Chapter Text
Fortemps Manor is never a dull place. You’re not sure what you thought noble houses were like, but given your interactions with the rest, it’s very possible that House Fortemp is the exception and not the rule. There’s always some manner of bustle going on here, whether it be from the heirs of the House making their presence known (one always much louder than the other), or Count Edmont sharing stories over drink, or your own companions finally remembering the joy of existence. The manor is full of life, life that you are all too happy to drink in.
Even so, nothing compares to when Haurchefant comes to visit from Camp Dragonhead.
You find yourself laughing at something he said, some small comment about his recruits and the trouble he’s had with them. “Being a knight must be hard,” you say to him.
He smiles at you. As always, it makes the entire room brighter. “It is,” he says, “but not for the reasons you think. Bumbling recruits are the least of my worries.”
“Fighting dragons, then?” you ask.
“Not even.” He leans back into the chaise, tipping his head up slightly. “The worst of it, Dax, is off the battlefield. When we’re expected to meet with the other Houses in a social setting, I swear, the rules are far more convoluted than that of swordplay.”
That Haurchefant has trouble being social, you do not believe; but that there are hidden rules to every social gathering in Ishgard, you do. “What rules?” you ask him. “Besides being nice to the other Houses?”
He laughs-–it sounds like bells. “That can certainly be hard,” he says. “But the worst are the balls. So much etiquette involved for one small gathering, sometimes it can be difficult to keep it all straight in my head.”
You look at him, and tip your head. “A ball?” you ask him. You hold up your hands, mimicking the weight of a sport-ball between them.
“No, no,” he says with a smile. He never mocks you for what great amount you don’t understand. “A ballroom gathering. You’ve never been to one?” You shake your head, and he continues. “They’ll be held for all sorts of things. An engagement announcement, a feast day. Sometimes they’ll be held just for a House to show off their wealth.”
“Like a banquet?” you ask, your brow furrowing instinctively with the word.
“Ah, well, there is normally food, but that’s not the main focus,” he says. “A ball is mostly about dancing.”
You relax, eyebrows lifting in curiosity. “And you dislike it?” you ask. “But that sounds fun.”
“Perhaps, but the dancing has rules to it.” He looks at you, then continues, “It’s not like the large group dances at festivals. At a ball, you must always dance with a partner. And of course, there are rules about who that partner may be, and when it is appropriate to switch partners, and when a dance has gone on too long.”
Your face must have shown more and more confusion the longer he spoke, because he stops and laughs. “And you see now why I don’t like it. Too much thinking about the particulars of making merriment, yes?”
“Is it worth it?” you ask him. “Is the dance at least fun? I’ve not danced with a partner before.”
He hums, then pushes himself up from the chaise. “Let me see,” he says, walking towards the orchestrion against the wall. “I’m sure Father has something properly waltz-like in here.” He looks back and motions for you to follow, and you do. By the time you reach him, he’s pulled a roll from the collection and is fitting it inside the machine. With a push of a button, the sounds of low, full strings begin to play. Haurchefant takes a step back, then turns to you and gives a deep bow. He holds out his hand, then says, “Master Raspierre, may I have this dance?”
You burst into laughter. Something twinges in his face, and you grab his hand before his smile fades. “Are you going to teach me?” you ask him.
“I shall.” His fingers press gently against yours, and he leads you away from the orchestrion, into the center of the room. “And you can decide for yourself if it’s worth it.”
He stops you, and lifts your joined hands. “Now, there’s a proper position to be had,” he starts. “In most cases, it shall be a lord and lady dancing together, and that would determine how we stand. But for the two of us, I shall take the leading position. Dax, place your other hand here, upon my shoulder.” He taps the spot, and you follow, resting your hand there. Then he moves, and you feel his hand press against the small of your back. It sends a pleasant warmth through you; you look up at him, but his eyes aren’t meeting yours.
“Don’t worry about the music yet,” he says. “First, I will teach you the steps.” He brings himself just a few ilms closer to you, then says, “Now, I am going to step forward with my left foot, and as I do, you step backward with your right.” Ah, he must be looking at your feet. You look there, too, and as he comes forward, you move back. The slow movements and the light pressure of his hand behind you quell any fear of stumbling. “Bring your other foot to the side, with mine,” he continues, “to properly balance.” You do so, not quite as fluidly as he does, but good enough. “And together,” you hear him say, and you both bring your feet together.
You chance a glance up at him; he’s still looking down, so you bring your gaze back to your feet, the attentive student. “Now we mirror the first step,” he says. “You will step forward with your left, and I back with my right. Ready?” He steps backward, you feel his fingers press firmer into your back, and you follow him. “And again, mirrored, to the side.” You move. “And together.” You move.
“And from here,” he says, “we restart, and do those steps until the song is done.”
