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Chapter Text

The last thing Guydelot expected upon receiving a missive from Bowlord Mourechaux was an honest-to-Gods assignment, sealed with a Quiver's Hold stamp and everything. No, Guydelot was used to being cycled between posts throughout the Shroud and given the dullest duties possible. His comrades got the exciting ones and he didn’t envy them at all. Dull duties meant he was left to his own devices, more often than not. As long as he kept his mouth shut whilst on watch, he could whittle away the time elsewise. His favorite posts were the South Shroud, where he could bother Jehantel, and here at Hawthorne's Hut in the East, where the moogles were glad to listen to him practice the harp.

Pukno Poki peered over his shoulder. "A letter, kupo? They want to yell at you again?"

"Aye, probably," Guydelot replied as he cracked the seal. "That's what they tend to do."

It read:

The Twin Adder has requested assistance in finding the origins of a "Ballad of Oblivion" and requires a bard on the expedition. Bowlord Lewin has approved this endeavor. As a trial, Captain Smyth will first need your assistance to rid the area around Amarissaix's Spire of treants immediately. Upon success, you're assigned to accompany him. Report back on any progress asap so you can be recalled if necessary.

Guydelot groaned. "The damn treants again, the man will never let it go. He wants to send me on some wild dodo chase for the Twin Adder but no, first kill some treants." Guydelot stuffed the paper in a pocket. "What a bloody bother. I hope he botches the trial."

He left the clearing behind the Hut to find the site commander. In the tent, he showed her his new orders. "Hm," she said, like she already knew, "Captain Smyth came through the aetheryte just a few ago, and he did not look pretty." Her Miqo'te ears twitched in amusement. "Have fun out there, Thildonnet."

Pukno Poki trailed behind him as he set out. "Captain Smyth? I think that's Sanson, kupo! I met him through Jehantel!"

"A bard in the Twin Adder?" Guydelot laughed.

"No, no, but he's smart and loves songs. That's why Jehantel likes him!"

Guydelot smacked down the stab of jealousy that went through him. First, Pukno gave the only Bard's charm to the Warrior of Light, which was fair enough. But now there was some high and mighty lancer who thought he knew better than an actual bard?

"That's a load of bullshite," he said to himself, but Pukno Poki caught it and gave him a horrified look that was hilarious on their fuzzy little moogle face.

Sure enough, as he came to Amarissaix's Spire, he saw a man in Twin Adder golden yellow being helped to his feet by a tall Elezen as several treant corpses dissipated nearby. He also saw one final treant emerge from the bushes and leap forward.

Guydelot let a barrage fly, striking the treant in the weak point behind the eyes. He'd killed enough treants at this point to do it in his sleep. Bowlord Mourechaux kept him in the Gold Bulls for a reason, and it was that he could leverage Jehantel's legacy on more than the musical front. He was a damn good shot, and it drove the Bowlord up the wall.

The Elezen man turned in surprise. Guydelot registered the harp and bow on his back -- this was the godsdamned Warrior of Light. Excitement surged through Guydelot. If he would be on the mission as well...

He'd not even introduced himself when Jehantel came running in, red in the face from exertion. "Guydelot! What is the meaning of this interference? They were in the midst of a trial, for gods' sake!"

"Don't have a fit, old man. It's not good for your heart." Aye, there was the familiar gleam in the man's eyes that said he was amused, followed by an eyeroll. Seemed no one told Jehantel which bard they were sending along after them. The Bowlord was such a petty beast.

Once that was sorted out -- no thanks to Pukno Poki's revealing how dreadful Guydelot thought the whole affair was -- the Warrior of Light looked Guydelot up and down, from his grin to his boots, and shot Jehantel an uplifted eyebrow.

"Well, things have certainly taken an interesting turn," Jehantel admitted. "Know that Guydelot is among my most promising students. I can vouch for his ability."

That made Guydelot stand a little straighter, even if he let his grin get a little more cocky. Pukno was the one who brought Guydelot to Jehantel, after finding him practicing flute while wandering the East Shroud. The moogle's enthusiasm for all things musical was hard to resist, and he found himself learning verse and technique from Jehantel with a focus he'd not had since he'd been determined to join the Gods' Quiver. This round was faring better, at least. As little as he cared for authority, he still didn't want to let the old man down.

"Ability, aye, but naught else."

Guydelot actually started. He'd forgotten the Twin Adder Captain was there at all. As the man turned around to scold him about his reputation as if Guydelot hadn't done it on purpose, Guydelot took him in. Tall for a Midlander Hyur, that abominable hat of the Twin Adder uniform half-hiding his face, silvery-brown hair pulled into a neat tail, a build more compact than the usual lancer. None of it surprised Guydelot in the slightest. A gil a dozen in the Grand Company.

Captain Sanson Smyth.

Oh, Twelve forfend, this was that bastard?

Guydelot had been intrigued by the rumors at first. A gifted lancer shooting through the ranks to Captain in the years after the Calamity, with an air of command that extended to his private life. At least one of the Gods' Quiver claimed to have gone to bed with him. She swore up and down whilst tipsy on ale the rumor was true, hand to Nophica. Guydelot had decided then he wasn't impressed.

Looking at this painfully average man now, he was even less so.

The Captain was wagging an accusatory finger now. "That they sent the likes of you means they want me to fail! My hopes of finding the Ballad of Oblivion... All up in smoke..."

He truly didn't give a damn about this Ballad business, but if it served to piss off Bowlord Mourechaux by succeeding and give him the opportunity to knock Captain Smyth down a peg or two, by gods he'd take it. Traveling with the Warrior of Light besides.

"Jehantel, do we really have to travel with this pompous prat?" Guydelot insisted, just to see Captain Smyth's face go beet-red in anger.

" Without me, you say? Who do you think is the driving force behind the expedition?"

The resulting glaring match was not one Guydelot knew how to back down from. It was just as well that Captain Smyth threw his arms out after a few moments. "I suppose beggars can't be choosers." He shook his head and entreated the Warrior of Light to meet him back at Quiver's Hold, which was sure to be a spectacle not to be missed, so Guydelot trailed after.

Captain Smyth went straight to the aetheryte to teleport back to Gridania safely, and Guydelot went to his bunk to gather his few belongings. Pukno fretted the entire way.

"I thought you two would like each other, kupo! You both love songs so much, and Sanson is determined to bring back bards, he's been trying for moons . And Jehantel talks so much about both of you. Oh how disappointed he must be!"

"Bugger him then," Guydelot snapped as he shoved his spare boots into his bag, "I'd be pleased if you didn't lump me in with the likes of Captain Smyth. "

Pukno's little wings fluttered in hurt. Guydelot felt guilty immediately. "There's no lumping, kupo. You're both good men."

Guydelot fastened his bag shut and turned to them with a sigh. "Thank you, Pukno. I shouldn't have snapped. Apologies."

They nodded, hurt forgotten. "You'll learn so much! Jehantel will be so proud! Send word if anything exciting happens, kupo. I want to hear all your stories."

He bid Pukno goodbye at the aetheryte after promising he would keep them and Jehantel appraised. Then he whisked off to Gridania, praying to any of the Twelve that were listening that the trip would be uneventful and over very soon.

Ishgard was bloody cold. It wasn't fair that a place with skies so clear and wind so crisp would be downright frigid. Not unlike his traveling companion. Guydelot eyed Captain Smyth next to him as they stood at the aetheryte. The infernal man was thumbing through his ever-present journal, looking none the worse for the cold. He'd traded his Twin Adder uniform for a fur-lined heavy coat and sleek leather gloves, now clutching a feather quill.

"Saint Valeroyant's Forum," he muttered, then looked up at Guydelot and the Warrior of Light. "The Congregation of Our Knights Most Heavenly have graciously allowed us the use of their barracks for the duration. I trust you can be found at House Fortemps, if need be?" This to the Warrior of Light, who nodded.

"What a mouthful," Guydelot muttered, wishing he had a collar to turn up.

The Warrior of Light shrugged. "The Congregation, most call it. I have friends there."

Of course he did. Guydelot tried not to feel envious of the man -- his circumstances were dire enough already. But he had been to all corners of Eorzea, and was in fact the sole reason they were standing in the Holy See itself. Beyond one visit to Ul'dah and the Gold Saucer upon reaching his majority, Guydelot had scarce reason to leave the Twelveswood. One of the many disappointments he'd found on joining the Gods' Quiver. One had to climb too many ranks before the privileges of travel were granted. Ranks like, say, Captain. Guydelot couldn't get over how oblivious Captain Smyth was to everything but his goal. In another man, Guydelot might have found it admirable, but mostly it made him feel like a coeurl being pet backward.

One argument and a declaration of intent to carouse later, Guydelot was wandering the majestic city on his own. While he did intend to find a tavern of appropriate seediness, he followed signs that pointed to a market. The Jeweled Crozier , a name fancy enough that Guydelot hoped the gil in his pocket would cover the cost of a decent hat and scarf. Thank the Twelve, the place had an aethernet shard, so he at least wouldn't need to trudge from the aetheryte when he inevitably needed to come back.

Where to start... Guydelot spotted a pretty, middle-aged Hyur woman standing behind a brazier. Her eyes were sharp on any passerby, tracking every errand boy and well-dressed lady. As he watched, one errand boy ran up to her, pulling a piece of paper from his pocket. She tucked it into her sleeve as she handed him a few coins. Master of the markets, no doubt.

"Thank you, Mistress Elaisse," the boy said as Guydelot approached, and headed straight for the aethernet shard. Mistress Elaisse pulled the missive from her sleeve and unfolded it, eyes taking in the message quickly. She tucked it back again before acknowledging Guydelot's presence.

"Good day," she said, "Come to warm your hands?"

"Aye," Guydelot said, already doing just that, "And hoping for a decent scarf and hat besides. This is your market?"

She nodded, taking him in. "Forgive me for assuming from your attire, but I take it this is your first visit to Ishgard?"

Guydelot gave a stately bow, getting the smile he hoped for. "Guydelot Thildonnet of Gridania, madam. Freshly arrived this morning."

She curtsied. "Elaisse." As she straightened, she asked, "As a guest of House Fortemps?" Guydelot wasn't daft enough to miss her meaning. Refugees?

"Not quite. The Congregation is hosting us as a favor to Gridania's Grand Company, the Twin Adder." Her eyebrow raised. "Historical research, only to be found in Ishgard. I'm a bard, you see. We were once more than entertainers, and the Twin Adder wants to return us to their ranks." It wasn't an outright lie -- there was at least one who did. "As long as I don't freeze to death, first."

Elaisse laughed. "For the hat and scarf, you'll want to see Norlaise there." She pointed to a booth further down. "For a warm meal and a receptive crowd, you'll do best at the Forgotten Knight. Gilbrillont welcomes outsiders, as long as they don't cause any trouble." She gave him a brief, hard stare, and he nodded. He had no desire to cross the woman who oversaw all of Ishgard's markets. "It's in the Forum. You came by the aetheryte? Head northeast from there, across the way from the Congregation. The mulled wine is particularly good."

He gave her another bow and a wink for good measure. "Thank you, madam. Hopefully I will find the markets as lovely and useful as their mistress."

She waved him on. "Let me know if any merchants give you subpar service. I won't see perfectly good foreign coin go to waste."

Guydelot spent a few minutes talking to Norlaise after purchasing a finely lined wool hat that would cover the tips of his ears and a scarf to match. She pointed him to the carvery further down, where he ate a slice of quiche and charmed a free cup of hot spiced cider from the Elezen man behind the counter. Ishgard was gloomy, all too proper and pious, but people were people anywhere -- glad enough to talk about their interests given the chance and a few honest questions. Music, he learned, was largely kept to church services in the form of hymns and prayers. Both choral and instrumental musicians were clerical positions, and thus regulated by the clergy. Their performance outside Mass and the occasional local festival were frowned upon. Folk music was exactly that -- something entertaining only to the lowborn. Not that it stopped others from enjoying it. His charmed carvery attendant asked for a Gridanian song. Guydelot obliged, and there were a few other market-goers to give a polite clap at the end. One or two more, and he'd been promised a free serving of stew next time he came by the carvery proprietor. A passerby purchased him a second cup of cider to keep him warm on the walk.

Guydelot set off for the Forum, both heartened and disturbed. A people deprived of joy through music was not something he'd hope to discover here. He was no political scholar, but that couldn't bode well for the state of a nation embroiled in a thousand years of war. That was something Jehantel had drilled into him from the first -- song borne from a desire to elevate one's self did nothing to redress the balance of the world. Songs to delight, to entice, to draw out the vital connection to one another, those were the songs worth a performance. Songs to unite, to drive the determination to live in the face of death -- those were the battlesongs of a true bard. A fervent desire to aid those around you was the greatest source of song.

What, then, would become of a nation driven only to sing from worship of war, from obedience and death? What sort of desires would stir in the heart of a people who knew not how to sing for the sheer pleasure of it?

As he saw the sign for the Forgotten Knight, he briefly wondered if Captain Smyth would have any insight. Bah, of course he wouldn't -- he'd open a book and look for some other bloke's answer, if he could be bothered. He probably had his face stuck in one now, ignoring the entirety of the rest of the city. If he wanted knowledge, he was looking in the wrong places for it.

The Forgotten Knight was blessedly warm, with laughter and the clinking of mugs and silverware rising up to the tall landing at the entrance. Guydelot felt immensely more at ease as soon as the door shut behind him. Now this was a familiar atmosphere. He made his way down the stairs and to the bar counter. A bearded Elezen man gave him a once over and said, "What're you having, stranger?"

"Elaisse recommended the mulled wine."

His face relaxed at that. "Mistress sent you my way from the market, I take it?" Guydelot nodded. "She always knows the score, that one. I'm Gilbrillont. Eorzean, are you? You're welcome here, and not alone either."

He pointed his chin over Guydelot's shoulder, who turned to see a Lalafell woman chattering to a tableful of people, her arms over her head as she bounced with excitement. One of the asylumed Scions -- Guydelot would have to introduce himself. But Gilbrillont wasn't done with him. He slid a mug of warmed wine to Guydelot as he pointed to his back. "If you're thinking of busking here, stop. I won't have my patrons part with more coin than they're already willing. If you're wanting to scam the rich, do it in the Forum. Although keep to Foundation, or your harp and maybe more'll get snatched for the glory of the Fury. The Heavens' Ward don't take to foreigners these days."

Guydelot wrapped his fingers around the mug gratefully. "Aye aye, sir. If my fingers thaw, might I play for the pleasure of it? I'm not here to gather coin. I'm Guydelot, by the way."

Gilbrillont looked past him at the Lalafell once more. "Aye, you may, long as no one starts looking too annoyed. Might introduce yourself to your countryman as well."

"That I will." Guydelot took a sip of wine. Dear gods. "That's fantastic."

"Best you'll ever find in the Sea of Clouds," the barkeep said with a smile, and Guydelot decided he quite liked him. "Keep your wits, bard, you'll need 'em."

With that dismissal, Guydelot wandered away from the bar and took in the establishment. Warm wood walls and floor, comfortable and sturdy chairs and tables, easy to wipe down. The fireplace looked as if it had never stopped blazing. The people were the armored sort Guydelot took to be Knights and folk in plain, high-necked commoner clothes. A suitable mix.

But first, the Lalafell lady. Guydelot had a feeling she'd already done the work he'd been meaning to do, and he was happy to mooch. He sat nearby and waited for her conversation to wind down, catching her eye when she turned from the table.

"Hello, milady. I thought it wise to introduce myself."

She beelined straight toward him. "Ooo that's a Gridanian accent if I ever heard one!" She boosted herself onto the chair next to him, swearing about the lack of Lalafell accommodation in the city, and leaned her arm on the table. It put the lip of it right about in her armpit. "Tell me any news you have. I've been starving for weeks."

Tataru Taru was a delight. Absolutely savvy in addition to her cheerful smile and lovely violet eyes, she knew who he was and what he was doing here immediately. "He said there were two of you," she frowned as she glanced around, like he was hiding another Eorzean from her out of spite.

"Aye, Captain's not the tavern type," Guydelot said, with no idea if it was true. If the rumors about him were to be believed, it could be a complete lie. "His mistake." He took a drink from his wine. 

Tataru beamed. "Good, isn't it? I convinced Gilbrillont to start making it in larger batches. The Knights love it after a long cold watch."

