His lips were warm. Biff had known warm kisses, but they were warmest from Hunfrid, his Hunfrid. Even as they parted, Hunfrid's breath lingered on his skin, along his neck, and down his chest. Every ilm of Hunfrid, every muscle against his body, was warmth. The way he held Biff, like a treasure snatched from the murky waters at the bottom of the sea. The world was no longer cold or dark when Hunfrid held him like this; it was pure sunlight, gentle and warm and forever clear.
Biff peered into Hunfrid's deep brown eyes. His heart ached.
I love you, it whispered. I love you.
"The cock has crowed, my pretty." Hunfrid brushed his fingers along Biff's cheek. His thumb pushed around the stubble grown upon it. "I must away."
"Not yet." Biff squeezed Hunfrid, then buried his face in the Highlander's thick neck. It was so strong, like all of him was. Hunfrid was a son of the earth, coloured like clay, hardened by the pressures of time and experience. "It's barely dawn."
Hunfrid chuckled, a rumble in his throat. "Oh, sweetheart. It's nearly nine o' clock. I'll be late if I stay any longer."
"A captain is never late."
"He is when he books an airship ticket." Hunfrid kissed Biff's forehead. "Always so hungry. I don't have time fer another go."
"I don't need another go," Biff insisted. With all his heart, it was true. "Stay. Please."
Hunfrid rolled on top of him, snatching each of Biff's wrists, drawing Biff's hands apart. Biff was so malleable in Hunfrid's firm hands. His body arched against Hunfrid's, full of heat and need, for it could feel the pirate's hard cock resting upon his own. Hunfrid growled, eager, and rocked against him.
"Hungry, little slut." Hunfrid planted a heated kiss on Biff's throat. "I told ye before. Ye don't fall in love with a season."
Maybe ye do, he wanted to say. Life is a season, my love.
"Spread yer legs." Despite what he spoke, Hunfrid did this, too; he opened his lover's legs, his hands moving down the hard sinew of meaty thighs. "I have a partin' gift fer ye."
And then, Hunfrid was inside him again, and the world was drowned in motion. The bed rattled; his heart drummed; he nearly choked on his own breath. His legs could not easily grip Hunfrid's waist, but rather shook with each push. His arms, too, shook; for he groped at his hair, but found no anchor. Instead, his fingers laced together behind his head, weakened with every shock. He let out a growl that turned into a moan. Its resonance lingered in his throat.
Hunfrid grinned wide, thrusting without tire, without mercy. The noise had pleased him, as ever it did. Yet, Biff loved this man. He took pleasure in the sight of Hunfrid bathed in sunlight. It set his teeth aglow, white as the sea's foam, sharp as the knives in a shark's mouth. It touched his skin so gently, rendering it the illusion of tenderness, though the hard thing inside Biff betrayed all fantasy.
After a short time, Hunfrid was finished with his business and let things lie. The captain was never much interested in finishing the business of any other, always off in a hurry to the next swashbuckling adventure. Biff minded this less than the leaving. He watched limply as Hunfrid dressed himself. The bastard did not so much as even cast a glance his way.
"Don't make that face." Hunfrid admired himself in the mirror. "Yer a good bed warmer."
"Ye'll be sorry when someone wants me fer more," mumbled Biff.
Hunfrid laughed. "You always say that, sweetheart. But then you end up in my bed."
Fucker, his heart whispered. And ached again.
"When're ye comin' back," he asked instead.
"I'll find ye when I feel like it." Hunfried drew his fingers over his shaven head. "You know that."
"But in how many moons?"
"Aw, who knows, sweets? Drop it already." He tossed a glance at Biff, grinning widely. "Jealousy is an ugly colour on ye."
"It's called givin' a flyin' fuck." Biff wrapped himself in blankets. There were times when Hunfrid's smile would grow blinding to his eyes, and this was one of those.
Hunfrid laughed. Biff heard him collect his things, but he dared not look. He had not the strength. His heart pulsed and writhed in his chest, hurting with an old passion. He gritted his teeth, willing away the tears that burned in his eyes.
