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The trailing ends of the ribbon holding her mask in place tickled the back of her neck, and Hnaba reached up to brush them away. Covering her face seemed somewhat superfluous; it did nothing to conceal her identity from the other guests. Even were it not a ball held in her honor, her long upright ears would have made her instantly recognizable in a room full of elezen. Tataru had insisted that it was all part of the fun, though. It was a masquerade – the masks added a flair of mystery and intrigue to what most of the residents of the pillars would consider a commonplace and perfunctory gathering. With features hidden behind extraordinary guises, one’s dance partner could be anyone – an old flame, a family rival, one’s heart’s secret desire. At least, in theory. If nothing else, Tataru had allowed, the mask was still a stylish addition to her outfit. Besides, it was All Saints Wake. Costumes were to be expected.
It wasn’t an All Saints party – not really. The invitations had declared it was to be a celebration of the end of the Dragonsong War, with the esteemed Warrior of Light as the guest of honor. That the Great Wyrm’s downfall had come so close to the existing holiday had merely eased the burden on Ishgard’s event planners, caterers, and entertainers. All of the previous preparations had been repurposed into a commemorative masquerade ball with an All Saints Wake flair.
It certainly looked like an All Saints ball. The House charged with organizing the gala had gone to great lengths to create a refined yet seasonally-appropriate atmosphere. if they were able to showcase their own wealth and station in so doing, all the better. Corners and hearths had been strung with fake cobwebs, and the usual candelabras and fixtures had been replaced with counterparts of twisted black iron. The lighting was low and moody, punctuated by lanterns painted to look like spirits dangled from the ceiling. Gourds carved into ghoulish faces sat atop tables and banisters, also aglow. Whatever paintings typically adorned the walls had been replaced with portraits of beasts, specters, and skeletons, painted as finely as she imagined the originals must have been. Other skeletons, which she assumed for her own peace of mind had been fabricated, dotted the room at uneven intervals, posed reclining in chairs or holding refreshments. One even sat among the orchestra.
The guests, it appeared, had gone to equal lengths to embrace the event’s festively eerie ambiance. Hnaba had chosen something understated for the occasion – a tasteful black half-mask, detailed with lace and inlaid with shimmering black stones that caught the light and twinkled as she moved. However, it appeared that many of the dancers had decided to go in the opposite direction. Everywhere she looked she saw rich velvet and glittering gold. Frills, feathers, flowers and gemstones of every conceivable hue swam past, set against delicate porcelain and intricate embroidery. Some masks were small and decorative, like hers, while others fully hid the wearer’s face from view. The most impressive were those crafted into elaborate shapes that transformed the wearer into something else entirely. She caught glimpses of all manner of creatures drifting past, darting in and out of the crowd as if it was a forest – deer, lions, swans, even a few dragons. The likenesses of grotesque monsters and ghouls also stalked the floor, as some guests had clearly taken the spirit of All Saints Wake more to heart than others. While she saw many masks that drew the eye with their undeniable beauty or exquisite craftsmanship, she still preferred her own, humble as it was. She didn’t need to attract any more attention than she already did.
In spite of all the splendor , Hnaba couldn’t help but feel that she would rather be enjoying All Saints Wake down in the Foundation. Though she still didn’t care much for the festival’s macabre imagery, it was nice to watch the “kits” scurry about in their costumes, collecting treats and lying in wait to jump out and scare one another. No doubt the parties held there would be more like those she was accustomed to; raucous get-togethers in favored taverns where ale and laughter and songs flowed freely. This, she was much less familiar with. There were no such formal galas in the forest, either that of her home or the Black Shroud. Their celebrations included music and dancing, of course, but lacked the rigid structure and complex but unspoken code of decorum that seemed to govern this one.
Besides, the last such event she had attended had ended poorly.
That was how she tried to explain away the unease that had settled in her gut.
And yet, something still felt… off.
Perhaps it was the crowd. To say the ball was well attended would be an understatement. The room teemed with people, and the dance floor was a dizzying swirl of faces. The sound of the waltz overpowered the drone of the crowd only by virtue of the musicians’ skill. It seemed as if every resident of the Pillars had turned out. There was more room to breathe along the edges of the dance floor, where she stood, but perhaps the close quarters were wearing on her nerves.