Guydelot spent the next few bells at The Forgotten Knight. First, fulfilling Tataru's thirst for news as best he could, then playing some of her favorite songs. It drew a crowd quickly. Gilbrillont kept an eye on him, only relaxing once he saw Guydelot outright refuse some coin. "Takes the fun out of it," he explained, "I'd rather you buy another round and stay for another song."

By the time he stumbled lightly into the Congregation barracks, belly full and a buzz from wine, it was past dark. Captain Smyth practically hissed when he saw him. "Where have you been!" He took Guydelot by the elbow and steered him into a tiny room not much more than a desk and a set of bunks. "We've been here not a full day and you've already made me look like a madman."

Guydelot slumped onto the lower bunk, playing at being far more drunk than he was. "Told you, getting to know the locals."

"Twelve preserve me," he put a hand over his face and shook his head like the prim aunties Guydelot was used to back home. "If you cause a scandal, I'll send you right back to the Gods' Quiver even if it means I do this all on my own."

"Would you, Captain?" Guydelot kicked his boots off and leaned onto an elbow. "And disappoint your superiors?"

He stared as if he had no idea what to make of that sentence, then frowned. "Yes, as I said. And you might as well call me Sanson, at this point. You're not of the Twin Adder after all."

Oh, he couldn’t tell it was an insult. Charming. But then he went on, "Did you eat supper? I'd hate to bother the kitchens for a meal, but I will if you promise to keep mealtimes going forward."

Maybe he was a bit more tipsy than he thought, because it made him laugh. Captain Smyth -- Sanson? -- only frowned deeper. "Stand down, I can take care of m'self. I'm no wilting wildflower."

The man's face . "I suppose not." He stood awkwardly for a second as Guydelot watched, amused. "Privy and showers are down the hall, fourth doorway to the left. Mess is beyond the arch at the end." He scooped what looked like bedclothes from a standard issue duffel and turned toward the door. "Breakfast starts at fifth bell."

"Aye aye Cap'n," Guydelot said with his worst Lominsan accent, stifling a yawn and turning toward the wall.

He heard a small, affronted noise behind him, then the door nicking shut. If only he could play the drunkard the whole journey. Sanson seemed torn between the urges to scold and to coddle. He was probably an insufferable mother hen type to the soldiers he oversaw, clucking to keep them in line. It wouldn't hold for Guydelot -- it had been tried on him before. He proudly chafed under all guises of authority; he wasn't picky.

He laughed at himself. Maybe there could be a spot of fun amidst the gloom of Ishgard.

Sanson had not been prepared for an onslaught of handsome Ishgardian Knights. First, there was the brightness of Ser Haurchefant when they stopped over at Camp Dragonhead on the way to Ishgard. Both he and the Warrior of Light made themselves scarce that evening, only for their matching black chocobos to not be more than an arm's span apart on the ride to the Gates of Judgment the next morning. Sanson wasn't much of a romantic, but it was gravely obvious the comfort they took in the other's presence, and he was glad of it.

Upon reaching the Congregation, he'd been introduced to Ser Lucia and Ser Handeloup, first and second commanders respectively, and began to wonder if it was a prerequisite to Knighthood. Lucia was statuesque for a Hyur, nearly as tall as her Elezen counterpart, with brilliant blond hair and delicate features. Handeloup had intelligent eyes and a full mouth that became a wide smile, a combination Sanson knew to be a personal weakness. At this rate, Lord Commander Ser Aymeric must be downright ethereal.

But Sanson was here on a mission, and refused to be distracted. Guydelot had since vanished into the clutches of the city, and the Warrior of Light off to House Fortemps with Ser Haurchefant. It was up to him to make a fine first impression of the Twin Adder to Ishgard's Temple Knights. Ser Handeloup instructed a squire to tour Sanson through the housing unit and to the quarters he was to share with Guydelot, if he ever resurfaced. There, he gathered his folio and journal, pulling his inkpot and spare quill from his bag to a gently cleared throat from the squire.

"If you will, m'lord," she said, "Writing tools will be provided."

Sanson set them down on the tiny desk and followed the squire back to the Congregation proper. Ser Handeloup beckoned them over, looking pleased. "Are you a man of letters, Captain?" he asked as he led them down a stone hallway, "You'll quite enjoy this, I believe. Your friend the Warrior of Light requested we give you access. As they don't get many curious visitors, our librarians will be delighted to guide you to any information you seek."

At that, the squire held open a carved door to the most magnificent library Sanson had ever seen. The shelves were thrice the height of an Elezen man, with a brass rail around the tops on which ladders hung. At a glance, there were bound books, tomestones, and scrolls that appeared to be of Allagan and Hingan origin. Wide desks scattered down the middle of the room, staggered apart at measured distances so that one wouldn't disturb the research of their neighbors. Berobed clerks bustled amongst all of it, fetching and sorting materials into marked crates. Gridania had libraries and records, to be sure, but none quite as vast and organized. Even the Wood Wailers, with their history as long as the nation's, mostly held loosely bound logs of day to day activity. Sanson managed to keep his jaw off the floor, but it was a trial.

His face must have shown it, though, because Ser Handeloup gave a chuckle. "Welcome to the library of The Congregation of Our Knights Most Heavenly, Captain Smyth. The majority of Ishgard's military history resides here, along with a wide selection of literature, poetry, memoir, and score. Regrettably, the church histories and the remaining military records reside at The Vault, inaccessible to those outside the clergy. I hope it will suffice."

"It will," Sanson said. "Oh, this is astounding."

"You will be required to leave any weaponry with a librarian," Handeloup gestured, "To prevent any inadvertent damage to materials. I hope you understand?"

"Certainly," Sanson lifted his lance from its shoulder holster, but lingered with it in his grasp. It was a constant, comforting weight, so much so that he felt uncannily vulnerable without it in his reach. "Forgive me," he said to Handeloup, "I've rarely parted with it since Carteneau." He went to give it to the waiting librarian, but Handeloup held out a hand.

"May I?" Sanson nodded, and the Knight took it with the care of one familiar. He briefly tested its balance, noting the hand grooves made to custom fit Sanson's reach. "This is a fine weapon to rival our best smithies. Your carpenters made this?"

"My father had it commissioned, since my first lance was all but destroyed in the battle." Sanson turned the lance in Handeloup's hands. "Here, warded for protection by Gridanian Conjurers, who are blessed by the Twelveswood's elementals." Sanson traced the carving with a finger.

Handeloup gave a knowing nod. "All our squires learn the bow, the sword, and the spear. Most dedicate themselves to the sword afterward, as I did," he gestured to his own on his hip, "But those that choose the spear are of a quality unmatched."

He handed Sanson's lance to the librarian, who took it with an apologetic bow and placed it in a rack. "Know that the command of the Temple Knights, including the Lord Commander himself, are of one mind: it is our shame to have not been standing alongside our Eorzean brothers and sisters as the moon fell. It is our wish, with gestures such as this, that we may begin to make up for our absence."

Sanson felt a lump form in his throat. He swallowed around it. "Thank you, Ser Handeloup. I'm honored to receive your hospitality."

The squire was instructed to serve whatever need Sanson required, and an introduction to the librarian was made. "If you require anything I can assist with, Squire Iphine can pass the message. Will your companion be joining you later?"

Guydelot, in a library? Laughable. "He's seeing to other affairs today. I expect his arrival will be this evening."

Handeloup gave a stately bow. "Good day, Captain Smyth."

Within a bell, Sanson was seated at a desk reserved for his use, a starting pile of books to one side. Any materials would remain until he gave them to a clerk or indicated his research was concluded, he was told. Clerks in blue robes would retrieve materials for him and questions not satisfied by their knowledge could be directed to the librarian by the entrance. Sanson felt like he'd been admitted to one of the great academies of Sharlayan. For all that he had scraped and turned in favors to get his hands on equal knowledge back home! The clerk assisting him added one final tome to the stack with a smile. "Do you require anything else, m'lord?"

Sanson unwound the strap from his journal. "Something to write with? I was told I didn't need to bring my own?"

The clerk nodded. "Of course, I'll be right back with a pen. One too many spilled inkpots, you understand." When she returned, she handed him a slender, wooden implement with a pointed tip. "They don't work outside the library wards, so if you could leave it at the desk, please."

He turned it over in his fingers. "If I need more ink?"

She smiled knowingly. "You won't, m'lord."

Wonders would never cease, but she was correct. It was the smoothest writing Sanson had ever done in his life. Not chalky or brittle, like charcoal or graphite, but an unsmearable black ink that he didn't have to wait to dry. They were warded to only function in the library, Sanson suspected, not because of some limitation of the magic, but because they would vanish faster than they could be replaced. He had half a mind to try slipping one out to his rooms just to see. Either way, he'd be begging the librarians for the secret so he could take it back to Gridania somehow.

The day passed quickly as he worked his way through the stack of books, each one only adding more to the list he handed off to a library clerk by suppertime. He returned half a bell later to find several already on his designated desk. He hadn't found any reference to the Ballad yet, and few to any musicians besides. There were many accounts of various battles -- it was beginning to sink in for Sanson what a thousand years of war meant. The size of the library made more sense, now. That there was another library in The Vault, too. It must contain the records of those lost to the Horde; just imagining the list made Sanson nauseated. That was why he was here. If there was any way to prevent his people from suffering due to war, it was his duty to pursue it no matter what.

The library closed not long after he returned, a clerk reassuring him he could return at eighth bell tomorrow. He stretched as he rose, loosening his back from bells hunched over. He'd have to find an exercise yard tomorrow. As much as he wanted to spend all his time in the library, he had to maintain his fitness, too.

Sanson paused at the entry to the Congregation. He asked the Knights stationed at the doors, but Guydelot had yet to return. He checked their rooms, as well. No trace of the bard. Irritation and worry rose side by side. He'd run off without a thought into a city rarely visited by outsiders, Sanson should have expected trouble. It was what Guydelot was known for, after all.

Sanson found his appointed squire and sent her with a message to House Fortemps. Maybe he had found his way there. After she had gone, Sanson began to pace. He had all but forgotten Guydelot. Foolish, considering. He'd have to keep a better eye on him moving forward.

To his embarrassment, two other squires asked if he needed assistance, no doubt unnerved by a stranger pacing a groove into the stone floor. A reply had just arrived -- Guydelot wasn't at House Fortemps, but someone named Tataru had seen him at someplace called the Forgotten Knight -- when in staggered his erstwhile companion. Worry burst into more irritation.

Guydelot smelled like a wine barrel. Once he was safely deposited onto a bunk, Sanson went to the showers. They'd gotten off on the wrong foot, certainly. But Guydelot was not the first and would not be the last soldier under his command that Sanson didn't see eye to eye with. No, it was his responsibility to make sure the mission went smoothly. How else could he convince Twin Adder command to give him a specialized unit? He could handle one unruly bard.

As he scrubbed down, his thumb habitually massaged into the scar tissue at his left shoulder. It was his only wound from Carteneau, thank the Matron. It had taken maddening moons' worth of balancing rest and painful use to get it back to his full range of motion. His left hand still tingled in an uncomfortable way on occasion, which breaking up the scar tissue was supposed to help.

It made him think over his conversation with Ser Handeloup earlier. If the command of the Temple Knights -- the major military force of Ishgard -- favored rejoining the Eorzean Alliance, then it must be the Church that prevented it. Why? The nation was embroiled in its own war, but wouldn't allies be welcome for that? The Ixal had claimed some of Coerthas's Western Highlands, spilled over from the Twelveswood, as well. And the Ixal didn't care for mans' borders -- they crossed into the North Shroud as they pleased. Surely cooperation between city-states would benefit both. Ishgard refused, under the guise of neutrality. In Sanson's opinion, neutrality was as useless as capitulation when the consequence was the death and displacement of innocent civilians. Did the Church truly believe that was the will of Halone the Fury?

It was on that cheery thought that Sanson returned to his room to find Guydelot shirtless and snoring. Of course, he'd snore while drunk. That put off any conversation about tomorrow's plans. Sanson sighed, put out the lamp, and climbed into his own bunk to sleep.

The next morning, Sanson forced a hungover Guydelot from his bunk at half past fifth bell. "I will pour cold water on your head," he warned when Guydelot tried to swat him away, "Get up."

Guydelot finally sat up, hissing when his bare feet hit the cold stone floor. "Dear gods, man, why? The library's not going anywhere."

Sanson gave a smile more than one Twin Adder private had hated seeing. "To the practice yard before breakfast. You may not be Twin Adder, but you're under my supervision, and I'll not have your bow arm lapse while I still have need of it. Besides, you need to sweat out the wine. Come now."

Guydelot blessedly didn't protest. He trudged down to the yard without a word, shivering in the early morning air. "It's freezing, and you want to exercise?"

"You'll warm up soon enough," Sanson replied, and ran them both through the standard Twin Adder warm-up routine. By the end, Guydelot looked murderous, his light eyes wide awake now.

"This is unfair punishment," he complained in short, plumed breaths, "For drinking yesterday."

Sanson, blood thrumming happily, laughed at him. "Are the Gods' Quiver so lax you can't stand to break a sweat? Come on now, Guydelot the Spent, where's your pride?"

"Not near you," Guydelot snarled, but he stalked off to pick up his bow and face the target range. Good.

Sanson found a practice spear and approached a striking dummy. He took a few deep breaths of intense cold and settled into form. He'd done this routine nearly every day since he was seventeen and first joined the Lancer's Guild. There had been rumors of a Grand Company formation then and Sanson was not the only young Gridanian to join a guild in hopes of enlisting when the call came. Years of practice made it less of a workout and more a ritual to harness his focus, to make sure he was fully centered into his body as a tool for his mind to wield. He was calm and capable by the time he finished.

Shaking out his left arm, he turned toward the target range to see Guydelot barely strike the edge of a target. The bard swore and reached for another arrow. Sanson cupped his hand around his mouth and shouted across the yard. "You can do better than that, Quiverman!"

Guydelot shot him a scorching look. "Better than you!"

Now that was a challenge Sanson would take. "Aye, with an arrow. But can you throw a spear?" Sanson spied a rack of short spears nearby and went to retrieve one. As he approached Guydelot, he gestured toward the target. "After you."

Guydelot's eyes shone with anger, but he took a breath and faced the target. A few seconds to take form, another breath, and he let an arrow loose. It struck inside the center ring, not quite a bullseye but a fine shot. Guydelot looked at him smugly.

Sanson resisted the urge to say, Good! and turned to his own target. Ishgardian spears were weighted differently. A metal make, with the shaft wrapped in leather, unlike wooden Gridanian spears. He checked the balance, chose his grip, and did a mock throw to test it. A little more tip-heavy than he was used to, but easy enough to compensate for. He settled in, focused on the target, and threw the spear on his next exhale. It struck just left of the center dot.

Guydelot's face was red with cold and -- Sanson hoped -- shame. He let his irritation show. "I didn't make Captain by sitting on my arse," he said, "If you can't do your job hungover, Quiverman, then don't drink. That's not a request, understand?"

Sanson turned away, content to let Guydelot grapple the humiliation in peace. Ser Lucia and Ser Handeloup were just inside the entry of the yard, and they had undoubtedly witnessed the whole exchange. Handeloup called, "Fine form, Captain!"

"Good morning, Commander!" He called back, and left Guydelot behind as the commanders invited him to breakfast. He heard the thwack-thwack-thwack of a volley of arrows striking a target as he walked away.

The Knight Commanders were a pleasant pair, listening as Sanson explained his goal in depth over pastries and hot coffee.

"And you believe it originated from Ishgard?" Ser Lucia asked.

Sanson nodded. "The Twelveswood moogles don't keep a written history. All their tales are passed down through song and rhyme. One makes a reference to the Ballad singing out across a sea of clouds. I need to find a reliable source, preferably written, before my command will give consent to form a bardic unit."

"The library hasn't yielded that, I take it?" from Handeloup.

Sanson gave the man a grateful smile. "Not for lack of help or effort, no." The eighth bell sounded, and Sanson said, "Ah, that's my cue to return to researching. Thank you for the repast."

"Happy hunting," Ser Handeloup gave him a grin as he excused himself, and Sanson scolded his heart for fluttering.

Several bells later, Sanson's good mood had faded. His efforts were beginning to go in circles. He had a list of Ishgardian musicians who may have been bards, or come close enough to stumble on the Ballad. Unfortunately, any information beyond the most basic facts of their lives was proving harder to unearth. The librarian assured him they would keep looking, but that it might take some time.

