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Vale is—nervous. It drips from her chest and settles in her stomach, a pool of anxiety and butterflies and everything in-between, fluttering and thick all at once.
She’s brought people home before, to meet her parents. A boyfriend or two. A girlfriend. Past dalliances that never lasted, but blessedly never ended anything other than amicably. And it’s not like her parents disliked any of them, judged them, spoke poorly of them even after their brief relationship ended. O’kalkaya still plays Triple Triad with her father when they cross paths.
But something about this time feels different. In a good or bad way, she can’t tell. Maybe it’s because Haurchefant is the first person for whom she’s felt anything so strongly since she left home to go adventuring. Maybe it’s because she’s not quite that same dreamy, romantic girl she was growing up. That girl is still in there somewhere, but she’s buried deep, crushed under the expectations and burdens of being the Warrior of Light.
Maybe it’s simply because she’s not bringing Haurchefant home —rather, it’s the other way around. Her parents were all too eager to jump at the chance to visit Camp Dragonhead. “It’ll do us good to have a change of scenery,” Papa had written in his last letter.
Maybe the reason doesn’t matter. Whatever it is, she feels the weight of it like her heart is on a scale, threatening to tip.
“Are we there yet?” her father asks, and she startles out a laugh.
“Soon,” she promises, pulling back into herself as if woken from a dream. The inside of the covered chocobo carriage—Haurchefant had insisted upon sending both it and an armed escort to pick her and her fathers up from Mor Dhona, no refusals accepted—slowly returns to focus as she blinks. The warm light spilling from the little lamp swaying overhead, the fine rolanberry-red curtains embroidered with gold thread. Her father on the plush bench across from her looking like he did, actually, just wake up.
“Excellent,” he says, “because I’m starving.”
Beside him, her papa groans. “I told you to eat before we left.”
As they bicker good-naturedly, she parts the one of the curtains to assess their progress. And spots the snow-swept shadow of the Observatorium already yalms behind.
“Oh,” she says. “Very soon.”
The butterflies flutter, tighten. She sucks in a breath and forces air into her lungs, expanding and contracting around the knot that’s now wedged firmly between her ribs.
Paper rustles as her papa closes his book of Ishgardian history. Her gaze wanders to the bookmark—it has not moved a single page since they departed. He shifts the curtain on their side, and for a moment, Vale fears what they will see. The aftermath of the Calamity has not been kind to Coerthas, nor have recent events with Lady Iceheart and her band of followers.
He’s quiet as he takes in the fresh, unspoiled snow, the dark patches of trees that still stubbornly grow despite everything.
She remembers stories from her childhood about their visits to Coerthas; tales of their travels together before they’d settled in Limsa Lominsa. Before they found her.
They tucked her into bed and painted such vivid pictures in her young mind. Lush mountainscapes, verdant green as far as they could see. They told her they’d take her there when she was older, because even then the threat of the Dravanian Horde always lingered overhead.
How times and circumstances change, how some things remain the same.
Father’s smile has lost that teasing edge. It softens at the corners as he peers out the window over her papa’s shoulder. “It’s still quite beautiful, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Papa agrees quietly. “No wonder Vale is so taken by it.”
The knot loosens.
Until his eyes meet hers, and there’s a twinkle there. “Though I’m sure the scenery isn’t the only reason.”
“ Papa! ” Warmth floods her face, but as they laugh, she finds she can breathe a little easier.
🛡
The carriage slows as the terrain switches to the rough cobble road just outside the camp. Vale knows the exact moment they pass through the gates as surely as if she had walked here on her own two feet.
It wasn’t too long ago she was here last. She’s been back a couple times between the meeting with Aymeric and now. Publicly, to make sure that the trade routes remained stable. Privately, mostly excuses to visit Haurchefant.
Her fathers never pried about the exact nature of their relationship. She doesn’t know what she would tell them if they had.
Panic at the looming inevitable and the familiarity of returning go to war in her chest.
