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The Fortemps Manor is a marvel in design. Although it appears to be a traditional Ishgardian manor fit for royalty, there is a level of elegance carved into its very structure that outshines all of the other noble houses. The arched buttresses supporting the ceiling and roof are gilded with gold and silver, the carvings all ornate, completed by Coerthas’ finest artisans; each fibre of the handspun rugs and tapestries which keep the manor warm is hand-dyed, stunning and vibrant amidst the icy, cool tones of Foundation.
Haurchefant Greystone loves this manor. It has not always been this way- being told he is the bastard son again and again as a child did more than enough to cool any passion he could feel for this place back then- but now, it is near and dear to him. The very thought of it being ravaged by the Dravanians sends shivers down his spine, bile into his throat, heart falling to the floor. If it were to fall, then what would happen to the dozens of knights- nay, the hundreds of knights, artisans, and workers combined who toil each day to ensure the prosperity of this manor?
But in loving this manor, he also knows it. Every nook and cranny is familiar to him, after so many years of walking across this stone warmed by the roaring hearth in the main hall. Even as he strides down the hall towards his own chambers for the night, his footsteps muffled by lush red rugs lining wood and stone, he scarcely bothers to light a candle to guide his way. There is simply no need.
Perhaps this is why the whimpering which filters distantly into his sharp ears surprises him so once he nears the wing with his chambers. A quick tabulation reminds him of who is living in this wing; other than a few servants, the only guests are the three Scions. His heart begins to pound faster in his chest as he wonders, pontificates, aches at the sound growing louder with but a few steps towards their quarters. That voice… it is too low to be Mistress Tataru or Master Alphinaud, he realises faintly. Panic sets in faster than winter’s chill, long limbs trembling as he rushes to the very room he has been too timid to approach since the occupant’s arrival.
He softly announces himself, words hurried and fumbled in his frantic pace, then steps inside to find the source of the noise. To his simultaneous relief and concern, the Warrior of Light is quickly spotted once Haurchefant flings open the door. The Miqo’te sits upright in a chair by the window, his expression troubled as he leans back, his hands clutching the hilt of his large, double-handed blade.
The Elezen freezes, watching in silent fear as the Eorzean champion’s face twists in discomfort, fear, sorrow. Is it the Ascians? Dravanians? Another dark force? Whom must I fight?! However, there is no threat to be seen. All Haurchefant can see is the other man’s troubled silhouette, illuminated by the moonlight, his shining armour still glinting upon his form.
It takes a surprising amount of strength to not sag in relief against the door. It is but a dream, he thinks. He is fine. The Warrior of Light, the champion of Eorzea- the Miqo’te man himself is safe, protected by the walls of Haurchefant’s home.
He is safe. In Haurchefant Greystone’s home. The very thought warms his gut more than any roaring fireplace ever could. This closeness, this pride- it is akin to a fantasy.
Those fleeting dreams are quickly dashed, however. Although Haurchefant first pays it no mind, the fact that the situation is odd strikes him soon enough. The hearth in this room is unlit, leaving the air almost as icy as the evening breeze. Why is he not in bed? the Elezen ponders, tentatively approaching the sleeping figure. Rather than laying down in the plush, downy bed which had been prepared for him, the warrior in questions sits upright in his chair. Sitting by the windowsill rather than tucked into bed near the hearth would lend anyone to be frigid amidst the icy night, and yet, the Miqo’te man’s back is fairly upright, his head lolling back slightly as he fights enemies within his nightmare. His hand, still covered by a gauntlet, trembles as it grips tighter onto the hilt of the sword laid out across his lap.
The other man is handsome, Haurchefant thinks, his heart pounding in his chest as he looks over thick, furrowed brows and long lashes. The Miqo’te has always been painfully attractive, ever since the first day they had met in Camp Dragonhead; with his head held high, the Eorzean champion’s steady gaze and soft, reassuring smile only added to his powerful frame. There is always something so alluring about the way he strides so confidently into any situation, ready to protect anyone who may need it. Even now, underneath the moonlight, the other man’s umber skin and soft, dark hair seem to glow, reflecting the warmth of his spirit onto his cool, grey-gold armour.
The Elezen glances upon the sword across the man’s lap. It is a giant, unwieldy broadsword- the kind of blade used by dark knights fueled by emotions, with a penchant for letting themselves slip into the abyss. And yet, he has never seen the Miqo’te ever raise his blade in any way but to defend others.
He frowns. It still looks ready to defend, to fight. Even now.
“Why do you look ready for battle, my friend?” Haurchefant whispers, lowering onto one knee to peer up into the shorter man’s face. “Why not rest?” After all, is it not the Warrior of Light who needs rest above all others? Is it not he who deserves to remove his armour, sleeping in a feather bed, allowing the world to protect him in exchange for all the tranquillity he has brought to others time and time again?
