Chapter Text
When Haurchefant did the Egregiously Stupid Thing (Artoirel’s words, not his) of saving the Warrior of Light’s life, he was nearly mortally wounded— nearly being the key word. Though he had felt the tugging sensation of finality and thought he’d perhaps just spoken his last words when he yearned for nothing more than to see the Warrior of Light smile one last time, he was spared with Halone’s blessing and fell deep into a coma instead.
When he finally managed to swim up out of the murky depths of purgatory, Haurchefant found himself resurfacing to the Dragonsong War having been waged on a lie and the Warrior of Light having gone off to some place called Azys La. The words meant very little to him at the time as he was still fading in and out of consciousness, then doused with drowsy healing spells and potions the moment he decided to push his luck and roll out of bed, the godsawful pain shooting across his entire body be damned.
By the time Haurchefant could sit up in his infirmary bed on his own without immediately passing out from the pain, the Archbishop and the Heavensward had been thwarted.
( A pity, he’d thought at the time when his father regaled him with the news. Haurchefant had never once known what a yearning for vengeance must feel like, nor had he ever wanted to know in his lifetime. But maybe the unpleasant bitterness that coursed through his veins, tingling unbearably at the ends of his mostly immobile limbs like determined embers on frigid Coerthan nights at the thought of not being able to stand in front of his dear friend and strike Zephirin down with all the fury he had tempered until now was exactly that.)
His source on the happenings of the outside world was most often his father, who had visited his bedside at least once a day since he’d been taken to the Temple Knights’ infirmary from the roof of the Vault. (As if he were making up for a lifetime of avoidance and awkward silences.) Aside from him, it was the healers who regularly attended Haurchefant or the chirurgeons who periodically assessed his condition. And then, if he was lucky, it was from occasional times Artoirel and Emmanellain decided to drop by.
However, despite the number of people he’d see in a day and Emmanellain’s loose lips, Haurchefant acquired very little detail regarding the fast-paced events of what seemed to be the end of a war he’d known and fought all his life. Though he could understand it–for one thing, none of these people had firsthand accounts; they were only recounting what they’d heard from others.
Mostly. He knew full well that his father and brothers had seen the Warrior of Light off before they journeyed to Azys La, and were then actively part of the newly implemented Ishgardian Restoration efforts. Even Emmanellain had a hand in it and seemed to be taking his duties seriously.
(He didn’t hesitate to recall to Haurchefant, in excruciating detail, how one of the Scions had punched him so hard he’d been knocked off his feet. When Haurchefant had laughed, Emmanellain didn’t hesitate to throw a punch of his own in petulant protest, and that’s how they found out just how much Haurchefant could feel in his shield arm–absolutely nothing at all.)
But no matter how many times Haurchefant pleaded for more, his family sealed their lips, and the healers hurried out of the room. Probably because they knew he’d try to find the nearest sword and escape the infirmary the moment he caught wind of the Warrior of Light, the Scions, or Aymeric and the Temple Knights being in danger. Again, understandable.
Which is why he hadn’t known Estinien was even missing since Azys La until the day of the peace conference with the Dravanians.
By then, Haurchefant was able to walk the perimeter of his room on his own and do basic stretches, though it tired him out immensely if he pushed himself too far. Promising his healers that he wouldn’t do anything reckless, he’d set himself up by the open window in his room to catch what he could of the peace conference, pride swelling in his chest when he heard Aymeric’s booming voice announcing intentions of peace.
And when he heard Nidhogg roar, well, things were a blur after that. Haurchefant probably did do something reckless given how he quickly succumbed to a dizzy spell (or maybe a healer’s spell?) and how his father was immediately at his bedside when he regained consciousness, too shaken to properly scold him.
That was how Haurchefant learned the whole truth about Nidhogg’s–and Hresvelgar’s–eyes and how Estinien had never come back with the Warrior of Light, Ysayle, and the rest of the Scions from Azys La. Until the peace conference, that is.