Ye can't love a season, Biff. Seasons don't stay because ye want 'em to.
The door opened, then closed. Hunfrid's footsteps faded away.
I love him, his heart insisted. I love him.
He did not stay his tears, then. A good cry meant the rest of the day went dry. The world was full of danger and hurt. It was what made adventurers who they were: those that faced what others feared. He had not the time to cry over every little thing. Even less did he wish to cry over this little thing. How many times had the one conversation passed between them? How many times had Hunfrid broken his promises? They would never be promised to each other, at any rate; and Biff had found others more willing to give him a try. It did not matter that they left in the end. It mattered that they let him try.
Someone will keep me, he promised his heart. Longingly, he turned his gaze to the window. The sky shone brilliantly blue, unblemished by the cotton windings of clouds. Someone else had to be looking at it with him, wishing for the same. Or perhaps Ana was admiring it, wherever she was, and, for a moment, thinking of him.
He took the rest of the morning slowly. He stopped to sigh when came a sigh; he waited patiently for his heavy limbs to follow his thoughts. It took him half an hour to dress, though he did not look particularly nice. He had not bothered to check the mirror, after all; but the Innkeep's visibly contorted face did much to inform him as Biff went to return his keys. Groggily, he went down to the Carline Canopy table where his companion was sitting, hoping in vain that this in of itself would not rouse a scathing indictment of his character from her.
"Well," said Ever Starfall, not looking up from her book, "you certainly took your sweet time."
"Sorry," mumbled Biff. He sat across from her, mutually unlooking. He need not see her face to read the criticism writ upon it. His eyes roved about the room, taking in the tables full of breakfasting huntsmen and sellswords, as well as the morning drunks.
"I've only been here an hour," said Ever stiffly, "This is the third time you've kept me waiting. Please tell me you haven't forgotten how to keep time."
A lovely bard sat upon a stool at the far end of the cafe. At her back, sunlight spilled from the stained glass windows, coloured emerald green. The shine matched her green blouse and glittered upon the golden details of her broach, her armlets, and her elegant, heeled sandals. The rest of her motley complemented these well: draping, white arm sleeves; a sapphire coloured pant leg of stripes; and a ruby colored pant leg to finish. Her auburn hair, kept short to her shoulders, gently lent her shape an aura of levity. Her auburn tail curled at the end and her Miqo'te ears wiggled, marking the genuine presence of a tail-haver's amusement.
"... Your silence is making me worry," said Ever, raising her eyebrows.
"Sometimes," said Biff, "a man likes t' listen to a song."
Ever glanced toward the bard. "She has a lovely voice. I suppose, since your absence gave me the time to enjoy it, I ought to forgive you."
Biff waved his hand. "Hush. A good bard's a rare treat."
The lady bard sang sweetly soprano, strumming her lyre with ease. From her throat, she poured her golden voice into the air:
"Did you ever hear of the man made of crystal,
the man made of crystal and light?
Many are his tales, magic and mystical,
of the Warrior, the Warrior of Light.
A blessing born of the Goddess,
cradled in the arms of Fate.
The Mother filled him with Hope,
that he'd war with a world of Hate.
Did you ever hear of the man made of crystal,
the man made of crystal and light?
Many are his friends, magic and mystical,
of the Warrior, the Warrior of Light…"
"I suppose she's singing of them for the Rising," said Ever, closing her book. "The Warriors of Light? I can't believe it's been five years since Carteneau."
"Aye," Biff croaked, setting his head on the table. It had started to hurt again. He admired the bard's lovely voice in earnest, but some chord or the other had brought him a great pang of physical pain. Perhaps he was thinking too hard about what she sang.
"Are you alright?" Ever prodded his shoulder with a finger. "You've been getting headaches a lot lately. Or are you hung over again?"
"I'm not," groaned Biff. "It's—It's loud, that's all." That had to be it.
"You're louder than all the rest," huffed Ever. "I shall go order breakfast. Or brunch, at this point. Do you want anything?"
