1. Fate

2. Blending In

3. Wind

4. Monster

5. Prophecy

6. Frost

7. Free Day

8. Submerged

9. Silenced

10. Validation

11. Bond

12. Gelid

13. Echo

14. Free Day

15. Voracious

16. Lost

17. Vault

18. Forgiven

19. Radiant

20. Darkness

21. Free Day

22. Muster

23. Ache

24. Fade

25. Wish

26. When Pigs Fly

27. Petrichor

28. Free Day

29. Soul

Still, he is here now—sweaty from the climb, damp from the sweat, and freezing from the damp. A right proper mix of discomfort. Despite asking the Temple Knights stationed outside the Gates of Judgement for directions, he got hopelessly lost and found himself clambering down instead of up. Determined that he take his brother’s advice and trust his intuition, he was perched precariously halfway down the cliffs before it occurred to him that there was perhaps a slight chance he was going the wrong way.

Haurchefant would find it amusing, were he here to hear the tale. He would laugh, then clap him on the back and say something about the admirability of his determined spirit.

But his brother is not here.

His brother is long gone.

Emmanellain blows out a breath and trudges slowly through the snow, fumbling hopeless with his pocket in search of his handkerchief. His nose is dripping, and as tempting as it is to simply wipe it with his sleeve and be done with it, the shirt is new. The whole thing will have to be washed when he returns, but there is propriety about these things. Then again, no one is around to judge. It will be him and Haurchefant upon this hill, and…

“Mistress Malathar?” he calls, raising a hand to his brow to shield his eyes. “Is that you, old girl?”

The Warrior of Light glances over her shoulder. She is a sight to behold in the snow—a stoic warrior all in black, snowflakes clinging to the plates of her armour in a marriage of black and white. If her hair were longer, it would billow in the wind, like the tempestuous locks of a heroine upon a romance cover. But alas, she keeps it cropped short, and the small points of her ears stick out. So much discussion about those ears, they are now one of Ishgard’s favourite talking points.

Perhaps he understands it. The highborn like discussing him, too.

Her ruby eyes narrow and she looks him up and down. “Emmanellain? What are you doing out here alone?”

“I thought—” He plods through the snow, each step taking him deeper and deeper into the drift. How is he sinking while she is barely up to her ankles in snow? “—ah—well, I thought I would be the first to visit, on behalf of my father and brother. Current events are at the foremost of their minds, and well… I—ah—” He sinks deeper. “—have time to—ah—spare.” He puffs out the last word, mouth twisting as he stares at the surrounding snow. How is it up to his waist? “Could you lend me a hand, old girl?”

Mistress Malathar sighs. Quickly, she shuffles through the snow to the edge of the drift and extends a hand. With a few grunts and pointed curses, she pulls him out and helps him up to solid ground. He hunches over, wheezing, cheeks flushed from either the effort or the embarrassment or both.

“Well met,” Emmanellain puffs at last, bowing as graciously as he can manage. “I fear I may have crushed the flowers, but as my brother would say, it is the thought that counts.”

She follows his gaze downwards, observing the bouquet pressed to his chest. Lilies of the Valley, in an assortment of different colours. Their petals are drooping, their leaves sagging, but they are fresh and hand-picked. A good gesture, he thought.

“They’re lovely,” she says quietly.

Together, they walk in silence to the grave. His shield remains where it was placed when he was buried, resting proudly against the headstone. Snowflakes collect on the rim, dusting the black and red. Clearing his throat, Emmanellain steps forward and lays the flowers upon the grave. Somehow, he envisioned this moment differently. Important? No. Something else.

But now that he is here—cold and damp and shaking in his boots in the middle of a snowstorm—he cannot help but feel…

Empty.

“Do you miss him, too?” he asks after a moment.

Mistress Malathar folds her arms, her gaze lingering on the crack in the shield. “Yes,” she whispers. “Emmanellain…”

“Hm?”

“Why was he buried here and not in the city?”

He turns away, raising a hand to keep out the flickering lights beyond. “We thought… well, my father thought he would want a good view of the city he cherished. He devoted his life to Ishgard. It is only right that he should see her in all her glory.”

“But it’s… lonely up here, is it not?” She pauses. “Shouldn’t he be with his family?”

His throat tightens. That is not a question easily answered. His brother was beloved by all, but it did not change that he was their father’s disgrace. It was only through his formidable will and admirable character that the Count could dispatch his shame. But facts are facts, and Haurchefant remains a bastard.

And a bastard—if not legitimized—does not rest with one’s House. No matter their contributions to the Holy See.

“I wish he were,” he says carefully, the lump now painful in his throat. He bows his head and casts his gaze downwards—the flowers look miserable against the headstone. They’ll be buried in the stone or torn away by the wind by tomorrow morning. “But this is what he would have wanted, no?”

She is silent for a long time. “If you say so.”

He flushes, awkwardly shifting weight from foot to foot. He is often dumbstruck in front of the Warrior of Light. She is an enigma—strong and beautiful, capable and resolute, and clever, too. Some call her harsh and cold, but he can only see her as kind. She simply goes about it in a different way than expected. In his mind, he can craft the most beautiful and poetic words, banter marked by impressive wit and whimsy. But the moment he speaks, he becomes feckless and tongue-tied and he becomes a stuttering fool, tripping over his own words as he scrambles to make sense of himself.

He will never be impressive to her.

Perhaps it is time he stopped trying.

“They all miss him,” Emmanellain murmurs. His heart clenches, the pain that has never quite gone away resurfacing without warning. His knees shake and he sucks in a breath, one hand pressed over his heart. The tears he would shed cling to his cheeks, frozen by the wind. “The knight, not the man. Ishgard needs someone like him, and I do not know if he can ever be replaced. His memory will serve in his stead. I cannot say in good faith that they are in the right for it.”

Mistress Malathar’s expression softens. Gently, she rests a hand on his arm and leans her head against his shoulder, standing with him before the grave as he trembles with silent grief. How long they stay there, he does not know. Time is meaningless in this moment.