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It took Alphinaud quite a long while to notice. So long as to be embarrassing, honestly, were there even the slightest chance that he would ever discuss it with the other Scions.
He was not entirely lost in his own head, despite Y’shtola’s castigating. Nor was he as green behind the gills as Thancred liked to joke. It was merely that matters of an… amorous… nature were so far down on the list of priorities for the Scions of the Seventh Dawn that it would be strain credulity to devote even an iota of time or thought to unpicking them when Eorzea (and more pertinently, Ishgard) was at risk.
(It was not because he was “seventeen and a bit of a knob”, no matter what Yda used to say. There was a reason he’d always preferred Minfilia.)
After the disaster of the Crystal Braves and their flight to Ishgard, Alphinaud had sworn to himself that nothing would distract him from righting the wrongs he had let fester, whatever form that eventually took. He threw himself completely into ending the Dragonsong War, parlaying with the Dravanians, rescuing the Sultana and Raubahn, everything that crossed his path. There was no time for any distractions, flirtatious or otherwise, which was much the way he preferred it.
And that is how it would have remained, had he not chanced a glance over one day and noticed how Ser Aymeric and the Warrior of Light looked at each other.
He struggled to recall, sitting on the settee in Fortemps Manor, if there had ever been reason to notice such sentiments in M’ren beforehand. Some eight years Alphinaud’s senior, the Warrior of Light was a Miqo'te man that seemed to embody lightness in every aspect of his being: light-haired, light-hearted, light on his feet. His prowess with magic was beyond compare, to be sure, but it was bright smile that had won the Scions over and his jovial attitude that had made Alphinaud, in particular, take him into his confidence.
Y’shtola was his favourite, that much was clear. Two young Miqo’te mages, confident in their skills and comfortable skewering each other’s foibles. But there was no… How even to describe the well of emotion in M’ren’s mismatched eyes as he beheld Ser Aymeric? Like the light of an aetheryte when first attuned; he did not spare such long looks as Y’shtola walked away.
And the silences! That was what first drew enough of Alphinaud’s attention to perceive their sentiments in the first place. M’ren listened to Aymeric’s every word as though Hydaelyn herself was speaking, never interrupting or making jest until the Lord Commander was finished. There was no such stillness with Y’shtola. Put the two of them in a room together and there would be an unceasing loop of shop talk, jibes and one upmanship. It had gotten to such a point that Minfilia had specifically asked M’ren to keep their japery to a minimum when all the Scions were together.
M’ren had mentioned that to Alphinaud in passing, wondering if the Antecedent had posed the same question to Y’shtola. Alphinaud had pointed out there wasn’t the slightest chance Y’shtola viewed their little tete-a-tetes as any kind of disruptive, and Minfilia was smart enough to not waste her time in asking.
Had it been from the outset, that the Warrior of Light felt drawn to Aymeric? Alphinaud could recall, when they three had first met at Camp Dragonhead, that M’ren had leaned over to refer to the Lord Commander as a “lively little blighter” once they were out of earshot. Alphinaud had had to restrain the urge to giggle in front of him; apt or not, it would have been unbecoming.
Perhaps it was just that Alphinaud hadn’t seen M’ren’s prior affections. The man seemed to have a preternatural ability to make friends, hopping to and fro across the territories of the Alliance and always coming back with a new story, a new skill, or a new ally. But surely he would have mentioned it, no? They were compatriots—friends, even. They’d fled from Ul’Dah to Ishgard together. Friends shared their deepest hearts with each other, did they not?
For a brief moment, he wondered if M’ren had shared his heart with someone with whom he’d fled to Ishgard, just not Alphinaud. Tataru was nearly his match in age, and he was never without a smile when she was around. Alphinaud supposed he could just go ask her, but the thought of asking Tataru about the Warrior of Light’s dating history was just… was just… Well, embarrassing wouldn’t do nearly enough to describe it. He’d rather get flattened by a dragon; at least the pain would be quickly done.
It would be easier, he surmised, to review the available data on the Warrior of Light’s various liaisons as he remembered them. Particularly since coming to Ishgard, they had spent the majority of their time together—data was not in short supply. He also made a point of keeping a close eye on M’ren in general, to observe his skills in summoning and in leadership.
