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weatheredfailnot · 3 years

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In days less dignified

FFXIV Black OC Week || Day 7: A Favored Memory

Summary: When the Warrior of Light returns to Camp Dragonhead covered in blood, Haurchefant assumes the worst. Whatever the case, knights live and breath to serve, so Haurchefant intends to aid his unexpected guest and provide for him with the utmost care. Word Count: 4335 [AO3 Link]

Notes: Originally written as a character study and now I'm publishing this to fill the last prompt for the week. Thank you @igayorhm for all of the prompts!

“Lord Haurchefant! A letter from the Far East!”

Looking up from his dull paperwork, Haurchefant arches an eyebrow in confusion. “The Far East?” he mutters to himself before gesturing to Ser Yaelle to come forward. What business would anyone in the Far East have with an Ishgardian knight on the other side of the world?

The elezen knight marches to his desk to hand him a scarlet envelope, intricately decorated with paper cords to tie it shut.

“Thank you,” Haurchefant says with a smile, allowing Yaelle to depart with a respectful salute. As soon as he is left alone, he looks over the envelope to inspect it further. Strangely enough, the envelope has a vertical shape to it unlike most of the missives Haurchefant has received throughout his years at Camp Dragonhead. On the front, he finds the name of the sender written in a delicate font.

“Neiro no Satsuki… Well, the name sounds Far Eastern enough,” he decides. The letter must be for A’loq. Perhaps the tales of his heroics have finally traveled overseas and touched the heart of a Far Eastern noble. Neiro no Satsuki… or could this be a title? The title of a warrior, inspired by the Warrior of Light’s extraordinary bravery?

Before he can ponder the purpose of the letter any further, the door to his tower bursts wide open once more, allowing the chilling winter air to spill into the room.

“Sir… the Warrior of Light. He is-“

The knight, Ser Martiallais, never gets the chance to finish his message as the Warrior of Light, looking worse for wear, steps inside. The blood on A’loq’s coat has already dried, the darker shades making it clear that he is drenched in the blood of whatever fools stepped in his path.

Haurchefant blinks, lost in a distant memory of a time when he looked just like A’loq, heroic but merciless. He can still vividly remember driving the knife into one of dear Francel’s captors and approaching his friend, internally begging the Fury that Francel wouldn’t be scared off by his bloody appearance.

It was the only way to save his friend and himself. In the end, it would also end up being the only way for the bastard son of House Fortemps to earn his knighthood.

With his mouth gaped open, Haurchefant unconsciously reaches to the scar on his arm where the bandit’s arrow had pierced him long ago.

“Halone have mercy…” he breathes, abruptly getting to his feet. He rushes over to A’loq in an instant. It’s okay. It’s okay. Do not feel ashamed. I understand how you feel.

Ser Martiallais, seeing that the Lord has the situation under control, salutes him and closes the door behind him.

“You are injured!” Haurchefant gasps, gripping A’loq’s shoulders a little too tightly. He instantly relaxes his hold on him when he sees A’loq wince.

“No, it’s alright,” A’loq reassures with a pained smile, “This isn’t my blood.”

“Then…you are unharmed?”

A’loq nods and opens his arms to allow Haurchefant to embrace him. He is fully aware that the gesture is more for Haurchefant’s comfort than his own, but he holds on tightly to the elezen’s midriff anyways as arms wrap around his shoulders in return.

Weary, A’loq presses his forehead against the cold metal of Haurchefant’s armor. Well, he tries to at least. Instead, the golden metal frame of his visor clacks against chainmail.

“Allow me,” Haurchefant offers, stepping back and pulling them both back towards his desk. Gently, he pulls off the auroral coif and visor that cover his head. A’loq’s ears twitch rapidly as they are exposed to bitter cold.

“‘Twas another miserable task that you were assigned to, yes?” Haurchefant finally asks as he sets the coif on his desk. “I had heard news of your mission to intercept bandits along the route to Ishgard on our behalf. Once again, I must thank you kindly for your assistance. Camp Dragonhead’s affairs do not involve the Scions, but your heroics know no bounds! I can only imagine how the enemy felt as they saw the Warrior of Light, your bow in hand, an arrow nocked and aimed for their chests! You… you…”

His words trail off, gaze softening as he realizes what his words have unintentionally done to A’loq’s state of mind. Ordinarily, A’loq is patient with him. He always listens attentively, surprisingly used to his effusive and eccentric monologues, more so than the knights who have served him for years. Haurchefant is ever grateful for such a devoted listener as he has never had enough words to truly express himself, but given the miserable expression written all over A’loq’s face, mayhaps it would be better to pause for a moment…

“Is something the matter? What in the Fury’s name happened out there, A’loq?” Haurchefant asks, so softly that his whispers could be mistaken for a breath of air. A’loq holds his tongue out of hesitation, but Haurchefant is already taking pity on him, resting the palm of his hand on his head.

