#seaswolchallenge

The Impresario left the stage to the applause of Ishgard’s peers, and the curtains rose even as shadows fell upon the stage, and the orchestra took up the beautiful overture so known—and beloved—to Gisele.

Whatever may have been going through the eccentric mind of her gentleman companion that night, she put it aside, for she had anticipated this performance of The Dream Oath like little else. She had listened endlessly to the orchestrion roll—a gift from Haurchefant, when he learned of her love of music, and spent more hours that she could count singing along whenever she was by her lonesome. They had even played it upon their wedding day, and Gisele and Aymeric danced to the famous aria. But never had Gisele seen any of the opera performed, in the flesh. It was precisely why Aymeric fair leapt at the chance to invite her to this special command performance, to benefit the Ala Mhigan Resistance. 

And it was why she sat practically upon the edge of her seat, in the Lord Speaker’s box, utterly oblivious to the presence of such distinguished personages. Instead, she found herself holding her breath, when Ser Draco himself ventured unto the stage, tall and clad head to toe in fine mythrite plate, and lifted his voice in deep and heartwrenchingly beautiful song--performed in the original Elezen.

Oh Maria!

Oh Maria!

Please hear my voice!

How I long to be with you!

Gisele could not help but sigh a little dreamily, as his rich tenor carried brilliantly across the breadth of the massive chamber, for the acoustics of the Palais were second to none. But she was stirred a little from her reverie, by Haurchefant’s hand reaching for her own to the left of her, lightly caressing it, before he squeezed it tightly.

Mayhap Draco’s song meant somewhat more to him, after a year of exile upon the First apart from her. 

A sidelong glance exchanged in the darkness, and the faint hint of a sorrowful smile upon his lips were enough to make Gisele believe it. She returned his gesture, squeezing his hand in reply, and so entwined they continued to watch the performance unfold in all its artistry. The intricacy of the Dalmascans’ stagecraft was as mesmerizing as the colorful costumes, and the brilliance of the Ishgardian orchestra, every note played to utter perfection as scenes of war. It was wildly popular in Ishgard, and Gisele knew well why—Ishgardians were all terrible romantics, and she had come to learn this well. That the heart of the tale was the enduring nature of love amidst a bloody conflict in a ruined, war-torn kingdom was also something that resonated deeply with the Ishgardian character, for obvious reasons. And it resonated still, that night, given life by such talented performers as these.

There was but one scene Gisele had anticipated above all others as soon as she received the invitation from Aymeric, however, and as the stone mockup of a castle parapet was wheeled expertly upon the stage, her heart swelled.

She was breathtaking, the Roegadyn soprano, her costume a magnificent ball gown of shimmering cloth of gold, bedecked in seed pearls, which favored her deep complexion greatly. So beautiful she was, in Maria’s great sorrow, having been forced to wed the cruel and wicked Prince Ralse to seal the defeat of the West. And when she lifted her dulcet voice to the starry heavens so masterfully glamoured upon the gothic ceiling, Gisele gasped.

Oh my hero, so far away now.

Will I ever see your smile?

Love goes away,

Like night into day.

It’s just a fading dream...

Every word, Gisele could not help but silently mouth along with her, as she had so many times—luxuriating in her bath, pulling weeds in the garden, spinning thread in the atelier. 

I’m the darkness, you’re the stars.

Our love is brighter than the sun.

For eternity, for me there can be,

Only you, my chosen one...

The long arm of her companion to the right stretched behind her, draping across the back of her shoulders to rustle the silk of her own gown against her skin, typically indolent at first, but his hand squeezed her shoulder tightly with Maria’s verse, and warmth crept into Gisele’s cheeks at the sensation. He was not so simple to speculate upon, this man the world knew as Hades d’Amaurot. But she glanced to her right to see his golden eyes shimmering, stood with unshed tears, and she thought upon the ancient necklace of sunstone which rested against his heart, beneath the ebon silk of his exquisitely tailored shirt.

Must I forget you? 

Our solemn promise?

Will autumn take the place of spring?

What shall I do?

I’m lost without you.

Speak to me once more!

Mayhap it was so simple, indeed, Gisele mused silently, reaching over to idly caress his cheek. His eyes closed, his dark lashes fluttered thick and voluminous with her touch, and he smiled.

The spectral figure of Ser Draco appeared then, his armor still shining, beckoning to his lost love. And Maria glided across the parapet with him, following his lead. The skirts of her gown flowed about her like gentle water, and it was hypnotic, almost, watching them turn with ethereal grace. She was well trained in movement, the soprano, as much as in voice, Gisele thought approvingly. And Gisele wondered then, how the illusion was cast, thinking upon a glamour, like as not. But it did not matter, not really, so enraptured she was by the beauty of it all, as strings and horns played out swelled to their steps of passion and grace; hope, even, the undertone of the melancholy, and Gisele’s heart soared to see it at last, beholding this story in all its glory for the first time. Of a surety, it was as if she’d heard that melody for the very first time, and the majesty of it overwhelmed her a moment, her own eyes standing with tears. She spied Hades’ other hand drifted into the air, in the periphery of her vision, as graceful and ethereal as their steps, silently conducting the orchestra as was so often his wont. Gisele stole a quick glance to him again, to see the fullness of his lips parted slightly, his lids grown heavy, and it seemed he was silently, imperceptibly mouthing the melody in time with his silent conducting. Gisele smiled in the darkness, turning her attention back to the stage.

