bed. I leap up and come to the door of my room -
He is sitting on the rug, before the gently dying coals, looking up at me. “Haurchefant?”
I sigh his name. “I only… I had an unpleasant dream, and then…”
“I as well.” He beckons for me to join him. “I tire of trying to sleep.”
We sit together and quietly talk of lighter things. I beg of him some stories of his recent training as a Paladin (how strange are the ways of those who fight for the honour of Ul’dah!); in turn, he asks for stories of the early days of my knighthood. I tell him of my long days and strange hours, how I much turned to the staff of our house for company in those days, as I often had in my youth, caught between the world of the treasured sons of House Fortemps and the world of the tolerated, the reminder of broken faith.
“He… my father was waiting for me in the kitchen, when last I was in Ishgard, after I came home from the hell unleashed by the Wyverns. He knew I would go there, that I would seek out quiet company rather than take my repast in my room.”
“Perhaps he knows you better than you think.”
“Or perhaps I’ve simply changed less than I thought since I was a boy.”
He looks at me, his soft smile only barely visible in the dark. “I would have liked to know you, then.”
I sit with this a while. “Do you ever wonder what you were like? As a boy, a young man?”
“No.”
I laugh. “Truly?”
He shrugs. “I was who I needed to be, to become who I am.”
“You are… at peace with this?”
“I have found my calling. My love.” He is quiet a spell. “My friends.”
I reach out and lay my hand on his back; still I recall how he shrank away from me, when he was so uneasy, so outside of himself. To my relief, he moves closer to me, leaning his body against me.
At length we finally find our rest, there upon the rug, curled up together; the maid had quite a start the next morning, finding us there before her in breeches only in the foyer. Her yell of surprise and her raucous laughter were heard all through the manor, and we all took many much-needed laughs from it in the days that followed.
The next night he still slept ill, but as the days wore on, as we found a comfortable rhythm together, as it became more clear that there would be no news of evil fates befalling his friends in Ul’dah, more easily did he find his rest.
So strange and… lovely it was, to wake with him every morning, and take our tea, and talk together, and know that he would not be dashing off again ere the next sun set. Often we would be apart for most of the day, as he would find some work with which to busy himself, or aid his fellow Scions in their tasks (for they had also offered their skills and talents to us; like him, they are unable to stop themselves from helping those they may). We would all sup together, and take some small amount of merriment; at night we two would retire, and take our comfort, our pleasure, our rest.
As the word from Ul’dah remained scant and muddled, it became clear what I must do. And so his sleep became easier as mine became more fitful, as I lay awake thinking and worrying, planning and considering.
And now, on this cold, dark morning, I have left him in my bed, that I might go to the stables ere the sun has crested the horizon, and make my way once more to the Steps of Faith.
To do the needful. To do the impossible. To change my father’s mind.
Despite my early start, it is nearly midday by the time I find myself in the Manor, sitting in her grand receiving room and making conversation with the House steward. My father, it seems, had a busy morning seeing to requests for aid in repairs of the Foundation, but he is expected to return ere long. All seems passing quiet here, and I am about to inquire as to the whereabouts of my brothers when I hear the sounds of entry in the foyer. For a moment I think it to be my father, and then a word or two comes through clearly, and I brace myself.
Artoirel enters, his pale skin still a little red from the cold; it seems he has only just now returned from Falcon’s Nest.
Of all the damnable timing…
He regards me with a measure of surprise as I stand. “Artoirel! Not exactly the man of House Fortemps that I expected, but I am glad to see you well none the less. It seems we passed each other much as ships in the night, when the Wyverns attacked - if you’ll pardon my Lominsan metaphor.”
“You never could turn from an artful phrase,” he says. “Though I wonder what has brought you back so soon.”
“I have a matter of some import to discuss with Father.”
“I see.” He crosses to the hearth and warms his hands a little. “Is this to do with that missive you sent of late? It was so heavy an envelope, I wondered if you had taken up writing novels.”
I laugh. “Ah, but had you only seen the first draft!” I take my seat again, stretching out my legs and making myself comfortable. “Things are well in Falcon’s Nest, I hope?”
He scoffs. “For every ilm we might take, House Durendaire cries for reconsiderations and new plans. I would take more pleasure conversing with a herd of chocobos.”
I hum a thoughtful note. “Mayhap you might trade places with Emmanellain. He might relish that challenge.”
He grunts, signalling that he has indulged me in my full share of talk. I cannot say I mind, turning again to the steward that we might resume our conversation. Artoirel, having taken his warmth, paces the room imperiously, as though it has already been made his, as it one day will be. I wonder if my comfort here will endure, when that sad day comes to pass.
