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"Why," Sanson asked, calling to mind all of the courage he'd cultivated over the last several days of rehearsing this conversation to himself, "did you become a musician?"
Guydelot stared at him over his hand of Triple Triad cards. They were sitting at a table in Carline Canopy, surrounded by a bustling evening crowd; if they'd arrived much later, they wouldn't have secured seats at all. "I don't catch your meaning," Guydelot said, plucking a card from his hand and laying it down in the upper left square of the board.
Sanson looked at his own hand and frowned. He didn't have any cards that could turn Guydelot's. He played in the diagonally opposite corner instead. "I mean, how did you decide that you wanted to become a bard?"
"That is an entirely separate question from the one you first asked," Guydelot said. His cards were covering his mouth, but Sanson could hear the smirk in his voice. "And to answer that second question, it was because my natural proficiency with a bow complimented my natural proficiency with the harp." He played another card, top middle, next to his first play.
"Natural proficiency?" Sanson wrinkled his nose, both at the answer and at the card Guydelot had played. He could flip this one on its right side, but would have to leave his own weak side exposed. After a moment's consideration, he decided to take the gamble. "So music is just that? Inborn talent?"
Guydelot wasted no time in playing his next card to flip Sanson's. "I would say that is an inordinately large proportion of it, yes. If one is born tone-deaf, for instance, no measure of hard work and study would manage to overcome that impediment. For myself, it was the exact opposite. They say I was singing songs directly out of the womb."
Sanson nearly laughed, but someone on the other end of the Canopy beat him to it, his boisterous guffaw drowning out any other sound. He cringed instead; the drunker the patrons of the Canopy got, the harder it was to hold a conversation. "You're exaggerating, of course."
"Hardly," Guydelot said, brushing his hair out of his eyes with his free hand. "I was the talk of the town. Star of the Shroud. All the mothers adored me. Years later, when I first picked up a bow, all the fathers came around to me as well." He flicked a finger at the fan of cards in Sanson's hand. "It's your move."
Guydelot always played his cards with the strong sides out. Sanson chewed the side of his lip, then played his card in the bottom left corner. When he looked back up at Guydelot, the elezen was grinning. "So it'd be a waste of time, then," Sanson said, trying not to sound defeated, "for someone without musical inclinations to try and learn."
"That was not what I said," Guydelot said. He played his next card on the middle left, above Sanson's. The game was still tied. "I said talent was an inordinately large proportion. It's not the entire proportion. I've not seen it myself, but depending upon the quality of the teacher..." He tapped his one remaining card against his mouth thoughtfully.
Sanson knew he couldn't win, but perhaps he could force the draw. He played his fourth card in the center, with a 9 exposed towards the last empty square. "One could learn?"
"One might become... adequate." With a flourish, Guydelot played his last card. It had an ace as the top side, flipping Sanson's last play into Guydelot's control, and Sanson's two cards on either side flipped as well. "A fine game," Guydelot said good-naturedly, plucking his own cards from the board and beaming at Sanson.
Sanson swept the remaining cards towards him in a disorganized pile. "Adequate," he muttered, and he hoped Guydelot thought he meant the game.
--
The carpenters' guild smelled overwhelmingly of birch; just inside the workshop, there were three pyramids of finely cut boards of birch-wood, and a fourth was halfway to full pyramid shape. Beatin was standing on a stool, directing two young hyur boys as they placed another length of lumber on the pile. Sanson coughed as he entered, waving the sawdust out of his face. "Master Beatin, may I have a word?"
Beatin looked momentarily shocked, then abashed. "Oh, Captain Sanson, are you here about the lances already? We've been working on this order of birch for Brithael. I thought Commander Heuloix didn't require the lances until next week."
"I'm not here for the Adders," Sanson said. He had his hands clasped behind his back, to keep from nervously twitching. "I need to place a personal order."
Beatin cocked an eyebrow, then stepped down from the stool and came to stand in front of Sanson. He craned his elegant elezen neck to get a look at the lance strapped to Sanson's back, his eye critical. "Your own weapon seems in good shape. You've kept the rosewood polished nicely. The bolt might need replacing, but that's a simple enough job. Mera could handle that for you, if you'd like."