Perhaps it was just the result of feeling so out-of-place. Almost all of the other dancers were Ishgardian knights and nobles. It was plain that she wasn’t one of them, as many of them had been so keen on pointing out only moons ago. Her height was not as notable here as it had been among the Keepers of the Moon, but her ears still stuck out above the surface of the sea of people. Beyond that, all around her, guests were dressed head to toe in finery – suits, coats, and dresses all of the most luxurious fabrics that could be afforded. Necks and wrists were draped with jewelry. Hair was impeccably styled and, in the case of many women and a few men, adorned with ornaments to match the rest of the ensemble.
Some few were even dressed in full costume as fantastical beasts, monsters, or spirits. Earlier in the evening she had seen a man with an impressive beard dressed as a disconcertingly realistic Ramuh. By comparison, she was dressed rather humbly. Even her finest shirt and trousers stood out for their plainness. She didn’t regret her choice of outfit – she would sooner fight Nidhogg again than be forced into some of the garishly decorative gowns she saw – but she had to admit that it only further marked her as an anomaly.
Surely, that was why the hairs on the back of her neck were prickling as if she was being watched.
Or maybe it was her own mind producing the persistent disquiet as it searched for the source of her strange, disaffected mood, carefully skirting around the obvious answer.
Their victory over Nidhogg was something to be celebrated, of course. It had marked the end of a war that had raged for 1,000 years. And yet, she couldn’t bring herself to enjoy the celebration. She hardly felt like drinking or dancing. Her heart and mind still lingered in the past, long before the Great Wyrm’s fall. Even though the orchestra – one of Ishgard’s finest, she assumed – was in the midst of a jaunty tune, the music met her ears tinged with melancholy. Her eyes darted listlessly over an ever-changing array of masked faces, subconsciously searching for the one she knew she would not see. Before her, the sights and sounds of the present mingled not only with memories of the past, but also with those that would now never come to be, as she wondered idly if Haruchefant had liked these kinds of parties.
It may not have been a true All Saints Wake party, but it certainly felt haunted.
Could you be haunted by the ghost of something that never was?
Just then, she felt that same prickling sensation again, but this time stronger, and for a fleeting moment she was sure that she was being watched. She glanced about her, scanning the room for a set of eyes that were locked on her. And, to her surprise, she saw them - through the large-paned window on the other side of the room.
No, not through the window, she realized as the sudden tension left her shoulders, in the window. The reflection of an older elezen standing and chatting with a friend sitting along the window’s edge. Only moments later the man turned towards the crowd to gesture to a passing acquaintance, and even with a mask concealing the upper half of his face, she could tell that it was wholly unfamiliar to her. So why did her mind insist that, if only for a moment, his reflection had been staring at her.
“Hnaba?”
The sound of her name might have made her jump had she any less control over her own muscles. She turned away from the window, her eyes following the sound of the voice to its source: Alphinaud.
He was wearing a white feathered mask fashioned after an owl but, like her, he was hard to mistake. Even had he worn a sack over his entire head, she mused, she would recognize Tataru’s tailoring anywhere.
“I was beginning to wonder where you had gotten off to. I didn’t see you during the last several dances. Have you been standing here this whole time?”
Hnaba blinked, feeling as if she had just awoken from a dream, but nodded. “I have.”
Alphinaud frowned a bit, and she could tell by the arrangement of his eyebrows that he was worried. That boy, she thought, He either worries too much for his own good, or not enough.
“I prefer watching.” She explained simply. The dance floor was more densely packed than the rest of the hall, and she couldn’t help but notice how many of the dances involved touching – hands on shoulders or waists, hands in other hands, arms linked or behind the other’s back. Usually she didn’t care to have strangers’ hands on her, which made the prospect of joining the fray even less appealing than her dour mood already had.
Alphinaud nodded in understanding, or at the very least an attempt at it. “It does look a bit daunting from here, doesn’t it?” He allowed. “Still… would you like to give it a try? It is a party for you, after all.”
“For us.” She corrected. It may have been her hand that struck the killing blow, but Alphinaud’s own efforts had played no small role in their success. His determination to save Estinien had been admirable, and he had seen it through to the end. He had been kneeling right beside her on the frozen paving stones helping to pry the dragon’s eyes from Estinien’s armor. It had taken both of them, in addition to myriad other friends and allies, to end the dragon’s campaign of vengeance.
He waved her correction off before presenting his hand to her. “Well? Would you like to dance? I can show you how.”