It was early afternoon, so he took a break to stretch his legs. He ended up in the Forum, pacing across the cobblestones, and saw a sign he hadn't noticed the day they arrived: The Forgotten Knight. Ah, so the tavern Guydelot had been haunting was very nearby. That assuaged the leftover worry from the night before, but doubled the chagrin from this morning. Perhaps he had been a bit too harsh with the man. Sanson was more dedicated than a number of his colleagues, and he didn't think less of them for it as long as duties were discharged. He just held himself to a higher standard; he had refused to extend that grace to Guydelot since the moment they met. Blast it all.

The Forgotten Knight's door opened onto a wide wooden landing, with the bar proper below. The air was warm and smelled of ale and spices. He could see Guydelot in a chair by the fireplace, harp at the ready. There was a grin on his face that was completely unlike the smug nonchalance he'd quickly grown used to. This one was wide and jovial, right on the edge of laughter as someone called out something Sanson couldn't catch.

"I'm Gridanian, mate," Guydelot retorted, "I don't know that one. Although," here Guydelot leaned forward, elbow to knee, eyes keen on whoever had his attention, "Can you sing it for me? It is a love song, innit?"

Laughter burst out from below, and Guydelot straightened with a wink. "Maybe next time, then?" His fingers settled onto the strings of the harp and began to play. When he opened his mouth to sing, Sanson realized all it would take was a quick glance up and he'd be seen. The thought was unbearable, suddenly, and he stepped back into the corner of the landing, where he wouldn't be obviously visible except by a sliver of the bar. He had yet to hear Guydelot sing; his presence would ruin whatever enjoyment the bard was weaving and he deeply loathed the idea of breaking it.

Instead, Sanson leaned on the wall, earning a baffled glance from the only other patron on the landing, who was leaning on the rail like they lived there. No matter. He just needed to listen for one song to ascertain that Guydelot was an adequate bard. Jehantel had said Guydelot showed great promise, and Sanson didn't doubt it. But trusting and knowing for oneself were different feelings. And Sanson had a desperate need to know that the bard he'd been given was capable enough to trust with the accomplishment Sanson had put moons into achieving. The very thought of disappointment felt like it could break his brittle heart in half.

When Guydelot's melting baritone rose up to meet him, Sanson might have staggered had his shoulders not already been planted to the wall. Jehantel had a tenor tone, clear as a bell to ring across a battlefield, sharp as the tip of an arrow. Sanson hadn't realized he assumed the same of all bards. He certainly had not expected this -- this throaty, rich croon that felt like it was skipping down every knot of his spine. Even as his voice began to climb the scale, it retained a simultaneous quality of warm, smoothed mahogany under his palms and the bright, stubborn burn of the last ember in a fire. There was no discernable break in his register. Higher notes made Sanson's breath quicken in anticipation; when he dipped back down to smoky depths, Sanson shivered all the way to his boots.

When the song ended and Sanson opened his eyes, the beat of pure silence told him all he needed to know about Guydelot's abilities. When he dared lean forward enough to catch a glimpse of Guydelot's face -- eyes gleaming, smile restful and proud -- it felt like his heart would break with an entirely different disappointment.

He could have stayed for another song, listened in on more of Guydelot's banter -- but an all-too-familiar panic filled him. Sanson did the only thing he could think to do: turn tail and flee back into the cold of the Forum.

Chapter Text

The number of times Guydelot was given a dressing down that actually did what it aimed to could be counted on one hand. Unfortunately, Sanson's in the practice yard ticked the list up one.

Guydelot was furious. Furious. How dare Sanson chase him into the yard as punishment at the break of dawn. How dare he clip through a complex lancer's routine like it was child's play, how dare he so efficiently, accurately heft a short spear of foreign design. He had strolled over, confident as he pleased, and laid Guydelot's follies bare with one throw and three cutting sentences. In front of Ishgardian command, nonetheless. He couldn't remember if he'd ever burned with such rage and potent shame.

Guydelot stayed at the target range, arrow after arrow after arrow, until he hit three bull's eyes in a row.

The bell was striking seven when he stumbled into the mess hall and begged a few pieces of toast off a harried cook. It was all he could do to swallow them before collapsing into his bunk once more, worn out from the anger and exercise. Damn Sanson Smyth to all seven hells, he was exhausted . Before he passed out, his final, uncomfortable thought was that he had been warned Captain Smyth was not one to trifle with — just as a lover, not a commander, and the mistake was squarely on his own head.

He woke to the sound of half bell. Almost noon, if he guessed by the angle of light through the high, compact window. Immediately, the morning's humiliation came back to him. He pulled a pillow over his face and groaned. His shoulders and back ached in a way he hadn't felt in ages, he was thirstier than a beast wandering Thanalan desert, and his head pounded like he'd drank far more wine than he had. Unbidden, the harsh words floated through his mind: That's not a request, understand?

To his complete horror, Guydelot felt his prick twitch awake.

Oh no, absolutely not. He was out of his bunk and stripped to his underclothes like he'd been shot from a pistol. He stood in the freezing air and gulped down two cups of icy water before he even acknowledged his treacherous anatomy. He hadn't had a decent fuck in a while, and he woke up in a state like he'd had a good hard night of it already. That was all it was. He needed to shower off the grime from this morning and go flirt with strangers who wanted to hear him sing. Nothing to it.

Thankfully, he was able to do just that. He didn't hear a peep from Sanson all day. He made Tataru giggle and Gilbrillont laugh; he went easier on the mulled wine and ate his meals on the house for the crowd he drew in; he turned down two tavern regulars who invited him home. In short, he had the good time he'd wanted, and when he waltzed back into the barracks at the same late bell as the night before, he was ready to get a rise out of Sanson in triumph.

He got no such thing. 

Instead, Sanson barely looked up from the desk where he was writing in his journal with... something that was not a quill. Guydelot decided not to ask. He changed into his bedclothes without getting a glance. When he laid down in his bunk and strummed some quiet notes on his harp, Sanson's back stiffened ever so slightly. Still, neither man said a word. Guydelot was no worse for it — he'd waited out colder shoulders before. He thought of Pukno's declaration just a few days ago: you're both good men. They could both be petty men as well, it seemed.

Eventually, Sanson closed his journal and wound the strap around it, politely asking if Guydelot minded if he put out the lamp. In the dark, with Sanson settled into the bunk above him, Guydelot tried not to feel whiplashed by disappointment that he couldn't squeeze one final bit of fun from the night.

At half past five, Sanson woke him up.

"Why, you bastard, why?"

An all-too-awake Sanson laughed at him. "I told you, you'll practice decent discipline under my watch. I know you're not practicing your marksmanship all day long, so you'll do it where I can see it. I guaranteed Bowlord Lewin you wouldn't come back worse than you already are."

That got under his skin. "How do you know how I spend my time?"

Sanson looked at him as if he was daft. "Get your boots on and let's go."

Guydelot went, but with a grumble. Once they were in the yard, he ignored Sanson to do his own workout. That seemed to satisfy him well enough. When he turned to the target range, he decided to hit the same goal as the morning before: three bull's eyes in a row. It didn't take nearly as long, since he wasn't blind with rage. Task accomplished, he glanced around the yard to see if Sanson took notice. But Sanson was nowhere to be seen. Damn the man.

Later, at The Forgotten Knight, Guydelot decided it was time to ask around for local music. He was recognized by at least two shifts of Knights now, and both Tataru and Gilbrillont treated him like an old friend. Though he suspected Tataru treated everyone that way. He was fairly certain Gilbrillont wasn't employing her — but she was in and out of the kitchens and behind the bar anyway, passing out drink and food and collecting coin. Even the old Innkeep seemed to defer to her. It was frankly aspirational.

"Lady Tataru," he greeted as she stopped by his perch next to the fireplace.

She swatted him on the knee. "Quit calling me that. I'm as commonborn as you are."

"Merely showing respect to my betters."

"You don't think anyone's your better."

That made him laugh. "In this instance, you are. Have any other musicians played since you've been here?"

She considered. "Not like you, no, with an instrument. Some of the Knights liked to sing when they were tipsy, but I haven't seen that lot for a few weeks now. Sometimes a busker will set up in the Plaza or the Crozier, but Gilbrillont says they're usually chased off by the cold or the Heavens Ward." The last words she spit out with a very dainty disdain.

"Not fans of song, are they?"

"Not fans of anything but their own hides and accusing perfectly innocent people of heresy."

Guydelot had started plucking a scale to check that his harp was in tune, but that stopped him cold. " Heresy? "

Tataru's eyes widened. "They let you into Ishgard without explaining about Heretics?"

In a lowered voice, Tataru gave him his first lesson in Ishgardian political history. No wonder Gilbrillont had warned him so strongly when he showed up. "Sanson and I are just the latest pawns in a very long game between the Temple Knights and the Church, aren't we?"

"You might be," she cautioned, "I think everyone in Coerthas is."

That made him remember his train of thought after he'd been to the Crozier. And here Sanson had gotten chummy with Temple Knight command. He didn't like any of it. "You're sure the Temple Knights are trustworthy?"

Tataru nodded. "Ser Aymeric is as noble as they come."

Noble. Guydelot liked that even less. It was often a synonym for idiot . "I hope you're right."

She looked somber at that. "As do I."

Shite, he was going to have to warn Sanson to tread carefully. That conversation was bound to go well. 

The opportunity for it came too soon for Guydelot's liking. He was finishing up supper when a squire came down the stairs and made her way through the tables toward him. "Captain Smyth requests your presence at the Congregation Library, m'lord."

"Does he now?" Guydelot murmured to himself; he doubted it was a request. "Wait for me at the entrance; I'll be along in a minute."

He was tempted to take his time and make Sanson wait, but there was no use in making the poor squire nervous. Inside the Congregation, the squire led him down a hallway to the library. It was a beautiful spectacle of academia, if Guydelot knew how to appreciate that sort of thing. A very polite librarian requested his bow and quiver before he was more than a few steps inside and, as he gave them over, saw Sanson halfway down the large room, talking to a tall Elezen man in armor. Laughing, actually — Guydelot squinted — with a faint pink to his face. Gods help him, was the man flirting?

Sanson waved him over when he saw Guydelot approach. There was a desk next to him, with a stack of books to either side and two open between them, Sanson's journal in the center. He had clearly been here all day. "Guydelot! This is Ser Handeloup de Daimbaux, Second Commander of the Temple Knights. Ser Handeloup, this is my companion on the mission, Guydelot Thildonnet, archer and bard of the Gods' Quiver."

"Pleased to meet you," the handsome Knight said with a polite bow. "I was just asking after the Captain's research."

"Which I think I've made progress on," Sanson said excitedly, giving the Knight a smile. "But I need a bard to confirm."

"That's what I'm here for," Guydelot replied, dry, and Sanson looked, very briefly, like he'd been slapped. Ser Handeloup glanced between them before excusing himself.

"Appraise me in the morning, Captain?" Sanson nodded. "Good luck, gentlemen."

When Sanson turned to Guydelot, his face was the hardened mask he was used to. "I've a collection of scores for you to play. I suspect the composers may have stumbled upon the powers of a bard and written it into these pieces. If I'm right, it narrows down the field considerably, and I can focus my efforts on finding the writer of the Ballad." He frowned. "You can read a score?"

Guydelot scoffed. "Yes, I can read a score, Captain . I didn't prematurely interrupt your flirtation, hopefully?"

To Guydelot's satisfaction, Sanson opened and closed his mouth before turning pink. "I was not flirting. He's married, I'll have you know!"

"Asked after him, did you?" As Sanson sputtered, Guydelot reached over to pick up the sheaf of scores. "Am I playing for the whole library?"

Sanson sighed. "There's a room for our use across the hall."

Guydelot glanced through the pieces as Sanson led the way. Nothing he wasn't able to sight-read, with the way it appeared traditional Ishgardian composers favored third-and-fifth harmonies. There was a four-part choral piece that piqued his interest. He shuffled it to the top.

Sanson stood with his arms crossed over his chest as Guydelot laid the pieces out on a table. Three of the six he knew immediately were useless. He stacked them and put them aside. "Those aren't worth the trouble," he said when Sanson frowned. He looked over the choral piece again. "This one has promise."

There was a quality to a battlesong, was the best way Guydelot knew how to explain it. When he sang one, everything fell away except the air in his throat and the tip of his arrow. There was no performance — it transcended even his keenest sense of self. From what he understood, it had a similar effect on its listener. He looked at Sanson. "You've felt Jehantel sing?" Sanson gave a curt nod. "You'll know as sure as I do, then."

Guydelot quickly strummed out the melody to get a feel for tempo and then let his voice take it from the beginning. A swirl of almost something, a cluster of notes that whispered of greatness before giving way to being a pretty little melody. Guydelot didn't even play it through before he was shaking his head. He found the other one by the same composer, but it was even emptier than the first. He played the last piece knowing it was a lost cause.

Sanson was stiff as a brick wall the entire time, like if he took a full breath it would be a personal failure. He seemed to take it as one anyway. "One of them has to be right."

Guydelot shook his head again. "They're not and you know it, or we wouldn't be here to begin with."

"It made so much sense," he argued as if Guydelot was at fault, "If the composer is Ishgardian —"

Guydelot didn't want to hear it. "I don't care. This isn't what you're looking for. If you feel the need to waste your time, try this one." He pointed to the choral piece. "Else pull the lance from your arse and try a different route."

Tightly, Sanson said, "It might not be wasting my time if I had some assistance."

Guydelot threw out his arms. "You haven't asked for any."

"Yes, I was waiting to see if you'd bother to volunteer first."

"Sorry to disappoint you."

Sanson shook his head. "I'd need decent expectations to be disappointed."

That was enough. "Are you like this with all your underlings, Captain? Did you belittle your way into the rank? Or am I just lucky that you've done nothing but scold and complain since the Twelveswood?"

"I know your type," Sanson retorted, "Charming and arrogant, you think of nothing but yourself. Are you talented, Guydelot? Absolutely. Does that matter? Not a whit. Why Jehantel even bothers with you—"

"You're envious," Guydelot realized. "I know your type: you stand on rules and proper behavior because you wouldn't have a backbone otherwise. You believe you're so much smarter than the rest of us and that that's why you're liked as little as you are. So you get off on humiliating others and call it having discipline."

Sanson's face lost all color, as if he was about to lose his latest meal. Guydelot felt a sick spike of victory at hitting so close. "Don't you see at all what I'm trying to do? For our home, our people ? Or do those around you matter so little against your selfish ways?"

"You don't know shite about me, mate," Guydelot gave a bitter laugh, "There are actual people you could listen to, but you'd rather read it in a book so you don't have to look them in the face. You'd rather impress that useless Knight and let them take whatever you manage to learn for their own ends, because if they say jump, you ask how high and say thank you."

"That useless Knight has done more to serve others than you could with a thousand harps and a bottomless quiver," Sanson spat out, "I haven't served Gridania for ten years to have the Quiver's laziest mock my efforts to save lives. That's what I'm trying to accomplish here."

When Sanson met his eyes, Guydelot was startled by the wildness there. He was suddenly very glad they'd left their weaponry in the library. "Do you know how to step over the bodies of your fellows to keep fighting, bard? When they had life in them less than a breath before, and the only difference between your fate and theirs was an ilm or two? Do you think your soul so gifted that it wouldn't shatter for the experience? Call me naive, call me foolhardy, I don't care." Sanson punched the air between them, narrowly missing the table's edge. "I don't need to talk to strangers to understand how their lives are ruined by senseless death — I haven't had a decent night's sleep in five years because I already know . So if saying how high keeps one more person out of harm's way the next time the Empire comes calling — and they will — then Twelve help me, that's what I'm going to do." He took a deep breath, clenching his fists at his sides. "And you are less than a coward if you wouldn't do the same."

Guydelot was so shaken that when Sanson pushed past him to the door, he stumbled into the table and nearly fell. He didn't dare look over as the door slammed shut so hard it made his teeth rattle.

He didn't ask to be on this stupid expedition. If Jehantel hadn't had a hand in it, he might have even turned down the orders. He wanted to learn what he could off the Warrior of Light and maybe some of the Ishgardian locals, get back home to Gridania, and never see Sanson again. Not play a minor role in a foreign feud and have his character constantly called into question by one judgmental arsehole. All while freezing his bollocks off, to boot.

