#evrard

Evrard used to think Ishgard was cold. Shivering in his cell attached to the church—all that remained of the rectory—it certainly had been. Even when he’d rescued Alan, and his narrow bed had suddenly had to accommodate two men and Alan’s obnoxiously large dog, he’d never been fully warm. His nose would be cold, or a socked foot would stick out of the covers, or a somnolent fight over blankets would see him crashing to the stone floor at some unholy hour. (Alan, even injured, was quite a bit stronger than him. He still is.) So yes, when he’d gone to Garlemald he’d imagined more of the same.

He’s wrong. It’s worse.

“How do you people live like this all the time?” he demands.

Alan looks up. It’s just him in the yurt at the moment; Gantsetseg’s still out hunting with their dog. (Evrard’s still not sure how he feels about the dog. He’s never really been a dog person, and the curly-coated Ilsabardian water hound they found wandering in the city ruins is rather...large. And odorous. But Gantsetseg and Alan both love the beast, so he supposes he must tolerate it.)

“Booze,” Alan deadpans. “And keeping busy.”

He’s clearly opted for the former option; he’s got a book in one hand, something in Garlean about engineering, and a mug of something hot by his elbow. Evrard can’t help but watch his hands as he marks his page, face warming as he imagines what they could do to him. For a wild moment, he entertains thoughts of asking.

But surely there are boundaries. Alan and Gantsetseg have let him into their life, into their bed, but he’s fairly sure there must be etiquette around when he’s allowed to—to do anything. He hasn’t worked up the nerve to ask yet. By the Fury, he’d practically expired on the spot when they’d sat down on either side of him and Gantsetseg had cheerfully told him Al has somethin’ to tell ya. It doesn’t matter that he knew Alan long before she did, that he’s had her tail twined around his legs while she tries and fails to count his freckles, that this arrangement is entirely normal for her people. In Ishgard this is the sort of—relationship?—that starts actual wars.

The way Alan looks up at him as he sheds his scarf and coat makes him think a war would be worth it. “I thought you were still on shift.”

He rolls his eyes. The infirmary had all but kicked him out. “Evidently I am required to take breaks.”

“So you came here.”

It feels like the most natural thing in the world to fold his long legs and take a seat on the cushions next to Alan. Ceruleum-generated heat soaks through the rugs from the metal floor, warming him down to his bones. “I wanted to see you.”

Alan blushes, which is—well. Evrard is an ordained priest, but he’s broken his vow of chastity years ago and the red staining Alan’s cheeks would tempt a greater man than him. He leans in before his nerves can catch up, pressing a kiss to the edge of the scar that slices diagonally across Alan’s face. He remembers when that scar was red and raw, when he’d prayed to the Fury that his magic was enough to stave off infection. Alan had told him once that it’s still a little numb.

Not that numb, because Alan makes a quietly surprised sound and turns to catch his mouth with his own.

Why was he hesitating? This is good. This is right. He can’t believe he wasted years with a man who ended things with a letter when he could have had this—when he spent months thinking about the fact that he could have had this. Alan tastes like mulled wine, spiced well enough that Evrard’s own tongue tingles, and the hand that sinks into his loose white hair is warm. He could spend hours doing this, if he didn’t need to breathe.

Alan must find his courage by the time they pull away, because he runs his thumb along the edge of Evrard’s ear and murmurs, “You’re still cold.”

His breath catches in his throat—Elezen ears are sensitive—but he manages to blurt out, “I won’t be if you keep doing that.” A warning or a promise, he’s not sure which. (The bed is across the yurt, but the carpets are soft enough. He’s done more in worse locations.)

Alan must take it as the former, because he turns red again and draws back with a muttered, “Oh—er. Sorry.”

He’s overstepped. The knowledge sits in his gut like a stone. “Don’t be.” It’s some comfort to know he’s not the only shy one.

Fumbling, Alan offers him his mug of wine. It must be one of Gan’s, because it’s painted with a goggle-eyed yol. “Drink?”

They drink. Wine helps, but the way Alan slowly, carefully settles against his side, head tucked against his chest and fluffy brown hair tickling his chin—that helps more. Evrard breathes, tastes wine and cinnamon and cloves, and thanks the Fury for blessings like this. Perhaps this is his reward for being brave enough to seize it.

Eventually, Alan breaks the silence. “...Are you still cold?”

“Not with you.”

This time, Alan kisses him first.

His vow of chastity had always lain lightly on him. Oh, he was tempted, like most any man might be, but in a contest between his desire and his goddess there was a clear winner. He’d been perfectly polite to unmarried maidens dropping off fresh-baked pies and unmarried men showing up to chop wood for his fire with their sleeves rolled up. There was a higher calling.

And then, sadly, he’d met Busari of the Bayaqud, and between the shock of the Dragonsong War and the...everything about the man, well…

He’s not a very good priest anymore.

