A/N: Here's a oneshot that's been living in my docs for quite a while. Let me know what you think!

In Fury's Wake

"I did not take you to be a man of the faith."

Although his words are scarcely above a murmur, each syllable resonates through the hallowed halls of Saint Reymanaud's Cathedral. The buttresses along the ceiling, stuccoed by stars and illuminated by the sunlight gently streaming in through tall glass panes, reflect a faint glow across his visage. He squints as a ray blinds him momentarily, but it is not enough to draw his attention away from the still figure seated serenely upon one of the furthest pews from the pulpit.

The Warrior of Light has not paid a visit to Ishgard in what feels like a millenia. In actuality, Aymeric de Borel had not even known of the other man's arrival; rather, it was simply through hearing the gossip of some merchants whilst strolling through the Jeweled Crozier earlier that he had come to hear whispers of a familiar, striking Miqo'te passing along the streets of the market.

The way Aymeric's feet had raced up the slopes leading to the noble houses and beyond, ignoring every sense of propriety and politeness in favour of bolting up to the cathedral-

Yet, at the door, he had hesitated to enter. The pages passing by had bowed, but their eyes were full of something he does not yet truly have the courage to face. I am out of practice, it seems. He has not entered these halls as of late, either, in all fairness. Once upon a time, he could have been found after combat training sessions to be here, deep in worship at the altar, hands clasped in prayer. Perhaps if he prayed hard enough, the young lad had reasoned, he would find a place to belong. Somewhere beyond the stares of the nobles and the icy glare of the man he could not call his father, perhaps Halone would grant him some respite, some kindness, some-

She is the Fury.

And fury is all he has received. Whether it was by her hands or not remains unseen.

But prayer is far removed from the Lord Commander as of late. They are still too fresh, the wounds left by the archbishop- how the leader of the House of Lords is supposed to face the masses knowing what his own sire had done, he still does not know- but now that the End of Days has come and gone, and their realm is apparently at peace once more, it feels less of a sin to be here. Perhaps, now that they have made such large strides in becoming secular- now, without the looming shadow of a primal Thordan, of his father's gnarled, hate-filled visage- it is permitted for him, a bastard, to stand before Halone once again.

The moment Aymeric's eyes had landed upon the silhouette of long, tapered ears, glowing auburn and violet and umber shimmering in the afternoon light, however, those doubts had faded away. If our champion is here, then it is no sin. So, Aymeric had accepted this thing tugging at his gut, pulling him towards this centre of their crumbling faith- and his greatest comrade within.

Still, what an imposing sight it is, reentering this house of Ishgard's goddess. The tall statues, odes to the fury of Halone in all her greatness, watch him silently as he hesitantly steps forward, straightening his shoulders and steadying his brow until he stands just as tall and proud at the end of the solely occupied pew. Then, fighting down the wince which emerges with each footstep- almost cacophonous in the silence- he takes a seat beside the Miqo'te warrior. "Are you here for the Fury's blessing?" he murmurs, trying to keep his tone light, jovial.

The voice which leaves dark lips in response feels foreign, unknown. A stranger in familiar umber skin, a ghost haunting the emerald eyes which Aymeric has grown to adore. "Perhaps… I suppose I wish I was."

A frown begins to knit across Aymeric's brow, although he attempts to remain unfazed. "Why is that?"

The Warrior of Light is silent, as he often is. A man of few words, the Miqo'te has always been. So, the Elezen waits, for his friend shall speak eventually in that even, soothing tenor of his. "It would be nice to have some faith for once."

The lord commander of the Temple Knights balls up gauntlet-covered fists upon his knees. "You, of all people, should be no stranger to faith. You are a beacon of it."

"So they say." To Aymeric's surprise, these words are terse and rigid, whispered through teeth that are almost gritted, yet covered with a veneer of cheer. For my sake, the elder realises, wincing silently. When the Elezen offers nothing else beyond his silence, the Warrior of Light eventually continues, "I wish I did still have faith. Once upon a time, I did pray to the Twelve, but… I think I've spent too much time fighting the eikons. Fighting it all. While I am proud to do so, it… weighs heavy, seeing the burden faith places."