He vaguely registered the infirmary exploding into chaos as Aymeric strode into his room with Estinien limp in his arms before Artoirel followed suit and demanded that, if they must bed Estinien in this room, measures be taken to ensure the other patients recovering from near death experiences (Haurchefant) be undisturbed.
By the time Haurchefant recovered from the pseudo-sleep he’d been put under yet again, the sun had set, and the room was empty save for the still figure occupying the bed across from him and the other sitting just beside, hunched over and deep in thought.
“How is he?” Haurchefant rasped, pushing himself to sit up against his headboard with his sword arm.
Aymeric startled from his thoughts and nearly fell off of his stool while whipping around to face him.
“Haurchefant!” he exclaimed, wide-eyed before wincing at the unexpected volume of his own voice. “I apologize, my friend. I did not mean to wake you.”
“You did nothing of the sort,” Haurchefant reassured, pausing to look for the water pitcher usually stationed somewhere at his bedside. He hadn’t had a drop of water since that morning, and his throat was yearning for nourishment. “I seem to sleep and wake more by the way of spells and potions these days rather than naturally, but it means I’ve had more than enough rest for a lifetime.”
Aymeric was at his side at once, pouring water into a cup before Haurchefant even thought to strain and reach for the pitcher.
“I can’t tell you how happy I am to hear that you are well rested, even if you do not want to be,” Aymeric said, and even if Haurchefant couldn’t discern the other man’s face in the dark as he was handed the cup of water, he knew those words were accompanied by a teasing half-smile. “The healers say you’ve been recovering well.”
Haurchefant greedily downed the water and held the cup back out, silently asking for more. Aymeric indulged him, then set to lighting the worn wax candle also stationed at his bedside.
“Recovering well, but not as fast as I’d like,” Haurchefant replied once his throat was soothed and his tongue no longer feeling like sandpaper. He added a dramatic sigh and a shake of the head for good measure, lest he burden the already-exhausted Lord Commander with the reality of his anxieties. “How is Estinien? I heard all that happened.”
It was Aymeric’s turn to sigh as he pulled up and sat on the stool that always seemed to be nearby, courtesy of Edmont’s frequent visits. Though, unlike Haurchefant, Aymeric could not mask the overwhelming sense of guilt that lined his countenance; the shadows on his face seemed to grow heavier in the candlelight, and he rubbed his eyes as if hoping to erase them completely.
“He’ll be fine. He’s still unconscious, but his vitals are steady now. The chirurgeons expect him to wake soon,” he finally answered, flicking a worried glance at the prone form of his dragoon despite the surety of his words.
Then he frowned and narrowed his eyes at Haurchefant, wordlessly chiding him for the diversion tactic. “And I’d rather you recover well than quickly, Ser Haurchefant. Lest you try to die nobly again.”
Haurchefant couldn’t help but laugh–more openly than he had in some time–and then hum in acquiescence at the stern rebuke. He was used to such an admonishment from Aymeric, having been on the receiving end on several occasions during their time amongst the Temple Knights’ ranks.
He was going to retort with ‘well I wasn’t trying to die, per se,’ but Aymeric beat him to it.
“I’m sorry I didn’t come by sooner,” he started. “The Warrior of Light and I, we tried to right after the incident, but you were in a coma, and the state of affairs became a whirlwind after that, and Ser Edmont did not want to chance anything that would prematurely put you in harm’s way again, and I completely agreed with him, but still –”
“Peace,” Haurchefant interrupted Aymeric’s rambling before the other talked himself into another hell pit of guilt. “Don’t worry, my friend. I understand.”
That’s when Haurchefant noticed, out of the corner of his eye, that Aymeric was grasping the hand of his shield arm, which had been laying across his lap. Aymeric must have reached for it as a means to display sincerity, but Haurchefant barely felt it. Even now, glaring at his hand and channeling all of his willpower, he could do little more than twitch the tips of his fingers in response.