That squared, were there any other people he could recall M’ren hearken to with rapt attention? The Elder Seedseer, perhaps, but a deep respect for a powerful woman was not a sign of a tender heart. He had carefully listened to Matoya, but immediately began jovially castigating Y’shtola for their shared personality quirks the second they were out of earshot (there was also the part that Alphinaud would never voice to his dying day: that Matoya was older than the hills). Past that, Alphinaud supposed that there was some history between humans and dragons, but M’ren had not seemed particularly captivated by Vidofnir, Hraesvelgr, or (heavens forfend) Nidhogg. Ysayle, in that case, may have been an outlier.
Alphinaud spared himself a little laugh, remembering Ysayle’s horrified look when M’ren had arrived in Anyx Trine is his new summoner’s robes. Though embellished in blue and gold, the outfit was little more than a short, dolled up toga, showing off one pectoral and almost every inch of his shapely legs. Ysayle had been appalled at the thought of calling down Vidofnir to meet such a scandalously dressed man. “Unless she is immediately overcome with lust at the sight of my thighs,” M’ren had pointedly replied, “I think I’ll be fine.” He had then turned out one leg and slapped the thigh in question, making Ysayle flush and Alphinaud spin away to keep his composure from breaking. It had even wrought a rare chuckle out of Estinien.
Estinien, perhaps! M’ren had always been very serious about the Azure Dragoon. But then, not with affection and, oftentimes, with some hostility. Their trip up to Hraesvelgr’s keep had involved no small measure of arguments between Lady Iceheart and the Azure Dragoon, and though M’ren had endeavoured to keep the peace at first, eventually he gave in and just snapped at Estinien whenever he lanced his words at Ysayle. He was never so short with Ysayle, however, but that was merely to be expected. A former foe on whose good graces the survival of a nation depended? It would not do to offend her.
And yet, could not the same be said of Estinien? And had M’ren not specifically counseled Alphinaud to keep in the Azure Dragoon’s good graces? Why, then, had he not heeded his own counsel and remained neutral in the two Ishgardians’ squabbles? Why, after a particularly vituperative dialogue between Estinien and Ysayle, had M’ren chosen to pursue her as she stormed off, leaving poor Alphinaud to try and soothe the ire of a very angry man with a very large spear?
And why, after being brushed aside by Estinien like some annoying little tyke, had he wandered over to find the two of them kneeling together and whispering in a field of ice-blue lilies? Alphinaud hadn’t dared disturb them, leery of upsetting Ysayle further, so he had instead waited in the wings as they conversed.
Ysayle and M’ren had stared up at the stars, words inaudible from Alphinaud’s position. The far spires of Zenith towered in the distance, as distant as they were foreboding. Alphinaud had looked back down to see a crystal of ice floating around M’ren’s outstretched hand. With a flick of his wrist, he’d tossed it to Ysayle, whereupon it burst into little flakes of snow the second it touched her skin.
Alphinaud had been quite surprised to hear Iceheart laugh, as had M’ren, judging by the look on his face. After her laughter had subsided, she’d bent down and plucked one of the vibrantly blue Nymeia lilies, softly blowing on it. A thin sheet of ice had formed across the petals. She then, her smile growing wan, had leaned over and tucked it into M’ren’s hair. Seemingly immune to his wide-eyed stare, Ysayle had patted his hand, rose to her feet, and strode back to camp. She also passed by where Alphinaud was hiding, sparing him a putrefying glance.
Alphinaud had scrambled back after her, mortified (which was probably why he hadn’t remembered the events of that night too strongly). Estinien was almost in a peaceable mood when they’d returned, though M’ren had stayed out with the stars almost until the sun had finally risen.