"No, no, I don't..." Sanson took a step back, away from Beatin's curious gaze. He took a deep breath and tried again. "It's a personal order, and not for a weapon. Your craftsmanship came highly recommended in this area."
"My craftsmanship is highly recommended in many areas," Beatin said, the slight incline of his head the only indication of his modesty. "You will have to be more specific, friend."
"A harp," Sanson blurted out, all at once. He snapped his mouth closed and took another breath. "I'm looking to commission a harp."
If Beatin was surprised, he didn't show it. He simply reached into his back pocket and pulled out a tiny pad of paper, then plucked a quill pen from behind his ear. "For yourself, or as a gift?"
The last vestiges of Sanson's composure unravelled, and he looked to the floor, cheeks flushed. "M- myself."
"We must needs take measurements, then," said Beatin, scratching some notes onto his notepad and then tucking it away again. He extended his hand towards Sanson, who simply looked at it, utterly confused. "Your hands, Captain, if you please."
"Oh," Sanson said. "Right." He put his hand in Beatin's, palm up, and Beatin began taking his measurements, using the length of his quill pen as a substitute ruler. Sanson hoped that Beatin wouldn't notice how his hand kept twitching nervously, or how it was damp with sweat. Or, at the very least, he hoped that Beatin wouldn't comment on it.
"I hadn't realized you played the harp," Beatin said, his eyes fully focused on the task of measuring Sanson's (twitchy, sweaty) hand.
It was just small talk, a part of Sanson attempted to helpfully remind him, but the rest of him felt utterly exposed, naked as a babe. "I don't," he blurted out. "I don't play anything at all. I don't know the first thing about music, or harps, or playing music on a harp. But I thought to learn, and learning requires an instrument, except now I'm here and feeling very foolish about this whole pursuit and rather wish I'd not come." The last all came out in one babbling rush, before he could stop himself. It was only Beatin's fingers against Sanson's hand that kept him from turning on his heel and running out the door.
"Once," Beatin said, a smile curling the corners of his mouth, "I tried to learn how to shoot a bow."
Sanson blinked, startled out of his panic. "What?"
"It took me two weeks to work up the nerve to speak with Luciane about it. She was exceedingly kind, though in retrospect I imagine the fact that I'd brought my own bow helped matters considerably." Beatin laughed softly, then shrugged. "I was hopeless, of course. It's one thing to know how a bow is constructed, mechanically, but another entirely to use it in combat. I'd brought twelve arrows with me and not one hit the target. And no, before you ask, I don't mean the bullseye. I missed the whole target, every time. Silvairre laughed me right out of the guild."
It was simple enough to picture it, living in Gridania for as long as he had, and Sanson winced at the mental image of Silvairre's disdainful face. "What did you do?"
Beatin ran his thumb along the length of Sanson's forefinger. "I came back to the carpenter's guild and made the best damned bow I could. It was amateurish compared to what I've made since, but this was well before I was guildmaster. The person I made it for used it until it wore out." He gave Sanson's hand a friendly squeeze before letting go completely. "I don't mean to discourage you, but you needn't work yourself up this way either. Perhaps you'll turn out to be the most gifted musician of the era and you'll duly impress whomever you mean to impress. If not, there's more than one way to skin a gaelicat."
It took half a moment for Sanson's mind to catch up with Beatin's words. He spluttered ungracefully, then coughed. "What a vulgar metaphor," he said, because he certainly was not going to admit to his desire to impress anyone.
Beatin seemed to cotton on, because he just laughed. "I must've picked it up from Geva. Shall I send a messenger when your harp is ready?"
"I can just come back," Sanson said, trying to ignore the mirthful light in Beatin's eyes. "You know. The lances."
"Ah, of course. For the lances." Beatin winked. Sanson winced.
--
The harp, when Sanson dared to unwrap it in the privacy of his own rooms, was indeed a work of art. The wood was deep mahogany, perfectly smooth to the touch and glossy with varnish. The strings were delicate but sturdy, likely spun from diremite webs, and the tentative note that Sanson plucked was soft and sweet. Beatin had charged a fair amount for it, but Sanson suspected that it was worth quite a bit more.