It is perhaps half a bell hence when I hear them enter the foyer, and I sigh quietly; for along with my father’s voice, edging in here and there, I hear Emmanellain’s.
The door comes open and my father is in the very midst of a lecture: “- must take this opportunity to build some measure of character -”
He stops short as I rise, and Artoirel turns. We bow, nearly in unison saying, “My Lord.”
He regards us thoughtfully. “Well. This is a blessing I had not expected this day.”
Emmanellain laughs. “Look at this! Three Fortemps boys in one room - hasn’t it been an age since that’s happened?”
My father fixes me with a searching look for but a moment; then he turns to Artoirel. “I expected that you might return in a few days. Is all well in your efforts?”
“Well enough -”
He has some tidings to report, some requests that have been made by House Durendaire; my father gestures that we join him and sit near the hearth. As they pore over the details, I struggle to remain focused, to keep my thoughts from wandering to the reason for my visit. A time or two, I catch Emmanellain looking at me. Has he heard of my missive? Artoirel did not seem to have any ken as to the contents, but if any would…
“That shall be enough to placate them, Fury willing.” My father is silent a moment before he turns to me. “Haurchefant. I had not expected you again so soon. There are no concerns with the garrison at Camp Dragonhead, I trust?”
“None, my Lord - most have returned from the Foundation, as you no doubt saw today upon your visit there. I have come to speak on a… rather different matter. One of the utmost importance.”
He regards me; Artoirel and Emmanellain exchange a look. “Well,” he says. “I would hear of this matter.”
So it begins. I take in a breath and allow myself one small prayer to Halone for Her strength.
“It concerns those who have been fierce allies of ours, these past many moons; they who have risked life and limb many times over that we of Coerthas, of Ishgard, might be protected. They have done this, asking nigh on nothing of us - and so I come to you today, on their behalf, to ask that we might extend to them the hand of friendship, for they are in need of succor.”
“You speak of the Scions of the Seventh Dawn.”
“I do.”
Artoirel huffs. “Should you not say what remains of them, more like?”
I fix him with a hard look. “These are my friends of whom you speak.”
Emmanellain leans in. “And there’s been no reports yet of bodies found, of the Scions at least - truly, it sounds like a cracking great escape they pulled off in Ul’dah!”
“I most fervently hope that is the case.” I let out a breath that I had not realized I was holding. “Some few of them have come to Camp Dragonhead in their need for safe harbour.”
“And you are sure you harbour innocents?” Artoirel says. “And not fugitives? Conspirators? Murderers?”
“Artoirel.” My father’s tone is warning. My brother glowers and sits back, while my father turns to me. “I am of the opinion - as I think are most - that the charges against your friends are spurious at best. But the fact remains that charges there are.” He takes a long moment in thought. “If you have come to secure my blessing, as Count and patron of Camp Dragonhead, to continue to act as a safe harbour while this matter runs its course, then you have it.”
“Father -” Artoirel starts, but my father holds up his hand to stop him.
“I am… truly grateful,” I say; oh, if only that were enough. “But what I ask is that you bring them here, to Ishgard, as wards of House Fortemps.”
Exclamations of incredulity and shock come from both of my brothers, in their varying ways. My father only looks at me, pensive.
“Haurchefant,” Artoirel says, “did you take a blow to the head in the Brume this past fortnight? This is a fanciful request, even for you.”
“I am quite of my own mind, but thank you for your concern.”
“To ask for this at all is folly enough, but now?”
“If not now, when? Shall I wait for yet more wards to fall?”
“You should wait until they have been properly restored!”
“That is enough.” My father’s voice, only slightly raised, is more than enough to quell this argument. He leaves us in silence some long moments before he looks again to me. “I am not unsympathetic to the plight of your friends, nor do I forget their role in holding back the horde upon the Steps. But to bring them here under these circumstances is out of the question.”
“What circumstances? Our great city crumbling as if beneath our very feet? Father, I ask not for charity this day, I ask for the means to throw wide the gates and usher in fresh hope.”
Artoirel scoffs. “These are not merchants peddling ideals. You would have us act against the will of the Holy See and welcome your current playthings into Ishgard?”
“Playthings?” Oh, the heat rises in me now, and I clench my jaw with the effort of holding my tongue.
“I call them only what they are. Do you think we hear nothing of your comportment, out in the central highlands? You are not so remote as that.”
“My comportment is not what I have come here to discuss.”
“That does not absolve you of its consequences, Haurchefant.”
“Oh Artoirel,” Emmanellain says, “this one is hardly a flash in the pan, as they say. I’ve heard he’s been quite a constant companion these past half-dozen moons at least!”