Haurchefant’s heart seizes, peering up into a twisted expression, a sweat-soaked brow. The man’s ears twitch as full lips quake, gasping breaths puffing through into steam in the brisk night air. Carefully, Haurchefant moves closer, listening to what the other man is mumbling.
“...stay… I’ll cover you… don’t go…”
The Elezen’s own lips tremble for a moment. Even in his dreams, he is our protector.
Yet, the mystery of the chair eludes him still. Why not get some rest? Mistress Tataru had promised a hearty day ahead of them, hunting for more information in the Brume, so why would he not try and find some repose-
And then, he understands in the blink of an eye, in the slightest intake of breath, as the Miqo’te before him whimpers softly, only two words discernable amongst the tremors. “...I’m scared…”
Haurchefant Greystone almost weeps. The Warrior of Light does not feel safe in the Fortemps Manor; he does not feel ready to take off his armour, to lay his head down to rest. He is ready to fight.
He is too scared to let his guard fall, even in slumber. There shall be no rest for the Warrior of Light.
Is… is this how you always sleep? the Elezen wonders in horror. When is the last time you have gotten a proper night’s rest?
The very thought of it causes his throat to tighten, with shame pricking the backs of his eyes like a sabotender’s needles. Was he not there to fight by the Warrior of Light’s side? Had he, Haurchefant de Fortemps, not been clear enough about his allegiances- about how he will stop at nothing to protect this Miqo’te? About how his shield belongs to this man? About how he wants nothing more than to keep this champion here in his own home, where Haurchefant’s power can keep him safe-
He does not feel safe. Therein lies the issue.
It breaks his heart. He does not want to be a liability. He wants the other man to trust him.
Biting back his own tumultuous emotions, Haurchefant lets out a shuddering breath, then calms himself. With as much precision and stealth as he can muster, he extricates the weapon away from the Miqo’te’s hands. His hands are too small to hold a weapon so grand, the Elezen notes, squeezing the other man’s now-empty hand tenderly. Then, he leans the weapon against the wall and gets to work removing the most cumbersome pieces of armour.
Soon enough, the most protruding chest plates were placed upon the armour rack which he had ensured his servants had provided to the warrior upon his arrival.
Seeing the man without his armour sends another shiver through Haurchefant, one so violent he forces himself to take pause. Although he is strong, when Haurchefant stands, the Warrior of Light seems far too small to carry such a burden.
Almost in time with this thought, the other man whimpers in his sleep once more. Something in Haurchefant’s gut tells him that he could not possibly imagine what creature haunts the slumbering man’s nightmares. Haurchefant could never know.
But I can try.
With the care of the Founders, Haurchefant kneels and scoops the other man up in his arms. The bed barely sinks when he lays the Warrior of Light onto the Elezen-made mattress. Still, he carries on, fighting back his urge to awaken the other man from whatever nightmare plagues him and focusing instead on completing his task.
Within a few minutes, it is done. Blankets are pulled up over the other man’s chest, keeping him warm in the frigid Coerthan night. The hearth is kindled and stoked until warmth begins to soften the ice in his veins.
Haurchefant smiles at his handiwork. “You shall never come to harm in this house, my friend,” he whispers, his hand reaching out. For a moment, he pauses, hesitation and doubt clouding his thoughts. He carries on regardless, however, and allows his hand to brush chestnut hair out of the Miqo’te’s face. At the contact, the slumbering man’s expression softens; after a heartbeat, his expression calms, untwists, and finds some modicum of peace.
His work is done, he thinks. He moves to stand, but another whimper fills the air the moment he pulls away.
Haurchefant allows himself to exhale, stroking a surprisingly-soft cheek carefully. “Rest,” he breathes.
At his command, the other man relaxes once more, a hint of a smile creeping onto full lips.
Biting his lip is the only way to keep a clear head, the Elezen finds. He has two options- leave the Warrior of Light here, or-
There is just one choice, an almost wanton, devilish, yearning voice in his gut insists.
Normally, he would never listen. For this man, however…
It takes far longer than he would like to move the chair until it is barely a yalm away from the bed, but eventually, he can sit comfortably beside the other man’s bed. Silently, he draws his own blade and places it upon his lap as he takes the seat. His shield is unhooked from his back and propped onto his calf, where he may reach it with ease.
His hand returns to the Eorzean champion’s forehead, and the slumbering man stills from his tremors.
“Do not fear,” Haurchefant half-whispers, half-sings. His words warble, choking back the torrential, unadulterated affection which longs to spill forth. Something about this seems uncouth, but he shoves that nagging part of his mind to the side in favour of focusing on the promise he makes wholeheartedly with the man before him. “I am here.”
If something should happen while you rest, I’ll protect you. Please, sleep well. Do not let dreams haunt you. I shall be here when you wake, and beyond.
And, as if hearing this desperate plea resonating through Haurchefant Greystone’s smitten soul, the Miqo’te smiles, and slumbers through the rest of the night with his sworn shield by his side..
-fin-