At last, their dance ended, the specter of Ser Draco vanished, leaving in his place a bouquet of roses. Maria bent low, gathering them up within her trembling arms, and ascended the stair to the highest parapet; Gisele’s breath was caught in her throat once more, her hand raised to her heart.

We must part now.

My life goes on.

But my heart won’t give you up.

“…and, toss,” she heard Hades murmur softly under his breath.

Maria did, as soon as he said it, gently flinging the bouquet over the parapet, into the waiting darkness.

Ere I walk away,

Let me hear you say.

I meant as much to you…

So gently, you touched my heart.

I will be forever yours.

“Come what may, I won’t age a day…I’ll wait for you always.”

It was not Maria’s verse which so pierced Gisele to the core, lovely and ethereal as it was; rather, the soft, imperceptible tenor beside her. So soft was Hades, in truth, that Gisele wondered if she might have imagined it. But he squeezed her shoulder once more, and when she glanced back to him?

Hades was smiling.

***

With the death of Prince Ralse at the climactic duel, The Dream Oath came to an end.

“Bravissimo!” Hades cried out, the first to leap to his feet when the players returned to the stage to take their bows, and Gisele turned her gaze upon him; tears flowed down his sharp cheeks in a veritable flood, his golden eyes bright and dazzling.

“Well done!” Aymeric shouted his agreement, tears standing in his own eyes as he joined in. Of a surety, no eye within the Lord Speaker’s box stood dry and bereft--not even those of the Admiral and her Second, to Gisele’s great and silent amusement. 

And they were not alone, for the applause was so thunderous it near shook the very stones of the Palais. Gisele smiled at it, not merely at such an outpouring of appreciation for artistry, but for what it would portend—offers of patronage from the High Houses, of course, and a renewed commitment to Dalmasca’s resistance as well as that of Ala Mhigo. Precisely what Aymeric had intended with all this, Gisele believed, smiling knowingly at her wily husband.

After exchanging any number of pleasantries, Gisele departed with her husbands, her boon companion in tow, venturing across the Pillars hence for a small reception at Fortemps Manor, naturally hosted by Count Artoirel. Gisele smiled at the sight of Aymeric and Haurchefant arm in arm, a little ways in front of them, for Haurche was serenading him in his very best impression of the dashing Ser Draco, and none too poorly at that, for Aymeric’s swoons were only faintly jesting. Somewhat in him always seemed to relax in their presence, but particularly Haurchefant’s, and it did not seem to matter to him that they were in the rarefied air of the Pillars, then, for Aymeric accepted Haurche’s attentions with aplomb, even if he was slightly more circumspect in returning them.

“Haurche—wait!” Aymeric nonetheless spluttered, however, as Haurchefant suddenly took him by the hands and swept him into an impromptu Waltz, there in the broad plaza before the steps to the Last Vigil.

“Oh, come now my lord! I shall wither into roses if you refuse me! Will you toss me so bereft into the Sea of Clouds?” Haurchefant gasped, and Aymeric laughed in defeat, following his lead. Humming the melody of the aria, Haurchefant beamed, and mimicked Draco’s dance; Gisele’s heart swelled at it, to see the stars so shining in Aymeric’s eyes, caught up in their husband’s typically infectious joie de vivre.

It seemed Haurchefant was going to waltz Aymeric right to the house, and Gisele could not help but giggle. As they crossed the pristine cobblestoned streets, even the night air seemed a little less choked by the Coerthan chill—though it could have also been the heat pouring off Hades’ body in waves, filling Gisele with soothing warmth as they walked arm in arm along the grand promenade.

“Tell me, my dear: did you enjoy the show?” Hades asked rather pointedly.

Gisele smiled, leaning into him as they walked. “I did.”

“Good,” Hades purred, that typically smug tone of his brimming with self-satisfaction if only a moment, but the smugness faded just as quickly upon his mercurial features, replaced by a faint, wistful smile. “I wrote it for you.”

Her eyes grew wide, her heart pounding in her ears. “I beg your pardon, monsieur?” she gasped.

Hades grinned brightly, much like a cat who’d gotten into the cream. “Oh, do try to keep up Gisele.”

With that, the Ascian vanished into thin air only to re-emerge before Haurchefant, clapping and cheering his performance with only a little sarcasm. Haurchefant stopped only long enough to take his bow.

“You were magnificent, love,” Aymeric laughed, kissing him soundly upon the cheek.