“Emmanellain -” nearly in unison again, are Artoirel and I -
“Enough!” My father stands, with the aid of his cane, and looks to me. “I think we must continue this discussion in my study, Haurchefant. Artoirel, Emmanellain, I trust you are capable of amusing yourselves?”
I rise, and bow my head; without another word he turns, and we leave my brothers behind.
When we are some distance away, nearing the stairs, he says, “You might have asked to speak with me alone.”
“You’re right, of course. I apologise.” I should have known Artoirel would not hesitate to draw these points to the fore, to carve away at my private life with his casual malice.
My father enters his study, and I follow, closing the door behind me; he walks to his desk, but he does not sit down. “I must make it plain at the outset,” he says, turning to me, “that while I do not condone or appreciate Artoirel’s tone, we are at least somewhat aligned in our perspective.”
“What perspective is that, my Lord? That our friends are not worthy of succor, or that they are my current playthings?”
He levels me with a searing look. “If you would have me hear your pleas, you would do well to watch your own tone, Haurchefant.”
I let out a breath. “I only… do you truly think this of me? That my friendships, my intimacies, are as a game?”
“Have you given me cause to think otherwise?”
I mull this over for a long moment. “I’m sorry. Again I feel the sting of leaving all to speculation and rumour, these past years. This is of my own doing, and it is my own burden. But today, I beg you to leave this aside, and look instead to the good that might be done for Ishgard if these few accounted-for Scions were to take up their work here.”
“As yet, I do not see what they might do here that they cannot at Camp Dragonhead.”
“If they were to simply bide their time and wait for word of their friends? Certainly.” I pace about the study as I try to find the words for this. “But what good would they bring to Ishgard thus? These are no common sellswords, no mere grand company bruisers. These are people with a calling, a need to help those they may, and they take to their work like a raptor to the skies! Of those under my protection, so varied are their skills and talents.”
I lay out for him, as I pace the study, but a few of the deeds that my guests have seen to, these past weeks. I speak of Alphinaud’s healing talents, his depth of research, his oratory skill and his intense self-reflection of late; how much he has grown, in just this past moon. I speak of how Mistress Tataru sees the truth of people, the logic and passion that drives them, and how to play them one with the other for the benefit of all.
I stop my pacing and take a breath, collecting my thoughts. “Little wonders, they all have worked, without trying; for asking questions, for seeking answers, for throwing themselves into all that they do with gladness… this is their work.”
My father regards me expectantly. “I note that you have said naught of the other Scion in your company.”
It comes to this, then, at last. Fury, please. Let me separate my love and my duty, only for today. “I will. I only feared that you would think I exaggerate unduly. Today, I speak of him only as a man in service to Eorzea, whose duty to his people is no less true than my own. I leave aside any personal feelings, and I ask that you consider him only thus; for I swear, by Halone’s name, that if he were to shun me on the morrow, I would stand by every point I will lay out for you today.”
He is quiet a moment, and then he turns, and pulls out his chair, and sits, facing me still, hands resting on his cane. “Tell me, then, of the vaunted Warrior of Light.”
I take a small step back, and lean against the door of the study. With my eyes fixed upon the ceiling, I conjure the memory I would describe to him. “The day the wards on the Steps first fell, as the sun set, he came to Camp Dragonhead at Ser Aymeric’s request. From the moment he arrived, I saw - I felt - how much the men and women in my garrison looked to him for hope on that dark day. As he crossed the yards, they called out to him; it was as something from the stories of old, of ballads. What had begun as a day of fear at the sudden strength of our enemies became a day of renewed belief in ourselves, through a friendship that had been forged to withstand such things.”
When I look to him, he is watching me, patiently. I allow myself a moment to breathe, to think.
“You spoke before of Ser Aymeric’s ability to command hope, through words and actions. For Eorzea’s champion, it is much the same, but instead of words it is his very presence that commands hope, that speaks hope. I have watched him, in audience with Ser Aymeric. While the Lord Commander and Alphinaud bandy words about, playing the game of our peoples, he watches, and listens; one can feel him taking in the scope of what will be needed of him. And when the request comes, he has already pledged himself so wholly to the course that one might feel it already complete!
“He bears this weight easily, with a smile, for it gives him comfort and purpose. And it is so for whatsoever might be needed of him, for there is no work that he would think beneath him. This is why my men and women look to him as they do: they see in him both a hero and an equal, a myth brought to life in a man who sees them as a friend.”
My father lets out a long breath. “The picture you paint of your friends is admirable indeed; however, I do not see, as yet, any reason that they should be brought here to do this work.”
“Because Ishgard needs hope!” I take some steps toward him. “You were just this morning in the Brume, you cannot tell me that you do not see how this city’s very foundation struggles to bear the weight of the relentless attacks this past moon. There is a change on the wind, and it bodes ill indeed.”