He waited long enough to retrieve his bow and quiver to know that Sanson would be fully clear of the area. He marched right back across the Forum, determined to continue the night he'd been having previously. If he was a little off, a little slower to laugh and tease his audience than before, no one pointed it out. He tromped back to the room at the bell he'd been keeping, prepared to get into another argument if necessary.

As with the previous night, he was not expecting what was waiting for him. This time it was an empty room. That didn't bode well.

He added more wood to the constantly-burning fireplace and sat on his bunk with his harp. The choral piece from earlier was still on his mind. He'd love to take it back to Jehantel and see if there was something to be done about the harmonies — perhaps it could be rewritten into a battlesong wieldable by several bards at once? With that thought, he started to pluck out the melody. If he started there...

It had to be more than a bell later when he realized the fire needed more wood. As much as he hated it, he was alarmed by Sanson's continued absence. It was brutally cold once the sun went down. Should he check the rest of the Congregation barracks, or the exercise yard?

Dear gods, he wasn't actually fucking the married Commander, was he?

It was a ridiculous thought, enough that he snorted to himself. Rumors aside, he doubted Sanson could charm his way into a married man's bed that swiftly. Besides, it would endanger his mission. Unless he was being taken advantage of? Several disastrous scenarios that could result came to mind immediately.

Guydelot shook himself. He didn't bear worry well, he knew. And he hated to admit it, but he was worried. Sleep would be short and useless if he tried. For all the annoying things Sanson Smyth was, he was neither stupid or incompetent — wherever he was, he wasn't in immediate danger. Guydelot laid down on his bunk and resolved to do something that didn't come naturally: patiently wait for someone to come to him.

Sanson got as far as the exercise yard before the cold caught up with him. Nearing sundown, the winds came in bitter and hard. He found a practice spear and nearly shattered a striking dummy anyway.

The yard was abandoned, thankfully. He was not thinking of form, or precision, or efficiency. He was caught in a whirlwind of the worst parts of himself, mainly anxiety and anger. An all too potent pair when they came calling. He could never harness them into anything useful , and it grated him. Still, he wailed on the dummy until his hands were blistering and his throat tasted like blood. As his head started to clear, in swept the guilt.

Guydelot wasn't wrong. Sanson hadn't asked for his help but had assumed it. And he was envious, though perhaps not for the exact reasons Guydelot implied. But he couldn't be entirely sorry for his words; Guydelot got under his skin maliciously. The jibes about flirting with Ser Handeloup, the ease he'd had dismissing days of Sanson's research — what Sanson wasn't used to was being unable to ignore it. That made it all the more maddening that Guydelot cared so little for their mission.

But Sanson strived to be a better leader of men than he'd shown himself to be since arriving in Ishgard. The one place he knew to start improving upon it was humility — but he wasn't ready to face Guydelot with that, yet.

He returned inside to find the library door mercifully unlocked. From his desk, he retrieved his journal and pen (now warded to work outside the library, and for him only — one sort he did know how to charm was librarians, from a childhood of voracious reading) and then his lance. The hallway outside was empty; he made himself sit on the cold, uncomfortable floor and write out a list of mistakes he'd made in the last three days. The next page was a list of Guydelot's unacceptable behaviors, so the guilt wouldn't make him forget he was not the only one who'd been vicious in that argument. He paced the long hallway for a while, and sat again to write out his expectations for them both going forward. That seemed a reasonable approach.

Before returning to their shared room, Sanson wrapped arms around his knees and confronted the memory that had bothered him since the day before: Guydelot singing with a voice unlike any Sanson had ever heard, with a smile that he'd never show in Sanson's presence. Both had resurfaced Sanson's deep, unabiding fear of inadequacy. A lifelong feeling, it had only grown since Carteneau, despite all his accomplishments. He never felt like enough . Or rather, sometimes it felt like he was too much . His singular focus on botany as a youth, or learning the lance, or now the military applications of music — very few people seemed to appreciate the strength with which he loved these things. Befriending Jehantel had been such a boon, in that the older man was not only tolerant, but encouraging. Sanson was supported in a way he hadn't achieved with any of his commanders. Now he felt like he wasn't deserving of it; he'd made such a mess of things within such a short amount of time.

Guydelot's ease with people, and his lack of it with Sanson, utterly stung. The Warrior of Light notwithstanding, he wanted someone to match him on the gravity he knew this Ballad of Oblivion could have. He'd hoped a bard — of all people! — would see it. Instead, Guydelot had the talent and the passion, but his conviction was so far lower than Sanson's that he couldn't help but feel he'd once more overshot his way into failure. Since that glimpse in The Forgotten Knight, Sanson flinched at the very idea of hearing Guydelot sing. He knew it was obvious when Guydelot idly played his harp the night before, and when he'd tested the scores Sanson had found. He hated the idea that he'd become even more rigid than Guydelot derided him as. As a protective mechanism, it was pure shite.

The grand clock in the foyer chimed the bell; it was later than Sanson thought. Well, if he needed to eat crow to Guydelot, he'd better do it before the man was asleep. Sanson hoped he was even in the room to have the conversation — he doubted it would be hard for the bard to find somewhere else to spend the night, and with better company besides. It was cold comfort to think that he'd at least always been adequate at this part of fixing his social blunders.

When he entered the room, he saw Guydelot laying on his bunk, hands folded across his ribs, one foot propped on the bedframe and the other bouncing madly where it rested on his knee. It was such a state of agitation that Sanson briefly wondered if he'd been worried. But Guydelot shot upright as soon as the door swung open, a salacious grin landing on his face as his feet thunked on the floor.

"And here I was, thinking you were out having a sordid tryst with Ser Handsome de Whatever," he said easily, then noticed how haggard Sanson looked. "Unless he was very, very bad at it."

Sanson set his journal on the desk and kicked the door shut behind him. "I told you, he's married. I would never."

"Oh for the love of Nophica, I was making a joke," Guydelot said, "You do know how to laugh, I've seen you do it once or twice."

"Maybe I just don't find you very amusing," Sanson said as he unbuttoned his coat. Although, that was not the tone he wanted to set for this conversation. He hung his coat over the desk chair and then straddled it to face Guydelot on the bunks. "Rather, I have a queer sense of humor."

Guydelot looked intrigued. Oh seven hells, he needed to be halted in his tracks before this escalated. "Do you now? I know a bar ditty or two—"

" Guydelot ." That stopped him. "I need to apologize to you."

Whatever mischief he'd been working up to was forgotten now. "What?"

"You were right, earlier," Guydelot opened his mouth so Sanson added, "Mostly right. I didn't think to ask for your help, then thought less of you for it. I apologize."

"Well now —"

"Can I please say my piece before you start running your mouth making fun of me?" Sanson almost laughed, he was so tired. "You were also right that I was — am — envious of you. I find it... difficult to be at ease around most people. I never quite know what I'm supposed to do or say. When someone like you comes along, who seems to find it so natural? If I'm not careful, the envy gets the better of me, and it's unfair. I apologize for that, too."

Guydelot's brows pulled together. "How do you know how I am with people?"

He'd told on himself, godsdamnit. "I went to the Forgotten Knight yesterday, briefly, and heard you sing. I didn't want to interrupt, so I left after I'd heard enough. If you're to be my bard, I had to confirm for myself that you're talented."

Guydelot's sharp brows were all the way up, now. Sanson felt a jolt of panic, trying to think what he'd said wrong already. "If I'm to be your bard?"

"Well, yes," he said with a frown, "If we're successful, you will know the Ballad of Oblivion and I'll have command of the first bardsong unit. We'll continue to work together."

Guydelot groaned, doubling over. "Jehantel tricked me into this."

"No, he didn't. He was surprised you showed up and then sang your praises, and you puffed up like a stuffed dodo. Your ego tricked you into it."

Guydelot shook his head against his knees. "You don't know how to sugarcoat anything, do you?"

Now Sanson was bewildered. "That’s part of the problem, yes."

Guydelot began to laugh. It wasn’t cruel, but it grated nonetheless, until he said through his laughter: "It was a compliment."

That did not help Sanson's confusion. "I'm saying I'm sorry about how I've treated you, and that I want to be able to work together. But that does mean I expect some work on your part."

"Here's the scolding I've been expecting."

Sanson sighed in exasperation. "Do you always make it this hard for people to apologize to you?"

Guydelot sat upright again. "I suppose I do. Checks that they're genuine about it, at least."

"Can you take the olive branch now? There was more I wanted to discuss."

Unexpectedly, Guydelot sobered up. "Aye. I had something as well."

"Like I said, I do have expectations for you. Daily marksmanship practice, to start, where I can verify it for Bowlord Lewin's sake. His approval is key to success and I won't disregard that. If you object to my usual bell then we can come to an agreement, but I expect you to stick to it."

Guydelot rolled his eyes. "Seventh bell."

"Sixth."

"Ugh. Half past sixth?"

"Only because I'll still be in the yard. If you're not there by the time I'm through, I will make good on my previous ice water threat."

"This is a compromise? Fine." Guydelot waved his hand. "What next, taskmaster?"

"I expect you to be generally available for when I need your expertise." Guydelot opened his mouth and Sanson cut him off. "No, I don't expect you to be at my beck and call. But you won't treat this expedition as nothing more than an excuse to drink and wench. If you want to spend your days at the Forgotten Knight with your harp, fine. But you'll stay reasonably sober and you won't vanish into the night without at least warning me. Acceptable?"

Guydelot chewed his lip like he was checking for a trap. "I've been here every night."

"Yes, I recognize your noble sacrifice."

Now he looked like he wanted to stick out his tongue. "What do you consider my expertise?"

Sanson pointed to Guydelot's bow, resting against the bedframe, and his harp, on the blankets. "If I need you to shoot or play. That's all I ask."

"Acceptable, then. And only because I've already decided I like the Forgotten Knight. And you won't show up there unannounced, either." Guydelot pointed at him. "No sneaky shite."

Sanson felt his face heat. "Fine."

They stared at each other a moment before Sanson realized that may have been their first conversation that didn't become an argument. Well, no use wasting the momentum. "What did you want to speak about?"

"Ah, yes," Guydelot said, serious, and told him the tale of the refugee Scions' brush with the Church's highest guard. At least he knew who Tataru was now. It also explained the bard's uncharacteristic grimness.

"It matches up with some of my observations," he told Guydelot, mulling all of it together. "That's how the Warrior of Light came into favor with House Fortemps — he helped vindicate a noble accused of heresy. If the Heaven's Ward is as power hungry as they seem, it stands to reason they wouldn't want interference in keeping the populace complacent through fear. There must be tension within the Temple Knights, as well. But the Scions claim the Lord Commander an ally?" Guydelot nodded. "Then it does not come from their Command — more likely common ranks who fear the Church and believe their excuses for not joining in the Alliance." He drummed his fingers on the back of the chair. "The Church must know by now that the Empire will not stay off their doorstep and that joining the Alliance is the best method to keep them away. That's what troubles me. They can't truly believe it the will of The Fury. I just can't figure out why else they refuse."

Guydelot stared at him as if he was mad. "I'm telling you this so you'll be wary of any ulterior motives of the Temple Knights. Not so you can solve their war and convince them to join an international alliance."

"Two birds with one stone would be nice," Sanson replied, then chuckled at Guydelot's incredulous expression. "No, I don't believe myself capable of that. I'll leave those heroics to the Warrior of Light. But thank you, Guydelot. I'll take it into consideration."

Guydelot looked displeased. "I was hoping for more of a, you're right Guydelot, this is stupid so let's go home ."

"Have you had your fill of Ishgard already?"

"Well if I can't just drink and wench..."

"Hm." Sanson rose from the chair and crossed to his duffel on the tiny dressing table with its cheap mirror. He pulled off his uniform and undershirt together. Before reaching for his nightshirt, he rolled his aching left shoulder a few times. "Not where I can see, at least."

He meant it as a jest, but when he looked up at the mirror, Guydelot was staring again. He often forgot there were Gridanian soldiers young enough to not have seen such things before, and he guessed Guydelot was one. His shoulder wasn't too ugly, but it was still unpleasant. He'd been low in the triage once a field medic controlled the bleeding. A proper healing by an exhausted conjurer had been after a few days of nothing more than being bandaged. Better a few nasty scars, he thought. Sanson reached into his bag and said, "Is it the scarring that bothers you?"

It caught Guydelot off guard, and he floundered. "What? No, I..."

Sanson turned to face him, crossing his arms. "I took a barbed arrow during Carteneau. It didn’t completely penetrate the armor, which is probably why I still have use of the arm. I'm lucky, all considered."

"I'm sorry, I didn’t realize you were there."

"How could you?" Sanson pulled his nightshirt on. "You didn't even know me three days ago."

Silence again, which irritated Sanson. "No, I mean. Earlier tonight. When I implied that you didn’t care about people. I should have guessed you'd been in Carteneau, and known why this mattered to you."

He was genuinely contrite, and it threw Sanson off. Was Guydelot also constantly losing his place in this conversation? It certainly kept changing directions on him. "Thank you," he replied, "It does matter to me. How long have you been in the Quiver?"

Guydelot flopped onto his bunk with a disgruntled noise. "Four very long years."

"Join when you reached majority?"

"Aye. Believed in the heroics and all that. The reality is different. Much more boring."

An understatement in many ways. "So it is." Sanson ran a hand over his face, the day catching up with him. "Mind if I get the lamp?"

It wasn't two minutes into the dark before Guydelot, from the lower bunk, went, "Hey chief?"

That was a new one. "Aye?"

"If you do end up fucking the Knight —"

" Why are you so on about that?" Sanson burst out, only to hear a snort from below. "Godsdamn you."

The snort became a laugh. "I'm done, I promise." A pause. "Until morning, at least."

Sanson grumbled and rolled over, resolved to ignore Guydelot's antics more thoroughly going forward.

Guydelot was regaling Tataru with his favorite tale of Jehantel's — it involved a wild boar tamed by song long enough to help a village construct a water mill and Jehantel being followed by a confused and lovesick boar for three days — when a Knight shouted across the room to her. "Miss Tataru!"

She motioned her arm to bring him over. "Gilbrillont hates when they yell like that, but they never learn. Still, he'd never turn away his fellow commonborn Knights."

The Knight approached, already sorry. "Excuse me, miss. The blokes and I were just talking — you haven't seen Abby lately, have you? Not at the Crozier, either, by chance?"

Tataru frowned. "Now that you mention it, no. And I usually saw her at the Crozier every week or so."

"Just concerned, is all, since she'd been sick right after Alamenain shipped out to Falcon's Nest."

"Don't you worry," she waved at the table of Knights, who had been here every day since Guydelot arrived. End of first shift, Tataru said, always showing up right when Gilbrillont opened the bar. "I've been to her apartments, I can check on her."

"Thank you, Miss Tataru. It'd put us at ease for Alamenain's sake."

She sighed after he returned to his table. "These Knights form little families, it's always a shame when one gets reassigned. Their friend Alamenain got pulled to a unit in Falcon's Nest about a moon ago — you'd have liked him. Sweet man. One of the ones who liked to sing, always got the whole room going. Said his grandfather had been one of the last choral directors before the Church made it clergy only."

That perked Guydelot's interest. "Knew more than a bar ditty or two, then?"

Tataru clasped her hands in front of her chest wistfully. "Aye, and a voice to rival yours. He and Abby — his sweetheart — would sing duets and there wouldn't be a dry eye in the room. She took sick not long after he was reassigned. We all assumed it was heartbreak, since Falcon's Nest isn't a pretty detail to patrol. But if she hasn't even been seen at the markets, well..." Tataru looked serious. "Someone ought to make sure she's all right. I helped her home from the Crozier a few times, while she was too queasy to manage it alone." Tataru hopped down from her chair. "I'd best tell Gilbrillont he's on his own for a bit."

"Mind some company? I'd like to ask her more about Alamenain's songs."

Tataru nodded. "If you don't mind a walk through the Brume."

Ah, the Brume. Guydelot had heard of the portion of the city that connected to the Forgotten Knight's lower steps. A bit on the nose for Ishgard, Guydelot thought, to have the poor live literally lower in the clouds than the rest. He nodded to Tataru.