“Indeed! You know, if this whole Scion business turns sour on you, you’ve the makings of a player, ser knight,” Hades said. “At any rate gentlemen, I do hate to interrupt such a lovely scene, but…we should arrive only fashionably late. Whatever might the Pillars say, Lord Speaker, if you lot missed a fete at your own bloody house?” he added, in precisely the sing song tone that got shields hurled at his head.

This time, Haurchefant merely cackled with a foolish grin upon his face. “It wouldn’t be the first time, messire D'Amaurot. Isn’t that right, Aymeric?”

Aymeric turned a bright shade of crimson. “Haurchefant, I beg of you, cease this talk at once or I will toss you into the Sea of Clouds--flowers or no!” he spluttered, then buried his face in his hand to stifle the laughter that followed.

All of a sudden, Lyse looked mortified. “No!” she insisted. “I mean, I absolutely meant my teaching offer, I promise!” There was a stricken look on her face as she tried to assure Cassia of her motives. “I admit that there may have been some… thoughts, but you have to believe me, that was not my main intent!”

“I believe you,” Cassia hurried to say, seeing that her friend looked genuinely distressed. This had not been her intention at all. “I didn’t mean to accuse you of anything; that was a jest,” she explained. “I was just surprised, but I assure you, I am not upset!”

“Oh.” Above her, Lyse let out a deep sigh. “Thank the Twelve.”

Cassia could see her relax, but still, throughout all of this, Lyse had not moved. The other woman was still on top of her, legs spread on each side of her hips, her hands still pushing down on Cassia’s shoulders.

“I can’t say I’m not incredibly curious about these… thoughts,” Cassia added a bit softer, looking up at Lyse with a small smile on her face. “I may have had some thoughts myself, you know…”

There was a torn look on Lyse’s face. Hesitation mixed with the familiar look of desire as she swallowed. “Well, I…” Lyse started, only to look away all of a sudden. She took a deep breath before fixing her eyes on Cassia again. “I saw you,” she suddenly blurted out. 

“You saw me?” Confusion went through Cassia. “Where? Doing what?”

Lyse still looked slightly hesitant, and for a moment, Cassia thought her friend was merely anxious until she noted her glowing cheeks and her slightly faster breath. Whatever Lyse had seen did definitely not make her uncomfortable. It had her aroused instead.

“Back in Gyr Abania, shortly before we left for Doma, I walked in on you and Urianger.” The words tumbled out of Lyse as she bit her lip for a moment. “I didn’t stay, and I swear I wasn’t spying on you, but…”

“But you saw enough to get you all hot and bothered,” Cassia concluded. The wink she sent at Lyse served to make the other woman gasp for a second.

“You are not upset by that?” Lyse asked hesitantly, only for Cassia to shake her head.

“Come on, Lyse, you should know me better by now. You know I don’t mind an audience.”

Lyse swallowed briefly, the glow on her cheeks only getting more pronounced. “Well, I know that, but.. that looked very… private.” She put a particular emphasis on the last word, making Cassia try and think back to what exactly the other woman had walked in on. Nothing particular came to mind, though.

“I’m afraid I don’t know exactly what you mean,” she admitted. 

Lyse took a deep breath before answering. “When I came in, you both didn’t even notice me; you were so engrossed in each other,” she explained in a quiet voice. “And Urianger, he was, well, making you do things. For him. Giving you orders…”

Slowly, Cassia started to see a picture forming. “And that made you interested?” she asked carefully, but Lyse shook her head lightly.

“No. Yes. Not entirely, I mean. I was interested before, but when I saw that…” Lyse trailed off for a bit, her eyes glossing over before she pulled herself back into the moment. “I was surprised at how much I desperately wanted to be in his place.” The confession was quiet, but firm and without hesitation. 

Cassia swallowed as she felt a tingle of excitement run through her at Lyse’s words. “So, you don’t just want to sleep with me, but you want to order me around and make me do whatever you want during it as well, am I getting that right?” she asked plainly. For a moment, she almost expected Lyse to start fidgeting again, but it seemed that once her friend had gotten her thoughts out in the open, her usual confidence was slowly returning.

“Yes,” Lyse said firmly, looking down at Cassia with unveiled desire in her eyes. A slow smile spread over her face as she seemed to realize that Cassia shared her enthusiasm. Her hands on Cassia’s shoulders relaxed as she let her fingers trail down her sides, running over the seams of the tightly wrapped top Cassia wore for training. “I want you to stay at my tent tonight, and I am going to be in charge,” Lyse stated boldly in a voice that Cassia knew she had practiced a lot lately. Her voice she reserved for giving orders to the resistance. A small shudder went down Cassia’s back, making the desire that had been slowly growing inside her swell to new heights. This was a tone she could definitely get used to. 