“That’s it?” you ask. You feel the hand held in yours loosen, and you grip it tighter so he doesn’t pull away. “I mean, it’ll take me more than one try to understand, right?”
Haurchefant finally meets your eyes. His smile is smaller, but still just as bright. “I suppose it would,” he says. “Perhaps let us try it with the music. Slow, in half time. I will say the steps for you as we go. Ready?” You nod, and he counts off, “One, and, two, and–”
Backward, side, together. Forward, side, together. Your eyes go back to your feet, but your mind focuses on his voice, repeating the steps in time. Backward, side, together. His hand stays right where it is on your back, a strong support despite the gentle touch. Forward, side, together. Your hand grips his shoulder, and you try to keep it just as gentle. Backward, side, together.
“You’re a natural at this, Dax,” you hear him say, and you all but fumble your next step. You quickly correct yourself before looking up again, and the soft look on his face sends a fluttering through your chest.
“No,” you say, “I’m just following you.” You’d follow him anywhere, you think. You know he’d never let you fall.
“Alright, I’ll take partial credit as a good teacher.” He continues the steps as he speaks; it’s harder for you to follow without exact instructions, but you still keep up. “Now,” he says, “imagine doing this, and talking political niceties all the while.”
“Oh,” you say sourly. “I’m quite bad at politics.”
He laughs. Your feet bump together with the next step, and you skip a beat to correct them. “Well,” he says, “thankfully you have Master Alphinaud to help with that.”
“And you,” you say immediately, “I’d be lost here without you.”
He stays silent a moment, and you’re not able to read the expression on his face. Forward, side, together. “I am…glad to be of use to you, my friend.”
You want to say something else, you should say something else, but nothing that comes to your mind sounds right. Thankfully, Haurchefant speaks again before the silence sits too heavy. “Would you like to try to take it at the proper tempo?” he asks. “No better way to learn than doing.”
“Yes, but say the steps for me again, please? Just at first.”
“Of course,” he says, smiling at you once more. “Stop a moment, and I’ll count us off again. Get a sense for the rhythm. Are you ready?”
He gives the count once more, and even with him saying each step aloud, it’s far more difficult at the faster speed. More than once, you step forward instead of back, or backward instead of front, and your leg bumps against Haurchefant’s and messes up the sequence. But he never lets you stumble, just keeps going until you hit more steps than you miss.
“And you’re supposed to talk the entire time you’re doing this?” you interrupt his instruction. “Important politics talk?”
“Oh, rarely important politics talk,” he says. Forward, side, together. “Niceties, as I said. Asking after their businesses, after their kids. It’d be mindless if not for the need to scan every sentence for offense.”
“The people here get offended very easily,” you agree, and the laugh Haurchefant gives is louder, genuine. You smile at him. Backward, side, together.
“None are giving you trouble, I hope,” he says. His face is still pleasant, but you can see concern in the set of his eyes. “After your victory against Ser Grinnaux, they’d be fools to provoke you.”
“I remain unprovoked,” you say, grinning. “It’s a different world to navigate, is all.” Forward, side, together. “At least I can add ballroom dancing to my arsenal.” Forw—shit. “Eventually.”
The misstep has brought the two of you closer together—a damn wonder you didn’t clack your big nose into Haurchefant’s. You make to correct yourself, but the hand at your back holds you in place, and you look up at your partner. The laugh you were hoping for isn’t coming; he’s not even smiling. His eyes are focused on you, no longer with concern but with intensity. You see his lips part, like he wants to say something, but he pauses, rubs them together. His head tips forward, and now your noses do brush. “Dax, I…”
“By Halone’s voluptuous figure, what am I walking into?”
You jump, and Haurchefant jumps even higher, taking three steps back and nearly yanking himself from your grasp. “Emmanellain!” he wheezes. His hand moves from your back, leaving a ghost of feeling behind, and his other hand releases yours in short order. “Did—did Father not teach you to knock?”
“The door was open, Ser Haurchefant,” says Emmanellian. You can never stand the smug look on his face, but at the moment, it is particularly infuriating. “I do apologize for my interruption, though. I shall take my leave. Perhaps I shall let Father know what an exemplary job you are doing, making our guest feel welcome.” He smirks, and turns to start down the hall.
“Emmanellain!” Haurchefant takes two steps after him, then stops and turns back to you. “I—I’m sorry, Dax, I will return anon. Feel, er, feel free to use the orchestrion as you see fit in, in the meantime. Emmanellain!” He turns again, and nearly runs out the door after his half-brother. “Emmanellain, do not purposely misconstrue this, you, you scandalmonger! Get back here!”
Emmanellain’s laughter and Haurchefant’s shouts fade further into the manor, and you are left with the final swell of strings in an empty room. You look down at your hand and curl your fingers into your palm, trying to recapture the warmth they just grasped. Backward, side, together. Forward, side, together. You’ll be holding on to the echo of this dance for a long while yet.