Hnaba smiled, a little chuckle bubbling up to her lips. She almost pointed out that she didn’t require his instruction – she had eyes with which to see the other dancers’ movements and ears with which to hear the tempo – but seeing the earnestness of his offer reflected in his eyes, she elected not to. Instead, she answered him by placing her hand in his and allowing him to lead her to the dance floor.
As she expected, the dance was not difficult to pick up. She had spent long enough standing idly on the sidelines, her eyes absentmindedly trailing after the dancers, to have a feel for the style of the dance. A brief but more intentional observation filled in the finer details, and soon she was dancing almost as gracefully as those around her. The difference in height between herself and Alphinaud made some of the positions awkward, but it took only a few bumped knees and stepped-on toes for them to fall into sync.
As the music flowed around her, she managed to lose herself in the motion, allowing the melody to guide her steps. It wasn't so different from swinging a sword, really – practiced, deliberate motions combined and repeated to match the rhythm of the battle. For a moment, she was no longer in a crowded ballroom, but ankle-deep in snow outside of Camp Dragonhead, with sunlight glinting off her shield. Her feet moved not to turn with her partner, but to ground herself as she deflected the blow of a dull sword. She could hear the laugh in Haurchefant’s voice as he complimented her form, a sound that swayed her heart more than even Ishgard’s greatest musician could ever hope to.
“Hnaba?”
And just like that, she was back on the warm dance floor, surrounded by partygoers. She looked down at Alphinaud, but found that he was not looking back at her. His lips were pressed together in concentration, and there was nothing in his expression to indicate that he had just spoken.
Somewhere, someone opened a door, and the chill on the breeze found Hnaba even through the throng of guests, tickling the back of her neck like a cold breath.
She glanced around her, eyes darting from mask to mask. She had clearly heard her own name, but she could find no likely caller. No one seemed to be looking at her – their gazes were on their current partner, or wandering the floor in search of their next, or following the tray of fresh food being delivered to one of the refreshment tables. She had almost convinced herself that the voice had been an echo from her daydream, when out of the corner of her eye she caught sight of a figure. Watching her. Their gaze felt so familiar... and for the briefest of moments she was convinced it was the face she had seen in the window.
Just as she was about to turn her head for a better look, the decrescendo she hadn’t heard the orchestra begin reached its nadir and from the silence left in its wake a new, faster tune sprung up. The crowd shifted to meet the demands of the new dance, and the figure was lost among the revelers.
By now Alphinaud had noticed her distraction. "Are you looking for someone in particular?” He asked, craning his neck in a vain attempt to see over the crowd.
She shook her head. “No,” she lied. “I was just looking at the masks.” She wasn’t sure why she felt compelled to lie. Potentially because the certainty that she had seen someone staring at her had abated, and with it the confidence that she had seen anything at all.
Even if someone had been watching her... she was the guest of honor, the lauded Warrior of Light. It was natural that she would attract attention.
“They are quite impressive,” Alphinaud agreed amidst a quick trio of steps. “Earlier I saw one that looked just like a Morbol face with little bows on the vines. I don’t know if they were trying to attract potential suitors or repel them.”
“There’s also a man who cut the eyes out of an old portrait and strapped it to his head.” Hnaba commented. She carefully watched the feet of an adjacent couple and mimicked their movements.
“Really? That’s... inventive, to say the least.”
The idle conversation helped to settle her nerves and guide her mind back to reality. As they tried to keep pace with the song, they took turns pointing out masks or costumes they found to be particularly spectacular or amusing; a feathered Vanu Vanu dancing with a woman in a white moogle mask and fur-trimmed dress, the repurposed face of a grandfather clock, and even some sort of brass automaton mask with parts that whirred and moved, which Alphinaud speculated must have come from the Ironworks. Eventually the dance called for a linked-arm turn, giving her a view of the other side of the room, which she had seen only over her shoulder at Alphinaud’s prompting since the dance began. She saw many of the masks Alphinaud had commented on, as well as several that were equally fantastical, but one drew all of her attention. It was a simple silver skull that covered all but the wearer’s lower lip and jaw. Compared to many others it was not notable for its intricacy or flamboyance. No, the reason it stood out so sharply to Hnaba was because she had just seen the same mask on the side of the room she had been facing before the turn. Not just the same mask, but the same man . She was sure of it. The distance made it impossible to be certain, but somehow, she knew the wearer was looking through the swirling crowd at her.