The Elezen's jaw clenches, fists balling up tight upon his knees. Faith is a dangerous thing, indeed. No truer words could be spoken- and yet, for an Ishgardian, or perhaps simply for Aymeric, of all people… it does still hurt. Maybe it simply is too close to his own heart. "Faith is fickle when misinformed. Misguided, misplaced," Aymeric breathes.

Although he had spoken in earnest solidarity, the Warrior of Light jumps slightly in his seat, startled back to reality. Regret washes over dark, sombre features, and the Miqo'te turns to Aymeric. "I didn't mean- there is nothing wrong with your peoples' faith in Halone," he hurries out.

"It is fine, my friend-"

The Eorzean champion shakes his head. "No, I'm not saying- I don't know how to put it." A sigh as heavy as Etheirys itself slips forth from his lips. "Your people- along with everyone else- simply ask for solace." Then, his expression grows rueful, weary. "I cannot even blame the beast tribes, or anyone else who summons the primals. Solace is a rarity."

Although the Miqo'te's words seem more than genuine, there is still an edge to his jaw, a twitch in his gloved hands.

Aymeric hesitates to acknowledge the tension, lingering thick in the already-stifling air of Halone's worship. Even the mere thought of pointing it out almost feels… wrong. After all, what can he possibly say that could support the saviour of their star? He had seen the Warrior of Light and the Scions of the Seventh Dawn off, had supported them in their ventures in saving the star and had prayed to Halone and Hydaelyn and to all whom could have listened to save his dearest friend's life in the quest to save all the world. How could Aymeric possibly know just what void the champion of their world had truly witnessed in order to protect them all?

He opens his mouth, only to immediately back back his words as he witnesses the pained, lonely grimace which fills the other man's expression.

Brothers, the fear which swells in his heart is unmatched for a moment- but a wave of calmness conquers that fright. He has not restored calm to Ishgard through hesitation, through timidity. So, he allows his hand to land upon the Miqo'te's own fist gently before either man can even breathe. "And yet, you bring nothing but the answer to their prayers. You restored our peace. Our solace. Do not forget that, my friend."

"It is everyone's prayers who carried me through those battles," the Miqo'te replies softly. "Everyone seems to have their faith in me. It's… it is a blessing, truly. But… I'm just a man."

Aymeric almost scoffs. "You are so much more-"

"No. I'm really not. People always speak as if I'm so much more. What am I, a bloody primal?"

The bitter, grateful, trembling twist of the Miqo'te's lips breaks Aymeric's heart. He has seen this look before- in the halls of de Borel after their meal together, on numerous battlefields, in the wake of conferences and conversations and contests-

Aymeric is sick of seeing this face. Too much has been placed on the Miqo'te's shoulders for far too long. He has known this for far too long, but it has always simply been easier to simply ignore it, to keep to the sidelines and simply encourage the man- to not probe further, lest he reveal what his own heart longs to say.

"You… are a dear friend. Someone who I want to emulate. Your mere presence inspires hope in all-" and he snorts, the action drawing a surprised look from the Miqo'te from its lack of dignity, "-would that I could do the same."

And suddenly, the shorter man's tension begins to ease, his ears relaxing against his short, violet-tinged chestnut hair hanging over emerald eyes. The hand underneath Aymeric's own releases from a fist, the pent-up fatigue and stress slowly ebbing away. It leaves behind a weary, yet amused grin, lopsided and rueful and handsome enough to make Aymeric's heart ache, looking at it from the side. "You are plenty inspiring on your own, my friend." When Aymeric attempts to protest, the Warrior of Light insists. "Not many would have been able to win over these people the way you have. Ishgard is not exactly the most forgiving, I've noticed."

To this, all Aymeric can do is squeeze the man's hand tight and lean back in the pew. "For better or for worse, you are not wrong."

"And yet, you've done it."

Immediately, his thoughts fly back to his desk which awaits him in his office, covered in stacks of paperwork and schedules for meetings he knows he must attend. He thinks of the disdains from the clergy, the fear from the other noble houses, the uncertainty in the eyes of the common folk as they try to navigate this new Isghard he is attempting to build- one of peace, one of stability, one of equality. He is nowhere close to this goal. "Not yet," he breathes.

