Haurchefant had been the one to say it, albeit in not so many words.
Rely on me.
Stares of surprise and wariness greet her from the troops assembled in the main room of Camp Dragonhead as she pushes open the doors one cold afternoon. She is unexpected, like always, and is used to being greeted with such confusion. Rather than a hero or a visitor, she feels like something fierce but unwelcome, as if she is a wild beast or a sudden plague. Always the bearer of ill tidings and imminent doom. So it has seemed recently.
She cannot bring herself to dislike the men for trusting her so little. They have their jobs to do, just as she does her own. She bears with the needlepoints of intrigue boring into her armour until she reaches the large desk that dwarfs even the tall man sitting behind it.
"My Lord," she says quietly, loath to raise it any higher over the whispering surrounding her. He doesn't look up and she isn't surprised when she turns his eyes to the report he is working on, something as long as her arm and crammed with his elegant looping script.
Haurchefant has his own job to do, as well. Perhaps she should not have come here. However, a woman brave enough to bring down gods is able to push aside this tremor of heart and place her hands down on the desk, leaning forward until her shadow falls across the paper. She clears her throat, a soft ladylike sound, before raising her voice properly.
"Lord Haurchefant!"
"My dear friend!" he exclaims in an instant, leaning back and abandoning his pen, oblivious to how long she has been waiting. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
A pleasure it is, truly. Despite the wait, and the atmosphere, and the biting cold which has followed her in, she cannot help but laugh. She takes a moment to watch him beaming at her as if the report before him hadn't been consuming his whole being a second before and thinks herself a coward. Why had she been worried, again? Of seeing this fool?
"Nothing in particular," she says as loudly as she can manage. "I just wanted to ..." Her voice falters, all her pre-planned excuses seeming thin now that she's here. "I just wanted to see you," she finishes. "I … won't take up much of your time."
Haurchefant's smile takes on a rogueish air and she tries her best not to snort in amusement. He has always acted as such around her; it's one of the reasons she finds his company relaxing. It is neither an heroic nor an elegant sentiment and so one she must keep to herself. It wouldn't do to have his men talk.
"There's no need to speak like that," he says gently, as if he can read her thoughts. "You can have as much time as you need. Shall we?"
He extends a hand out towards her, a show of asking to be helped up, or camaraderie, or something foolish she's sure. His fingers are both calloused with swordplay and stained with ink. She smiles and plays along, pulling him up and following his lead out of the main chamber.
"There's something about you today, friend," he says in the peace of the corridor. "Is anything amiss?"
The weight of the world? She shouldn't answer in such bitter tones. Instead, she gives a small shrug of her shoulders, armour clanking with the motion.
"'Nothing in particular'?" he suggests to her with a knowing smile. "Am I right in thinking our usual tour of the camp won't be quite enough to ease this 'nothing' today? I have quite missed my walks with you in between duties, but something else can be arranged."
He pauses at a meeting of corridors, tilting his head and fixing her with a piercing gaze that brings a light heat into her cheeks. Yes, she knows how he looks at her, and how he always has. It is another reason why he is so interesting to be around. No one else would dare be so brazen, as if she was untouchable. For her part, she wouldn't dare the risk with anyone else. It's been a strange understanding, this friendship of theirs, but she feels safe all the same.
"I would like to sit for a time," she admits. "If that is acceptable."
"Anything you ask," he says warmly, and she knows his smile to be sincere as he turns away from their usual route and towards a staircase. His fingers brush hers as they begin walking, a warm, human gesture. She is silently grateful for his compassion.
Upstairs, in his chambers, she finds herself swiftly seated on a couch facing a window. She watches the mountains in silence until a hand lands on her shoulder, gently touches her hair.
"You look cold," he says from behind her. "If you plan on staying a while, remove your armour. I have blankets enough to protect you against a moderately sharp spear, at least."
She laughs, and relents. Only after her armour is in a pile on the floor does he add his to the mix and open a cupboard to reveal a treasure trove of woolen masterpieces.
"How many karakul were slain for your collection?" she asks, voice low but perfectly bold.
"Enough to keep a troubled hero warm for an hour or two," he replies, settling himself beside her on the couch and draping the blankets artfully around them until they resemble nothing more than two disembodied heads adrift on a fluffy mountain. He is sitting close enough for their shoulders to brush but keeps his distance respectfully, even if she would allow him more. He is on fine form today, she thinks. She rarely speaks her emotions aloud and he has always been perceptive to them, but today more than ever.
"It's warm," she says after a short and companionable silence. "Thank you."
"You're most welcome, friend." He casts a glance at her before turning his eyes back to the mountains. "Have I earned the right to hear your thoughts, now? What happens under the blankets, stays under the blankets, you understand."
"I should hope so," she says with an unladylike laugh. "Yes, I suppose you have. But I don't know how to explain. It's..."
She struggles for words, as always. At length she managed to explain of the unrest in the world wearing her down, the pressure she is under to achieve for everyone else's sake, the way her arms are aching from fighting and her cheeks aching more from forcing a smile. None of this is said so plainly but she knows he understands. The hand under the blanket that moves to rest chastely on her knee says as much.
"You are on a stormy mountain," he says plainly. "Some days, the storm lingers. On others the skies shall clear. Be patient, friend. The sun can still shine."
"I cannot feel it," she says softly.
"Well, you are in Ishgard," he jokes, managing to draw another smile from her.
"I find it very warm here," she says, reaching for his hand beneath the blankets and taking hold of it. "But I should..."
"Go back?" he finishes for her. "Probably. I, for one, would not object if you were to stay. I keep my fire burning late, after all."
It is tempting to be selfish. Tempting but impossible. If she were to stay, she would not be able to see him again. There would be no more walks around the compound, no more abstract conversations about their troubles, no more hidden jokes.
He lets her leave, when she stands. Her armour feels less heavy when she dons it again.