She felt Alphinaud slide his arm through hers as they linked elbows and turned once more. Scanning the room from her original vantage point, she could no longer find any trace of the skull mask. She twisted her neck to look back, but the place he had been standing just seconds ago was now empty. Had he moved? Or perhaps changed his mask? She struggled to recall any of his other features – the color of his hair, the fabric of his jacket, the shape of his jaw – but she had been so focused on the mask that she couldn’t bring any of them to mind. And yet, she knew that she had seen him before. Maybe out of the corner of her eye? Maybe in the window?
Why was she suddenly so enraptured by a minor mystery, she wondered. There were simple enough explanations. Both masks may have been created by the same craftsman, using the same mold. Or she could simply be mistaken about how long ago she had seen the man on the other side of the room. Or there were multiple people wearing the same attire as part of some sort of group costume. Reasonable possibilities abound. So why did she feel compelled, pulled , to seek the man out?
She was tempted to explain it away as hypervigilance. She had simply become too accustomed to seeking out potential threats in her environment, or so she told herself. Unfortunately, she was a poor liar. When she thought, really thought, about it, she realized that in spite of the pervasive strangeness that had lingered just out of sight ever since she had ascended the grand staircase into the ballroom, she had never felt afraid . It was unnerving, perhaps even eerie, but not once had she considered she might be in danger. Perhaps that, in and of itself, should have concerned her.
Another two turns in quick succession, a handful of light steps, and then the song began to slow, signaling the end of the dance. Were it not for Alphinaud guiding their movements, she might have missed the queue entirely. She was still absorbed in thought, trying to chase that nagging feeling of familiarity tickling her mind.
She considered bowing out of the next dance, making some excuse about being thirsty or tired, so that she would be free to pursue the man in the skull mask the next time she saw him. With the music ebbing, she opened her mouth to do just that, but her voice died in her throat when she heard it again.
The sound of her own name.
“Hnaba!”
This time, she didn’t bother to feign casual disinterest, snapping immediately to face the direction the voice had come from.
She found herself face-to-face with Aymeric.
She blinked. She had been so prepared to see something unnatural flit right out of view that the decidedly corporeal face of the Knight Commander caught her off-guard.
His mask was small and subdued, made of silver metal with delicate gold detailing that matched the tasteful embroidery on his jacket. He was smiling pleasantly as he continued, “I hadn’t seen you all evening. I was beginning to think you hadn’t come at all.” Belatedly, he seemed to notice the startled expression on her face, and his tone became more serious. “Am I... interrupting something? My apologies.”
Hnaba shook her head. “Not particularly.”
“We were just enjoying the gala,” Alphinaud supplied for both of them.
Aymeric’s gaze lingered on Hnaba for a moment before his perfectly polite smile returned. “I am happy to hear it. You have both more than earned a respite. There is no fitting way to thank you for everything you have done for Ishgard, but it gladdens me to hear that you are at least finding the celebration to your liking. Extravagant affairs like this don’t suit everyone – they certainly don’t suit me – so I worried that by extending the invitation I had only further burdened you.”
“Not at all,”Alphinaud assured him, “’Tis good to see the people of Ishgard in such high spirits.”
Hnaba nodded in agreement. It wasn’t her type of party either, but it had been a well-meaning gesture. She didn’t want to dampen Aymeric’s spirit – he had also gone through a great deal in the past several weeks. The ball was lovely in its execution; the décor was lavish, if a bit ghoulish, the food was delicious, and the music was carefully selected and masterfully played. It was too stuffy for her tastes, and too crowded, but it wasn’t a bad party. She might have enjoyed it more if she were in the mood to celebrate, but with grief and regret still hanging so heavily around her not even a party perfectly catered to her could have dispelled the miasma entirely.
The air once again came alive with the sound of bows drawing across strings, thankfully interrupting her musings before the pause in conversation could extend to awkward proportions. It also seemed to remind Aymeric of his purpose, for he forewent further small-talk and instead extended his hand.
“May I have the next dance?”
It was clear who the invitation was intended for, and Alphinaud bowed out with grace, saying, “Oh, I think that’s Artoirel over by the cheese platter. I should go offer my congratulations on becoming the new Count de Foretemps.”
Whether this was true or just a convenient excuse to vacate the area, Hnaba didn’t notice. Even as she took Aymeric’s proffered hand, her gaze had resumed drifting over the dance floor like a searchlight.
The new tune was slower and more melodious. She felt Aymeric take her other hand and guide it to the correct position on his shoulder. She felt the rough callouses from both pen and sword against her skin. It reminded her of a different pair of hands, and how they had felt wrapped around hers to demonstrate the correct way to grip a longsword.