“Please,” he begs. “Do forgive me for prying, but I cannot help if I do not know what ails you.”

There’s a beat of silence. And then an answer.

“There was nobody left to save. I was too late,” A’loq says with clenched fists. “And I was capable of subduing the bandits, yet I killed them all.” His voice wavers; Haurchefant can read the exhaustion in his tone like a chapter of a novel.

“And you feel that you are to blame? For the loss of innocent life today? For the lives of those bandits, driven to extremities to guarantee their own survival?”

A’loq blinks, quiet for a moment. “I feel worthless. Worthless and depraved,” he admits, sincerely. He refuses to elaborate any further on the matter. It doesn’t matter. Haurchefant already has a course of action in mind. He musses A’loq’s hair.

“You are in need of a distraction. A source of comfort,” Haurchefant supplies as he tugs the cord off of A’loq’s braid. Observant as always. A’loq silently thanks the kami that Haurchefant has the courage to speak for the both of them, as he waits for him to finish unraveling his braid.

“You should know by now that I take great pride in caring for my guests! A knight lives to serve after all. This I swear,” Haurchefant declares, “You are a special case however. You have fought the good fight and I cannot in good conscience allow you to wander off and out of my sight until I have taken proper care of you. Understood?”

A’loq isn’t exactly sure what being taken care of by the knight of the Silver Fuller entails. A perfunctory check for injuries, left alone to wash away the blood in the bath, and a new set of garments to wear without question is what his experience on the road suggests. Whether it was from tribes, hospitable families, or other fellow adventurers, there was never any grandiose show in the provision of care. Only the bare necessities. Anything more A’loq would make up for by completing tasks relegated to him in exchange for the added solicitude.

For this very reason, A’loq finds himself staring dumbly at Haurchefant’s hand, now holding his own as he’s pulled up the stairs, down a hallway, and into the Lord’s chambers. Confusion sticks firmly to his face as he’s sat down on the bed and asked to wait as Haurchefant draws water for the bath in the next door room. He sets his bags and bow on the floor, and it isn’t long before Haurchefant returns.

“Let’s bathe together.”

It’s not a request, but a demand. A sudden, loud declaration of the elezen’s devotion. A’loq doesn’t protest when he is brought to his feet and pushed into the bathing room. Even the Warrior of Light considers Haurchefant a force to be reckoned with when there is a duty to be fulfilled. Completely undeterred by how new- how foreign this experience is for the both of them, Haurchefant begins to remove A’loq’s crimson coat. At a loss for words, A’loq wonders how the elezen can act so nonchalant about the act of undressing him in such an intimate fashion. Soon enough, he’s lowering himself into the hot water. His nerves light up at contact. The heat rakes through his body repeatedly until he finally adjusts and settles in the tub. It’s not uncomfortably hot like the way his mother used to prepare the bath. In his mind, it’s appropriately hot. This is what a relaxing bath feels like. However, A’loq finds himself unable to relax just yet with Haurchefant’s presence in the room.

Desperate for reassurance, his mind tries to relate the situation to his past visits to the onsen.

“They’re similar in a way,” he tells himself repeatedly… up until the point Haurchefant begins the painstaking chore of removing his own armor. A’loq nearly reaches up to cover his eyes like a bashful schoolgirl before he remembers how much Haurchefant loves to tease. Shifting towards the back of the bath, wondering how the both of them are going to fit, A’loq elects to accept that whatever is happening is happening. He should be more mature about this.

When Haurchefant steps into the bath, already full to the brim, water flows out and onto the stone floor. He laughs, muttering to himself as he sits down on the other end, “Perhaps I should invest in a larger bath so we can do this more often.”

Before A’loq can reply, Haurchefant runs his hands through his black hair again.

“How long has it been since you last washed your hair?” Haurchefant questions.

“A day-“

“Not in a river. And with soap.”

A’loq glares at Haurchefant. Damn him for knowing his habits too well. “Almost a week.”

Already reaching for a bottle of soap, Haurchefant makes a face midway. “I apologize for what I am about to say, my friend… my dearest friend whom I cherish and confide in without hesitation, but that is quite disgusting,” he says. “May I find the strength through Halone’s grace to bear with your horrendous hygiene.”