With practiced ease and an undeniable surge of excitement, Cassia gave Lyse her most tempting look. “Well,” she said smoothly, her voice lower than before, “You’ve already won our fight; you might as well claim your prize.” With a knowing smile and a nod in the direction of their tents, she added, “Though if you don’t want to have the entire camp know, maybe not right here.”

Lyse let out a snort. “Please, my tent is next to yours. I know for a fact that people will know anyway.” She leaned down closer, resting on her elbows, and Cassia felt the soft brush of the other woman’s breasts pressing against her own in their sudden closeness. “You are not as subtle as you think when you take people to your tent at night,” Lyse whispered, her breath warm on Cassia’s face.

“I wasn’t trying to be subtle,” Cassia said pointedly. “I never am.” With a grin, she added, “Though you are most welcome to try and experiment with things that keep me quiet if that is your wish.”

Lyse’s eyes lit up with a spark as she grinned widely. “Oh, I have put some thought into that already,” she assured her. “And I know just where to start.” And with that, she closed the distance between them, soft lips pressing down on Cassia’s, swallowing the quip that Cassia had been ready to retort as they moved without hesitation. 

Ardbert exhales and adjusts his footing. "Right, then."

The spar drags well into the afternoon.

. . . 

Later, as they retire to the shade of the town’s towers, he considers what might be souring the air between them. He hasn’t insulted anyone—at least not to his knowledge—and they’ve since put the scuffle at the Dravanian Forelands to rest. 

While he ponders if he’s unknowingly committed some sort of Eorzean faux paus, Thancred settles in the space at an arm's length to his right. The man wipes the sweat from his brow, pulls out a canteen, and takes a long swig of it. The silence settles heavily in the space between them, charged and tense in a way that has Ardbert coiled as though he’s gearing for a fight.

"I haven't had a spar like that in some time," Thancred finally says, gaze fixed on a cluster of jutting crystals in the hills ahead. "You certainly know how to put someone through their paces."

Ardbert exhales slowly as some of the tension leaves him. “The feeling’s mutual.” A brief pause. “I can only imagine what you’d be like had you the Echo as well.”

“Ah. A blessing I would surely pass on given the choice. Fainting mid-battle doesn’t sound appealing in the least, thank you kindly.”

That pulls a small smile from him. Perhaps he’s misreading things? "T'is a fickle gift—if one would call it that."

"Most would."

He can sense the man working towards something, talking around the subject. Could practically hear the question sitting at the tip of Thancred’s tongue. He just can't figure out the end goal here, and can’t pinpoint the cause of the hesitation to begin with. 

And after another painfully prolonged silence, he sighs. "You've a question to ask. Ask it."

Thancred gives him a sidelong look and a wry smile. "Please. I'm trying not to be a boor."

"To spare my sensibilities?" Ardbert snorts. "Just ask and be done with it."

"If you so insist." Thancred clears his throat. "What is it like? The resurrection part of the Echo, I mean." He hazards another careful, measured glance at Ardbert. "If you care to share. I understand it can be a private matter."

How do you explain the Echo to someone who doesn't have it? Some parts are self-explanatory and easily relatable, he figures—such as the second wind and burst of strength it grants. But returning from death? The sensation of being woven back together, piece by piece, until you resembled the shape of who you were prior? It was all much more than simply waking from a dreamless slumber.  

"It depends," Ardbert says slowly, leaning forward on his elbows. "The recoveries differ depending on the severity of injury. Some take mere moments to return from. Others… are not so simple to shrug off."  

Thancred weighs his answers with a solemn look. "Do you remember them all?"

"No."

He goes silent at that. Ardbert doesn’t blame him. The implications of missing memories isn’t something he cares to think about either—out of necessity more than anything. Remembering trauma isn’t a pleasant experience. Not for the mind. Not for the body. And as someone who’s passed through death, full and true, he knows better than most what sorts of scars that experience can leave on a person. 

Moments like that leave their mark. They dig deep into the psyche despite the Echo’s insistence of spiriting it all away, and to this day Ardbert finds himself flinching to some deathblows more than others with no rhyme or reason to it all. 

He sighs deeply and turns his head to the setting sun and its warmth, gaze distant and pensive. "Care if I ask a question of my own?"

"By all means. Fair’s fair."

"Why the curiosity? If you’ve no interest in it all."

From the corner of his eye, he can see Thancred mull over the question. "Because," he eventually starts, and there’s a tired note there now, “I find that despite not truly wanting it, I sometimes wonder at how much more I would be able to do. How much more capable I would be." He pauses then, as if weighing the next words carefully. "And... at times, how I’d be able to traverse the shards as you and Mihren do."

And like a gear sliding into place, it all clicks. The frustration. The hidden note of envy. 

"The girl from the Crystarium," Ardbert notes quietly. "You miss her."  