They began a slow waltz, simple but elegant. Aymeric was closer to her in height than Alphinaud which made the dance easier but avoiding his gaze more difficult. She noticed his coat matched the color of his eyes.
“I hope that this ball has gone some way towards improving your opinion of Ishgardian hospitality,” Aymeric mused lightly.
“It is an improvement.” It could hardly have made it worse.
Aymeric chuckled. “I am glad to hear it. Change is not achieved overnight, but now that the truth has come to light and the specter of war no longer hovers over us, we can begin to take the first steps.”
Hnaba answered with a muted nod. “Old prejudices have deep roots,” she observed, “It will take much time and effort to erode them.”
“I am aware,” Aymeric said more seriously. “But I believe that the people of Ishgard are equal to the challenge.”
“I have every faith in them.” She forced herself to believe that he was right. Aymeric had done nothing that would cause her to doubt his resolve, and though she had met many cold and bitter men in Ishgard, she had also met some who were kind, and more who wished to be better. Beyond that, it was what Haurchefant would have wanted. Like Aymeric, he had a great love for his countrymen, despite their many shortcomings. He had truly believed in the knightly ideals of peace and justice. She chose to believe that with the guidance of good men like Aymeric, and Edmont, and Artoirel, and even Estinien, Ishgard could become a country he would have been proud of.
For a while, Aymeric said nothing more, but she could tell by the occasional quirk of the corner of his lips that he intended to. She didn’t rush him. If he chose to speak, it would be in his own time. In the meanwhile, she focused on matching his steps and the flow of the song.
Eventually, he did speak again.
“How have you been, Hnaba?” His voice was low and gentle, almost washed away by the music.
“Well enough,” she said, though they both heard what she really meant: I don’t want to talk about it. She appreciated his concern, appreciated that he had noticed the toll the ordeal had taken on her when so many were content to overlook it, but she was loathe to poke the smoldering wreckage in her heart, lest new flames leap forth from it. Besides, what would she say? She couldn’t find the words that matched the feelings even within her own mind. How could she possibly hope to express them to someone else? Let alone express it in Common Eorzean. How could she explain to Aymeric something she herself did not understand?
No, it was better to leave such things unsaid, and they both seemed to understand that that was an answer all its own. Aymeric searched her face, for what she did not know, but didn’t press. Instead, they danced in silence, carried along by the music. She appreciated this as much as she appreciated his worry for her. It wasn’t a tense silence. Rather, it was almost comforting. She wondered: if she could find the words to describe her feelings, would he understand them?
He was a good dancer, she noted. Alphinaud had been undeniably practiced, but Aymeric’s movements were more fluid, more natural. Maybe it was because of the difference between their statures and hers. As they waltzed, she found herself idly wondering if Haurchefant had been a good dancer. She imagined he preferred training and sparring to formal balls, but it wasn’t impossible to imagine him smartly dressed, escorting her onto the dance floor. She had never given much thought to the galas attended by Isghard’s upper class, but somehow she had imagined that if she were ever to go to such a party, it would be with him. Maybe the circumstances surrounding his birth would have made such events difficult for him to bear. Then again, he had never seemed fazed by the derision of knights from the other High Houses, so perhaps not. At least they would have been together to commiserate about it. The outsider and the bastard. With him there, she might not even have noticed the occasional pointed stare or uncharitable remark.
Aymeric was looking at her again. She found that she had been staring at him, as well, without seeing him. She must have looked as far away as she felt, for the amiable smile had fallen from his lips. How long had she been looking at him? Too long, probably. She cast her eyes awkwardly towards the ground.
She wasn’t sure at first why what she saw there gave her pause. She knew only that something wasn’t right. It took her a moment to puzzle out what. Then her mind caught up with her intuition. In the low, flickering light she saw their shadows, as well as those of nearby partygoers, flit across the floor. But there was one too many. What she had at first thought was Aymeric’s shadow was in fact not his at all. Though it seemed to be emanating from him, it was the wrong shape and size. Or so she thought?
“Hnaba? Are you alright?” She only realized that she had stopped dancing when she heard Aymeric speak. She began to formulate a reply, but it flew from her lips when she glanced back up into his startlingly blue eyes.
The wrong shade of blue.
The difference was subtle, but she noticed it instantly. A few shades darker than Aymeric’s. Steelier. Her breath died in her chest. She knew better to think it was just a trick of the light.
