A/N: I'm still fairly new to FFXIV (although I've played probably 30 FF games otherwise) and I'm only on Heavensward, so here's my first fic in this fandom. My WoL is a male Miqo'te :)
i'll cover you
The breeze is cold.
There is nothing quite like returning to Foundation after many moons away; while Haurchefant has grown fond of his post in Camp Dragonhead, there is nothing as rejuvenating as standing atop the high walls, overlooking the lower tiers of the city just beyond the doors of House Fortemps' gracious walls. His fingers tighten into balled fists at his side as brisk air enters his nostrils, the wind which flows into his lungs filling his chest with pride. His back stiffens, straightens, shoulders broad and strong as his shield clinks against his chainmail cuirass.
The Dravanians shall be here soon. He can smell it in the air, this lingering foreboding that creeps into the pristine walkways of Foundation. They do not have long to wait.
I do not fear them, he repeats silently. I shall do what I must for Ishgard. He freezes as a second phrase comes unbidden, yet just as earnest as the first. For Eorzea.
The statues of the Founders bore holes into the back of his skull, but he does not turn away, merely reaching out instead to grip the delicate filigree of the railings protecting passersby from the massive drop to the Brume. He cannot tell if these gazes are accusatory or not, in all honesty. He knows, more than anyone else, that the second part of his sentiments have grown far more fervent as of late. Unlike the Founders and the isolationist convictions of the noble houses, he finds that the idea of a united Eorzea has grown more and more tantalising as days go by.
A gulp, a shiver down his spine, a weary sigh. He knows why he longs to have a united Eorzea. It is but a pipe dream, though- to travel down the coasts of Limsa Lominsa in the summertime, to cross the great desert plains of Ul'dah, to find himself lost in the gladed forests of Gridania, all with those shining eyes smiling up at him-
He shivers once more. The Warrior of Light is not his to occupy, he thinks bitterly. Even if he could monopolise the figure who has taken such firm control of his heart as of late, and as much as he would like to see what the world has to offer beyond the tundra and snowfields of Coerthas, he doubts he ever shall. His duty lies with Ishgard, after all.
The taste upon his tongue is bitter, acrid, weighed down by truth and regret. My duty lies here, no matter where else my heart desires to go. No matter if he is posted here during the attacks, or whether he shall be defending their post in Camp Dragonhead or Whitebrim or wherever else, he shall do his part to ensure Coerthas remains under Ishgardian control. He swallows thickly at the thought of being brought away from Foundation, but a sudden fear washes over him without restraint, almost locking his knees with the brisk wind.
I need to go back to Camp Dragonhead.
He splutters quietly at the thought, desperate to formulate an explanation of why- why in the world would he ever want to be away from Foundation? It almost feels like blasphemy, like-
Mor Dhona is home for-
"No," he mutters silently. "His place is here now. House Fortemps shall keep him save."
The mere words send another shiver, now of delight, down his spine. He shifts, but he is no longer cold. The Warrior of Light has come to his home. And, even though he had long feared the Miqo'te's reaction to his half-brothers' scorn of him, but the Warrior of Light had not changed in the slightest. His smile towards Haurchefant was still just as warm, as friendly, as tender, as before.
He gulps. He does not deserve those smiles, he thinks forlornly. He is but a simple servant of Ishgard. He cannot possibly compare to the slayer of eikons, the conqueror of Garlemald, the protector of Eorzea.
He does not need to compare, however. He simply wants to stand by his side. He, Haurchefant Greystone, is a gladiator, is he not? Let me take the blows meant for him, he prays silently. Let me stand as his guard. My shield protects my heart. Let it protect his, too. That is all I want.
As his thoughts continue to spiral, his shoulders draw inward, only to be stricken to stillness as a warm hand lands upon his arm. Perilously glancing over his shoulder, his heart leaps into his throat as he locks eyes with brilliant, wide eyes smiling up at him. "I was looking for you," the object of his pensive reflections murmurs, voice rich and low.
Haurchefant hates how he trembles under the touch of Eorzea's champion. "Why's that?" he mumbles, although he does not even register his own words; all he can focus on is the heat radiating from his arm, the slight dizziness plaguing his thoughts, the understanding that one outstretched arm could pull this Miqo'te to his chest and hold him tight beyond all measure, as cherished as he deserves to be-
The man before him chuckles wryly. "Tataru is off to seek out more information," is the cheery reply. "I'm no use in information hunting. As reserved as I had believed Ishgardians to be, it seems my reputation has preceded me regardless. No longer any use for stealth as the Warrior of Light, I suppose."
"Nonsense," Haurchefant responds instantly. "You are perfectly wonderful at all tasks you undertake. It is an honour for me-" he swallows down his words, bringing his eyes away from those knowing, tender eyes, "-for us, to be by your side."
For a moment, the Warrior of Light merely laughs, rich tenor echoing in the stillness. However, Haurchefant finds himself taking pause at the ensuing silence from the other man as the Miqo'te sidles up to the railing by the Elezen's side.
"Is something the matter?" the Ishgardian murmurs softly when the other man does not speak.