They were both quiet as they passed through the heart of the Brume. Gridania didn't have an equivalent; poverty tended to group up outside city walls, in the knots of poachers and bandits in the corners of the Twelveswood. Guydelot had seen plenty of it in the Gods' Quiver, but it was the domain of the Wood Wailers — he never got to learn where the young ones ended up once the camps were cleared. He'd asked, when he first joined. Ala Mhigans who wanted to stay close to their homeland, children of poachers who knew no other way to survive — he was told they were taken care of according to the elementals' will, and was supposed to be happy with that. He wasn't. It eventually got him transferred to Bowlord Mourechaux, who outright ignored him.

Tataru must have been having similar thoughts. "I was born in Ul'dah," she said, when they hit the outskirts closer to where Abby lived. "It reminds me of Pearl Lane, and the camps of refugees outside Ul'dah more recently, every time I walk through. So many displaced and disregarded — in Ul'dah, for the crime of being born poor, and the same here in Ishgard, I suppose, but poor of blood instead of gil. I miss Revenant's Toll — no one's hands stay too idle, but no one's needs are entirely ignored, either." She glanced up at him. "Not that adventurers are a more noble lot than the highborn or the Syndicate, mind you, but those types tend not to linger." She gave him a sad smile.

"You must be very homesick," Guydelot said, thinking not for the first time how he would never trade the Twelveswood for Ishgard, unless under very similar circumstances. "To have been forced away like you were."

"And I'm working very, very hard to make sure all the Scions can return. It may not seem like it, with how I spend time at the Forgotten Knight. But I want nothing more and won't rest until it's done — I'm no Warrior of Light, but I'm doing what I can."

"You're doing what he can't," Guydelot replied, "Just like he does what's outside your talents."

"That's very kind of you to say."

Guydelot shrugged. "It's just how the world works, ain't it?"

He had a brief moment to reflect that he was a damned hypocrite, with the way he'd treated Sanson the day before. Their surprisingly candid, if a little confusing, conversation the night before weighed on his mind.

Tataru gave a long-suffering sigh. "Why did the city full of stairs made for Elezen have to be the one offering refuge?" She gave a sly glance at Guydelot. "Not that you'd notice."

He considered the several flights worth that scaled the apartments they'd stopped in front of. "I'd offer my shoulder, but I suspect you'd refuse."

"You're no Rauban, I'm sorry to say." She shrugged. "Let's check on the heartsick maiden."

Guydelot tried to pace himself to Tataru's stair climbing, with little luck. He would go up out of natural hurry, then back down to not leave her behind. It made her laugh. "Just go," she waved him on, "Fourth floor landing."

While he waited, he thought of Sanson, bewilderingly guileless then refreshingly forthright in turns. The unexpected offer of apology, to start. Admitting he'd snuck into the Forgotten Knight to hear Guydelot sing! Being taken unawares by a joke or, gods save him, a compliment. Then he remembered the end of the conversation, and it was his turn to be embarrassed, being caught out like that.

Sanson's scarring had been what caught his attention, but not beyond that. The web of slightly raised, discolored skin in the front of his shoulder could have come from a range of wounds. If Guydelot had had an extra second to reflect on Sanson's years of service, it would be plain it was likely from Carteneau, and he would have glanced away. But Sanson had looked up in the mirror the instant Guydelot's second thought had crossed his mind, which was — embarrassingly! — that he could see why others had fallen for the rumors about him, because Sanson was finely muscled. Guydelot had noticed he was stockier than average, but it hadn't occurred to him what that meant. Mainly that, shirtless, Sanson ticked several boxes on the list of Guydelot's tastes.

Only to be whiplashed into shame for his words in the library, and just as swiftly whiplashed into the knowledge currently bewildering him: plainly Sanson had no awareness there were rumors about his sexual prowess. None whatsoever. In the often petty social politics of the barracks, Guydelot had never encountered a rumor of that nature that wasn't both vastly overexaggerated and spread by the subject themselves. He wasn't too proud to admit he had fallen for more than one and been disappointed every time. Which led him to the opposite conclusion in this case: Sanson Smyth was probably a terribly good lover and had no idea people talked about it.

When that final bit fell, it started to topple all the dominos of conclusions Guydelot had come to about Sanson. It was not the source of his confidence, nor the reason he climbed rank as he did. That meant this expedition wasn't more of the same status-seeking he'd seen so many others attempt, and that Sanson's words in the library were ones he full-heartedly believed. He wanted nothing more from this than the ability to save lives in the wake of war, and he seemed determined to make Guydelot a part of it. Altogether, it shouldn't be that charming. But seven hells if it didn't, deeply and unfortunately, tick another box on that godsdamned list.

Waiting at the fourth floor landing, it occurred to him there was another aspect to this he hadn't considered. The Hawthorne Hut site commander's parting words to him: Have fun out there, Thildonnet .

"Are you blushing, or has the cold finally gotten to you?"

Guydelot started. Tataru had caught up to him, and was giving him a curious look. "Lost in thought."

"About who?" She teased, and then mercifully marched past him down the open air hallway.

Abby was a willowy Elezen with dark, curly hair tied back under a kerchief and warm brown eyes that widened seeing Guydelot at her door. Tataru chirped out a hello and her gaze dropped. Once she'd taken in her diminutive friend, she burst into tears.

"Oh, no, Abby," Tataru rushed forward to take her hand. "My dear, I'm just here to check after your health. Please don't cry."

"I just," she waved her free hand at Guydelot, "Saw an archer at my door and thought... I'm so worried about Alamenain."

Tataru shared an alarmed glance with Guydelot. "This is my friend come to visit from Gridania," she said gently. "Is all not well with Ser Alamenain?"

"Last I heard he was in good health," she said, "it's just that —" she glanced up and down the hallway as it began to dawn on Guydelot was this was about. "Come inside."

Abby insisted on making them tea. The apartments she shared with her widowed mother were threadbare, but clean and well kept. She wiped her face before pouring them mugs of steaming black tea. "I apologize for all that," she took a deep breath and sat on the settee next to Tataru. "Alamenain's been gone a moon and I've only received two letters, the post is so slow. I... haven't been feeling like myself, since he left Ishgard. It was his Nameday last week and I cried the whole day from missing him."

Tataru took her hand again. "The blokes at The Knight asked me to look in after you, since no one had seen you recently. Your friends are a bit worried, but I'm glad to see you're well?"

Abby hesitated, glancing at Guydelot. He hadn't said a word besides a polite introduction, but did his best to radiate trustworthiness. Tataru waved a hand. "Pay him no mind. He'll keep his mouth shut if I tell him to." He nodded.

"You see," Abby said, worrying a teaspoon in her hands, "About the fits of crying and the illness. I'm to have a child, Alamenain's."

Tataru let out a breath and patted her arm. "I suspected that might be the case, after last time I saw you, right green at the gills over nothing. But this is joyous! You'll be starting a family!"

Abby hiccupped, voice wavering. "My mother is so cross with me, to be in this state out of wedlock. She says I'm lucky he's a Knight and will be chivalrous enough to marry me."

"He'll be overjoyed to marry you because he loves you," Tataru said, "All his comrades comment on how much he adores you, and all I've ever heard him say when you're not there is how lucky he feels."

"I haven't told him yet," Abby said softly. "I haven't even sent his Nameday gift, I've been so afraid to tell him. What if someone reads the note? Oh, how I wish I could tell him myself. But there's no telling when he'll be granted leave."

Guydelot spoke up. "I'll bring it to him."

Both women looked at him, surprised.

"I wanted to speak with him myself," Guydelot explained, "Which is why Tataru allowed me to tag along. I'm a bard, and I want to learn a few of Ishgard's old songs if I can. Tataru says he's very talented."

"Oh, he sings with The Fury's own voice," she said with such deep awe it filled Guydelot with envy. "He should be conducting choirs, as his grandfather did. He still has most of his old scores, even." She raised her eyes to Guydelot. "You'd do that for me, a stranger? Falcon's Nest can be unforgiving and dangerous."

"I'm a fine archer," he assured her, "And I hate to see a lady in such distress when you should be celebrating. They'd give leave for a wedding, I hope?" She nodded. "Then I'd be honored to break the news to your groom."

Tears welled in her eyes. "That would be such a kindness."

Tataru patted her again. "I can help you get the license sorted. I know some strings too pull to get it done quickly, so you don't have to worry if you and the baby will be taken care of." She looked at Guydelot with glee. "As long as we get that groom."

"How far is Falcon's Nest?"

"Airship leaves twice a day. The last one..." Abby craned her neck to look at an old chronometer, "Leaves in half a bell."

Guydelot laughed. "I'd better get myself on that airship, then."

He didn't bother returning to the Congregation. He'd slept wild as a teen with less on his back — one overnight in a drafty inn wouldn't harm him any. Before he parted with Tataru, he warned her.

"Be prepared to see a very cross Captain Smyth curse my name. You can tell him where I'm off to, he'll follow tomorrow, I'm sure."

"Should you send a note?"

He should, but he wouldn't. Even though he'd told Sanson he wouldn't do this very thing. It couldn't wait, when there was a family to be made. "No."

He rushed to the airship landing, the last one to board. He'd always liked this sort of adventure — and he already couldn't wait to tell his mother about it. He kicked his feet up for the long flight and grinned to himself.

Odette Thildonnet raised her only child in the backwood of Hyrstmill, where she herself had been raised. But Guydelot was given a fair bit more tolerance for mischief than she'd had, and by design. It drove her own parents mad, the way he'd been allowed to pick up his bow and vanish into the underbrush only to emerge with a brace of rabbits and fresh bruises two days later. Odette had been raised strictly in the village, and as a result followed a mediocre adventurer to Gridania as soon as she'd reached majority and came home again, less than two years later, with a brand new baby, no husband, and no regrets.

He never felt a lack, being raised without a father. While not unusual for Gridania, it was more frowned upon in the outskirts of the Shroud. Guydelot and his mother were thick as thieves and despite their disapproval, his grandparents loved them both. The whole village was like that — families made up of multiple generations that would never leave Hyrstmill if they could help it.

The fact that he was a fool for a love story like Abby and Alamenain's was also his mother's fault. When he'd been born, Odette decided to write her childhood penpal in La Noscea that she'd fallen out of touch with. Nothing came of it until Guydelot was six, when Gold Spire finally replied. His mother was overjoyed, and their correspondence picked up as if it had never stopped. Gold Spire, it turned out, had gone on Limsa to become a Scholar and his mother's letter waited at her home village of Swiftperch for all those years. When he was eight, Gold Spire made the trip to finally meet her Gridanian friend — and mere moons after that, returned again to bond to her. Oh, it started out rough, with his bursts of jealousy over his mother's attentions and proud pronouncements that he didn't need a stepmother like he hadn't needed a father. But Gold Spire was patient and jovial, and above all made his mother very happy. Soon enough, she was part of Guydelot's life — and indeed, the whole village's — like she'd always been there.

Guydelot knew how family could be found, and if Ishgard required a marriage license for it, so be it. But he was truly looking forward to Ser Alamenain's face when he received the news, for he had a feeling this child was not unlike himself, unpredicted but entirely welcome. He still wanted to scour the Knight's knowledge for a new song or two, and yes, any potential lead on the Ballad of Oblivion as well. He'd return to Ishgard with his private joy and a good excuse for Sanson. What had he said the night before, two birds with one stone? Guydelot knew how to throw a rock or two of his own.

Chapter Text

They were not a week in Ishgard before disaster struck in the form of Guydelot's ego. Sanson knew in the pit of his stomach it was inevitable, despite his attempts to compromise to the bard's liking. Guydelot hadn't even gone a day — one godsdamned day! — before doing something Sanson had explicitly asked him not to. He'd let him explain himself this one time, but if it wasn't to Sanson's satisfaction, he was making good on his threat and sending him back to Gridania without regret.

Sanson had found more scores from the same composer, earlier ones from before she'd started composing solely for The Holy See. She had a frequent collaborator, as well. As far as Sanson could tell, he'd never bent knee to the Church, and had been exiled. To where and for what, he was still waiting to find out. If these scores did turn out to be a bust, he'd refocus his efforts. At the time, from their conversation the night before, Sanson had thought he might even be able to convince Guydelot to help. He knew he never should have gotten his hopes up now.

He'd sent Squire Iphine to ask Guydelot to meet him in the same room as before. He'd hardly gotten there himself when she returned, grim. "I apologize, m'lord, but he's not present."

"Not present? Did anyone know where he went?" He held up a hand before she could answer. "No matter, that's not your concern. Thank you, Squire, that's all I need for now."

She bowed and left. Sanson gave himself a moment to seethe. He gathered himself, determined to not think the worst, before tidying his desk in the library and retrieving his lance. He'd go across the Forum to see what this was about. Guydelot couldn't fault him — he could hardly warn the bard if he wasn't even there.

It was so much worse than he imagined.

"You're Captain Smyth, I assume?" A Lalafell woman asked him once he'd hit the bottom of the stairs. She could only be the Scion Tataru. "Guydelot said you'd come asking after him."

"And where is he?" Sanson asked tightly, then caught himself. "Pray pardon me." He introduced himself properly, knowing none of this could be her fault. Nothing could control Guydelot Thildonnet, probably not even himself, Sanson was starting to believe.

"He took the airship to Falcon's Nest this afternoon," Tataru explained. "To see my friend Abby's beau. He's a wonderful singer, you see, and Guydelot had questions."

Questions? Probably more like a challenge to salve his pride. "He couldn't wait until this beau returned?"

"Alamenain is stationed there presently," she said, and Sanson's patience shattered.

"He's a Knight? " Tataru nodded. Sanson swore. "Excuse me, miss. That's not directed at you. I asked Guydelot to report to me if he needed to —" Sanson waved a hand, because saying fuck a stranger would be uncouth, "Leave the immediate areas. I did not expect he'd go so far as to board an airship without informing me. Thank you for the information."

As he turned to go, she said, "Captain, wait." He paused and she went on, "Don't be too harsh with him. He's got a good heart." He nodded to be polite. If Guydelot had a good heart, he was certainly holding it in reserve from Sanson's benefit, which made her statement sting all the more. "Why don't you have a seat, try the mulled wine? Guydelot's fine for the night, there's no need to worry."

Sanson took in the main floor of the tavern. It was stuffy, as Ishgard interiors tended to be, but thick with the scent of spilled wine and ale. Tables clustered together. As he watched, no one seemed to mind brushing against other people to move between them. Already on the edge of overwhelmed, he flinched. "Thank you, Miss Tataru, but I must decline. I have matters I must attend to if I'm to head to Falcon's Nest in the morning." It was a lie, but at least it was a polite one.

She considered him, a look in her eyes that told Sanson he was being seen through like a pane of glass. "That's all right, Captain Smyth. Safe travels, and please, keep in mind what I said about Guydelot."

He nodded and escaped the infernally close atmosphere. Back at the Congregation, he found Iphine once more and asked two things: what time the first ship to Falcon's Nest left the next day, and to carry a message to House Fortemps requesting the Warrior of Light meet him at the aetheryte the bell before then. When she returned with his affirmation, he told her, "Dismissed for the night, Squire. I will let Ser Handeloup know in the morning that I'm departing for a short while. Your assistance has been greatly appreciated and I will let him know that as well."

She gave him a deep bow and a thanks, before scampering off toward the mess hall. He watched her go, suddenly very tired. Tired of corralling the bard, tired of the cold, tired of going through tome after tome to hit dead ends. Tired of not being able to accept a simple invitation to have a mug of wine in a tavern, and very tired of being so alien to those around him. Tataru had been kind and clearly intelligent, the exact kind of person he'd be glad to befriend. If only his capabilities weren't so limited in that regard.

The first airship left the docks at an early enough bell to excuse Sanson from any further interactions. He retreated to write the day's events in his journal, and express his irritation with Guydelot as well. Flipping through the pages of the last few days, that was a common thread: writing about having made some sort of progress only to walk it back the next day. Sanson put his head on the desk. Jehantel had put such faith in him to accomplish this. He simply could not return home empty-handed.

The next day saw him informing the Warrior of Light that they needed to trek out into the cold frontier after Guydelot, who was chasing down Ser Alamenain. He would have been content to wait, except Ser Redwald had said the contingent of Knights were overdue from their patrol by near two bells. The commander was having trouble rounding up enough men to go looking. If Sanson was willing to go, he'd be grateful. Ser Redwald's face was etched with worry lines. Between the cold and the dragons, how many men went out and didn't come back? Sanson would never refuse.