“And you would have us turn to outsiders to see this rectified?”
“I would have us turn to our friends.”
“Your friends.”
“Yes! My friends - for my door was open to them from the very first, and thank Halone! I had hardly known them a fortnight when they routed the heretic inquisitor from our midst. Without their perspective, their clarity of vision, how many more of our people, innocent people, would have paid for our blindness?”
“To route a heretic thus is commendable indeed. But you cannot expect that Ishgard is so easily measured as the outposts of the central highlands.”
“This is why they must come! We have seen already how they rise to every new and greater challenge. Only if they are immersed here, within the great webs of Ishgard, might they work upon her, lend her their help, their perspective, their clarity of vision.”
“And if this perspective is not welcome?” He stands, facing me. “If this clarity of vision were to bring to light things that would be best left unsaid? If it were to draw scrutiny and censure upon our House?”
My jaw tightens. “My Lord, do you truly think I would put them forward if I thought that there was one onze of a chance that they would do this?”
“I merely ask if you have considered the possible consequences, the risks that I must consider, as head of our House.” He regards me sternly. “You asked not to discuss personal feelings, but I find it impossible to ignore your recently professed distain for propriety, in light of this request of yours.”
“My recent -” I shake my head. “Father, you read my letter. You know what happened that day, why I do not regret that choice.”
“Whether or not you regret it means little to those who witnessed it, who speak on it still.”
“I care not that they speak on it! My request has nothing to do with -”
“You care not if they speak ill of our House? Of my acknowledgement of you, the position I have placed you in? Of myself, as a father, as a man?”
“I would give my life for our House, for Ishgard, with gladness! Is this not more important than decorum?”
“These things are not weights on a set of scales, they are all assets to be tallied - and they will be, your or my own opinion be damned!” He throws aside his cane, into his bookshelf, sending tomes flying. “You are not outside these webs of which you speak, you are not above them! You are here, within them, as are we all!”
“What would you have of me, then? Would you have me hide myself away, steal moments of happiness, moments of love as if they were crimes? By the Fury, you have already denied me my name, would you also deny me my heart?”
“Haurchefant!”
I whirl around, my back to him, fists clenched - I squeeze my eyes shut and bite down the next words I would say, hold back the blow I would strike against the wall. For a long moment I breathe, and ease the heat away.
It is some long moments before he speaks. “I have not asked this of you.” His voice is quiet. “I have no desire to deny you your heart. But it is known, now, broadly, that you are intimate with him. I must consider this, in weighing my answer to your request.”
I let his words hang for a long moment. When at last I speak, my voice seems distant, even to me. “I am sorry, my Lord. I spoke out of turn. You are right, of course. These things cannot be considered separately.”
I turn and face him; his expression is strangely weary, and I wonder how much of this is mirrored on my face. “My son,” he says, “why do you ask this of me? Why have you come to me this day?”
The words come almost unbidden. “For the sake of love.”
His brow furrows.
“Father, I think to my duty first, always. This I swear; but my duty is love. It is in my love that I find my strength, my reason, my purpose. These things cannot be considered separately one from the other. It is for love that I serve Ishgard and our House; that I open the doors of my hall to all who need merriment and warmth, and my heart to those who need comfort. Those I speak for today are not playthings, they are my dear friends, who need us this day. And yes, it is for my love of him that I would ask this of you, for he is my dearest companion. His parting words to me this early morn gave me the strength to see this through.”
I close my eyes, for but a moment, with the memory of his warm hand touching my face, his soft and smoky voice. You worry. But you will prevail.
“Perhaps you think, then, that this is a selfish request. Please, know this: to send him here is like to sending him away from me.” I find it hard to form these words, as he watches, his expression stern. “Had I heard your first refusal and taken my leave… Oh, I would wake every morning to his smile, and retire every evening in his warm company, as I have these past weeks with joy. But I cannot turn from my duty, from what I believe is right. I cannot keep him to myself, no matter how much I…”
Would that I could hear your words. Your passion. But he will hear. His voice, like a light in the darkness. Always.
I go down on one knee, and bow my head. “Please. I will not deny it. It is for love that I would see them brought here. The days are dark, and growing darker still. They need our support and our purpose, as Ishgard needs their light and their hope. And Father,” I look up at him. “He is hope incarnate.”
For a long moment he regards me; I feel that I have spent every word within me. All that might be left are pleas, and they are not like to sway him.
“Leave me,” he says, quietly; he sits again in his chair. “I will consider your request.”
I stand, and silently take my leave.
The sun is setting over Ishgard, and I have yet to return to the Last Vigil. For many hours I have stalked the streets, searching for some peace, some certainty, as my words and my father’s words, even my brothers’ words tumble ever through my mind. Such a fool was I, to think that I might make this case without addressing my love of him, this connection which I would not, could not sunder.