“Hnaba?” Aymeric’s voice was more concerned this time, and his brows furrowed with worry. She blinked, an involuntary reaction, and his eyes were his own again. The blue of the Ishgardian sky on a rare cloudless day. But any doubts she had harbored about her own senses were gone. She knew what she had seen. She knew exactly what she had seen.
“I-I’m sorry,” she managed, blinking a few more times to ensure her vision was clear. “I was daydreaming. I must have lost my place in the dance.”
Aymeric was clearly considering his next words, most likely deciding whether he wanted to press the issue or not. It was too much to hope that he had missed the jolt of shock that had run through her when she looked at his face.
“I’m fine,” she insisted.
“Are you sure?” His tone was delicate, carefully cultivated to not sound too insistent. No wonder he was such a good politician. “Do you need to sit down?”
She took a deep breath to center herself, then shook her head. “No. I was just distracted. Let’s finish the dance.”
Though she saw his head tilt ever so slightly to the right, his face relaxed. It seemed he was content with that answer, even if he doubted its veracity. “As you wish. Here.” He effortlessly resumed the dance, his steps and sways stronger, more intentional, to help her find the downbeat.
She followed him, sliding back into the rhythm with newfound focus. She danced more freely than she had all night, despite the fact that she could see the man with the silver skull mask out of the corner of her eye. This time, she saw lips curved into a warm smile as he watched her dance. Rather than frightened, the sight made her feel at ease. This time she really did allow herself to become lost in the motion, not just in the sea of memories. Each step was light and confident, just as they might have been traversing the soft forest floor of her home all those years ago – before the fire, before the Garleans, before the pain. Before everything.
Aymeric must have noticed the change in her demeanor, because a smile returned to his own lips as they danced. They matched each other’s rhythm as naturally as if they had trained together for years, and she found she was actually enjoying herself. As the music mellowed, so did their movements, until both came to an elegant stop.
Hnaba waited for a few beats, not wanting to seem in a rush. Her eyes followed the man that had been following her as he weaved through the tangle of dancers towards the door to one of the balconies. He paused there and looked meaningfully back at her. The devious smile playing on his lips made her heart flutter. She gently removed her hands from Aymeric and said, “I apologize, but you may have been right – the crowd is a bit stifling.” She glanced back at the balcony door just in time to see it swing shut. “I think I’ll sit the next dance out and go take a few breaths of fresh air. I hope you’ll excuse me.”
“Of course,” Aymeric said. He was nothing if not accommodating. His own remaining hand released her shoulder, though he hesitated before pulling away completely. “Would you like me to accompany you? Or perhaps fetch some water?”
“No, but thank you. I believe the quiet will do me some good.”
Aymeric dipped his head in understanding. “Of course,” he repeated, “If you do have need of me, pray seek me out. And perhaps we can share another dance before the night is out.”
“I would like that,” Hnaba said. She could think of no other way to cut the tether of the conversation, so she offered him a small appreciative smile and turned towards the bank of windows that looked out over the balcony. She walked briskly but not hurriedly, winding her way around couples and groups of merrymakers. Even as she calmly approached the door, she felt her heart pounding with anticipation. She knew what she would find outside. Or, at least, she knew what she hoped she would fine. It was a foolish, naïve hope, but one that she could not bring herself to abandon. If it was to be snuffed out by reality and the cold night air, so be it. At least she would never wonder.
A quick glance over her shoulder, and she slipped through the door.
When she closed the door behind her, it was like she had sealed off an entirely different world. The man in the skull mask was standing near the balustrade, waiting patiently for her. The sounds of life and music still drifted out to them, but they sounded muffled and far away. Above, the clouds had momentarily parted, lending the light of the moon and stars to the feeble glow filtering through the windows. She could see him clearly now – his tall frame and broad shoulders, his pale unblemished skin, the gentle curve of his lips. His silvery hair spilled over the forehead of the mask and feathered out around the edges. She could see his steely blue eyes behind the mask, and she wondered how she could have possibly not recognized him before. He said nothing, but smiled kindly and waited, posture straight but relaxed, as if he had all the time in the world. For a moment, all she could do was stare. So many feelings were colliding within her, but they all left her at a loss for what to do, what to say. She wanted to smile. She wanted to cry. She wanted to scream. She wanted to run to him and throw her arms around him, wanted to walk back through the door and pretend she had never seen anything. She wanted to do so many things that she found she could do nothing.