His struggle did not escape Aymeric’s notice; blue eyes widened in realization, and Aymeric quickly withdrew his hand. The distress was etched into his face clear as day even in the wan candlelight, and he looked ready to flee to his office and overwork himself lest he crumble further under the overbearing guilt. But Haurchefant did not want him to go. Not yet.
So he reached for that same hand with his sword arm and held it firmly.
“I’m so sorry, ‘tis all my fault,” Aymeric said, shaking his head and refusing to meet Haurchefant’s eyes. “If I hadn’t so stupidly, so selfishly believed I could reason with my father, neither you nor the Warrior of Light, nobody would have been in harm’s way that day.”
“Aymeric, if it was not then, it would have been sometime else,” Haurchefant replied, steadfast and with conviction. “I cannot explain it, but I believe it was my destiny–and if not that, then my sworn duty–to protect the Warrior of Light. And if I had died, then I would have done so happily with my duty fulfilled. So I have no regrets, and neither should you.”
Aymeric did not respond, but he slumped his shoulders and closed his eyes in resigned acceptance. There were none save the two other men in this room who could understand a knight’s commitment to duty with such fervor.
But the silence that grew between them was still uneasy, though it was one that Haurchefant was well versed in dispeling, having had quite a bit of practice on cold and hopeless nights with his men at Camp Dragonhead.
“Come now, I’ve been meaning to ask,” Haurchefant started, his tone bright and lighthearted, “who was it that so chivalrously whisked me to safety here? I’ve been meaning to thank them, but the Comte de Fortemps did not seem to know. And the last I remember was my head in your lap and my hand in my dear friend’s.”
Maybe Aymeric’s cheeks darkened–or maybe it was the shadows changing with the flickering of the candle’s flame–but, regardless, Haurchefant knew his diversion worked this time.
“Twas I,” Aymeric answered. “I’m sure our friend would have insisted on having the honor, but they were rather rattled. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen anyone visibly shake with anger before.”
Haurchefant chuckled at the thought. Though he really didn’t regret any of it, he knew his friend well enough to anticipate the cold shoulder until he profusely apologized for his actions the next time he was fortunate enough to see them again.
“Well then, I thank you ser knight for so graciously aiding both me and the Warrior of Light in our time of need,” Haurchefant said, bowing as gracefully as he could in his bed without aggravating his chest wound.
Aymeric finally smiled at that, however minutely, and squeezed his fingers.
“And don’t you dare make me do it again, Haurchefant.”
In the time that followed, Haurchefant found that the events of the day of the peace conference had apparently stressed his body out more than he’d realized and developed a fever. This, in combination with hot herbal soups and healing potions, left him flitting in and out of consciousness until the fever was dispelled completely.
Which meant that he was utterly passed out the moment Estinien came to, and was only vaguely aware of the Warrior of Light, Alphinaud, and Ysayle coming to see him before leaving Ishgard. He might also remember a soft goodbye whispered in his ear and a gentle kiss to his forehead, but it’s very possible that it was all a dream.
When he finally woke of clear mind again, the sun was streaming through the opened windows of the infirmary room; and Estinien was sitting up in his bed across from him, gazing out of one of them.
“Good morning!” Haurchefant chirped, feeling rather giddy at the idea of having a roommate after what felt like weeks of solitary confinement (sans the regular visitation, of course, but that wasn’t the point.)
The only indication that he’d caught Estinien off guard was the wide-eyed glare received in return, as if he’d completely forgotten the man he now shared a room with was alive.
“Peace, my friend!” Haurchefant laughed, lifting his shield arm in a gesture of surrender while he set himself upright with the other. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost!”
Estinien recovered quickly, though the glare remained, oddly enough. Odd because, while Haurchefant knew the other to be a habitually prickly fellow, this felt pointed . As if there was something particularly irritating about Haurchefant’s words.
“I may as well have if it weren’t for whatever mercy Halone decided to have on your stupid ass,” Estinien retorted.
Haurchefant grinned, falling easily into yet another familiar dynamic from his Temple Knight days.
“Estinien, are you of all people scolding me for acting recklessly? That’s rather bold—didn’t you almost get your soul absorbed by Nidhogg’s or something along those lines?”