They parted at Black Iron Bridge, Sanson to search north as the Warrior of Light descended into the ravine toward Twinpools. There were no fresh chocobo tracks to follow, which worried Sanson that Guydelot had not even made it that far. Thank the Twelve for Ishgardian chocobos who knew how to navigate the ice — Sanson pushed his a little harder than he should heading back south after no sign of any men. He pushed even harder once he heard a loud roar and shouting.

The scene he came upon was several fresh bear corpses and two injured Knights. Thank Nophica, both of his men were fine, and he got the same rush of relief he always did when all his soldiers were accounted for. It overshadowed any lingering anger, but not enough he didn't demand an explanation of Guydelot's actions — who ignored him as he turned to the remaining Knight.

It was all to deliver a Nameday gift? Sanson was baffled until Guydelot said with a grin, "Tis well and good to do your duty, but you mustn't forget who you're fighting for. After all, you're about to have another mouth to feed."

The way he beamed as he said the words. His grin was so wide it made his eyes crinkle. It was clear now what had happened — he'd rushed out of Ishgard without a word to do an act of kindness. By Ser Alamenain's admission, he'd saved the Knights' lives as well. If it had been any other soldier under his command, Sanson knew he'd be proud. But this was Guydelot, so he mostly wanted to throttle him. He compromised with himself by sparing Guydelot a full lecture on his foolish, dangerous behavior. It was clear it would mean nothing to him anyway.

They returned to Falcon's Nest with the Knights, Guydelot and Alamenain fast friends already. The Warrior of Light, taciturn as he was, even joined into the conversation. Guydelot was joking that he should at least get an invite to the wedding, if not the child named after him, when Sanson muttered something about bringing tidings to Ser Redwald and rode ahead of the group.

Ser Redwald was grateful to see his men returned only a little worse for wear. The two who were injured were sent to the infirmary, and Ser Alamenain promised again to find out more about the woman who could sing souls back to Halone. Once more, Guydelot immediately goaded Sanson into an argument. This one accumulated into Guydelot saying the words he'd implied all along — Sanson the Stiff — and Sanson's reiteration of expectations being disregarded. It was topped off with another round of Guydelot accusing Sanson of being too high-brow to understand common folk. Every bit of common ground he'd thought they'd found was gone again. Sanson wondered if his sanity would even survive another attempt.

At the Ishgard aetheryte, all he could think to say was, "Make sure Miss Tataru knows you've returned safe," before he returned to his desk at the library. He needed to finish notes on what he'd been reading and relinquish the desk, pack up what he'd left behind, and bid goodbye to Ser Lucia and Ser Handeloup. They would reconvene at Falcon's Nest in the morning.

He tried not to be relieved when Guydelot stumbled to their barracks room, smelling like wine and perfume, long after the lamp had gone out. He tried not to get angry, all over again, when he left him snoring in his bunk in the morning.

There was a bright spot in the day, when he went to say goodbye to his hosts. Ser Lucia was occupied, but paused on her way out of the Congregation to wish him luck and safe travels. Ser Handeloup was penning him a writ of passage, so they would be allowed access to any of the Highlands. When he came over to deliver it, he was also carrying a small, compact book.

"Our librarians insist you to be allowed to return whenever your heart desires," he began, and Sanson laughed in what felt like the first time for days. "Much like their pen, I thought to give you a small token as well." He held out the book with the folded writ. It was a worn copy of children's folklore from the Sea of Clouds, a silhouette of Ishgard rising above it etched into the leather cover. "Ishgardian children invariably get gifted a copy by their fifth year, and I thought you might enjoy the whimsical reading after the heavy tomes of the library. If nothing else, they are a fine way to get to sleep, as my daughter's bedtime can attest."

Sanson laughed again, but he felt like crying with gratitude. "This is exceedingly generous of you, Ser Handeloup. I should be offering you gifts, for what you continue to do for my Scion friends."

"I think it is us who will owe them a great debt in the end," Handeloup said. "Safe travels until we meet again, Captain. Don't hesitate to let me know if there's any way the Temple Knights can assist you."

"My deepest thanks." With a salute, he left the Congregation for the aetheryte, glad to have made at least one friend for his time in Ishgard.

When he reached the inn at Falcon's Nest, Sanson did both Guydelot and himself a favor by booking separate rooms. He found Ser Redwald to let him know if he needed an extra man or two, they were his for as long as they were at the outpost. Redwald looked pleased at the offer.

Guydelot finally graced Falcon's Nest with his presence at half past twelfth. Sanson was seated at the inn's countertop, flipping through the delightful illustrations of the folktales. "Left without a note or a word of warning, leaving me to scramble about on my own. You've made your point," he said by way of greeting, leaning on the counter at Sanson's elbow. "You're lucky I didn't just go back to Gridania."

"Am I?" Sanson replied without looking away from the book. He held up a key for Guydelot. "Take the left hallway. I'm in the room across."

Guydelot had the nerve to look stunned when Sanson gave him a single glance and said, "Dismissed, Thildonnet."

If Guydelot insisted on Sanson the Stiff, that's what he'd get.

In the bells while he'd waited for the bard to show up, he outlined a brief daily schedule in his journal. He was not one to sit idle, and Redwald was a man with plenty of tasks to oversee. As long as they waited on Alamenain — and they would, Redwald warned him, for despite the regular airship runs, the post only seemed to board them once a week or so — they would be useful. Sanson would continue his other inquiries where he could, but unfortunately this was the best lead they had.

Half past fifth bell the next morning, Sanson knocked on Guydelot's door. Twice. Instead of trying again, he pulled the spare key from his pocket and let himself inside the dark room. He paused at the pitcher to scoop a bit of water into a cup, approached Guydelot's sleeping form on the bed, and dumped it on his face.

Guydelot burst out of the blankets, half-naked and already enraged. "What in all seven hells are you doing?"

"Practice yard, Thildonnet," Sanson replied, "I'll give you three minutes to get yourself dressed."

"What happened to half sixth?"

Sanson just looked at him, counting in his head as they stared each other down. "Two and a half."

Guydelot scoffed at him and sat on the bed again.

"You will not be the first Elezen I've dragged from bed but you will be the first I throw naked into the snow," Sanson said in the same steady tone. "Two minutes."

That got Guydelot moving.

Sanson didn't let up all day. Practice yard, breakfast, reporting to Redwald for the day's tasks, escorting supply carts to The Pike or The Anvil — Guydelot hardly left his sight. Side by side, Sanson made them both work until the sun started to set and Redwald looked at him like he'd found a new best friend. In the hall between their rooms, Guydelot leaned his forehead on his door and said, "I suppose it's too late to cry mercy."

"Aye," Sanson said, "But you have it until half fifth tomorrow morning."

Guydelot groaned and vanished into his room.

In his own, Sanson rubbed his face. It was a little bit fun, he had to admit. Guydelot was no green recruit but if he was going to act like one, that's how Sanson would treat him. He had tried compromise, and that was brushed aside near immediately. Let him learn the hard way; Sanson knew what he was good at. If only it wasn't also exhausting .

Guydelot had never been so confused in his life.

He had meant it when he told the Warrior of Light that being a bard meant listening to the heart as well as your head. The problem was that neither of his could pick a godsdamn direction.

By the Twelve, he wanted to go home, to the canopies of trees dappling the ground with sunlight. A breeze that didn't hurt his skin. The sound of Black Tea Brook always in the background. Hells, he'd even take the treants. But that would mean admitting Mourechaux was right and worse, disappointing Jehantel. He tried to think of the bright spots. He did find them their current lead on the Ballad of Oblivion. After Sanson's little fellowship speech yesterday, he and the Warrior of Light had talked music, Guydelot playing him the choral melody and getting to hear his latest technique in turn. Alamenain, too, had taught Guydelot a song or two in the pub last night, along with telling stories of the grandfather who raised him. That made him want to stay.

He knew the way Sanson was treating him was bullshite. There was a pinpoint of guilt over his admittedly brash actions — but he had been doing a good thing. Why Sanson couldn't relax for one blighted second baffled him.

Yet he had to admit it was effective. Guydelot knew he was impulsive and that it often didn't do him any favors. He'd seen the worst of authority: yelled at, excluded, ignored, shamed. He was used to the consequences. But no one had ever refused to budge in their expectations of him afterward and, more importantly, held themselves to them as well. Without a library to ensconce himself in, Sanson sought out where they could be of help. He'd seen the relief in Ser Redwald and the other Knights when they joined them that morning. The outpost was shorthanded, and shifts were long. Two fresh sets of eyes and Guydelot's constant singing had been good for morale. It wouldn't hurt him to put in a few days of real work, right?

"That's nothing to speak of you," he lifted his head off the bed where he sprawled to address the traitor between his legs, "Why did you have to be the decisive one?"

Once the idea had taken hold, he was unable to stop thinking about confirming those rumors for himself. His fellows would assume he had when he returned. He'd rolled around with comrades while on assignment before. It would be nothing new, to seduce someone attractive out of curiosity. He liked his lovers a little gruff, a little demanding. There was nothing to lose, really. He'd find an opportunity to flirt and invite the chase. Then maybe this damned curiosity would go away. 

He looked down at the curiosity in question, sighed, and took himself in hand. He'd already stripped out of his mail and coat, so it was just a matter of pushing his trousers down and letting his mind wander. Not too far — he tried to keep the fantasy nonspecific, reliable. A fist gripping his hair. A mouth biting his neck. A voice telling him to cry out a name when he finished. Telling him to slow down, to wait until he was bade, you can't simply do whatever you please.

It was the most confusing climax he'd ever had. Part of him grabbed the picture of Sanson — arms crossed, shirtless, stern — with both hands to accompany the echo of his words. The rest dug heels in to resist that thought as the one to tip him over. The former won. He bit back the cry and shuddered uncomfortably through it. When done, he kicked off his trousers and unders to lay naked and conflicted. Maybe he didn't need to seduce Sanson. Maybe he just needed to seduce someone .

He spent the evening at the pub, getting to know a few of the Knights and a serving girl or two. No one particularly appealed, though he did have a fine time. Alamenain was absent, to his disappointment. Guydelot hoped it was a good sign.

The next several days passed the same: Sanson working them both from sunrise to sunset alongside the outpost Knights, and evenings at the pub with half an eye out for someone to tumble with, unsuccessfully. How Sanson spent the time, he didn't ask, and saw neither head nor tail of him. It made not seducing him easy, at least.

They were on the long trek back from Gorgagne Mills when Guydelot changed his mind again. The wind was biting and couldn't pick an angle to assault them from. They both had their heads down against it, Guydelot's hat faring much better than Sanson's hood. The wind would change and gust it back, Sanson would swear and pull it back on, and then spend the next minute or so trying to get the hair from his eyes. The third time it happened, Guydelot couldn't help but laugh, getting a glare in return.

"I'm surprised a military man such as you even keeps his hair long enough to bother him." He pulled his chocobo alongside Sanson's to be heard without shouting.

"I like how it looks," Sanson replied testily, raking fingers against the bits that wouldn't reach his tail. "When it behaves." He made an irritated noise. "Wait a minute, please."

Guydelot watched as he faced his chocobo into the wind and drew his hood off. He pulled out the cord that held the tail and shook his hair out over his shoulders, letting the wind blow it into place once more. Guydelot had seen plenty of people do this dance: cord in teeth, raking it back higher, and tying the whole bundle down again in a messy knot that left as little loose as possible. He'd always found it charming.

As Sanson started out again with a quick thank you , Guydelot nodded. "Have I discovered the one point of vanity over utility that Sanson the Stiff allows himself?"

Sanson frowned. " You want to debate vanity? How much do you pay an aesthetician to keep that teal in your hair?"

"I didn't say there was anything wrong with a little vanity." He gestured at himself, coat to boots. "I'd think it'd be obvious by now I have a preferred color."

Sanson snorted. Guydelot gave him a mock-offended face.

"At least it's my own preference, instead of only Company colors."

Sanson tilted his chin up. The hood blew off again, and Guydelot caught sight of the unkempt bun, wisps already trying to escape. Alluring was the word that came to mind, and he pushed it right back into the dark.

"It is my preference, thank you," Sanson pulled the hood tighter around his face, "I've favored gold and black my whole life. It being Twin Adder colors is a happy coincidence."

"I doubt anything about you is a coincidence."

Sanson turned stony at that. "Meaning?"

"Stand down," he said, "You don't seem the type to bow to coincidence, that's all."

"Is that another one of your compliments?" It seemed a genuine question, but Sanson also had the hint of a smile around his mouth, like he hoped it was.

Guydelot gave a laugh. "I suppose so."

Sanson's lips quirked up, but he said nothing.

The wind howled again, precluding any conversation for several minutes. When it died back down, Guydelot asked, "Where did the book of faerie tales come from?"

"What?" Sanson seemed surprised that he'd noticed.

"The one you were reading in the inn the other day. I can't imagine they let you sneak out with a library book."

"No." Sanson shook his head, resigned. "Ser Handeloup gave it to me." He saw Guydelot's face change from the corner of his eye and turned fully, almost pulling his chocobo to a stop. "Don't start. Seven hells, please don't."

Guydelot cackled with glee. "I didn't think you would, for what it's worth."

An eyeroll. "Thank you? Is that a compliment or a condemnation?"

"I can only pick one?"

The twist to Sanson's mouth got higher. "I suppose you don't know the difference."

"Captain Smyth," Guydelot gasped, "You wound my pride."

With what looked like a great but failed effort to suppress it, Sanson grinned. "I don't think that's possible, either."

"Oh you're vicious today, I see," Guydelot replied.

Sanson laughed.

Guydelot felt like he'd hit the jackpot at the Gold Saucer on his Nameday, it gave him such a rush. Why was he not supposed to seduce this man? Did it matter anymore? Could he even help himself?

"Careful, Captain," he warned, "I might grow to like it."

He gave his chocobo a push, just enough to get ahead of Sanson's, and turned in the saddle. "How fast can they run on the ice, do you think?"

Sanson raised his eyebrows in alarm. "Let's not find out."

Guydelot gave him his best wicked grin. "Too late!"

With a giddy laugh, he kicked the bird onward. Underneath him, he felt it shift from careful plodding to a powerful sprint. Ishgard's black chocobos were a marvel, and who knew when he'd be able to ride one like this again?

Against the wind, he heard a shout of Guydelot, godsdamnit! behind him and only leaned into the saddle harder. When Sanson started to catch up, he leaned out like he was going to try for Guydelot's reins. Guydelot danced his bird away. "Only if you can catch me properly!" He shouted.

Sometimes, he knew, it helped to invite the chase quite literally. Sanson seemed like the type.

They raced all the way back to Falcon's Nest, chocobos nearly matched. Guydelot let his slow just a notch before the gates, so Sanson could hear him laugh, see the bait in his eyes. Sanson had a glint in his own as he snagged the harness then the reins, guiding them both to a panting, grinning stop.

"You're a madman," Sanson accused. "What do I win?"

It was right there on his tongue, already tasting like victory and anticipation, his gaze on Sanson's mouth — anything you want from me — when over his shoulder he heard, "Guydelot!"

It startled them both. Sanson dropped the reins and sat up straight in his saddle, face placid again. Guydelot turned toward the interloper to see Alamenain standing under the grand arch into Falcon's Nest, waving both hands over his head. He was in full armor sans helm and had the widest grin on his face.

Despite his disappointment at the interrupted moment, he was very glad to see the Knight. "Alamenain!" He shouted back, turning his chocobo to approach. "Where the hells have you been?"

The grin got impossibly wider. "Abby and I got married!" He let out a whoop of joy and waved Guydelot toward the fort.

As he kicked his chocobo into motion again, Sanson said, "That was quick."

"Miss Tataru works in mysteriously efficient ways." He grinned. "Remember to stay in her good graces."

They reached the courtyard to see that many of the Knights had gathered, Alamenain beaming as the center of attention. He turned to Guydelot and threw arms around him. Guydelot accepted the hug with a laugh and a congratulations.

"If you're just married, why are you here?" Guydelot asked when he let go. "Why aren't you on leave with your new bride?"

"Ser Redwald said I could have more time when the baby comes, since it was such short notice. I'm just glad he let me go to start. And, well," here he blushed, pink to the tips of his ears, "It's not like we needed the time for its purpose."

"Silly man," Guydelot took him by the shoulders and shook him, "That doesn't mean you can't still do it as many times as you please."