The parlor was not the grandest in the manor, meant as it was to serve as a shared sitting room for the few guest rooms in this hall. But it had the same sturdy elegance he associated with House Fortemps. The fire in the hearth had burnt down to almost nothing and the murky red light cast ghastly shadows about the room. On the couch in front of the fire a pair of drooping lavender ears that shivered slightly in time with the sniffles. Bel Aliender huddled under a blanket that she had dragged off her bed (or possibly her foster mother’s bed) and had wrapped herself tightly around a stuffed chocobo toy. She was obviously trying not to wake anyone up. Alphinaud walked over to the hearth and took up the poker. He pushed the wood about for a moment until the choked fire had enough air to come back to life. For good measure he grabbed a log out of the iron basket and carefully put it on the fire

Alphinaud turned back to the couch to look at the little Miqo’te girl. For a long few moments they stared at each other neither sure what to do with the other. He blew out a breath and sat down at the opposite end of the couch. “Is there something troubling you?”

Bel wringled a bit so that her entire miserably pink face was visible above her cocoon. “I’m sorry I woke you up.”

Alphinaud frowned but waved it off. “I am just returning. Why are you out of bed?” 

The child ducked her head back down so he could only see her eyes and ears, for a moment it made him think of a baby adamantoise. “I had bad dreams.”

“About Ul’dah?” Alphinaud had to work hard to keep from flinching. He remembered Ilberd talking Art’imis into bringing the child to a state banquet. Hindsight being what it was now he could see that Ilberd had wanted a bargaining chip that couldn’t fight back. 

“About the lady in white armor and gun gloves.” Bel flinched back from her own words. Alphinaud wanted to kick himself, he’d forgotten that she had been at the Waking Sands during the raid. Urianger and Papolymo had tried to cover long enough to get the child to teleport to Ul’dah and sanctuary with First sword Mylla. 

“Do you need a glass of water?” He floundered for something to say. Bel shook her head and curled tighter around her soft felt companion. He frowned and steeled himself for sobbing tears about wanting Art’imis. For several moments nothing happened and he began to relax. 

“It’s okay if you wanna go to bed. I know you don’t like me.” 

Alphinaud’s breath hissed out as his diaphragm contracted suddenly. He cleared his throat. “I’ve never said that.”

“I heard you talking to Thancred about how Mama gets too distracted by me.” Bel’s voice was small and muffled by the quilt, her ears drooping against her head. “I didn’t like you either. You treated Mama like a cheap sword. Ilberd at least said please” 

He stared at her. He opened his mouth to deny the accusation. He snapped his jaw shut. He raced through his memories. Had he really never said please? Art’imis was just always there, always the shield between Eorzea and everything that threatened the realm. He had always just assumed… 

Alphinaud blinked and looked at Bel forcing himself to actually see the child and connect disparate things he had heard but had not linked together. Urianger and Papalymo had discussed in hushed tones about how she had kept herself together far better than they had expected in a Garlean detention cell. He had interrupted an impromptu knife lesson between Thancred and Bel, looking back with the benefit of hindsight Thancred had been annoyed at the interruption. Minfilia drying tears and listening to some story told through distressed hiccups. Y’shtola teased her about being the Warrior of the Nightlight. This child who’s echo had awoken to protect her from Ifrit’s will and since then caught glimpses into the memories of all the tragedies that plagued the realm. He closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath so that he could let it out slowly. 

“I can only offer an apology.” Alphinaud looked into the fire ordering his own chaotic thoughts. “I did take your mother for granted, just as I assumed that all my plans could never fail. I don’t think I understand how much my arrogance hurt you in my disregard for Art’imis and yourself.”

Bel pulled her chin up out of the quilt again. “I’m sorry I put nettle powder in your boots that one time.”

Alphinaud blinked for a moment drawing a complete blank. Then he remembered a day in Gridania when his feet had itched and ached to distraction during a meeting with the Elder Seedseer. After the meeting his feet overrode his pride and he’d gone to the conjurers guild. One of the junior conjurers had said it was nettles and he must have walked through something that worked into his boots. He’d had to discard that pair of socks entirely, and have the inside of his boots cleaned three times before he could wear them without an itch. He stared at the little Miqo’te child who watched him with one jade eye and one aquamarine eye. A laugh bubbled up from his gut and he let it escape unfettered. Bel grinned and her ears perked up as her lips curled upwards. 

“Mayhap we could start again?” Alphinaud asked gently. 

Bel loosened her grip on her stuffed toy so that she could hold out her hand. “I’m Bel Aliender.”

“It’s a pleasure Miss Aliender. I am Alphinaud Leveilleur.” He shook her hand firmly. 

Bel wriggled and scooted across the couch so that she could curl up against his side. She grabbed the arm that hovered awkwardly over her and pulled it down to wrap around her shoulders. “Mama forgave you. She told me that even if you’d made bad mistakes you were still our family and we keep and protect what’s ours.” 

The Fortemps library is a grand one. Haurchefant is not certain how it compares–he has only been in Haillenarte's with Francel–but imagines it is the finest in Ishgard. His father is a man of letters, a true believer in the power of words. And one who expected his sons to follow suit.