Estinien rolled his eyes and looked back out his window.
“Hush, you fool. You’ve already caused us all enough problems,” he grumbled.
It was really only because of the time they shared as part of the Temple Knights—and Haurchefant’s idea of fun being ruffling the feathers of his seniors, Estinien and Aymeric included, during that time—that Haurchefant managed to discern what the other was likely saying.
“I’m sorry for worrying you. And everyone else, of course,” Haurchefant said, adding the latter bit to save Estinien some face after provoking the proverbial bear.
Estinien simply grunted and said nothing else, which Haurchefant took to mean that his apology was accepted. And with that, the two of them settled into a companionable silence with Estinien continuing to brood while Haurchefant readied himself out of bed to begin his morning stretches.
The healers had completed their morning rounds, and Haurchefant had traced the perimeter of the room quite a number of times, successfully walking half of those loops without using the wall for support, when their silence was broken by a familiar guest.
“Halone be praised, I never thought I’d be so happy to see two knights lounging around in their pajamas,” Aymeric announced as he opened the door to their room and let himself in. His hands were full with what seemed to be a canteen—much larger than a knight’s standard—filled to the brim, judging by how cautiously he held it when he eased the door shut with his shoulder.
“Halone’s merciful tits, your timing couldn’t have been better,” Estinien groaned from his corner. “If I had to watch him pace any longer, I would have gone mad.”
Haurchefant, who was still standing after his rounds and now leaning against the wall to regain his strength, scoffed, feigning offense. “You weren’t even watching me! You’ve been staring out that window so vigilantly, I’d have thought you were on lookout duty.” He turned his face to Aymeric. “Clearly, it’s my presence he finds maddening.”
“It is,” Estinien agreed.
Haurchefant opened his mouth, a retort on the tip of his tongue.
“And whatever innuendo you’re about to make, keep it to yourself. You know that’s not what I meant.”
Haurchefant closed his mouth, retort effectively swallowed. For now.
Aymeric couldn’t help but smile fondly at his comrades’ banter. “It’s good to see you both awake and lively. I couldn’t have asked for more.”
His sincerity quelled the atmosphere for the time being, laying upon the two of them a weighted blanket with the warmth in his voice. Aymeric had always been somewhat of a leveling force amongst the three of them—he could round out any of Estinien’s sharp edges and hold steadfast to rationale when Haurchefant’s passion overwhelmed no matter how much they may try his patience.
Haurchefant was always just as glad as Estinien for Aymeric’s presence.
“Haurchefant,” Aymeric started, holding up the large canteen in his hands. “I come bearing a gift.”
He crossed the room to Haurchefant’s bedside table, purposefully swerving away from his outstretched hands and putting the canteen down himself. Haurchefant frowned—the healers must have forbidden Aymeric from allowing him to handle anything remotely heavy—but cleared his expression before either of the other two noticed (Estinien in particular; the man was too watchful for his own good).
As Aymeric undid the canteen’s seal, the overwhelming scent of pearl ginger and nutmeg flooded the air, instantly melting Haurchefant’s bones and making his mouth water the way comfort food often did.
Estinien, too, was not immune.
“You brought him soup?” he exclaimed, then recoiled when he realized that almost sounded like a whine.
“Aw, are you jealous that Aymeric likes me more than you?” Haurchefant teased, slowly making his way down the wall, hand up to support his weight, to where Aymeric was attempting to detach the little portable ladle and bowls from the canteen’s handle. He did not receive a response, but he did make note of the pink that suddenly adorned the tips of the dragoon’s ears.
“I jest,” he added, chuckling as he approached Aymeric and peered over his shoulder, tall enough to do so without impeding the other’s movements. “That’s a copious amount of soup, enough for three portions I’d wager. I suspect the Comte de Fortemps not only meant to feed two recovering patients, but also accounted for the likely possibility that Aymeric forwent dinner last night.”