As it turned out, the actual learning of the thing was far more complicated than Sanson had originally anticipated, mostly because all of the bards he knew were equally acquainted with the exact person from which Sanson wished to keep the entire affair secret. The Warrior of Light was the obvious choice, but besides her being quite busy most of the time, Sanson wasn't convinced that she wouldn't find the situation to be particularly hilarious and divulge the details to Guydelot for her own amusement. The second, more conventional option was Jehantel, but he was even more elusive than the Warrior of Light. Moreover, the idea of embarrassing himself in front of Jehantel was even more discomfiting than the idea of playing music for Guydelot.
The third option had a thread of desperation in it.
"I didn't believe Mogleo when he said you were here in Moghome, kupo!" Mogta's ears twitched excitedly as he hovered mere ilms from Sanson's nose. Sanson just barely resisted the urge to recoil. "But here you are, just as he said, and now I owe him a kupo nut. What's brought you all this way? And where's Guydelot?" There was a flutter of wings as Mogta moved closer, his nose scrunched up angrily. "You aren't fighting again, are you?"
"No, no, nothing like that," Sanson said, waving his hands in front of his face in an attempt to get Mogta to back off. Fortunately, the moogle appeared to get the message, and flew in a circle around Sanson before coming to a stop slightly further away than he'd been before. "You see, I've recently come into possession of a harp, and--"
Mogta trilled and spun in a circle. "You didn't have to come all this way to bring me a present, kupo!"
"That wasn't at all what I meant!" Sanson snapped. His remorse was immediate when he saw Mogta's wings and pom droop. "Oh gods, I'm making a mess of things already. I'm looking for someone to teach me to play the harp. Will you teach me, Mogta?"
Sanson had expected another excited reaction, but instead Mogta's head tilted quizzically. "Why not ask Guydelot, kupo?"
The delicate thread of Sanson's thoughts snapped, the ends fluttering helplessly away as he tried to grasp them. He hadn't expected Mogta to ask why Sanson wasn't learning from Guydelot. He should have known Mogta would ask why Sanson wasn't learning from Guydelot. For all that Mogta knew, Sanson and Guydelot were an inseparable pair. Why wouldn't Sanson ask Guydelot?
"Because," Sanson said, his voice reedy with desperation, "it's meant to be a surprise."
At first, Mogta didn't react. Apart from the furious beating of his wings to keep him airborne, he barely even moved. But just as Sanson was about to open his mouth to apologize, Mogta let out the loudest, shrillest sound Sanson had ever heard from another living being.
"A surprise?!" Mogta shrieked, his furious wings propelling him forward like a shot, then into frantic orbit around Sanson's head. Sanson ducked, but Mogta followed, as if drawn by gravity. "Why didn't you say so?! I love surprises, kupo! How can I help?! When can we start?! Can we start right now?! Just you wait, Sanson, we're going to make you the best bard in all of Eorzea!"
Sanson winced. "I think 'best' might be pushing it a lit--"
"Best!" echoed Mogta, swooping down and taking Sanson's hand between both his tiny paws, attempting to drag Sanson up to his feet. "Best, kupo! Best, best!"
"Best," Sanson murmured halfheartedly, letting Mogta propel him forward, wishing he felt a fraction as confident in his abilities as the moogle did.
--
It was no small feat to convince Mother Miounne to leave her position at the reception desk of Carline Canopy, but despite practicing until his fingers were raw and sore, Sanson still did not have the courage to play in front of an audience larger than one. Miounne, he knew, had heard every amateur musician who had ever passed through the inns of Eorzea; she was uniquely qualified to tell him whether his song was worthy of being played before a bard of Guydelot's singular talent.
And so it was that Captain Sanson of the Twin Adder found himself holding a harp in the kitchen of Carline Canopy, while Mother Miounne gazed gently up at him from her improvised seat on an overturned bucket.
Sanson knew, logically, that this could not possibly be the most awkward moment of his life. Rehearsing with Mogta had been quite awkward. Ordering the harp from Beatin had been quite awkward. Bringing up the topic with Guydelot in the first place had been quite awkward. There were probably awkward moments from before this strange episode in Sanson's life, though he struggled to recall them with all of these other awkward moments so fresh in his mind. So he took a deep breath, measured this moment against all the others he could recall, and began.
The first note was wrong, and he winced. His eyes darted to Miounne's, but she was simply watching patiently, expression impossibly kind.
Sanson exhaled and tried again.