The Warrior of Light laughs. "Your people asked you to return to the House of Lords because they believe in you. That's plenty to be proud of."

I… should be proud? To this, Aymeric's throat seizes, clenching tight, emotion surging over his heart and stinging his eyes in a wave. "Then…"

"Hm?"

"Ishgard believes in me. Will… you not believe in me, too?"

A pause, a sharp inhalation, and a flush covers the Eorzean's face in the blink of an eye. It feels like an eternity to Aymeric, the delicate pink staining the other man's nose and cheeks underneath umber skin carving itself into his heart. "I-"

It takes a moment to fight down his urge to splutter, to blush, to flee, as his own heart yearns to do. "You said you wanted faith in something," Aymeric breathes after a moment. "I cannot promise you solace, but… I will continue to work for a better Ishgard. That, I can give."

The Warrior of Light's eyes no longer look up at Halone. They gaze squarely up at Aymeric, full of an emotion the Elezen dare not identify.

Softly, Aymeric sighs. "I am just a man, too. But… if I could offer some respite, please know that I will do so without a moment's hesitation."

Muscled shoulders tremble with emotion. "Haurchefant said the same thing to me, you know. Many moons ago." Looking back up at the largest statue above the altar, the Warrior whispers, "He kept that promise, through life and beyond."

Hearing his old friend's name, Aymeric's throat tightens once more. "...I'm glad. And not surprised. If anyone belongs in the halls of the Fury, it is he."

He knows, after, just how Haurchefant looked at the Warrior of Light. Perhaps he knows more than the Miqo'te himself. "Upon his grave, I swore that I would do what he did so nobly- shelter you from the storm till breath expires."

Silence. No longer is it tense.

"...it's a beautiful cathedral, is it not?"

The light shimmers through the stained glass still, illuminating the visage of the Fury lining the hall. "It is," he intones, gentle, careful.

The hand under his trembles, and for one moment, the warrior's shoulders shake with such a painful smallness-

He clears his throat. The hand stills, then shifts, turning so that the man's own gauntleted palm curls comfortably in Aymeric's own. The Warrior of Light confesses, "It's so quiet here. I thought it would be busier."

"I know that it has been quieter since the end of the Dragonsong." Aymeric lets out a shaky breath, finding no bitter taste upon his tongue as he utters these next words. "They still need their faith, at least. So, thank you for helping protect this home for the children of Halone."

He receives a smile in response, and suddenly, Aymeric finds that he cannot breathe as the Miqo'te's expression softens, wry and teasing. "I know not of what Halone thinks of me after our battle… but I'm glad to offer my sword alongside you, Ser Aymeric."

'Our' battle? Pale eyes widen in stunned silence. He cannot mean- has he fought Halone-?

Aymeric pushes down the thought, the incredulous wonder which bubbles up. Does he want to know? Yes- Brothers, he longs to know everything about the Warrior of Light who sits by his side so comfortingly. At this moment, however, he does not need to know. So, he smiles, relishing in the warmth of the Warrior of Light's presence by his side, steadfast and lovely. "I could ask for nothing more, my friend."

When the sun finally begins to fade, and footsteps through the back of the cathedral grow as to indicate the oncoming beginning of evening mass for those who still pray to the Fury and her hallowed halls, Aymeric helps the Warrior of Light to his feet. Together, the two men slowly step out into the brisk evening air. They smile. Scents from the Jeweled Crozier's food stalls drift into their noses, and Aymeric offers a meal. "I feel like you might prefer something less formal," Aymeric offers when silently probed by emerald eyes. "I've got you."

Those eyes soften, and the Warrior of Light grins, and the two take a moment to silently come to terms with everything they have been through- alone, and together. "That would be nice."

So, off to dinner they go. And, for the first time in many moons, Aymeric does not shrink from Halone's eyes upon his back as they set forth. He has a feeling, strangely enough, that she will appreciate his warmth to the Miqo'te- although, he will have to get that explanation another time, it seems.

They have time. With that realisation, Aymeric finds himself short of breath. Perhaps… perhaps this is what he has wanted all along- time, and solace.

Looking at the Miqo'te, Aymeric's smile widens. He has both now, it seems. By the Fury's blessing.