A’loq scoffs at the overdramatic display, but leans forward still to allow Haurchefant to wash his hair. As sudsy hands massage his scalp, he leans further and further in, both into the palms of friend’s hands and into this pocket of time outside of reality that grows between them. To lather up the soap, Haurchefant scoops water up and lets it run down A’loq’s head. By smoothing his hair back each time he scrubs with the tips of his fingers, Haurchefant prevents soap from getting in his eyes and ears. A’loq instinctively closes his eyes when he sees Haurchefant reach for a tin flat bucket by the bath.

“This feels like a dream,” A’loq muses as hot water flows over his head repeatedly, fingers threading his hair and carefully rubbing the fur on his ears until the soap is all rinsed out. “No… this feels like home.”

Once his face is dried off with a soft washcloth, he slowly opens his eyes.

“Now tell me where it hurts,” Haurchefant says.

“Truly? How much longer…?” A’loq is at a loss of words at this point under the overwhelming attention he’s receiving.

“Oh please. We are nowhere near done. You are still covered in blood and dirt. The very definition of filth, to be quite honest.”

“Yes, but you were in the middle of something and-“

Haurchefant narrows his eyes, an uncharacteristically stern expression replacing his gentle smile. “I have always hated paperwork. The missives… the schedules… they will all inevitably be stuffed into one of my desk drawers until I forget about them entirely. Nothing on my desk today was of any matter of great import.”

A’loq looks on sympathetically, but still refuses to give in so easily. “I’m fine, I promise you.”

“Then point to where you feel sore.”

It’s the same request really, but rephrased in a way that makes A’loq ease up a little. So he points right at the healing ice burn scar on his shoulder. “It isn’t sore, but it itches. It can be unbearable sometimes but Alphinaud insists that I leave it be.”

Because love endures far longer than the momentary sentiments of bitterness and vexation, a warm smile returns to Haurchefant’s lips. “Alright,” he says. “I promise that I will do my best to take care of you.”

…

Haurchefant is the first to leave the bath, insisting that A’loq relax and stay inside a little longer.

It’s late at night, and his designated standing commander has already begun taking over his responsibilities downstairs. Just as he finishes dressing himself in his nightwear, he hears a small knock at his door.

He opens the door to find a timid knight standing there with the scarlet letter he left downstairs. An unfamiliar face… was the boy a new recruit? “Good evening, my lord. Ser Theobalin requested that I deliver this missive to you.” With a short bow and outstretched hands, the letter makes its way back into Haurchefant’s hands.

“Ah- thank you…”

“Oh! Ruivonaut, my lord. Tonight is my first shift at Camp Dragonhead. I am- I am tremendously grateful for the opportunity to serve here, ser.”

Haurchefant smiles, eyes wholly detached from the forced expression he offers the boy. He despises knowing that the young knight standing in front of him would one day be forced to battle the horde. The clanging of steel, the violent swing of a sword through dense fog until inevitably a Dravanian would come down to the earth like a comet and… He wants to be proud of the boy but his doubts consume him in equal measure.

Was it dangerous to place all of his hope in the Warrior of Light in steering the course of Ishgard’s narrative towards a brighter future? His father would say so, but as their previous conversation on the “housing of fugitives” had shown everyone, Haurchefant adamantly refuses to let anyone’s down-to-earth perspective deter him.

He sees the road ahead. Forever unfolding and blooming, but the Warrior of Light stands in the center steadfast against the rippling waves of change. That is a bright future young men like Ser Ruivonaut can look towards.

“No, thank you,” Haurchefant gasps, unaware that he was holding his own breath for so long. “And I am grateful for knights like you who uphold your responsibilities.”

Even as the knight departs, his back now turned to him, Haurchefant can’t help but jubilantly wave and call out, “Take care! May the Fury Herself bless your sword.”

Ser Ruivonaut turns back and smiles to respectfully acknowledge Haurchefant’s blessing. “It is filled with hope,” he notes to himself in awe.

When Haurchefant closes the door to his chambers and turns back, he finds A’loq sitting on the edge of the bed, dressed in the nightwear he set out for him. He’s taking his journal out, the one filled with lyrics and the scores of songs he’s either learned or composed throughout his travels. To Haurchefant, it’s all chicken scratch. Artoriel, the music maestro of the family, would arguably say the same about A’loq’s illegible handwriting. Even if the scores were legible, Haurchefant would still lack the musical intelligence needed to comprehend them. Though his father forced him to attend piano lessons alongside Artoriel and Emmanellain, he ultimately avoided them like a plague and instead spent those hours visiting Francel and training in a corner of Ishgard no Fortemps servant would find him in. Would he have sat down and allowed his instructor to teach him the intricacies of music had he known that the hero he was waiting for his entire life was going to be a bard? No. Never. He doesn’t have the patience for that regardless.