His smile softened further to one of sympathy. He could clearly tell she was struggling. Had been struggling. He had always been perceptive in that way. Though many found her difficult to read, he could always tell when she was troubled. He had known within seconds of seeing her walk through the door at Camp Dragonhead if the tales she would tell him would be ones of excitement and adventure or of strife and heartache, and he had known just what to say to each. When they trained together, he could tell when she required his assistance and when she had mastered a skill and required only to be told that she had. There was a mutual understanding between them that had never been spoken in words.
He offered her his hand and she stared at it, then back up at him. Her body must have understood her better than her mind, because, after a pause, she took his hand without entirely being sure that she had meant to. He let her close the rest of the distance between them, and she did so without fail. Needing no further prompting, she wrapped her free arm around the back of his neck, and felt the hand not in hers circle around her back. He was surprisingly warm, though in a way that felt more like standing in front of a hearth than being touched by another person.
That was another thing she had always liked about him – his warmth. Not his physical warmth, of course, but the warmth brought by his smile and his easy presence. He was so open and welcoming, not only to her but to her friends, his knights, even weary travelers. He just had a way about him that had always made her feel like she belonged. It was in the crinkles around his eyes when he grinned, and in his cheerful, lilting voice. It was in the spread of his arms when he opened them to greet her, and in the careful way he rearranged the position of her hand on the grip of a sword. Seeing Haurchefant made a brief visit to a strange land feel like coming home.
The music trickled in from outside of their little haven, and they struck up a slow, s imple dance. It was the kind of dance she had once imagined they might have at a party like this, with bodies held close and eyes locked. It was the kind of dance they had never gotten to share.
She wanted to tell him so many things – how much his kindness had meant to her, how often she thought of him, how much better the world was for his presence. She wanted to tell him how much he was loved, and how much he was missed. She wanted to tell him how the truth had prevailed and the day had been saved, just like he had wanted. These words and more collected in her throat, creating a lump there that rendered her unable to speak at all. Perhaps it was for the best; she had the inexplicable feeling that words would break the spell that had been cast over their little balcony.
Besides, he already knew.
She closed off that moment in her mind. She tried not to think of the past. All of the regrets that lingered there. Nor of the future and the shadows of things that would never be. She thought only how beautiful his eyes were, and how steadily his hand held hers. She thought about what a lovely evening it was, and how sweet the music sounded. He was a good dancer, but not the best, which was endearing in its own way. His movements were guided not by careful training, but by instinct. Occasionally his body would press closer to hers, and the arm around her back would support her through a playful dip before pulling her back to him. They repeated the series of movements until she could complete them without thinking and the motion faded into the background of her mind. He remained smiling at her, and she smiled back at him, just as he had requested. After some time, her eyes followed his to the edge of the balcony, and over the twinkling lights of the city spread out below. They looked out on Ishgard together, and, for the first time, she thought it looked beautiful.
The music had begun to slow, and as it did the lump in her throat became larger and more painful. Even if she had still wanted to speak, it was all she could do to keep the tears from her eyes. In her heart, she had always known what this was. It was not a miracle – there were no such things in this city, if there were anywhere. It was a goodbye. A softer, kinder ending than the one they had been given. And yet, she wanted so desperately for the song not to end, for the moment to remain suspended in time. But the music crept slowly forward, unheeding of her will. As tears started to prickle at the corners of her eyes, he lifted up his mask so she could see the entirety of his face.
And he kissed her.
She tried to force herself to remain looking at him, willing her eyes not to close. But the warmth of his lips and body against hers won out, and they slid closed before she had even realized it had happened. The last thing she remembered seeing was the sparkle in his hooded blue eyes. She had no idea how long the kiss lasted, or even where it ended. When she finally opened her eyes, he was gone, as she had known he would be.
“Hnaba?”
She hadn’t even heard the door to the hall open. Still dazed, she turned towards the voice.
Alphinaud’s small frame stood silhouetted against the light from the hall, one hand still on the doorknob.
“Are you alright? It’s frigid out here! What are you doing standing outside?”
She blinked. She looked back to where Haurchefant had been standing, but there was no trace that he had ever been there. She looked back out across the city. For the first time since stepping outside, she realized that she was cold.
“I’m alright,” she said, surprised by how steady and certain her own voice sounded. The clouds above had once again swallowed the moon, and snow had begun to drift down.
"I was just taking a moment.”