In the present, Alphinaud sat up in his chaise. In retrospect, it made perfect sense. M’ren had been uncommonly enraged by Ysayle’s death, neatly carving his way through the Imperial forces on Azys Lla. He had remained silent, focused and deadly until Thordan had been slain, his steely composure only breaking upon Estinien’s sudden enthrallment. And once they’d returned to Foundation, M’ren had begun incorporating the ice blue of Nymeia lilies into his clothing, with a particularly intricate design stitched onto his left shoulder. Alphinaud had taken it for granted that it was merely to mourn a friend and colleague, but perhaps…
Alphinaud could draw a neat comparison between Ysayle and Aymeric. Tall, reserved, soft-spoken yet passionate—twin sides of the same coin, in fact. That the fiery and friendly Warrior of Light had fallen for the Lord Commander of the Knights of Ishgard as well as the Queen of the Heretics, his opposite number, was rather poetic.
Was that why M’ren had not overtly pursued Ser Aymeric? Alphinaud could recall with perfect clarity the blush that had flooded M’ren’s face following Thancred’s jibe about Aymeric lighting up at the sight of him; it wasn’t that the sentiment wasn’t there. Ysayle had tragically perished, it was true, but Aymeric so clearly adored M’ren, and was so well-protected that…
…Alphinaud did have to concede that the man had been recently stabbed. That would be enough to give any reasonable man pause, and the Warrior of Light had become particularly prudent with his compatriots’ safety after half of them had been summarily carried off from the Waking Sands. When he’d seen the Echo left from Minfilia’s confrontation with Livia, he’d…
Alphinaud bit his lip. Another salient recollection had suddenly come to him. M’ren had also recently incorporated a second colour into his customarily stark garb. The ice blue and the flower on his left shoulder had been for Ysayle, he’d said, while the coral pink and hammer-shaped tasset on his right had been for Minfilia.
There could be no real suspicion that… could there? The Warrior of Light and the Antecedent? M’ren and Minfilia? Was there a woman more single-mindedly devoted to her cause than she? Had she even been capable of such displays?
Alphinaud hesitated. Even in his silent reflection, it did feel as though he was treating Minfilia ignobly. A young woman was allowed to pursue her flights of fancy, regardless of how busy she might be. And any of the Scions would comfortably say that M’ren had been her closest confidant. Alphinaud could easily recall multiple occasions where Minfilia had fairly sparkled when M’ren had walked into the room. The amount of time they’d spent alone together in the Solars, discussing issues of the realm and its peoples? Not once had it struck Alphinaud as out of place. Minfilia would sacrifice everything in service to Eorzea (and had), and M’ren was, of course, beyond reproach.
What were they getting up to, all those hours alone in the solar? Two young, fit people—the land’s foremost defenders—together? Unchaperoned? Did they…? Would M’ren have…? He favoured a form-fitting style of dress, so even Alphinaud had noticed he was in fine fettle. His arms were particularly trim, and Alphinaud could recall Minfilia placing a calming hand on his bicep more than once. It wasn’t completely outside the realm of possibility.
After returning to Matoya’s cave from their failed endeavour to pull Minfilia from the lifestream, M’ren had recounted his conversation with the Voice of the Mother in a dull monotone. Once everyone had had their fill of interrogating him and had remanded themselves to their grief, he’d disappeared from the cave’s interior. Some hours later, Alphinaud had found him sitting alone atop one of the many broken staircases littering the Dravanian Hinterlands, shooting lances of blue light aimlessly off into the sky.
He’d flinched at the sound of Alphinaud’s boots on the ancient stone, his final shot going wide and well-nigh spearing a passing bat. Turning around, Alphinaud had noted right away that both his face and eyes were red.
M’ren had chuckled mirthlessly. “Hi.”
“How are you faring?”
The smile had shot back onto M’ren’s face in a flash, but Alphinaud had spent enough time observing his expressions to instantly mark it as false. “Well, I hope that bat doesn’t have a lawyer, that’s for sure.”
Alphinaud had paused. Having recently undergone several tongue-lashings from Krile about his indelicacy and still reeling from the confirmation of the loss of Minfilia, he had been unsure how to proceed. He had not wanted… M’ren was a bastion of hope and jollity; Alphinaud had found himself quite ill at ease with the thought of seeing him cry.
Though he had not said anything, M’ren’s face flattened regardless, leaving Alphinaud feeling rather as though he had failed the interaction.
“You go head back inside. I’m fine, but I’m worried about Thancred and Y’shtola. And Matoya is not, uh, a particularly comforting presence.”