Biff grunted, rubbing his head.
"I'll just order for you."
She left him alone at that. He regretted not making her stay, insisting she call the waitress to their table. Her voice had distracted him, in part, from the bard's sweet melody. Without Ever, he could resist no more. The song impressed itself upon his mind in earnest.
He thought of his mother. The recollection of her face stung like an arrow through his heart, laced with the poisons of guilt and shame. She was always right, and he was always wrong. And he paid for it, again and again. Would she laugh at him and call him weak? She would, did she know of Hunfrid, let alone his myriad other failings in love. It would not surprise her that there was a myriad, the way it all began. He was wrong. She was right.
Despite his greatest efforts, the song brought the vision, blinding Biff with a hazy unreality. Fire fell from a night black sky, burning his eyes with its radiance. Hot wind blew in his face. The song was gone, traded for the harsh sound of bombs blasting and canons launching. He squeezed the old axe in his hands, an anchor in the chaos, his fast friend. The shrill cry of an enemy soldier broke what little calm he managed. Sword aloft, the soldier charged at him. Steel met steel, and a helm was rent in twain, clear off Biff's head. His body shook with the force of the blow, struggling to steady against the storm of heat and sound around him. Then, there was a hand at his shoulder.
"Biff?" Ever shook him. "You're trembling… Are you really alright?"
He swallowed, then nodded. He was alright. It was only lately that violent visions came to him, in time for the Rising. Perhaps the lady bard had been the axe wielding survivor of the battle. Perhaps she knew the axeman's story, deep in her soul. His eyes found her again, searching her bearing for signs. There he discovered the shadow of sorrow mingled with her delicate features, a blemish so faint that her performance was near perfection.
"Sometimes," said Biff, "I see things."
Ever returned to her seat across the table. Her lips thinned. "Everyone sees things."
"I know. I meant, like… Things I shouldn't see. About other people. From their past. Not always, but… Sometimes. It's like I was there, too."
"You aren't hallucinating?"
"I've had visions fer as long as I can remember. Jes… none so violent, like these."
"Is that why you have the headaches?"
"Aye." Biff lowered his eyes. "Sorry I didn't tell ye."
Ever shook her head. "It's only been a week. We are yet strangers to one another."
She was wrong about that. He found her neither strange nor mysterious. From the first they'd met, he'd known she was a sprout. She was alone on that bridge, aimless. Grief hung from her eyes, too. Everyone contended with loss eventually, and loss meant searching for oneself again. Though he could not confirm the particulars, he believed it was why she had taken on the trade of adventure. The petty details of circumstance are less important than a man's heart.
"Yer a stray," he said. "We're all strays what become a'venturers."
She looked at him with fresh eyes. "All of us?"
"Excuse me!" A fist pounded on their table. The lady bard glowered at them. "Either you listen to my songs, or you speak in hushed tones like the rest of them! Have some respect for a woman's trade! If you—" Her mouth hung open. She closed it, but her brow wrinkled and her lips began to quiver. "... Biffy?"
"Huh?" He wasn't sure what was happening. No one had called him that since he was a little boy. "Aye, that's me… Biff."
Had he worked for her? Had he slept with her? A closer look at her face did render her familiar to him. Two stripes on each of her cheeks, and two upon her forehead; the large blue eyes that glittered at him with deep sentiment; his certainty grew, bit by bit, with every detail. Yes, he must've worked for her, and he'd been too stupid to remember his client's name, let alone her face. He'd never forgotten a bedmate, not ever. He could have forgotten a neighbor, perhaps, but it was all the same unlikely.
"Well, what are you staring at!?" She hurried to his side and threw her arms around him. He failed to stand up in time, and was ushered into her soft, ample bosom head-first. "I can't believe it! I can't believe you're alive! Thank the Twelve, thank each and every one of them!"
"Who—Who is this?" Ever asked, looking between them anxiously. "A friend of yours?"
Biff was making to answer, albeit in a muffle, but the lady bard's enthusiasm overcame.