I thought, for a moment only, that he would demand that I do this to secure his support. Still, he may ask this; but in this quest of mine, this is the one thing I cannot give. For it is a part of me, as is my love of all things; and also a part of my companion, that he has shared with me, and which I treasure so, so dearly.
I find myself wishing I were a boy again, that I might call upon Francel and find some quiet corner into which we could disappear and emerge different people: ancient knights serving King Thordan, or corsairs on the high seas in search of treasure. We might tarry overlong, and return home to a scolding, harsh but familiar, small and easy. When Coerthas had summers, green and beautiful, and Ishgard seemed a fortress that might withstand any onslaught.
“Thought I might find you here, old boy!”
I look up, shaken out of my thoughts, as Emmanellain climbs down onto the roof of the chocobo stable next to me. “Was this an old haunt of yours as well?”
“Not really,” he says, looking down and considering whether he will risk dirtying his attire by sitting next to me. “I used to watch you traipsing about - sometimes I might earn a little goodwill from mum by tattling on you, you know. Never hurt to be prepared!”
“I’m surprised not to find any children about, this day. The streets are nigh on bereft of them.”
“Would you let a little one out to play when a Wyvern might swoop in and nip off their head at a moment’s notice?” Apparently finding no appropriate spot, he simply crouches down not far from me, his back against the stone wall. “I hadn’t really thought about it, until you talked about the place crumbling away.”
“The wards should be strong here; but then again, they were strong on the Steps.” I sigh. “I won’t be coming to dinner tonight, if you would like to tattle on me; perhaps that will save you another lecture.”
“Really? That’s capital, old boy!” He laughs. “I had an invitation from some friends just returned from Limsa, to dine with them tonight - if you’re not going to be there, there’s no sense in my hanging around.”
“I am happy to have been of service.”
I expect him to take his leave, but he appears to be… thinking. How dangerous. “Had a bit of a row with Father today, eh?”
“Were you listening from the pantry? Next you’ll be telling me you’ve read my recent missive.”
“Wellll,” he says, drawing out the word, “I may have stolen just the smallest peek at it - only because he had called me into his study to blather on about this or that, and I found myself a bit bored. Just the last page was sitting there on top of the pile.” He smiles at me. “You really are smitten, eh?”
“Yes,” I say, making an effort to keep the amusement from showing on my face, lest I encourage him further. “I am quite smitten, as you say.”
“Who would have thought, that fellow you took up with in the faux inquisitor days would take such a hold of you - and turn out to be a hero of the realm, to boot! You bagged a good one, there’s no mistaking that.”
“That you are so well acquainted with my paramours is… certainly something.” I run my hand down my face. “Feel free to bring the news of my latest misstep to our father and older brother, and enjoy your evening with your friends.”
He is quiet for a moment (a rare occurrence.) “Don’t let Artoirel get to you,” he says. “I’ve never seen a man so determined to be unhappy, and he with the whole world waiting on his plate! Even Father knows how to have a laugh or two, when the mood is right and the wine is flowing.”
“Artoirel did seem rather more… taciturn than usual.”
“Something’s eating him - and I haven’t quite figured out what… but I am making inquiries,” he says with a mischievous smile. “It’s been quite fun, though fruitless so far.” He shivers. “Least he isn’t waiting until nobody’s watching and twisting our ears anymore, eh?”
I shudder - that image, that feeling flashes through my mind - I squeeze my eyes shut and draw in a quick breath. “He… did that to you, as well?”
“Oh, yes. You didn’t know? I guess you were out and about whenever you could, back then.”
“I didn’t know.” I breathe in, and let it pass slowly from my lips, lightly clouding the air. “I’m sorry. I would have tried to stop him, if I’d known.”
“Ancient history, old boy.” He claps my shoulder and stands. “You know… if you’re not going home, you might join us instead. Better company than the chocobos, anyway.”
“I appreciate the offer, but I wouldn’t want to intrude.”
“Pshaw. You know how to have a good time.” He climbs back up the wall to the walkway with a fair bit of effort. “Good luck with your Scions!” he says, and then he’s gone.
It is passing late when finally I return to the Manor. I enter where the servants do, as I oft did in my early knighthood. Some few of them remember those days, and so I take a measure of merriment in conversing with them, as I beg a small repast of the kitchen: some crusts of knight’s bread and stew, much like our many warming meals at Camp Dragonhead.
At length I return to my room, again by the back stairs. The fire has been built up, and the bed turned down, but I am not yet ready to take my rest. I have just changed my armour for a dressing gown when there is a knock upon my door.
