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Silence. That was all Taashiel heard among the fighting as he watched the man he cared for fall to the ground. Everything went in slow motion. The arrow as it pierced his chest. The fiery explosions behind went dull when the dark haired man fell into the snow covered ground. The pure white snow was stained with red from the blood of fallen temple knights. But Taashiel never thought that the blood of Aymeric would be spilled along with them. His purple eyes widened before he dropped his bow and rushed to catch the man before he fell. He wasn’t fast enough. 

He scrambled to grab the man’s head and pull it into his lap. Images of Haurchefant’s death flashed into his mind. It was though history was repeating itself. Aymeric’s chest rose and fell slowly as he was taking his last breaths of life. His blue eyes looked up at Taashiel. The warrior of Light. One of his closest friends and most trusted allies. The Miqo’te found himself not crying in the moment from pure shock of seeing his ally, no his friend….no his love take strained breaths in his lap. 

Gods damn it! He was the warrior of light! Why couldn’t he save him?! He was supposed to be the protector of people. Everyone looked up to him and trusted him to keep them safe, but when it came down to it, he couldn’t protect the people that he loved most. Now tears pricked his eyes and threatened to cascade over and his hand held tight on to the man’s face. No, he couldn’t give up, there was still time. Time to make this right and save his life, be the protector everyone thought he was.

He desperately looked around the field, hoping to see a white mage, a scholar, astrologian, something even a red mage would work. But all he saw for as far as his eye could see were temple knights fighting off Garleans who threatened to take Ishgard. His own breaths were running ragged while Aymeric’s was slowing. Panic was setting in. There was no hope. No cure, no way for him to save Aymeric. Shite, shite, shite, was all on his mind as his eyes continued to scan the battle field and prayers ran through his mind that someone would come to do the job he couldn’t. Damn him being a bard. Why didn’t he learn healing magic? So many thoughts clouded his mind. Most of them blaming himself. 

They were broken when he felt a warm hand touch his chest. A soft gasp left his lips when he looked down at the man in his arms. He remembered Haurchefant’s last words. “A smile better suits a hero.” He forced a smile on his lips as he watched Aymeric’s eyes gazing up at his own. He wanted to tell him so much. Tell him that he loved him, that he wanted to protect him and live in Ishgard just to be closer to him. It was all too late. The man was dying, and there was nothing Taashiel could do. 

The lips of the Elezen turned up when he saw Taashiel smiling again. His blue eyes hooded before he took another pained breath with the arrow lodged in his heart. His eyes started to close and his hand fell away from Taashiel’s chest. No! NO! Taashiel grasped the falling hand, not wanting him to slip away just yet. But when he did, the arm went limp. Aymeric’s head fell to the side and the Lord Commander ushered his last breath. 

“I’ve got you down for three fights tonight, Olon.” The older man nodded at Dax the moment he made it down the creaky stairs of Saturday nights’ busiest bar. For some reason it was more busy on Christmas eve than it had been on any Saturday, but he wasn’t complaining. The statement immediately sent his adrenaline levels up and made his heart pound a little faster, his hands clenching in to premature fists. The middle aged man leaned against a pole just off of the center of the room, his mouth now closing over an overly expensive cigar, his hands shoved in to the pockets of his dress pants. The man looked out of place entirely, his eyes moving with the movements of the two shirtless fighters in the middle of the cemented room. Yet somehow his attention still felt like it was perfectly focused on his returning prodigy. He was the man who built Dax up and reeled him in to the dirty fights in bar basements infested with bets of men with dirty money and even dirtier secrets. His first rather impressive fight in this very basement was when Daniel was seventeen; Stan had precluded that if channeled in to his fists, the angst and determination in the boy would become undefeatable.

In the last fight of the evening Dax’s body felt beyond weak, but his punches were still thrown with ease and precision. Sweat dripped from his face, his teeth clenching tightly as a guy almost twice his size imprinted his left cheek with bloody knuckles, tearing open the gash that already adorned it, cuing more blood flow. That was the one thing Dax had never taken a liking to about these basement fight nights; you couldn’t come out clean. In the arena tap outs came earlier, medics were on stand by, and gloves kept the blood levels down. After a decently long back and forth of thrown punches, his bare back was glued to the cement of the floor, the other mans forearm pinning his neck down so that Dax had no other option but to tap out. Within seconds Stan was urging his former prodigy to his feet, his eyes quickly moving over his new wounds. “You just lost me one hundred on that one, son.”

“I just made you four hundred, now I want the information.” He basically spat out the words, using the back of his hand to wipe away some of the blood that dressed his left cheek. Shaking his head, Dax put on a satisfied grin; sick in ways, but satisfied nonetheless. His body ached in ways he had been craving for months now; the pang of an instant bruise and the comfort he took knowing his opponent’s discomfort was double his own. After a night of bickering and initially being viewed as a charity case, the last thing he wanted to be regarded as, the taste of blood in between his teeth and the throbbing of a black eye was grossly refreshing. “I ain’t got it tonight, Dan.” Stan blindly counted the bills that sat in his hands, his thumb carefully grazing over the top corner of each bill. “Here, go take yourself home a nice expensive piece. I hear you ran a steep bill over there in the windy city, my boy.” He gingerly placed a few twenties in to the pocket of Dax’s shorts, a sly grin taking to his lips. “You’re not fooling any one by pretending you don’t like being back here.”

“Fuck you, Stan.” His breathing was heavier than it had been all night, the veins in his neck more prominent than normal. The asshole was right; the feeling of being bet on, the smell of blood, sweat, beer, and the look of defeat spread so blatantly across an opponents face before they tap out were the little things he had been craving so desperately since getting back home. They were also the things he swore he wouldn’t let pull him back in, so this new gig could only be a means of business.