He knows this. He’s accepted this. Most days, it doesn’t bother him; vows of chastity are meant to focus the mind on the Fury’s will, and he’s never aspired to a rank where they were actually required. If the Fury has a problem with Alan kissing him on the cheek or Gantsetseg wrapping her tail around his shins, She is welcome to tell him Herself.

But sometimes, he looks at both of them and feels like the scum of the earth.

“Are you entirely sure…?”

Gantsetseg is probably not trying to seduce him. Alan definitely isn’t. If nothing else, they’ve been trudging through freezing, rocky Urqopacha for three days and while he certainly wouldn’t begrudge a much warmer bedroll he’s fairly sure they’re all too exhausted. And there’s Master Waters and Archon Augurelt (“Thou hast helped me knit a man’s intestines back together, thou mayest call me Urianger”) in the next tent, which is extremely not soundproof.

(Koana gets his own, much larger tent to himself. The privileges of rank.)

So no, he really doesn’t think anything is going to happen. Nothing’s happened yet, and he’s been staying later and later in their yurt back home. But the bed in that yurt is enormous, big enough to fit all three of them and Alan’s long-legged fluffy white dog; he can be reasonably assured of not waking up wrapped around either of them like an octopus. At least, not accidentally.

They’ve had to put all three of their bedrolls together in this tent, and they’re still not all going to fit unless they all agree to flagrantly disregard each other’s personal space. He and Alan have shared tighter quarters before, but that was—well. Before. When they were only friends and their chief concern was not freezing to death. If his feelings had bloomed then—if either of them had said anything then, before Busari, before Gantsetseg…

But they hadn’t, and he doesn’t know what would’ve happened if Gantsetseg hadn’t been braver than both of them put together. Probably he would have spontaneously combusted the next time one of them wore a sleeveless shirt.

He looks at Gantsetseg again. She’s the shortest of them by a few ilms and has shamelessly claimed the middle spot, still bundled up to her nose. Her horn cozies have little tassels on them. It’s probably the least arousing situation he’s ever seen her in and yet there’s still heat crawling up his face, because now he knows how the body under all those layers feels under his hands.

She rolls her eyes. As well she should; this is normal for the Bayaqud, and she was the first one to point out they all had two hands. (In Ishgard, such a sentiment starts wars.) “Wouldn’t’ve asked if I wasn’t, aye? Get in here.”

Alan doesn’t say anything. He just shucks his boots and coat, sits down on Gantsetseg’s other side, and holds out a hand to Evrard with shy hope in his eyes. There’s a sliver of bare skin revealed by his loose shirt, warm peach-pale.

They have a long way to go tomorrow. They’re all tired. A good priest wouldn’t be having the thoughts Evrard is having.

Outside of Ishgard, he is just another adventurer. A reasonably well-off one, perhaps, whose free company estate is full of the trophies of his slain foes in case his current ones get any ideas. But still just an adventurer, one of thousands.

In Ishgard, he is a priest of Halone, and that still means something. Especially when someone is trying to interfere with his congregation.

And most especially when they interrupt the end of Mass.

Parishioners are getting to their feet, buttoning up their coats, ushering their sleepy children towards the door. If their bellies aren’t all full, at least they’ve had a bowl of soup each. (This time, the meat is fresh loaghtan; Gantsetseg was so horrified at the idea of his people subsisting off rats that she’s been personally supplying the sheep these past few weeks. He is allowed to pay her back in kisses. It works out.) He’s given a sermon of just under an hours’ length, enough to give them something to think on but not long enough to bore them to tears. While he can’t speak for the rest of them, he is looking forward to going home.

Of course, that’s when a particularly ragged young Anneliese Desrolins body-checks the door open, sprints blindly inside, nearly knocks over old Madame Smythe, swerves around the hearth in the center of the room, and barrels towards him. He opens his mouth to shout—

And then a pair of Temple Knights barge in after her, clanking like a bag of silverware and armed to the teeth.

His congregation, nearly as one, shrink away. They have little enough in this world; they can’t afford to risk losing any of it. Anneliese dives behind his lectern as he steps out of the way, ice filling his veins.

(It is not fear. He is not the one in danger, nor will he allow danger to enter here. It is the closest he has ever felt to the Fury.)

One of the Knights—he doesn’t know their names, there’s been a significant shuffling of the ranks since the war ended—demands, “Hand over that thief!”

Now, it is possible that Anneliese is a thief. Likely, in fact. But her shoes are patched with old newspapers, and her coat is mostly holes, so he really doesn’t care. (Things have gotten better—so much better!—since the Firmament was built, since the poor folk of the Brume have a chance to leave it for a better neighborhood with thicker walls, but the Firmament is only so large and these streets are home. He will not begrudge his people for surviving.)

More importantly, she is trembling. He will not stand for it.

He walks forward, aware of what the Knights must see. A tall, gray Elezen, his priestly robes much-darned, seemingly unarmed. They step back as he approaches.

His voice is even. Measured. Cold as the falling snow outside. “I think, perhaps, you have forgotten whose house you are in.”