The new groom grinned despite his blush. Guydelot had a feeling Abby was also feeling much, much better about the state of things.

"When are we celebrating?" He glanced around at Alamenain's Knight friends.

"Tonight!" One of them said, "Anyone not on duty is welcome to come and toast the groom."

"Excellent!" Guydelot tried to keep Sanson within sight, so he could try to salvage something from earlier. A kiss? Being bodily carried to his inn room and thrown on the bed to be devoured? Damn it. Sanson had disappeared in his distraction.

Alamenain noticed. "I'm sorry for interrupting that moment with your fellow, Guydelot. Someone said they saw you coming, and I shouted before I thought about it."

Guydelot didn't know where to start with that. "Nothing I can't fix later," he said, and hoped it was true.

Alamenain squeezed his shoulder. "Truly, I'm so grateful. Abby, too. Thank you for everything you've done for us."

Losing out on whatever had been about to happen with Sanson was worth the glow of happiness the Knight had. "I'm so glad to have been a part of it, my friend."

"Oh!" Alamenain said. "I have word for Sanson. Should I...?"

Guydelot felt his gut drop. That likely meant they'd be moving on soon — and that it was tonight or never. "Tomorrow. Tonight, we celebrate you, Abby, and the family you're making."

Alamenain beamed again.

Guydelot went to return his chocobo only to see the stablehand already had both, rubbing them down before going back into their pen. He found Sanson alone in the inn common room, stretching his legs out on the hearth. When he saw Guydelot come over, he looked up and smiled. "You've helped make Ser Alamenain a very happy man."

"Now you admit it," Guydelot said, sitting opposite and stretching out his longer legs next to Sanson's.

"I know you did a kind thing." Sanson leaned forward to grab his own ankles, legs straight, and gave a grunt at the stretch. "A very kind, stupid, dangerous thing."

It was to be this again. Guydelot felt his heart sink. "I don't regret it."

Sanson raised his eyes. "I know that, too."

If Guydelot's head or heart would decide on what axis to spin, he would be pleased. He wasn't sure how to reply, so he mimicked Sanson's stretch. "Oh, I needed that."

Sanson chuckled. "Almost as if someone decided to race chocobos without warming up?"

"What sort of fool would do that? Not the kind that wakes up at dawn to exercise, surely."

That got him another laugh that warmed him from head to toe without the fire. He leaned back onto the heels of his hands and regarded Sanson. "Why didn't you stay to congratulate Alamenain?"

Sanson looked surprised at the question, as if it was obvious. "You're the one he shouted for, that he wanted to share the good news with. I'll congratulate him later, when he's not already surrounded."

Guydelot had thought... Jealousy, maybe? Or that he might dislike the Knight. It would never have occurred to Guydelot not to speak to someone because others already were. But as he sat with the answer, he didn't see that it mattered. Sanson had said he wasn't always at ease around people.

He was now, Guydelot thought. Also leaned back on his hands, he watched the fire. His fine hair was still caught up in that ridiculous knot, but tendrils were rapidly escaping to frame his face like usual. In the flicker from the firelight, Guydelot realized Sanson's eyes were a deep ink blue, not brown. It was such a silly mistake to make that he was startled at himself.

He made himself look away. The desire to tease and seduce was still there, but Guydelot was afraid if he examined it for too long, it would be akin to discovering he'd been singing a song in the wrong key all along. Again, that feeling — if he didn't make it happen tonight, he'd lose the chance altogether. Selfishly, he decided to keep that Alamenain had news from Sanson. He wanted every advantage for spontaneity he could manage.

Guydelot tapped Sanson on the arm with the side of his boot. "Does that mean you'll show up in the pub, for once?"

Sanson's thoughts had clearly wandered too far. "Hm? You mean for Alamenain?"

"Aye."

His eyes cast down, away from both the fire and Guydelot's face. "Likely not."

Guydelot wanted to make sure he understood it was an invitation. He tapped again, until Sanson looked up. "Will you?" 

Sanson examined him, inscrutable. If he refused again, Guydelot would find a way to wipe the desire from his mind. Somehow.

To his relief, Sanson gave a small smile. "I suppose I could."

Guydelot grinned. Sanson's smile grew brighter before he flinched, sat forward, and rolled his shoulder. He tipped his neck from side to side with his eyes closed in a grimace. Worry must have shown through, because when Sanson saw his face, he gave a small shrug. "The cold is aggravating it, I suspect. Nothing a little extra rest won't solve." He pushed to his feet. "I'll see you later, Guydelot."

Guydelot sprawled out on the rug after he'd gone. Nothing he couldn't fix tonight. 

Like the regulars at The Forgotten Knight, this band was not afraid of wine or noise. The pub was teeming with people, as many as Falcon's Nest could muster, he imagined. Two server girls and a boy were about, cleaning up traces of supper and replacing them with tall bottles and pitchers. He saw Redwald at the far end of the bar, looking like he owned the stool even on the slowest days.

"I try to let them make merry as best we can here," Redwald told him when Guydelot remarked on the atmosphere. "We don't often have a reason to. And Alamenain's a good Knight, and a good man. He's well liked despite only being here a short while."

Indeed, said Knight was once again the center of attention, receiving back pats and handshakes from a stream of people coming and going around his table.

"I met his wife," Guydelot said, with a grin at the word, "She's as sweet as can be."

Redwald nodded. "Good. They'll be all right, then."

It wasn't much longer before someone started calling for the bard, as he expected. Guydelot took his mug of wine off the bartop and held it up. "I'm coming, I'm coming!"

Guydelot loved this kind of audience. A slightly rowdy crowd that kept him on his toes with banter and requests was what made him shine. They shoved Alamenain next to him to sing, and Guydelot obliged with accompanying harp and soft harmony. Not a soul had been wrong about his voice; he had a tenor range similar to Jehantel. It was well-matched to Guydelot's baritone and he took full advantage of the opportunity to sing with another. Someone challenged them to test their full ranges. Guydelot bowed out of the high notes long before Alamenain reached his top ones; reversed, Alamenain coughed with a laugh as Guydelot dipped into bass notes that were beyond him. As talented as Jehantel was, he wasn't a lively sort. Singing with someone who did it for sheer joy was energizing Guydelot more than the wine.

Alamenain called for a break, waving his hands in front of himself at the shouts of disappointment. "Let me drink my ale, you buzzards! You're not paying me to sing!"

"Maybe we should start!" Someone called back, and Alamenain retreated to his table with a laugh. He waved at Guydelot to join, but he was already scanning the crowd. It was entirely possible he'd missed Sanson's entrance. He hoped he had -- the disappointment of him simply not showing up would be worse than refusal. 

There, leaning on the wall next to Redwald, holding a tankard of ale. Sanson had forgone the golden yellow uniform top for plain black linen, the cuffs pushed up over his elbows. The simple change made Guydelot almost skip over him. He'd gotten so used to just looking for the color, so ubiquitous in Gridania but so rare in Ishgard. Sanson's gaze flickered over to him while mid-sentence with Redwald; he flashed a quick smile before returning to what he was saying.

When Guydelot glanced back at Alamenain, there was a knowing grin waiting. Guydelot tipped his head in acknowledgement and sauntered over to the bar to get chased again, with any luck.

As he approached he let his eyes wander a little more. Sanson was wearing his usual thighboots with uniform trousers tucked in. Without the bulk of his coat, it emphasized how solid he was, from broad shoulders down to where the leather laced up to hug his thighs. Guydelot felt his mouth go dry without any help from the wine. He wanted .

"Fine performance, bard," Redwald said.

Guydelot gave a small bow. "Thank you. Glad to please."

Now that he was close, he could see that Sanson's eyes were tight. His ale was mostly gone, but his knuckles were a little white holding the tankard. But he smiled at Guydelot like he was happy to see him, and that buoyed his confidence.

"And how'd you like it, Captain?"

"Fishing for compliments?" Sanson said, "Your voice is always beautiful." He said it not as flattery, but as if there was no other conclusion to reach.

Redwald got to his feet. "I'd best say something to the groom. Excuse me."

Guydelot slid onto his empty stool to better match Sanson's height. "You've never told me that before."

"Haven't I?"

"No," Guydelot leaned his elbow on the bar, which made him sway closer into Sanson's space. "But I like hearing it from you."

"Wouldn't you like hearing it from anyone?" Sanson frowned, eyes sliding away like they had by the inn's fire that afternoon. Guydelot felt it in his gut like a rock.

"Some more than others," he tried. 

He didn't think Sanson even heard him. Before he could think of what to say next, the door to the pub banged open, and a fully drunk Knight stumbled in, shouting for Alamenain. There was a loud peal of laughter as Alamenain rose and tried to usher him back out, not entirely sober himself. The door banged shut behind them, just as hard as it had opened.

Sanson flinched at the first one, but so had half the room. It was when he flinched at the second that made Guydelot glance over. He was looking down at the mug in his hand, but his eyes weren't focused on it. His knuckles were whiter than they'd been just a minute before.

"Sanson?" Guydelot said. When he didn't respond, he reached across the bartop and touched his wrist.

Sanson jerked away. He tried to cover it by lifting his mug to finish off the ale, but it crashed Guydelot's courage to pieces. Sanson wouldn't look him in the face as he set down the tankard and said, "I ought to go congratulate Alamenain as well. It's what I came here to do, after all."

Guydelot couldn't help the disappointed little "Oh," that left his mouth as Sanson walked away, looking nowhere but the door as he crossed the room. Pulling his coat from its hook, he didn't even get it all the way on before he was gone with a gust of cold wind.

Guydelot was an idiot. This feeling was far worse than if he'd refused outright, or didn't come after saying he would. It wasn't just rejection — he'd spent half the day thinking about a man who couldn't stand the smallest touch from him. He polished off his wine and signaled for another.

Someone called for more song, and Guydelot threw himself into it. If he'd already wasted half a day, he wasn't about to waste the rest of the night. He drank wine and flirted with three different tables and dipped into the bawdier ditties he knew.

Alamenain came back. When Guydelot took a break, he waved him over to shout in his ear. Too loudly.

"Why'd your fella leave? He looked peaked."

Guydelot hated that he had to name the failure aloud. "He's not mine," Alamenain gave him a puzzled look, "I tried, it didn't work, he left."

"No," Alamenain said.

Guydelot gave a grin as best he could. "He's no Abby, my friend. It's not a tragedy."

He seemed to accept that — or at least get distracted by his beloved's name enough to drop it.

A bell or two later, Guydelot's head was sufficiently fuzzy from the wine and the attention from a crowd that he wasn't bothered about Sanson anymore. Falcon's Nest was isolated enough that, beyond his bard skills, he was a novelty by being Gridanian alone. It kept him talking as much as singing, describing the lush green and clear creeks of his homeland, the wide mix of people that he met. Jehantel's secondhand adventures went over beautifully, especially with Guydelot's flourishes. He went once more to the bar to relinquish his last mug; it was late enough that he should stop before he would be too hungover to ride tomorrow. Or rather, not so hungover as to get yelled at again. He was fairly sure he'd be able to sleep on a chocobo if he'd had enough to drink first.

When he turned around, he almost ran into someone. "Hey there," they said, grasping his shoulder as he stumbled a bit, "You all right?"

It was a blonde Knight from one of the frontmost tables that Guydelot had been flirting with. He was slender even for an Elezen, with long lashes, pretty brown eyes, and a lopsided smile. Guydelot didn't recognize him from previous nights, but his eyes looked familiar.

"You were one of the Knights with Alamenain out in Twinpools," he said, realizing.

"Aye, I've been in the infirmary a few days. They finally let me out this afternoon," he looked up the ilm or two into Guydelot's face, "I was coming to talk to you. To say how grateful I am you showed up that day."

Guydelot leaned back on the bar. "You recovered well?" If he remembered right, this one had come back with a badly banged up knee that couldn't take any weight.

"As spry as ever," he said with a grin. Guydelot felt a warm hand trail to his arm and stay. He was very pretty. "I'm Orleaux."

"Hello, Orleaux," Guydelot grinned back, "Glad to have come to your rescue."

"Do you do that often?"

"When I can. Especially when they're as lovely as you."

Orleaux raised an eyebrow. "We all had our helms on."

"I remember your eyes."

With that, he flushed a little, but he kept his hand on Guydelot's arm. "I've heard that bards are very charming when they want to be."

"Aye," Guydelot said, and gestured to the room at large, "Sometimes for an audience of many, and sometimes," he put his hand over Orleaux's, "for an audience of one."

"I was hoping you'd say that," he replied, a little breathless, "So I wouldn't sound like a fool by inviting you somewhere quieter."

Guydelot rubbed his fingertips across Orleaux's knuckles. "I'll likely be leaving Falcon's Nest tomorrow," he warned. "Is a night enough for you?"

Orleaux leaned in close. Guydelot was very aware most of the pub could see this dance happening, but he didn't mind. "Let's make the most of it, then."

This wasn't the man he'd hoped to take to bed tonight. But Orleaux was attractive and, unlike Sanson, he wanted Guydelot in return. It would be more than enough to satisfy the itch that had been making him so tense.

"Let's," he said, and let Orleaux lead him out of the bar by the hand. 

Sanson retreated to his room and panicked right into a headache so terrible he vomited into the wash basin. Ale, already not his favorite, was worse coming back up. It had been at least a year since he'd had one get this unbearable. Creeping up on him over the last few days, he should have known it would pounce on him like a hungry jackal if he set foot in a tavern.

He could go moons without that suffocating pressure that made him want to crawl out of his skin. There was a particular combination of noise, people, and atmosphere that triggered it. Everything became too loud, too close. The slightest thing would send him into a desperate scramble to escape. With the pain from his shoulder not easing, he hadn't lasted long. One ale, and less than a bell. All he'd wanted was to have a normal night, especially since Guydelot had been the one to invite him. The afternoon had been pleasant, and he was hopeful they were reaching something like a friendship. He'd conservatively decided to rest his shoulder to stave off the headache. He could compromise in the name of others. But his body and mind seemed determined to thwart his every attempt.

He'd been happy to see Guydelot perform with Alamenain. Any leftover worries about his talents vanished. They had yet to be in a live battle — but Sanson wasn't concerned there, either. Not after several days of observing morning target practice, and the various chores and escorts they'd been doing for Redwald. Guydelot wasn't lax where it mattered.

Sanson crawled onto the inn bed and wrapped up in the blankets tightly. Maybe he'd attempt to explain his behavior in the morning. That thought made his stomach roil again. Guydelot, who glowed under the circumstances, likely wouldn't understand, like so many before. No use endangering the rapport they'd established. He'd best plead it was his old injury.

When he woke up a few bells later, he was ravenous and his head still throbbed. It occurred to him he should probably go to the infirmary. He'd be useless tomorrow if it continued. If nothing else, hunger would prevent him from sleeping. He stumbled back into his boots and coat, rinsed his mouth, and headed for the frigid courtyard.

The chirurgeon's assistant took one look at him and said, "Well you're no drunken Knight."

It surprised him into a laugh that immediately became a wince. "No, sir, I am not."

He was ushered to a cot and given weak tea to sip while he waited for the chirurgeon. They had been seeing plenty of drunken scrapes and bruises as they'd stumbled to their bunks, the assistant told him. "You're one of the visiting Gridanians, if I'm right," Sanson nodded, "So this is your doing. Not that I'm complaining, mind you, of tending to only clumsy injuries for once."

Sanson started to explain that no, it was Guydelot's doing, but his stomach rumbled so loud the assistant chuckled. "That can't be helping the state of things," he said, "I'll go get you a cup of the soup the cooks keep on for the night watch."

The chirurgeon came in a few minutes later, much to the same reaction as her assistant. Sanson realized he hadn't removed his tail before sleeping, so it probably looked a mess. Ah, one of his boots wasn't properly laced either. No wonder the assistant had taken pity on him over the soup.

She laid a hand on the crown of his head for a minute, then took his tea and added a dose of some sort of tonic to it. "Finish that before you go," she said, "It will help you sleep, which will help the pain. Rub this onto your shoulder and neck if it starts up again. There's not as much I can do for the older wounds that didn't heal well. I'd tell you to try not to use it for a few days, but you've got the look of one who doesn't know how."

Sanson smiled a little sheepishly. "Guilty."

"I've been tending to soldiers for a long time," she said, "Do your best not to end up back here, is all I ask."