I take in a breath and steel my nerves as I answer it. My father stands there, with his hands clasped before him; he has not brought his cane.
“My Lord.”
“Most unruly sons are known to sneak out of the house, not back into it.”
I smile, a little embarrassed. “I apologise. I found that I could not bring myself to have a polite dinner with my brothers this day.”
He regards me. “I would have a few words with you, if you have not yet resolved to take your rest.”
“I had not. Please.” I invite him in, closing the door after him, then moving to the hearth and arranging my chairs that we may sit and converse. My heart races with thoughts of what he has come to say.
As if to quell this, he says, as he sits: “I come not, this evening, to render to you my answer; nor do I ask you to redouble your arguments in an attempt to sway my decision. You have quite made your case this day.”
“That is well. I… know not what else I could say.” I sit across from him. “I am grateful that you still consider my request.”
He hums, thoughtfully. “Whatsoever I ultimately decide, I would have you know that - despite a moment or two of insolence - I am… proud of your conviction, and your loyalty. To Ishgard, as well as to your friends.”
“Thank you, Father.”
He turns his gaze to the fire; it crackles and spits for a long moment, filling the silence between us. “I have read, again, the letter you sent before the Wyvern attack. I would take issue with you on one point within it.”
I swallow; my mouth has suddenly gone dry.
“The wall of silence, as you call it, is not the work of your labour alone. Many of its stones have been laid by my very hands.” He looks to me. “I would like to help you cast these stones away, in the fullness of time. And I would have you come to me, when you wish it, to talk of matters, trifling or otherwise.”
I have no words. At length I manage: “I will.”
A small smile touches his features. “I sincerely hope he appreciates the lengths to which you have gone to make his case - both as a Scion in need of safe harbour, and as… the object of your affection.”
I laugh, quietly. “He does. He… has said some kind words to me, on the subject of my speaking with passion, of things important to me.”
“By all accounts, he is quite precious with his words.”
“That is not untrue, especially when there are many who would speak.” Another small laugh escapes me as a memory rolls through my mind. “The first night I spoke with him at length, I likely said ten words - twenty even! - for every one of his. But he is just as much present through his listening; perhaps it is that his ears make such a show of his feelings.”
“Mmm.” I see something pass over him; to my surprise, he speaks on it directly. “I had never imagined that any of my sons would court an… outsider so seriously. I would think that I am not as old-fashioned as the heads of the other High Houses, but on this point I find I cannot help but feel a certain reticence.”
“Might I ask… what is it you expected of me? Had you an Ishgardian suitor in mind for me? Or the idea of one, at the least?”
“For your brothers, certainly. For you…” He sighs. Again, he turns to the fire. “Ever have you made your own way, your own happiness. I have no place to demand that you cast these things aside in pursuit of some sliver of decorum, when it might very well be as a knife that cuts both ways.”
I draw in a breath, slowly, as I think through what I would say to this. “I… have made plain my feelings about decorum, about propriety. But I would say: though I will not deny or hide my feelings, I have no desire to invite hardship upon our house. And neither does he - Fury, he was on the point of rescinding his request on the Steps when I kissed him, for he saw my hesitation. He would have denied his own comfort in exchange for mine without a thought.”
My father stares into the fire for a spell. “Strange, is it not? That of the japes and rumours that have found their way to me, speaking on this moment, they all take you to task, but have no qualms whatsoever with his comportment.” He looks to me again, a small, strange light in his eyes. “Almost as though it is all entirely without sense or merit.”
I allow myself a small smile. “You might join us at Camp Dragonhead some evening. I find the highland air is effective in blowing away the foul odours of gossip.”
At this he laughs, and stands with some effort. “It has been too long, perhaps. I will think on this, and all else that you have so heavily laid upon me this day. On the morrow you will have your answers, to do with as you desire.”
I stand and cross with him to the door. “I am sorry to have burdened you so, my Lord.”
“If it is to be a choice between laying stones and carrying burdens, then let us carry them. Together, when we may.”
“Nothing would please me more.”
He makes to leave, but before I close the door he stops, and turns; a strange expression he wears, one I cannot fully read, but there seems to be some… amusement within it. “If he were to come here, at some point, would he… require separate accommodations? Or would he best find his comfort here, in your room of old?”
“He… would be most comfortable here, whether or not I am with him. On that I am quite certain.”
He nods, and bids me good-night, and takes his leave.
Has he… have I…
As I close the door, my heart races; but there is no sense pondering this now. And yet I cannot stop myself from hoping. From smiling. And from praying - with gratefulness in my heart for what I have already received, for if nothing else… he knows, and speaks of him with respect. And I have said to him, at last, how it is that my heart serves me, and gives me strength, in all things.