His education differed greatly from his brothers’ the day he became a knight’s page. Even still, his lord father sent him monthly parcels of books. He was expected to read them all and send detailed reports on the contents. Had he ever kept up his thaumaturgy studies, he would have been hard-pressed to find the time.

As it was, he’d stayed up often to fit in the poetry and novels not on the list. Count Edmont was a modern man and his syllabus reflected this–vetted popular authors and poets made it into the parcels. Never in the quantity Haurchefant would have liked. And never some of the one-gil books he bought in The Pillars.

When he was a boy, there were songs for sale about body functions and noises; exaggerated tales of heroes fighting all manner of beasts and foes. As a youth, these became long, violent epics of battles and bravery. As a young man: lurid poems and explicit romance novels. Some as grand and sweeping as the classical romances his Father promoted. Some were not.

He has managed to introduce some contemporary poets into the collection. Not all. Edmont’s tastes in poetry run more traditional. Some of the rising stars of the field are roundly rejected.

Haurchefant is working on that.

Today, he feels romantic in both classic and literal senses. And as his Father has ordered him to stay for a day and night, indulging in a novel sounds just the thing.  It seems that getting trapped in a blizzard–even if things had gone fine, more than fine–means your noble father turns to such decrees.

At least, that is what it means now they are growing close, as they never had been. Another miracle Nerys has wrought with her coming. And as Haurchefant has full faith in Corentiaux and the rest...he allows himself to be thus ordered. 

Someone else is in the library. He can sense it soon as he enters. A soldier learns to tell when others are near, even in safe environs such as this. Haurchefant softens his footfalls, peering about the shelves. There, in the alcove reserved for study, he finds the source of today’s romantic mood.

Nerys looks up, eyes turning soft. His heart swells in his chest, his mouth cannot help but smile. It’s unstoppable and he does not ever want it to cease. Was it really only yesterday? That she told me my love was returned?

It seems a dream now, albeit the sweetest one he has ever had.

Her hands sweep at the papers she has laid out, pulling them into a stack. Flips over the one on top. “Hello.”

“Hello, my dear.” How nice to call her that. “I thought you were on a shopping expedition with Emmanellain?”

“I was.” She touches her neckline. So caught up in her eyes, he hadn’t noticed the gown she wore.

Scarlet as the unicorn on his shield, set off with dangling garnets in her ears. The heart-shaped neckline shows off her elegant neck and collar bones. The sleeves are slashed to reveal white fabric beneath and the cuffs have delicate pearls. “I found this. For when I’m here at the manor and not about to fight Inquisitors or dragons.”

“You are breathtaking in it.” He circles the table to take her hand. Bows over it before pressing his mouth to her knuckles. Etiquette demands he should kiss the air above it but surely exceptions are made for lovers. 

She is my lover now, he thinks in wonder. Her cheeks stain with a fetching indigo shade. “My lord is kind.”

Haurchefant drops to one knee before his lady and turns her hand. Her palm is just as lovely to kiss. “Your lord means everything he says. But if you require further proof of my ardor…”

Nerys darts a glance about before tilting up his chin. Her kiss is sweet and soft and not a little heated. Would that he might lay her upon the table in this temple of learning and know her better.

Alas, Nerys has asked for discretion. Time to better acquaint themselves as lovers before declaring themselves. They are still friends–always will be, if he has anything to do with it–but this dynamic is new and strange. Haurchefant can understand why the most public figure in Eorzea might want some measure of privacy. 

Though, he reflects as he parts from her. Half the fun would be keeping quiet and avoiding discovery.

“I know that look,” she says. “You’re thinking of something lascivious.”

“When I had this look before I confessed, what did you think it meant?”

“The same,” she admits. “But that your love of innuendo was good-natured teasing.”

He heaves a sigh. Either he is not as obvious as Estinien always accuses him or she’d been in deep, deep denial. “Dearest love, how-”

The library doors bang open and the culprit whistles as he walks inside. Haurchefant rises, knowing exactly who it is before he comes into view.

“Old Girl! Old Man!” Emmanellain grins. “You didn’t tell me we were having a party in the library.”

“Impetuous Youth,” Haurchefant shoots back. “What if one of us was deep in study?”

“Oh I don’t deal in ‘what-ifs’. You two are having a conversation, not studying; ergo all is well.” 

“He has a point. I think,” says Nerys. “By the by, if Haurchefant is ‘Old Man’, what do you call your eldest brother?”

The two men exchange looks. Smile. Say in unison, “Artoirel.”

Nerys groans and flaps both hands at them in dismissal. “Go fetch whatever you two were looking for. I am actually working on something.”

“Am I to be banished for my baby brother’s crimes?” Haurchefant presses a hand to his heart. “Mistress Eluned, you wound me.”

“If I must be quiet and meek like a mouse, so must you. After all, I am the true leader of our brotherly trio.”