But what about you, Alphinaud had wanted to say. And what about me? She was our friend, too! But he did not voice those objections, even as M’ren’s smile had faltered further and further.
“Yes,” he had finally managed to force out. “Thancred is quite upset, as you point out. If you are faring ill, by the same token, please do come speak with me—us, one of us. It is negligibly healthy to stifle oneself in times of grief.”
At that, a smile had come back to M’ren’s face. Small, yes, and wavering, but real. Alphinaud had then found himself being pulled into a hug, to his utter shock. Alphinaud’s hands, pinned to his sides, had fluttered uselessly as M’ren said “You’re a good kid, Alphinaud. Don’t let anyone take that from you.”
M’ren was big, warm, and smelled of sweat and magic. After a moment, he’d let Alphinaud go and stepped back, beaming. “Thanks for coming to see me. Off you go now; I’d like to play a song for Minfilia.” He’d then, bafflingly, pulled an ebon flute out from his tunic and waggled it. Utterly bemused, Alphinaud had said something vaguely affirmative and scurried back down the stone stairs, ostensibly to return to the cave and play peacemaker between his grieving compatriots.
What he’d actually done, of course, was hide out of M’ren’s line of sight and listen as he played a soft, melancholy song out into the starry night.
Back in the present, Alphinaud decided he could make the reasonable assumption that he’d not divined M’ren’s attachment to Minfilia that night on account of his heretofore unknown musical proclivities. The song had been a sweet little thing, one that Alphinaud had had to take great pains not to be caught humming the next day. Shortly thereafter, the coral had shown up alongside the blue; two mementos for two lost friends, or so Alphinaud had thought at the time.
Frankly, there could be no blaming him for not noticing. A litany of terrible things had followed on from M’ren’s announcement, not the least of which was Estinien’s subsumption by the shade of Nidhogg. It was that which had brought Alphinaud to the library at Fortemps Manor, to seek in even the least of places a potential solution to save his friend. Had he managed to accomplish much? Not particularly, but at least some kind of new revelations had been uncovered.
Should he say something to M’ren? If there was anyone who deserved to be happy, it was the Warrior of Light. But despite his protestations to the contrary, it was nearly a foregone conclusion that Ser Aymeric would become the leader of a new, democratic Ishgard. Would M’ren then choose to stay? Could the Scions continue on without the only person in their ranks who could face down primals without being enthralled? Did Aymeric even deserve M’ren? He was a good and kind man, that was certain, but the Warrior of Light needed a partner as intelligent, strong, audacious and devoted to the whole of Eorzea as he. Aymeric was merely seventy-five percent a good match, by those metrics.
Alphinaud was circling back around to considering asking Tataru what she knew, embarrassment be damned, when word came that Y’shtola and Krile had returned. All thoughts beyond Estinien vanished from his head, and as he placed a message for M’ren with the Fortemps staff, there was nothing but determination on his mind.
It was not until much later that he had cause to consider M’ren’s heart again, on the Steps of Faith, as he watched his friend hold aloft Hraesvelgr’s eye. Crouched in the dirt close to Ser Aymeric, Alphinaud could easily see the awe and adoration on the Lord Commander’s face as M’ren was bathed in golden light. Aymeric’s stare was unwavering, even as M’ren grew into a serpent size enough to assail Nidhogg one-on-one, even as the two glowing wyrms clashed back and forth across the bridge.
It was not until after that Aymeric’s gaze shifted, once M’ren had battered Nidhogg back into human shape and he and Alphinaud had wrested Nidhogg’s eyes from Estinien’s body. As they cast the blighted things into the abyss, Aymeric ran up and hefted Estinien into his arms. He still had that same portentous look on his face, but he was no longer looking at M’ren.
As M’ren watched Aymeric cradle Estinien close, Alphinaud was able to observe his friend’s face entirely free of artifice for the first time.
It was immediately obvious to anyone with eyes that there would be no discussion of the Warrior of Light leaving the Scions; there would be no discussion of M’ren and Aymeric at all. The Warrior of Light bore the same expression he’d had upon watching Ysayle die, the one he’d worn after speaking to Minfilia, which Alphinaud could finally, finally understand.
It was heartbreak.