Aymeric stuttered at that and paused, eyes going wide as if only just realizing that he had, in fact, forgotten to eat in the midst of all his work. Then he shook his head and continued to pour soup into each of the three bowls. “The Count is much too generous a man.”
He laid the first one in Haurchefant’s sword hand and carried the other two back to where Estinien rested, passing him his portion of soup.
“You are a fool, Aymeric de Borel,” Estinien scolded, though there was no malice in his words, tamed under the essence of whatever heavenly concoction Edmont had sent them. “A noble fool, but a fool all the same.”
And Aymeric seemed to take that as a compliment, smiling when sipping his soup.
Haurchefant let them be, focusing instead on settling into his own bed without stumbling, wincing at the pain, or spilling any soup in front of them.
“Speaking of noble fools,” Aymeric began, “the House of Lords has proposed a proper celebration to crown the restoration efforts. And you two are cordially invited as special guests of the evening, your health permitting.”
“What kind of celebration, exactly?” Estinien asked, eyes narrowing in suspicion.
“Well,” Aymeric hummed behind the rim of his bowl. “Something akin to a ball, I suppose.”
“No.”
“Yes!”
Aymeric’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline at the two in-sync but polarized exclamations. Estinien shot Haurchefant a murderous glare. Haurchefant completely ignored it.
“The House of Commons agreed, so I unfortunately have little sway to excuse you from the event,” Aymeric said apologetically to Estinien. “But as I said, it’d be health permitting.”
The last part was meant for Haurchefant, but he waved the concern (warning?) away. “Worry not, we’ll be the epitome of perfect health by then, I’m sure. Won’t we Estinien?”
Estinien held his glare and aggressively slurped his soup, likely wishing that looks could kill.
Aymeric, however, afforded him a kind, if not wistful, smile. “I pray everyday to Halone that such shall come to pass soon, ball or not.”
If Haurchefant’s heart melted to porridge in that moment, well, let’s attribute it to the healthy smell of hot ginger beneath his nose instead.
“Of course, that requires the two of you to behave ,” Aymeric continued, one corner of his lips curling in amusement. “I’d rather not have to scoop either of you off the floor and back into your sickbeds.”
“My, my, Aymeric,” Haurchefant started, unable to hold back, “you seem to be in the habit of carrying men to bed these days.”
Aymeric allowed the innuendo, laughed at it even.
“Only the men I like,” Aymeric quipped in return.
And that really didn’t mean anything to Haurchefant and Estinien aside from it being a witty remark to a friendly little jest; Haurchefant laughed and Estinien snorted and both proceeded to enjoy another intake of this heavenly soup.
But Aymeric stopped dead in his tracks, rooted to his spot as if victim to a Blizzara spell. Then a flush of dark red erupted against his brown skin and reached the tip of his ears, an alarming enough sight that the two other Elezen almost leapt up to aid him despite their bedridden state. Aymeric moved, however, before either of them could act, slowly placing his bowl on Estinien’s bedside table and turning towards the door. He cleared his throat.
“Forgive me, I must excuse myself. I’ve just…remembered something I need to attend to. Pray enjoy the soup and rest well.”
His eyes never left the floor as he strode across the room and hurried himself out the door.
Leaving Haurchefant and Estinien in a very different kind of silence than the one in which he’d originally discovered them.
“…Was it something you said?” Estinien asked.
While it was a fair question given the circumstances, Haurchefant might have protested it if it were not for the gears turning in his head, picking apart and analyzing every little tidbit of Aymeric’s visit and final exchange as someone with the title of Knight Commander is wont to do. The realization dawned on him.
“Nay, I think it was something he said.”
It came as no surprise to Haurchefant that Aymeric was probably in love with Estinien.
Perhaps he’d even known beforehand; the remarks with which he often teased the both of them were not always out of the blue. Haurchefant had caught glimpses of the sentiments left unspoken between Aymeric and Estinien during their Temple Knights days: a hand lingering on another, a shared gaze held just two seconds too long, a fond curve of the lips that vanished when the other looked.