"Friend? Why, of course! We're the best of friends!" The bard stood and posed with dramatic glee, her hands in the air. "Biff Guy and S'dennmo Jinh, comrades-in-arms till the world ends! And it nearly did, didn't it?"
Right. The grief in her soul. The Calamity.
"That it did," said Biff uneasily. "And, aye, that be my name. But I wasn't at Carteneau, miss. I can barely remember the night it happened."
S'dennmo frowned and shook her head. "Of course you were there. We all were. Biff, look at me. We haven't seen each other in five years!"
"Maybe it were someone else," Biff offered, scratching his neck. He could not look at her. "I've got one o' them faces. Lots o' folks think they know me, but then they don't."
"But how many men are named 'Biff Guy'?" Ever insisted. "She says she knows you. Is there reason to disbelieve her?"
Biff looked between the women cautiously. "The reason is I don't know who she is. I'm sorry."
"Are you certain?" asked Ever. "She says you two were best friends. She not only knows your name, but knows you are an adventurer. Perhaps you've simply lost your memory."
"I've met lots o' folk," Biff allowed, "so we could've met once. But I know who I am an' where I come from. I remember every detail of me life. Her friend, it can't be me. Guy is a real common name in Limsa, I'll have ye know."
His protestations may have gone too far. Concerned, he glanced at the lady bard, who had turned her back to them. She was wiping away her tears, but her twitching ears betrayed her attention to their words. Maybe he should tell her, at least, that she looked familiar; but she looked like so many other Seekers, too. He could not be certain they had never met. He was less certain that there was absolutely no chance that they hadn't. Yet he firmly believed she was mistaken, for grief did funny things to people, and life was full of cruel coincidences.
"I see now," said S'dennmo, "that you are not the man I thought you were. Please pardon my intrusion. It is a strange thing, this spell that has fallen over the realm. No one can remember who the Warriors of Light were, not one single soul. We loved them so dearly, our brave warriors, but we no longer know their faces, let alone their names. I can't be much different."
Ever, unconvinced and unrelenting, frowned. "If you were at Carteneau, how could you have forgotten? You seemed to remember everything just a moment ago. You even recalled his incredibly uncommon name!"
"Like I said! Guy's a real common name," said Biff, wrinkling his nose. "Besides, maybe she heard me name from somewhere else an' got confused. Ye never know with these things, Star. If he was a Warrior o' Light, maybe the name stuck as a filler or summat."
S'dennmo smiled warmly, but the sadness hung heavy in her eyes. "That could be it. Perhaps I overheard your name, saw your face and confused myself. I'm a survivor, you know? A battle such as that plays tricks on the mind."
"Then we owe ye a drink," said Biff, pulling out the chair beside him. "Fer all the trouble I've caused ye, and fer yer courage at Carteneau. I was plannin' on stayin' in town fer awhile anyroad."
"Oh, I couldn't impose," said S'dennmo, drawing away.
"And it's too early to be drinking," protested Ever.
"Never too early t' drink where there's a tragedy involved." Biff patted the chair. "I won't push ye, lass, but I wouldn't want ye tae spend today alone."
"Are you inviting me along—all day?" S'dennmo wrung her hands. "Are you really sure about that? You must have your own obligations…"
Ever tapped her chin, reticent, considering. Biff guessed she was calculating the value of S'dennmo's presence and whether or not it would contribute anything to her quest, whatever that was. All Biff knew of Ever's concrete plans in life were that they consisted of following him around and willfully inserting herself into his affairs; but her companionship was constant, and constancy was always welcome. Would she start following S'dennmo instead? A scary, surprisingly sad thought. Anyroad! Constancy demanded consistency. Perhaps she wouldn't be so easily distracted.
"I don't have any," said Biff, hearing the silence. "What about you? We wouldn't wanty impose on those. Unless ye don't mind us taggin' along."