Oh, Halone. If this is to be my lot, You will not find me ungrateful.
I sleep overlong, once sleep finally comes to me, and so when I awake to the sounds of a house full of life and the overly busy noise of servants’ footsteps, I feel a pang of fear. I don my armour as quickly as I dare, and venture downstairs in search of my father.
I find him in the breakfast room, which is now being cleared of the repast; he sits and speaks with Artoirel. They look to me as I enter, my father with the hint of a smile, my brother with the same measure of disdain (though there is something else as well, quieter.) I bow.
“Pray, excuse my lateness, only - before I make a proper apology, is all well this day? The House seems passing busy this morning.”
“You need not apologise,” my father says, standing; Artoirel follows suit. “I asked that you be allowed whatever measure of sleep you might take, for you must journey back to Camp Dragonhead today with tidings for those you harbour there.”
Oh, dare I hope? “And what tidings will I bring, my Lord?”
He draws himself up to his full height, and in a commanding tone, says: “That they must make ready to cross the Steps of Faith, and join us here in Ishgard; for there is work to be done, and hope is better fostered with the help of friends.”
“I will bear this news with gladness.” I cannot keep from smiling.
Artoirel sighs. “I shall take my leave, Father, that you might discuss this in detail.”
“Of course; though when our guests arrive tomorrow, I would have you join us, for we may find them some work in support of this endeavour of yours in Falcon’s Nest.”
He says nothing, only bows. I feel his heavy mood as he passes me and makes his exit. My father calls for a servant to bring tea and breakfast for me - I make to stop him, but he waves me off.
“You need not leave immediately; it will be some time ere the paperwork is complete, and the rooms are being made ready as we speak. I expect that you shall arrive in Camp Dragonhead with your news before the full darkness of night descends.”
“I… Father… thank you.”
He looks upon me for a long moment. “These past years, I have made of you an image in my mind which, through its missing parts, led me to assume things of you which were not warranted. I believe I see you now, more clearly; and perhaps, as well, some small part of my own self.”
I know not what to say. He crosses to me, and puts his hand on my shoulder.
“And as for the man to whom you have pledged your heart… I would take my measure of him. Bring him to meet me. For he may well be Eorzea’s champion, but we will see if he is worthy of courting a son of mine.”
When I arrive in Camp Dragonhead, I find the Scions in conference within the Intercessory, and it is with absolute pleasure that I thrust their documents into their hands in answer to Alphinaud’s plan to take his finished missive of failure to Ul’dah. To finally say to him, in all truth, that he has friends upon whom he can rely… oh, how I have waited for this day.
The others having quit to begin making ready, my dearest one crosses to me. He slides his arms around me, looking up at me, his eyes so bright. “My love. You prevailed.”
I let out a long, deep breath, and hold him close. “I… was not certain I would. I found myself losing focus, trying to separate my duty from my love, my needs from my desires… and then I called to mind your voice, your parting words to me, that morning. They gave me clarity, when most I needed it.”
He stretches up and kisses me. “I… will miss our mornings together, here. Our nights. Knowing I might see you at my leisure.”
“As will I. But I will not be so far away. I will cross with you, and after that… I will call on you.”
“You must.” He grins. “Or I will claim your room as my own.”
I laugh. “As long as I am permitted entry, at your discretion, you may have it.”
We return to my rooms; we are to cross the Steps on the morrow, and so they have little time to prepare. For my love, of course, there is little to do. I note that most of the things of his, which have found their homes here amongst my belongings, he does not pack away for travel. As I am doffing my armour, I ask upon this; he comes to join me, already in breeches only, and kneels before me that he might work upon my sabatons.
“You will be staying there, after we cross the Steps?” he asks, in lieu of answering me.
“For a few days, to see that you are settled, until my duties here call me back.”
“Mmm.” He casts one sabaton aside and begins unbuckling the other. “There is an Aetherite in Ishgard, yes?”
“There is.” I realize now what he is saying. “You mean to…”
“Come home.” He smiles up at me, so softly. “To take my rest. To see my… dearest companion.”
I laugh and touch his cheek as he casts my other sabaton aside. “You have… heard me refer to you as such, to others?”
“I have been told.” His look has gone rogueish. He stands and slides his hands up under my gambeson, grazing along my stomach. “Though I am sworn to secrecy.”
I bend to kiss him, then pull my gambeson over my head and toss it aside. “I suppose I cannot ask you to name them. I would not dare to have you break an oath.”
Already he is kissing my chest, my neck, his hands sliding up my back. As I move my own hands down, firmly grabbing his backside and drawing him against me, he moans softly against my skin. “Only one name may I call out this night,” he growls. “And you must earn it.”