There was a reason why he’d been almost certain Estinien would be flustered at the earlier comment about jealousy, after all. Though whether because it was true or not, he couldn’t have truly said with certainty.
Until now.
Outside of any inklings Haurchefant may have had as to the nature of their relationship, it was widely known that Aymeric and Estinien shared quite a bit of history, a bond forged in circumstances one could not (and would not hope to) replicate. It only made sense, then, that such a bond nurtured by intense familiarity and trust would evolve into something akin to love.
To Aymeric, Estinien was a hope he had when all else was hopeless. A net he could blindly trust to catch him lest he fall. That kind of intimacy was not something Haurchefant could even begin to imitate.
And if that sent a pang of hurt through Haurchefant’s chest, then he’d blame it on an old school crush he’d developed when he was much younger, starry eyed and infatuated with everything Aymeric was. One that should have died out over the years of maturity, distance, and duty but still stubbornly clung to the tinder of Haurchefant’s heart. Barely embers, barely crackling, but still smoldering.
Well! Haurchefant was nothing if not a passionate man, with so much more of his heart to give than he knew what to do with. He hadn’t thought twice to lay it bare for the Warrior of Light, literally and figuratively, and even that hadn’t killed him. So he was quite certain that he would be just fine .
So if the flame he held must continue to persist, then ‘twas his duty to act on behalf of it and give to Aymeric the one thing that would make him happiest. Estinien.
That night, with Estinien preparing to succumb to the exhaustion of recovery across from him and the news of the ball swirling in his mind, Haurchefant grinned as he formulated his next endeavor.
Operation Convince Estinien to Ask Aymeric to the Ball As His Date would commence in the morning.
It came as no surprise to Estinien that Aymeric was probably in love with Haurchefant.
They’d both known of Haurchefant long before they’d joined his garrison as Temple Knights; the only thing Isghardians loved more than gossip was gossip about their nobles, and Haurchefant had unwittingly given them Halone’s holy chalice of teatime conversation: the bastard son of House Fortemps who had earned his place amongst the knights after singlehandedly fending off the would-be kidnappers of Francel de Haillenarte.
But knowing him as a comrade was different. Particularly for Aymeric, who saw him not as a chivalrous prodigy, but a young man cursed at birth to fight tooth and nail for a shred of honor while his value was marred by the illegitimacy of his existence. A kindred soul.
Though it had started with Aymeric instinctively taking Haurchefant under a protective wing, it didn’t take long to morph into mutual admiration. And then perhaps something more. It had not gone unnoticed by Estinien or the rest of their company that Aymeric laughed a bit louder, enjoyed his drink a bit longer, and slept a bit easier when Haurchefant was nearby.
Maybe Estinien understood it. Understood that Haurchefant, somehow the walking embodiment of a hearth despite his history, melted the anxieties and sorrows of the traumatized souls around him. That was what Aymeric gravitated towards and what he deserved.
That was something Estinien didn’t think he could ever give him.
And if that made him ball his fists into the fabric of his sheets, then Estinien would blame it on the weakness born of tragedy. Tired and heavy, his heart has clung to Aymeric like a lifeline as the two of them navigated loss, grief, and hope together. After all these years, all that Estinien had grown into himself and the mantle of the Azure Dragoon, his heart had never learned to let go.
Good thing, then, that he’d learned to let others in and care for them in return. Estinien planned to give the Scions chase the moment he could sink into a battle stance without keening over, hoping to track down Nidhogg’s eyes for good and keep Alphinaud and Ysayle alive a while longer.
So if he had to tear his heart away from Ishgard and leave that stubborn, lovesick fragment behind, the least he could do was ensure that the man it stuck to was left in loving hands. Haurchefant’s, preferably.
That night, with Haurchefant snuffing out his chamberstick across from him and the dread of a mandatory ball still fresh in his mind, Estinien resolved to take care of one last bit of unfinished business.
Mission: Convince Haurchefant to Ask Aymeric to the Ball As His Date would be the primary objective come morning.