His heart seizes in pain, in pity and longing, as the Eorzean champion shakes his head. "I… suppose not," he murmurs. "Or… maybe, yes."
"Which is it?"
"Both?"
They chuckle, leaving the Miqo'te to sigh heavily, shoulders sinking in strange, uncharacteristic despondence. His gauntleted hands grip the railing, supporting his weight with a desperation that makes Haurchefant ache at the mere sight. Yet, he does not push, does not pry. Who is he to dive into the heart of Hydaelyn's chosen champion?
Finally, the Warrior of Light releases a long, heavy breath. "Thank you, Lord Haurchefant," he whispers softly.
Haurchefant's breath catches in his throat. "For what?"
"For bringing us here. For asylum." The Miqo'te's smile is thin, wan. "When everything fell apart in Ul'dah, I had no idea what we were to do. There's never been any doubt in our mission, you see? I've naught but met friendliness and thanks ever since I was chosen for this role, but…"
Biting back a torrent of empty, desperate platitudes, Haurchefant merely insists gently, "Surely, you needn't fear. You are the Warrior of Light!"
The next words shatter the Ishgardian's heart. "Warrior of Light I may be," the Miqo'te whispers, "but stouthearted, I am not. Not always."
Not stouthearted? Then… then how? How have you accomplished everything we could never hope to pursue?
As if responding to the silent query of Haurchefant's heart, the other man continues softly, "I just… Eorzea accepted me. I wanted to become an adventurer, and Eorzea gave me the opportunity for so much more. I've met so many people I care for, and now, I…" His smile wavers. A hand releases the railing, the Miqo'te staring into his palm forlornly as he struggles to find the proper words, slipping through a grasp that suddenly appears far frailer than anyone could ever imagine. "I was not entirely able to protect them. I must be better."
The motion is unconscious, so automatic that Haurchefant only registers his action once he blinks, once the warmth seeps into his bones, once his subconscious understands that our hands fit well together- but the Warrior of Light, champion of Eorzea, trembles, his hand so strangely small in the Elezen's own grip.
Haurchefant squeezes. "You care about a great many people, and they are so, so lucky to have a staunch ally such as you." A pause, a quavering breath. "Do you regret becoming the Warrior of Light?"
The answer is resolute. "No."
"Despite all of the trauma and turmoil?"
"Indeed." Then, he shivers, a wry, barking laugh slipping past his lips. "I will admit, though- I'm not particularly good with the snow. Gridania's climes are far more suitable for me."
For some reason, it stings to hear this rejection of the ice and snow Haurchefant calls home. And yet, he does not get a chance to rebuke the other for his callous words; as he lifts his gaze and bites back his own loneliness, he notices the pinkish-gold hue which has begun to fall upon the snowy scapes of Coerthas. The sun is setting. As if in response to the waning light's sudden presence, the lamps surrounding the Last Vigil flicker on, illuminating the walkway in aether-fueled light.
He notes this distantly. There are better things to focus upon, he finds. For example, a distant melody plays from the altars at the northernmost steeples of Foundation. The sounds of pubs filling with customers upon the lower tiers echoes up to the platform upon which they stand. A sharper wind picks up speed, cutting through even his Ishgardian bones.
And throughout it all, the Warrior of Light shifts closer, pressing ever so slightly against Haurchefant's side, a tiny sigh of relief escaping plush lips as thick hair comes to rest against the Elezen's willowy frame. Haurchefant himself almost whimpers as he spots the tremor, flick, relaxing of Miqo'te ears as the other man leans into him.
In a voice so faint the Ishgardian can barely hear it, the champion whispers, "I don't dislike Coerthas. In fact, I'm happy to be able to help protect it."
"Why?"
"It is your home, is it not? We are all Eorzeans."
We are all Eorzeans.
Haurchefant's heart comes to a standstill. So, he thinks, his own inner thoughts a faint echo in the distant recesses of his mind, this is what it feels like to give one's heart to another completely.
He cannot voice these words, he thinks. He dares not to. So, instead, he whispers, verity laden in every word, "I am truly grateful, my friend. My shield shall ever be yours."
"And mine, yours," the Warrior of Light murmurs, shifting slightly to rest his forehead against Haurchefant's arm.
If this were anyone else, the Elezen would push them off. If it were a lady, perhaps he would gently extricate himself from her grasp, or insist on showcasing the stunning Coerthan landscape beyond the walls of Foundation. With this Miqo'te, however, it is different; all he can do is raise his hand tentatively, resting his palm against the back of the other man's head, caressing it with as much warmth as he dares to portray. Under his touch, he feels the man tremor; a brief look at his face showcases the faint pinpricks of tears in the shorter man's eyes, the exhaustion sagging his cheeks, the furrow perpetually staining his brow. And this is all Haurchefant can see anymore. There is no more wind, nor noise, nor familiar cold cutting into his heart. There is just the Warrior of Light, and he whom has been chosen to stand by the man's side, even if for but a little while.
He smiles. He is but a simple gladiator, but if the champion of Eorzea so chooses, then the Greystone gladiator shall be his shield forever.
-fin-