“You are right of course. I could never compare to you.” Haurchefant shakes his head. “Very well, Impetuous Youth. As mice scurry to cheese, let us go to the books we seek.”

“Ordered to seek,” Emmanellian mutters. “I’m to review Ymbelet’s Theorem of Command and deliver a report. As if we hadn’t put our schooling well behind us.”

Haurchefant does his best to soothe his brother. They quiet down at last: the younger man taking his volume off to his chambers, the elder settling into an armchair within eyesight of Nerys. (Far enough away that she may stop hiding her work.)

His novel is a work of popular fiction he’d garnered approval to stock here. No erotic scenes, but romantic enough. Should he ever get his eyes to stay on the page.

Alas, the white-haired sorcerer-king and his beloved princess and his soul-eating sword are no match for the Warrior of Light. The curve of her cheek. The braided coronet of purple and white hair, crowning her while the rest of her curls are a lovely raiment over her shoulders. The quirk to her dark, sweet lips.

She lifts those golden eyes, meeting him. If he were not already lovestruck and bedazzled, that gaze would ensnare him. He smiles and lifts his shoulders in a helpless shrug. Haurchefant isn’t sorry for lingering before a sunset; and that natural wonder is naught in comparison.

“My lord,” says Nerys, her voice carrying. “May I help you?”

“Nay, Mistress.” He shakes his head. “Simply exist as you are and I am satisfied.”

That is when Alphinaud bursts in, looking drawn and pale. If Haurchefant is annoyed at another interruption, that vanishes at the sight. He jumps to his feet. “My lad! Are you alright?”

The youth shakes his head. “Nerys. Tataru has grave news about General Aldynn. We must be off at once.”

She rises, hurrying over in a rush of white and red silk. In an instant she has changed from playfulness to resolute determination. Always ready to become The Warrior, his Nerys. 

“Do you require anything?” He asks them. “You know my sword is yours, as is any resource at our disposal.”

Alphnaud shakes his head. “No one must see us enter Thanalan or leave. As soon as we cross back into Coerthas, we’ll send word.”

“I thank you. If you needs must bring the General somewhere safe, Camp Dragonhead’s doors are open to you.” If he must return to his command rather than fight at her side, at least he might be of some use to her. He loves–truly loves–his role but lately, his dearest wish is to be a shield at her back and a sword in her arsenal.

Ah, well, even Sorcerer-Kings do not get all they want. Why should he?

He dips into a sweeping bow to them both. Alphinaud returns it before rushing out, every emotion writ upon his usually perfect diplomat’s mask. Should the General die, the youth will carry it as he does everything else that occurred with the Braves. Haurchefant sends a prayer to Halone, asking for mercy on him.

Nerys takes his hand. Squeezes it. He squeezes it back. She smiles before picking up her skirts and rushing afterward.

It proves impossible to focus after that, even more than before. For a moment he entertains armoring up and following. This isn’t Dragonhead and so none of the knights with orders to keep him safe are here. (That time with Iceheart, Corentiaux had actually sat upon him.)

But they have asked he stay behind. So he will.

Haurchefant can take care of Nerys’ papers for her. He means to pointedly not look at the contents. He truly does. But he sees a piece of paper with his name on top, another with his last name, and his resolve crumbles.

The first piece of paper is titled “Minako” in large, neat letters. Beneath are names like Mamoru, Umino, Motoki. Her Yellow Chocobo is named Minako. Therefore, this is for…

The next sheet of paper confirms his suspicions. Under the heading “Black Chocobo” are the names Endymion, Starlight, Twilight, Onyx. Below that, a subheading “Elegance” with virtue monikers: Noble, Dignity, Charming.

And so, when he arrives to the last three papers (titled “Haurchefant”, “Greystone”, and “Fortemps”), he cannot contain his joy. The little note scribbled atop “Haurchefant” tickles him further. He gave you the Chocobo and you adore him. Will he be offended? He might be offended. 

Haurchefant is certainly not offended. 

He delights in the candidates, even some of the ones she crossed out. Sadly, there is no option for “Haurchefant” or “Haurchefant II.” I suppose that might get confusing.

Grinning, he picks up her leather folio and tucks her work inside. Hopefully, she will forgive his snooping because he has some ideas about this.

--

The Lord Commander’s bed at Camp Dragonhead may be the most comfortable place in Eorzea.

Nerys should get up to clean, brush her teeth, all the little nighttime rituals. But she is so pleasantly exhausted and the blankets are so soft and warm. She stretches, luxuriating in the feel of them against her skin. It has been a harrowing few days since her abrupt departure from Ishgard. But all is well and now, she feels nothing but comfort.

The bed could be warmer with her companion. But then she wouldn’t get to see his bare bottom as he slips into the bathroom. Halone must adore him to bless him with such a lovely rear.

“My love,” he calls after a while. “I have a confession to make.”

“Oh? Should I be worried?”