All he needs to understand is that the Warrior of Light is a talented musician and that somehow through the power of music, the tides of an entire war can be altered. As ridiculous as it sounds, Haurchefant has witnessed its power and he can’t deny the truth.

“Haurchefant?”

A’loq catches him staring. He holds the journal up in one hand. “Would you like to hear about the recent additions I’ve made?”

“Of course! There is nothing I’d love more than to hear about them,” Haurchefant exclaims. He sits besides A’loq. “Oh, but first… you received a letter today. From the Far East I presume.”

He hands the letter over, and A’loq takes it in an oddly eager manner.

“It’s from my family,” A’loq sighs in relief.

“Your family resides in the East?”

A’loq nods. “Yes, and I must take you there someday. My parents would want to see you.”

Parents. Family. A’loq has never made any mention of them before, and Haurchefant is surprised (but mostly ashamed) that he had never stopped to consider that the Warrior of Light would have a family.

“Are there clans in the East?” Haurchefant asks curiously, “I must confess that I have only read about Seekers of the Sun in encyclopedias, but I was led to believe that there are no clans in Othard or Hingashi.”

“The books always get it wrong… not that I would know considering…” A’loq trails off. His smile looks fragile now, as if he’s remembering something that chips at his very soul. He sighs and leans against Haurchefant’s shoulder, tail flicking back and forth against the bedsheets. “I didn’t spend my formative years with my clan. I’m adopted. Two fathers, one mother, and three siblings, also adopted, might I add.”

Haurchefant wraps an arm around A’loq’s shoulder. It feels like everytime he speaks with him there’s more to see- more to know. It’s a slow and subtle process of getting to know the warrior he has devoted himself to, but he wouldn’t have it any differently.

“Is that so?” he says. “Would you tell me about them?”

The conversation goes on late into the night with laughter and moments of silence interspersed between. Eventually, the two end up on their backs, lying next to each other on the bed and sheltered from the freezing cold. Their bodily warmth is shared between them. The intimacy goes deeper than roots embedded in soil… more than quiet endearment by the fireplace with a mug of hot chocolate in both hands…more than one of Haurchefant’s flirtatious pick-up lines that make the poor Warrior of Light anxiously look around for nosy bystanders.

At some point, for no particular reason, Haurchefant flicks A’loq on the nose. In retaliation, the Warrior lunges forward to bite his finger but he pulls away in time.

“You are the worst,” A’loq complains as if he hadn’t just made an attempt to chomp his finger off.

“Well it is fine if you think of me that way… as long as you understand that I love you,” Haurchefant says nonchalantly.

A’loq goes quiet, but his inmost emotions raise hell until his chest burns. What is he striving to say to him? “Something poetic,” he hopes as courage wells up inside of him, flooding every cord in throat until he’s sitting up and facing Haurchefant who waits with bated breath. Instead, he utters, simple and to the point, “I do understand.” Even after the words come out, his heart continues to race. His answer makes Haurchefant grin, satisfaction spread across every ilm of his toothy smile.

“Then I bid you goodnight, my love,” Haurchefant says in relief, joining A’loq so he can reach over and kiss him. A’loq hides a shiver by craning his neck to kiss back. A weight lifts off of his shoulders almost as if the Fury Herself had plucked it off.

“Angry children grow into angry adults,” Haurchefant’s mother once told him, not long before she had left him with his father. She was holding onto him like he would vanish into thin air otherwise. “Quell your insatiable bloodlust through devotion. Reshape your frustrations with the world into love for its people.” He deeply wishes his mother was still around so he could let her know that he understands what she meant. Truly.

Haurchefant wants to bare his heart even further, but A’loq is exhausted and prefers to sleep. They rest by each other in silence until the Warrior of Light, as Haurchefant expected, drifts off into a peaceful slumber first. He sits up, rubbing A’loq on the head and applying gentle pressure right behind his ears which unconsciously twitch in response.

Satisfied enough, Haurchefant quietly moves to his desk. He pulls out a blank parchment and his ink and quill before beginning his final task for the night.

Dear brother Emmanellain,

I am in dire need of your expertise…

…

In hindsight, perhaps dire was a bit excessive.

“Pray, forgive my unannounced arrival! I would not have come were the situation not dire!” Emmanellain shouts with glee, ignoring Honorait’s pleas for him to quiet down or take a seat, or anything he asks of him for that matter.