"On a night so bright and clear
Menphina-bless'd light shining
I pray that you will meet me here
Our lifelines intertwining
Starlight kisses tops of trees
And in starlight you appear
The air is cooling by degrees
Gravity yet keeps us near
Drawn in close as earth and moon
Clapped in shackles by your gaze
By silken strands am I cocooned
My heart is set perforce ablaze."
It wasn't perfect, not by a long shot, but he had never been able to play the whole song perfectly from beginning to end. This was only a trial run, a practice at playing for someone other than an easily excitable moogle. It didn't have to be perfect, not yet. Sanson looked up from his harp and saw Mother Miounne's lips quirked into a sideways smile; his eyes darted back to the floor, unwilling to look any sort of praise in the face.
"A fair little ditty, for a beginner."
That voice was not Miounne's.
Sanson's eyes shot to the doorway of the kitchen, where Guydelot was leaning against the door frame, wearing a bemused expression.
The words left Sanson's mouth before he could think. "How long have you been there."
"Oh, since about 'Menphina-bless'd light.'"
"Twelve preserve me," Sanson muttered, covering his face with his free hand.
"I'll be going now," Miounne said, getting to her feet and flipping her bucket back over in one fluid movement.
After Miounne left, the kitchen was silent for a long while. Sanson didn't dare move his hand down from his face; he could feel the palm of his other hand growing damp against the smooth wooden column of the harp. He knew Guydelot was still there; he'd only heard one set of footsteps leave the room, and he could practically feel the force of Guydelot's gaze on the crown of his head.
Finally, after what seemed like bells, Guydelot spoke, very low. "I very much regret deceiving you. Antoinaut overheard you speaking with Miounne. He was the one who told me. Miounne didn't know a thing about it until I turned up. I should have..." His voice trailed off; Sanson was still too mortified to move, let alone look up. There was a soft click of heels on the wooden floor, moving closer, and then a rustle of movement. On the edges of his vision, Sanson could see Guydelot standing in front of him, but he kept his hand planted firmly over his face.
Then there was the soft pressure of Guydelot's palm against the back of Sanson's hand, slender fingers sliding into the spaces between Sanson's own. Carefully, Guydelot pried Sanson's hand away, less than an ilm. "It was a fine song, Sanson."
Sanson's unmasked eyes flicked to Guydelot's face. Instead of the mockery or teasing he'd expected, Sanson saw only a gentle smile. Even so, Sanson couldn't make himself trust it. "For a beginner," he muttered.
A soft laugh, exasperated. "By the Twelve, Sanson, did you think I was a master bard from the moment I picked up a harp?"
"You said," Sanson began, lowering his hand and dragging Guydelot's down with it, "you were singing songs directly out of the womb."
Guydelot's other hand came up to Sanson's face, the pad of his thumb grazing over Sanson's reddening cheek. "I never said they were good songs." Sanson, overcome, had to look away from the intensity of Guydelot's ice blue eyes; in response, Guydelot leaned in further, bumping their foreheads together.
"So," Guydelot said after a beat, his breath brushing warm against Sanson's lips, "your 'heart is set perforce ablaze'? My dear Sanson, I'm flattered."
Whatever gentle spell had fallen over them was instantly dispelled; Sanson reeled back, coughing, feeling as though his lungs had malfunctioned. "I-It wasn't about...!"
"Oh, was it not?" Guydelot's mouth tilted wickedly. "All the rumors I've heard suggest otherwise. From Antoinaut, and Miounne, and Mogta, and Beatin..."
Sanson's eyes widened, utterly mortified. "What did Beatin say?"
"Nothing, actually," Guydelot replied easily, his voice a teasing melody. "Should he have, Ser Clapped-In-Shackles?"
"As I said..."
Sanson's protests were cut short by the strong press of Guydelot's lips to his. The harp slipped free of Sanson's grasp, clattering to the floor with a decidedly unmusical sound. His other hand, still grasping Guydelot's, twisted and reconfigured itself to more comfortably interlace their fingers. In a rare fit of confidence, Sanson kissed back, lips parting, tongue brushing over Guydelot's upper lip.
When they pulled apart, Guydelot let out a breath of a laugh. "Like I said," he said, "natural proficiency."
All the tension that Sanson had been holding in his chest unfurled. He smiled, mouth still an ilm from Guydelot's. "It's your move."