“I hope not.” He returns with a washcloth, his black silk robe barely closed against the cold. The fireplace sends flickers of light across his sculpted chest.  “I may be overstepping but...I must say that I truly adore the name Grey. Though Tempsy is charming. Also, may I suggest Haurchon?”

What does he...oh. Oh! Nerys groans and buries her face in a pillow. She had been in such haste to rescue Raubahn–rightfully so!–that she had left all her papers there. All face up, all in the open.

The mattress dips as Haurchefant sits beside her. One hand strokes her hair, gentle and sweet. “I should not have pried but Nerys–my dearest one–I am utterly and truly touched by the idea. Though of course, if you pick a different name I will not be offended.”

“I only...well, I wouldn’t have him if not for you,” she mutters into the pillow, heat filling her face. “And if not for him, we wouldn’t have been in Coerthas that day.”

“So we owe him a great honor, for bringing us together at last.” His lips press against her bare shoulder. “Of course, the truest honor would be to name him after yourself-”

She turns then, mortification at last leaving her. Cups his face in her hands. “I am not playing this game where we go on for hours about who is better.  Let’s agree it’s you and end it there.”

“Oh my love,” he sighs, bending down to her. “Though you are wrong, I must obey if it proves to you the depth of my regard.”

“I know another way you could prove it,” she says, pulling him atop her.

--

“Filicide, father? Can’t be a first.” Not when her sister’s bones disintegrated beneath the soil of La Noscea, and her dead-eyed stare followed Kor like a shade. Not when Dimitri’s smile tugged wider at the mention, his hand thumb circling the safety of his gun like an idle habit, and she knew --- as she had always known --- his hands were never clean.

“It’s time to stop playin’ hero, girl,” he answered, those same amber eyes meeting hers with cool indifference. He wasn’t drunk for once, which gave him equal measure of her and hers, and it was all he could do to laugh. “No’ that there ain’t much heroism in this. A child, a refugee and a war criminal. Warrior of Light, they say? Nah, you’re too dim-witted ---”

Alphinaud, who remained an ever present fixture at her side, had moved to speak, only to be silenced by the weakened, heavy hand of Raubahn. It was fortunate that, for it allowed the snarl to emerge from deep within Kor.

“Shut. Up.” Remember, you are more than a girl. A storm --- a hurricane. For everything he had said she was not, she had achieved so much more.

“--- a waste.” His voice reflected a growl. They were not too dissimilar in that way. Kor let out an incredulous laugh, arms spreading wide at her side.

“So have you come to stop me?” she asked. “Then you will have to kill me yourself, coward.”

“Kor, please reconsider ---”  Alphinaud interjected.

“The Limsan way,” Dimitri agreed. She understood. Without a word spoken to her companions she strode towards her father, a hand in her pocket to retrieve the bullets for her musket. His smile broke clean into a grin.

A duel. As old as Vylbrand herself; it was not uncommon for a dispute of power to be concluded by a bullet and the death of a captain, though Kor was sceptical that her father would remain honourable. But it was the tongue-in-cheek nature of him --- the kind who clung to old traditions that did not apply to him. He’d cheated his way through Limsan Lominsan ranks by parroting their customs and he would use them to undermine his daughter.

For a second the two of them were close enough to touch. Dimitri still wore smug satisfaction on his face like a child eating cake and it was all she could do to pledge herself to the idea that the Echo surely could not fuck up when it came to something like this. At least she hoped not.

They turned their backs to each other and Kor looked to Raubahn. He knew the customs of Limsa from negotiations, and his single nod gave her confirmation that he would carry her as best he could in fairness. Both she and Dimitri took three steps each, steeping themselves in the silence.

“On three. Three, two ---”

The first noise was a crunch of a foot against the soil. The second were two gunshots simultaneously after each other. Blood splattered against her cheek. Kor did not flinch.

However, her father did. From his eye a gaping hole emerged, a ironic mimicry of the gaping pits reflected in Lily when she was pulled from foamy shores. The neurons in his brain now fractured and fried began to fire wildly though the only result lay in two shots fired at their feet. His remaining eye met hers with a trembling iris and Dimitri slid to his knees. Kor’s head tilted back to look at him as if he were little more than a gnat and, as she stepped forward, she kicked him hard against the ground.

“Fuck you, you dishonourable prick.” He would never bank on the third, the Echo had told her as much. Alphinaud broke Raubahn’s hold to rush to her side and he and Yugiri followed suit behind him. Yet Yugiri did not immediately go to Kor’s side. With a marked gaze the shinobi’s gaze washed over Dimitri’s body, noting the twitches of his muscles, but knowing the truth.

“He is dead.” She said impassively, though Kor didn’t expect he would still be alive. Alphinaud placed a hand on her arm and it was then he’d realise how much she was shaking.

“Are you alright, my friend?” came his quiet ask. Looking briefly to him and then back to Dimitri’s body, Kor nodded once and stowed her gun. Her other hand reached for the blood on her face and tried to wipe it away.