But the sights that greet her when the carriage stops and the door swings open are like a balm to her frazzled nerves. The dusk-kissed sky, clouds as purple as La Noscean grapes stretched across deep blue, a hint of twinkling stars. The flickering torches casting a soft orange glow on the snow, the high stone walls of the commander’s hall, the Ishgardian flags hanging on either side of the great wooden doors.
Haurchefant smiling up at her, hand held out.
“My lady,” he says, soft, as he helps her down. He raises her own hand to his lips and presses a warm kiss to the back of it. “The knights tell me you had a smooth journey from Mor Dhona.”
She dips her head. “We did indeed. You have my deepest gratitude for arranging the whole thing.” Her lips tug up. “Even if I still think that an escort was unnecessary.”
She won’t admit to him—right now, at least—that she is thankful for the extra guards. Because she’d never forgive herself if anything happened to her parents.
His laugh staves off the impending chill.
“And these must be your fathers,” he says as they emerge from the carriage, a knight standing by to offer them his arm. “It is my honor to formally welcome you to Camp Dragonhead.” He gives them each a bow, and she has to clamp her jaw shut to keep herself from laughing at her father’s bewildered expression.
He’s probably still used to Lominsan speak.
Her papa subtly elbows him. “Thank you for your generous invitation. I’m Atmi’to, and this is my husband, C’zuha. It’s our pleasure to finally meet you, Lord Haurchefant. Vale has told us so much about you.” He smiles. “And it seems she was not exaggerating your handsomeness.”
Now her face burns. To think, she was more worried about her father. “Papa—”
“You think I’m handsome?” Haurchefant turns back to her, grin cheeky.
“Well—”
“Very much so,” Father cuts in.
This was a mistake. She resists the urge to cover her face with her hands, to spin on her heel and march outside the camp and let the snow bury her and her embarrassment.
Realization dawns in Haurchefant’s expression, his gaze flitting between her and her parents. The fire spreads to the back of her neck. Red dusts his own features as it becomes painfully obvious her fathers are not teasing her for the sake of it.
They seem awfully pleased with themselves. She feels like the ground is sliding out from beneath her, but not in the cruel, frosted way of ice; rather, like the way she’d sometimes slip on the smooth stone streets in Limsa Lominsa after the warm summer rains.
Haurchefant, godsdamn his composure, is quicker to recover. He beckons them inside the main hall—“Please, come in out of the cold!”—where the hearth is already blazing and food and hot drinks await on the long table. She smoothes her skirts as she settles into the chair he pulls out for her.
Papa hums, taking his own seat.
“What?” she asks.
He delicately sips his mulled wine. “Nothing.”
Though she does not miss her parents’ shared glance when Haurchefant sits, not at the head of the table, but at her side.
“Vale tells me you are a chef,” Haurchefant says, addressing her father. “I do hope this humble meal is to your liking.”
She raises an eyebrow and leans close. “Didn’t you tell me you wanted to impress him?”
When he flushes, she hides a smile behind her mug of hot chocolate.
Indeed, the dinner he’s prepared—a hearty red meat stew, freshly-baked bread—is just a tad less than humble, in her opinion. Father looks up from where he’s buttering a thick-cut slice of bread, mirth dancing in his eyes.
“It’s a fine meal. In fact, I propose a toast.” He raises his mug, Papa just a beat behind, and she has to wonder if this is something they’d planned in advance. Surely it can’t be worse than earlier, so she cautiously wraps her fingers around her own beverage.
Father tips his head. “To Lord Haurchefant,” he says, “for graciously hosting us.”
He waits until her mug is at her lips to finish, “And to my daughter for having good taste.”
She sputters, coughing. “Here’s to both,” Papa says cheerfully, and drinks.
Maybe it’s the crackling hearth, maybe it’s the hot chocolate she’s accidentally sucked into her lungs. But a warmth settles in her chest, wraps itself around her heart.
Haurchefant beams, the rays of it like dawn breaking over the horizon. “I’ll drink to that,” he says, and takes her hand.