"Only to earn some coin today," said S'dennmo, taking a seat. "It's how I pay my respects, in a way. Busking with songs of remembrance. It kills two birds with one stone, you know? Actually–Are your voices any good? We could sing together! People really like that sort of thing."
"Hah, she's a shrewd one, ain't she?" Biff grinned. "It's a good time, with people worked up an' all. But there's bound t' be other bards out an' about, ain't there?"
"Oh, other bards, shmother bards." S'dennmo waved a waitress over. "I'm a rising star of the realm, you know? They're small fry compared to me."
The bard's meekness had all melted away. Curious. He glanced at Ever once more, hopeful that she would speak up, but she only glanced toward S'dennmo, an eyebrow raised, then continued to appraise her thoughts.
"Uh, but why haven't I heard about ye?" Biff blurted out, helpless.
S'dennmo's face went red, and her cheeks, puffy. "Well, of course, you haven't! You're a Biff! But those who know my name never forget." She turned then to the waitress, who brought over plates of food belonging to Biff and Ever. "I'll have the same that this lad is having."
Lad? Biff wrinkled his nose.
"You are La Noscean, aren't you?" S'dennmo asked, suddenly smug. The waitress took this as her cue to leave, and grateful she looked for it.
"Aye," he said, dryly.
"What about her?" S'dennmo prodded Biff's arm, nodding toward Ever. "She's an Ishgardian, right? Is she your girl?"
"I most certainly am not!" huffed Ever, suddenly sitting upright. "I'm Gridanian, if you must know. Isn't that obvious? I'm an Elezen, so it must be true. Wildwood, to be precise."
He hadn't seen this side of her before. All that confidence she carried, so much like an aged scholar's, and it did not strengthen her lies? He laughed a little, not meaning to put her off; it was a good trait in a man, to be unable to speak falsehoods so well as truths.
"What are you laughing at?" shot Ever, irate.
"He's laughing," said S'dennmo, leaning forward, conspiratorial, "because your tongue gives you away, my lady."
"That's preposterous." Ever stirred her coffee stiffly. "My tongue is smooth."
"It's smooth, alright," laughed Biff. "Smooth as a mademoiselle."
S'dennmo joined in the laughter and merrily raised her hand. Biff's hand took no time in meeting it for a high-five. He missed high-fives.
"Don't you know? Gridanians sound stiff as wood," mused S'dennmo. "It's the Ishgardians that sound soft as snow."
"Can't betray yer tongue," Biff agreed.
"Please." Ever cut through an egg. "My… tutors were Ishgardian. It's natural I sound like them."
"Tutors, she says." S'dennmo's eyes twinkled mischievously. "Multiple tutors. You must come from a wealth of family, and a family of wealth."
Ever sighed heavily, setting down her fork. "Don't you know any manners? It isn't right to pry into a stranger's history, let alone a woman's. And what about you? Your accent is neither hard nor soft. You don't exactly have the 'r' problem of Miqo'te, either."
"Would my lady preferrr a caricaturrre?"
Then, as if by magic, the lady bard's tongue changed to something much different. Biff recalled the sound from somewhere; perhaps he had met other Seekers born upon the sands. As she spoke the strange words, a voice whispered into in his mind. He recognized its far-away softness, then. It had always been a part of the visions. It rang in sync with S'dennmo's voice, not missing a beat:
[ "Would it surprise you to learn we 'cats' have a language of our own?" ]
Ever stared blankly at S'dennmo. "No… But what in blue blazes was that?"
"The tongue of us so-called savages." S'dennmo raised her nose in the air. "You really ought to watch yourself around people like us."
"People like what?" Ever's long ears turned red. "I wasn't aware it was a caricature. It's how Miqo'te sound in books."
"Oooh, so you're a bookish type. I should have figured from the… everything about you." S'dennmo giggled, gesturing wide. "I suppose you won't be much help for today's haul. Unless you had a choir tutor?"
"I didn't agree to this," Ever insisted. "You can't actually expect me to sing in front of a crowd!"
"It'll be fun!" said Biff, grinning as appealingly as he could. "It beats murder, don't it?"