“I assure you Emmanellain, the situation is anything but dire. There was no need to cart your entire wardrobe to Camp Dragonhead,” Haurchefant insists. Immediately, Emmanellain slams the palms against the surface of the center table, pretending not to wince as he does so.

“My entire wardrobe? Who do you take me for? A gleaming paragon of a socialite such as myself would have much more than ten sets of attire!”

“I see.”

Haurchefant has morning exercises to lead, but the past hour has been spent occupied with his younger brother. All he asked of him was to bring suitable clothes for A’loq to wear, not to dress him up for a godsdamned banquet. Emmanellain had originally insisted on overseeing the fitting, but the Warrior of Light kicked him out of the room.

“… He will like this first set, I am absolutely certain of it. A doublet made for the archers of Ishgard, the gold embroidery is stunning, and the opal brooch on the cravat makes it…”

Haurchefant tunes out again. It is the easiest thing in the world to do. His vision starts to blur at edges, right until he catches a glimpse of a vivid green in the corner of his eye.

It isn’t quite what Haurchefant imagines a hero would wear, but then again, does A’loq ever dress the part of a traditional hero?

Regardless, he is careful with the way he reacts as A’loq steps out and stands in front of his desk. “You look... nice,” he says.

“… just nice?”

Haurchefant fails to stifle the laugh that bursts out at A’loq’s taunting remark.

“You look wonderful,” he offers instead, still chuckling with a glowing smile.

A’loq does a dainty twirl so the coattails swing around. It’s undeniably cute and makes Haurchefant’s face flush red.

“It’s perfect,” the warrior decides.

Now there’s a surprise. It’s a vast generalization of course, but Haurchefant has to wonder if all bards are compelled to dress so… extravagantly.

Emmanellain, on the other hand, looks distraught. “What!? Y-Yes, it looks quite stylish on you but I still have nine other outfits for you to try, old boy!”

Haurchefant rests his chin on his propped-up folded hands. “If I find that you are doing this on purpose…” he accuses Emmanellain in a hushed whisper.

“Doing what on purpose?” Emmanellain asks, bafflement clear in the way his voice cracks.

Too late, Haurchefant remembers that the A’loq has sensitive hearing, but he seems to be ignoring their little quarrel.

No, he isn’t ignoring them. Haurchefant silently watches as A’loq holds two fingers up to his linkpearl, listening to one of his Scion companions relay information to him. Initially, he believes the caller is Master Alphinaud, but the feminine voice on the other end tells him that it must be Mistress Carline- well, Dove. That’s what she prefers to be called by. Haurchefant still wishes she would be more willing to speak with him.

When A’loq ends the call, he already looks like he’s in a rush to leave. “Nothing serious, but she’s lost. I must find her and guide her back to the city.” Ah yes, it was Dove. Haurchefant doesn’t need excellent deductive skills to figure this one out.

“‘Tis a shame…” Emmanellain sighs, walking over to A’loq to straighten out his cravat with a couple of sharp tugs. “Then I must insist that you stop by the Fortemps Manor another time. I will have a chapeau custom-made to match the doublet.”

The elezen is already out the door before A’loq can thank him, so A’loq expresses his gratitude to Honorait instead who politely bows and sees himself out.

Finally, A’loq turns back to Haurchefant who waits, expectantly but with considerable patience. When he approaches the desk, the knight stands and pulls him into a loving embrace. Haurchefant’s steady hand holds the back of A’loq’s head against his chest. A’loq’s touch is needy, and nervously grasps onto his partner’s forearm and waist. He can feel his heart beating.

“I love you, and I’ll miss you.”

“Of course, of course… I love you too… and I’ll miss you too. Always,” Haurchefant promises.

They’re drawn to each other, one bending down and the other standing on his toes to reach. Emmanellain will be displeased to know that he disheveled A’loq’s cravat, but the thought of it only spurs him on. Kissing, they feel the warmth of each other’s lips and taste the remnants of chocolate and sugar.

O Halone, take care of this gentle soul. He is but a humble servant of the people, one who would make Her most loyal followers seem cowards. He is a hero, here to deliver the mercy and grace the Fury has promised us through melodious victory. Her divinity will guide his arrow true.

I beseech Her to see my Warrior home safe. It is all that I ask, for I am Hers but he is mine. Era after era. Life after life. I want him to be mine and I want him to be safe.

#FFXIV Black OC Week #FFXIV #A'loq Tia #Haurchefant Greystone #Haurchefant x WOL #Love is real and you can find it in a bathtub #My writing #My posts

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