Laughing, I lift him, and he wraps his legs around me. “Oh, my dearest companion,” I whisper against his neck, his cheek, his ear. “I will gladly take this challenge.”
How strange, to think of leaving our bed tomorrow morning, to find ourselves that night in my room of old. As I return to him, having refreshed myself for sleep, he is lying back and watching me with a pensive expression. “I would share with you something,” he says.
I sit next to him; he takes my hand, looking to it, his thumb tracing across my fingers.
“Midgardsormr spoke to me again.” I watch his eyes, his ears, the tip of his tail as he thinks through what he would say. “I went to the Gates, the day you were gone. I know not why. I felt only… restless. While I looked upon them, to Ishgard beyond, he said there I would find only delusion. Despair.” He squeezes my hand. “Death.”
Though a chill runs through me, I bring his hand to my lips. “And if he thinks these things will stop you, he is sorely mistaken.” I kiss his fingers, kiss the ring I gave him in seeming an age past, though it has been only a moon. “And he is wrong to say that this is all you shall find there, for there is hope waiting to be kindled; truths ready to be found; lives eager to be built. And I will be there, to help you see this done.”
He sighs. “Your words are like poems, always.” He sits up and slides his arms around me. “I love their rhythm. It is a comfort.”
“He… my father heard me.” I look to him, my breath quickening at the memory. “And he said that I should bring you to him. That he would take his measure of you, to see if you are… worthy of courting me.” I find I am wearing a strange smile, saying this.
He hums, smiling in turn. “Am I worthy, do you think?”
“Oh, my dearest. There is little upon this star to rival your worth.”
“You praise me overmuch. There will be a toll.” He thinks a moment. When he speaks, he is still smiling, though I see the seriousness in his eyes. “If I were made to choose, between finding the past I have lost, and knowing you, I would choose you.”
I know not what to say - though I find my mind suddenly tumbles with thoughts of a horrid scenario, a cruel choice -
His face is awash with concern. “Oh, love. I am sorry. I did not mean to -”
“It’s all right. I only… I know you have made your peace with this, that you do not mourn your lost past overmuch. But I find that I do. To imagine that I might somehow keep you from it…"
He embraces me, firmly. “I mean only… I know not what I was. But I know who I am, and who I love. And this love… I treasure. Dearly.”
I let out a breath and shake off this melancholy. “And you would be content to be known, in Ishgard, to be courting me?”
“Content? My love, I would be proud.” His brow furrows slightly. “Only I… know not the ways of Ishgardian courtship, the rules. You must teach me.”
“There is little to teach. We are, as a rule, a reserved people; to express physical affection in public is largely taboo, even among those who are married.” I see his exprssion take on a measure of chagrin; his ears have flattened a little. “Oh, dearest. I know you think again of the day on the Steps. Please, do not apologise. If ever there was a moment to cast aside decorum…” I brush his hair back and kiss his forehead. “You ask so little of me. And I… I would give you everything. With no reservation, no regret.”
He studies my face for a moment, his look so soft. “I would… follow you, your example, when we are in Ishgard. I would wait for you, to touch me, to speak of me, that I might know how you would be touched, be spoken of.” He kisses me, lightly, with a softness that lingers. “Know that I am open to you. That you might take from me anything.”
“And I to you, as well. I would never for a moment choose decorum over your needs, or comforts, or desires. I… for the sake of my father, to respect the openness he has shown me of late, I will do what I can to behave in a manner that does not strain against propriety. But because of what I am, we may draw the ire of onlookers none the less; still, they might wonder at the motives of my House, in bringing you here, knowing that we are courting.”
He sighs. “I dislike these… complications.”
“Then think not of them. They are not yours to bear. ‘Tis the whims and whiles of others that make up this web. Let them trace the strands and think us caught up in them, if they like. For I have seen how you move in the world, my dearest, and not for one moment will you be fettered by so trifling a thing.”
He smiles, and leans back, and pulls me gently with him, sighing as we move to take our comfort together in sleep. Again he lays across me, claiming me; again I lay upon my back, that my ears may be unfettered. The memory Emmanellain called to mind yesterday presses again to the fore of my mind - my older brother’s childish malice, long since diffused into barbed words and looks alone - but so too does the memory of my dearest one kissing my ears, one and then the other, with such reverence, such love.
I am nearly within a dream when he says, quietly: “I hope they know, your people, how fortunate they are. To be loved by you so.”
I chuckle. “I am but a man with an excess of passion and a love of his own voice.”
He grunts. “With your words alone, you brought our worlds together. With the poems of your voice, you sang hope into being. My love… you are a hero.”
I smile - for while I would never claim this title… perhaps this courtship of ours, this bridging of our worlds and ways, will show to all what hope might be built. Together.