The louder Knight splutters, “Father Briardionne—”

He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t need to. It’s so quiet that the crackling hearth is almost a shock to the ear. “Your zeal is noteworthy, but would be better saved for our true enemies. The Fury will hear the most secret whispers of your heart.”

“But…”

Evrard tilts his head, deliberately looking down at the Knight with an expression that suggests he’s something he’d scrape off his shoe. “If you seek spiritual counsel, sers, you are of course welcome in Her house. If not, I am sure that such staunch defenders of Ishgard have more important things to do than baselessly accuse Her children. Yes?”

These are men with swords. Men who are accustomed to throwing their weight around, to bullying those weaker than them. But the body of a priest is sacrosanct, their words the words of the Fury Herself, and while Evrard isn’t normally one to lean on his position…

There were any number of benefits to the aethernet. For those who could handle the trip, malms could be crossed in moments. With willpower and a strong conception of your end destination, you could send yourself to Thavnair or the New World or the far reaches of the known universe. (He was almost sure Mistress Soleil was making that last one up, but Archon Augurelt swore it was true and he seemed trustworthy enough.)

Or, more to the point, you could travel from Tuliyollal to Ishgard every week to say Mass for your church and keep a finger on the pulse of your congregation. Evrard knew full well that many of his compatriots would count him as an adventurer first and a priest a distant (very distant) second, but he was still a priest. Not even a long, achingly boring trek through the wilderness with three Scions, Alan (who was at least Scion-adjacent), and a would-be king of Tural was enough to keep him from his duties.

(And honestly, saying Mass was a welcome distraction. Archon Augurelt and Master Waters kept engaging in their own versions of flirting, Gantsetseg was one misguided comment from Koana away from flying into a murderous rage and endangering Evrard’s paycheck, and Alan...well, Alan was lovely, but he’d probably help.)

(So. Mass.)

Our Lady’s Mercy was the same as it always was. Dim. Smoky. Slightly chilly, even with the hearth stoked high and the torches crackling on the walls; he made a note to have several cracked windowpanes replaced. At the moment it was nearly empty; only Sister Pierrine was there to welcome him with a worn but heartfelt smile. (He’d put her forth for a proper parish of her own—had offered to see her raised to Mother Pierrine—but she’d refused every time.) He returned it wordlessly; later, he’d ask her for the standard updates on their congregation, but first he needed to prepare. He was not going to say Mass in worn armor with a sword at his side. There were standards. He’d never been one of those priests who took to the pulpit in full plate, anyway.

So he washed quickly, teeth chattering in the cold. He changed into his vestments, the plain everyday ones with the darned seams and the patched elbows. He lit incense and mentally ran through his favorite verses of the Enchiridion for a proper homily topic; the actual reading of Scripture for this week was the Vigil of Saint Stephannoux, which he’d never liked much but could nonetheless recite by heart. Applying it as an exhortation towards hope and resolve rather than the traditional wait ‘til your enemy is sleeping and stab them in the back interpretation would probably go over well.

By the time Sister Pierrine started ringing the bell—some ten minutes before Mass usually started; given the state of the Brume’s construction around the chapel spire the sound didn’t reach very far—some people were already filtering in. He breathed a sigh of relief at the familiar faces. There were the Redcliffes, Theobald looking much better than he had last week; that cough must have cleared up. There were the Lierresauxes, all seven of them. Even the Kytoh siblings had shown up; why anyone would voluntarily move to Ishgard baffled him, but the Keeper pair were fast becoming neighborhood fixtures.

There had been pews once, but pews were more useful as firewood. (There had been a copy of the Enchiridion once too.) Now, his congregation sat on carved wooden stools, with the young and the old given priority near the hearthfire he’d built in front of the lectern. Probably this was blasphemy, but if the diocese had a problem with it…

He rolled his shoulders, shook out his sleeves, and swept his gaze out across the room. It would probably be full later, once the smell of the stew bubbling over the fire overpowered the incense again. Especially since on Iceday there was actual meat in it, the most reliable source of protein anyone at this depth of the Brume was likely to see.

The bishop would fall into apoplexy, but the bishop was cordially invited to take it up with him. On the field of battle, if necessary.

(There were those who called him the Merciful. It wasn’t a compliment. They saw him prioritizing the stomachs of his congregation over their souls, and they thought that made him weak. But Halone was a goddess of war, and he was Her servant. There were many different ways to fight.)

Evrard cleared his throat, swallowing a cough from the rising smoke. The stained glass behind him had long since been darkened by the Brume rising up around it, but there was still enough clear space to speckle his people with scattered shafts of multicolored light. Patches of crumbling stonework had been reinforced with wood, holes patched with brick. The meat in the stew was almost definitely rat.

But this was his church. These were his people. And he was, and would ever be, their priest.

Junelezen 21: Mountain

Look down, look down, upon your fellow man

Ah, Ishgard. The shining city on the mount, ruled by the Church and its High Houses. The bastion of the Halonic Orthodox faith which Evrard was proud to serve. The city he'd been born and raised in, whose people called him Father Ev and treated him with respect if not friendship. The city he loved.