The assistant arrived with soup, which Sanson gratefully ate before he finished the potioned tea. By that time, the pain had eased some. Crossing the courtyard back to the inn seemed like a longer trip than before, and his limbs were very heavy by the time he opened the room door. His last thought before he stumbled back into bed was Guydelot's grin that afternoon, when Sanson had said he'd come to the pub for Alamenain.

If nothing else, he hoped Guydelot had a better night than he had.

Chapter Text

Sanson woke to pounding on the door. For the first minute, he thought it was simply his headache. He didn't realize it wasn't until a voice called out, "Hey chief! Are you in there?"

Oh no, it was far too bright to be his usual waking bell. Whatever was in that tea was potent. Sanson moved carefully to gauge the pain. The headache was still there, but lessened. His shoulder, as well. Sanson decided it was worth risking a shout to make Guydelot stop knocking. 

"Give me a minute!"

He swung his legs out of the bed and got back into his trousers. When he opened the door to Guydelot, the bard had a glint in his eye. "Well, well. Rise and shine."

Sanson shrugged. Guydelot leaned in the doorway as Sanson backtracked into the room. He found the jar the chirurgeon gave him the night before and loosened the collar of his nightshirt to rub it on. A glimpse in the mirror — oh, he was a disaster. Nightshirt half tucked into hastily fastened trousers, hair tangled at the back of his head, eyes dark-rimmed. "What time is it?"

"Nearly half seven. Here I was, worried I'd be yelled at until I got to the exercise yard and you weren't there. If I didn't know better, I'd think you'd drank too much."

"I didn't sleep well. Don't start counting on it." Whatever was in the salve smelled strongly of camphor and mint, but it felt astonishing as he worked it into his shoulder and neck. He let out a sigh of relief as his head started to clear. "We can skip the yard, but only to report to Redwald on time. Did you already eat?"

Guydelot nodded, far too amused at Sanson's disheveled state. "There's bread and fresh coffee in the common room."

"Bless the innkeep," Sanson said as he stripped out of his nightshirt and found his uniform top.

"You're welcome," Guydelot said, still with the shite-eating grin. "I told her you overslept because you were so broken-hearted over Alamenain returning married."

"Guydelot!" Sanson actually dropped the cord from his teeth as he was raking his hair under control. "You didn't!"

"I didn't," Guydelot let out a bubble of laughter, "I swear, I didn't. But I did convince her to leave it out for you."

Sanson scooped the cord off the floor and glared, which only made Guydelot laugh harder. As he got his hair to rights, Sanson could feel Guydelot's eyes on him, and realized it had been a long time since someone else had observed his morning habits. It made him self-conscious as he remembered Jehantel explaining the depth of observation required of an archer and bard. Was Guydelot cataloging any peculiar habits to make light of later? He was watching Sanson smooth his tail into place much like he had the previous day, his smile crooked in a way he couldn't read.

Sanson glanced away. He made sure his collar was straight and sat on the bed to pull his boots on. As he corrected the lacing, he said, "You don't seem any worse for wear."

He glanced up when Guydelot didn't reply. His smile seemed frozen in place. Had Sanson said something wrong? But then Guydelot blinked and Sanson wasn't sure he'd even seen right. "Not as bad as some of the other blokes, certainly. These Knights aren't lightweights when it comes to drinking."

Sanson adjusted the cuffs around his thighs and stood. "I'm glad you paced yourself."

Guydelot snorted. "At least one of us is."

Sanson didn't know what to make of that, so he gathered his coat and pushed Guydelot out of the doorway. "Move, Thildonnet, I don't want to be late."

Guydelot followed him down the hall with a hm . "Your Captain's tone of voice is a little less effective now that I've seen you with terrible bedhead."

There it was. Sanson rolled his eyes, but smiled. "That wasn't my command tone."

"Shame," Guydelot said.

The pot of coffee rested on a fire-shard burner and Sanson thanked all of the Twelve when he saw it. Drinking lukewarm coffee before going out into a cold day was a sure way to ruin it for him. He let a mug start to cool before he reached into the bread basket for one of the round, crusty rolls Ishgardians favored. 

Guydelot helped himself as well, snagging the butter dish before Sanson could get it, to his annoyance. He split open the roll with both hands and started spreading butter before saying, "You might want to find Alamenain before volunteering us to Redwald. He mentioned last night he had news." He took the bread from Sanson's hand and put the buttered roll into it.

"Did he?" The surprise was as much due to Guydelot's action as his words. "He was checking that for us whilst getting married? That's thoughtful of him."

"Probably after," Guydelot said, leaning on the countertop and popping a hunk of bread into his mouth. "After all, one can't stay in the marital bed all day."

"Isn't that the point, though?" Sanson said without thinking, and Guydelot looked like he might choke on his bread. He thumped his own chest with a laugh.

"I suppose," Guydelot replied, amused. "Depending on the couple."

"You're the bard," Sanson said. "It's how most love songs end."

Guydelot considered him as Sanson tested the coffee. "Do you have a favorite?"

"Songstress of Ul'dah, Close to the Heavens," Sanson replied immediately, surprising Guydelot. "What? It's beautiful."

"It's also tragic."

"Not all yearning is tragic." Sanson hadn't meant to debate the nature of love songs this morning. "She doesn't know if her love was returned before he was sent off to war, but all she asks is that he come home safe. She doesn't yearn for her own sake, but his. Whether her love is requited doesn't matter. That's what makes it a love song."

"Speaking from experience? Do you have a sweetheart waiting patiently in Gridania for your return?"

Sanson frowned at him while he drank his coffee. "No. Not that it's your business." He set down the empty mug. "Come. Let's find Ser Alamenain."

The hungover Knight was on watch at the airship dock. He lit up at seeing them. "Friends! I'm glad you came. I have tidings."

The woman they sought was a soldier named Celaine, stationed at the forebodingly-named Convictory. "It's hardly more than a camp," Alamenain warned, "The distance there and back can't be traveled in daylight, this time of year. You'll want to prepare for a rougher trip."

Upon finding out where they planned to go, Redwald furnished them with a tent along with provisions and a stack of post to deliver. Once they were able to inform the Warrior of Light, they would be set to depart. Redwald graciously sent a messenger via aetheryte.

The several bell ride out to The Convictory grated Sanson's nerves. Whatever good the balm had done that morning was unmade by the cold. That was after a cluster of deepeyes followed them all the way to Black Iron Bridge, setting their chocobos on edge. Guydelot had to let off multiple volleys of arrows, taking one or two down each time, before they gave up the chase.

And they kept bickering. Over Guydelot retrieving his arrows. Over Sanson riding too cautiously. Over whether or not they should stay on the track or see if there was a shortcut around that outcropping. Over whether it was better to take a break now or wait for a better windbreak. Sanson's hair was in his face, his shoulder was aching, his chocobo kept startling, every suggestion he made was shot down by Guydelot. By the time he saw the camp through the snow in the waning daylight, he was hungry, tired, and nearly ready to murder his riding companion.

Sanson sought out the commanding Knight only to discover the woman they were looking for had just left on patrol and wasn't due back for several bells. He swore and found Guydelot, already chatting at the camp cook. Well, flirting, by his stance and her hand covering her laugh. He really couldn't help himself? The least he could do was find a place for the tent.

"Thildonnet," Sanson barked, "We need to pitch the tent before dark. Did you even seek out where it could go?"

Guydelot sneered. "Calm down, Captain. I was delivering the provisions."

Sanson unhooked the tent from his saddle and tossed it to Guydelot, who caught it with an oomph . "They've been delivered. Find a place for that." He gathered the reins of both birds and led them to the chocobokeep.

They argued over the tent, too, once Sanson returned holding their packs. Guydelot didn't listen to a word he said, putting the poles together before they were needed and haphazardly pounding in the stakes instead of making sure they were straight. The whole camp could hear Guydelot's barbs and Sanson rising to them like a fool. He was certain that if he hadn't shown the commander Ser Handeloup's writ, they would be out on their arses in the cold again.

Before they joined the soldiers for supper, he caught Guydelot by the wrist. "No drinking."

Guydelot yanked his arm back. "I'll do as I please."

"Far too often," Sanson snarled. Guydelot made a rude gesture and walked away. 

He was aware he was sullen as he ate in silence. The bright spot was seeing the soldiers' happiness when the commander handed out the newly-arrived correspondence; talk around the fire quickly became whatever news it brought. One's sister had delivered a healthy baby boy, another's parents had started a new business venture. It made him miss his family fiercely. They had all been in fine health when he'd left Gridania, including Ilene's pregnancy, so he had no cause to worry. But worry he did, any time he was gone more than a week or two, part of him perpetually aware of how little time it took for the world to change completely. He also noticed which soldiers hadn't received any mail and spoke very little, and resolved to make their acquaintance if he could. Soldiering was a lonely enough life even with others back home.

Sanson excused himself to the closeness of their tent and lamp. As he wrote out the day's entry, he noticed his journal was running low on pages. His flurry of research in Ishgard had eaten up a good portion more than usual. Had he packed a spare? He kept a stack on his desk at home, but he couldn't remember if he'd taken one with. He dragged his bag closer and rooted around, hand clasping around the familiar texture of boar leather in the bottom. Notes would be very important to his mission report; the last thing he needed was to run out of a method to take them. He twirled his Ishgardian pen in his fingers with a smile.

After, he huddled in his bedroll and listened to the distant talk around the constantly burning fire. He couldn't make out words, so he wasn't sure why his ears strained at every burst of sound. It was enough to keep him from sleeping. He turned over in his blankets several times before it struck him: he was waiting to hear Guydelot sing. 

It seemed inevitable — as far as Sanson was aware, he'd sang for whatever group surrounded him every night of their journey. He didn't think tonight would be an exception. But he lay there, listening to the ebb and flow of conversation he wasn't part of, and not once heard Guydelot's voice weave its way to his waiting ears. It wasn't until the talk died out completely that he was able to fall asleep.

The following morning, Sanson's only indication Guydelot had shared the tent was his bedroll's rumpled blankets.

As Sanson wasn't one to sit idle, he found himself volunteering to chop wood after breakfast. The soldiers who returned from patrol in the early bells wouldn't rise for some time. The warmth from the exercise loosened his shoulder, even if he struggled to split it all evenly. He hadn't had occasion to do this in a long time.

It must have shown, because when he took a break, he heard the crunch of footsteps through the snow. It was Guydelot — to his surprise, the question he opened with was, "You were raised in Gridania proper, weren't you?"

"Yes," Sanson replied, perplexed, "Why?"

"I wasn't, and it's driving me mad watching you hack at that wood like an amateur. You're treating the ax as a lance. It's more about momentum than muscle." He took the ax from Sanson and set up a hunk of wood to split. He demonstrated stance, then grip, then swung it to a clean split. He grabbed a new piece and did it again. "See?"

"I do. Thank you," Sanson said carefully, not sure what Guydelot's ploy was. "I was just trying to pass the time."

Guydelot straightened and handed the ax back. "Every time we argue, you ignore me afterward. Twice now, except for the time in the library. Why?"

Sanson was taken aback. "I assume you don't want to continue it any more than I do."

"Truly? Because you seemed reasonable enough after the first time."

"Yes, and you weren't," Sanson snapped. "How am I supposed to trust you on this mission when the only time I asked something of you, you went and disregarded it immediately?"

"You said it yourself, it was a kind gesture that saved lives. I don't regret doing it, and I won't apologize."

"That's not the point," Sanson said. "You only thought of what you would accomplish. You didn't even bother to see if I would help."

But that was only part of the problem, Sanson realized now. The other was that he desperately, inexplicably couldn’t ignore Guydelot. His attempts mounted to mere distractions. How long he'd laid awake the night before proved that.

He couldn't think about the implications of that right now. He needed to focus on his objective. 

Guydelot looked like he didn't know what to say.

"Have I finally found you speechless?" Sanson asked.

"Would you have even left the library if I had asked?"

Sanson thunked the blade of the ax into the chopping block. "Yes, I would have. Do you think I'm immune to others' distress?"

"That’s not what I meant," Guydelot made a frustrated noise and put his hand to his brow.

"Then what did you mean?"

"I meant that if I asked —" He caught himself and dropped his hand. "It doesn't matter. Go back to ignoring me, it's more peaceful than having this argument again."

"Guydelot —" If he had asked Sanson for what? But the bard shook his head and walked away from him. 

Sanson tackled chopping wood like he never had before, beyond frustration. What was he missing? Guydelot wasn't goading him this time, which meant there was some piece — very obvious to others, if experience stayed true — that Sanson couldn't see. Instead of it being an annoyance to brush off, this felt like it must matter. It did matter to Guydelot.

Sanson sunk the ax blade into the chopping block again and turned to go after Guydelot. Only to see him talking with a very pretty Elezen soldier with long, pink hair. Just the sort his wretched imagination said Guydelot would favor. Worse, Guydelot had noticed him watching and waved him over.

She was stone-faced when Sanson introduced himself. "This is Celaine," Guydelot said.

It took Sanson a moment to recall the significance of the name. "We've come to inquire about your song."

She refused to sing it. Having never been much good at persuasion, Sanson insisting only entrenched her further. Guydelot caught his eyes and nodded to the edge of the camp. The Warrior of Light had arrived, airborne chocobo landing with a soft thump by the stables. Sanson stalked over to him, hoping for all the wrong reasons that Guydelot was no more successful at convincing her than he himself had been.

That led to their merry trio even further out into the Highlands, assisting in culling dragons. Sanson could tell Guydelot was peeved that he had volunteered them, but not enough to refuse. But he could already hear their argument over whether the swift decision made Sanson a hypocrite.

As they approached where the dragons had been lured, he stayed close to Celaine and her comrades. Support only, she declared, but Sanson was a lancer — support was a steady blade in the neck of whatever was trying to kill them. Guydelot stayed further back, bow ready to draw.

It was bloody and chaotic immediately. The soldiers rushed the first of the dragons, not accounting for the second a few fulms behind. Sanson bolted in, far away enough to see one soldier sink his sword into the first dragon's eye socket. The roar it gave was ear shattering as it thrashed, throwing the soldier, who was snatched up by its companion. The sound of his bones being crushed by its jaws, the scream — Sanson's senses narrowed to block it out as he sprinted into the fray.

Behind him, Guydelot called out a battlesong over the sound of his bow firing. Sanson had felt them before, making his actions more precise, his reflexes swifter, but only in practice. Not when he already had the lightning of battle in his veins, nor with a song seemingly crafted to his movements, his breath, his power. The second dragon released its victim, threw its head to snatch another — and to Sanson, time slowed just enough for him to be surprised at what he did next. 

His feet carried him up the body of the dead dragon to vault onto the neck of the second, a mere heartbeat before its jaws took up another soldier. The point of his lance sunk into the soft spot in the back of its skull where it met its neck. It wasn't a killing blow, Sanson knew — the dragon dropped open its jaws, knocking the soldier to the ground instead of grinding her in its teeth.

"Guydelot!" Sanson shouted without looking up, knowing the bard was tracking his every move by song. Sanson planted his feet on either side of his lance to drive it deeper. He needed a half-breath, a single pulse — the dragon's eye rolling hardly two ilms beneath his boots dark with dragon blood. "The eye!"

Battlesong swelled, a bowstring strummed, and Sanson watched a Gridanian arrow pierce deep into the dragon's eye before it gave a great shake of its neck in death throes. Sanson braced as he was thrown to the icy, packed snow, turning the fall into a roll but feeling his foot twist, before the air was knocked from him on impact and he slid three full fulms to a stop.

"Sanson!" came the shout as he levered up on his palms to assess the damage. Guydelot skidded beside him, hands on his arms, helping him up. "Twelve preserve, what were you thinking?"

"Thank you for the song," he said through a grimace. He was bruised, scraped, could barely put any weight on his right ankle, and it hurt to breathe. He grasped Guydelot's arm to limp to the dragon's corpse and pull his lance from the mess. He wiped the viscera from it as best he could before leaning on it like a walking staff. "Your voice is always beautiful."

Glancing up, he saw Guydelot's eyes were wide with apprehension but he slapped a hand over his mouth to stifle a laugh. "You've gone mad."

"It'll pass once the pain kicks in," he glanced around. "How fared the others —"

But the Ishgardians were already laying out their dead, two men grasping swords for the final time as their comrades laid them on their chests and wrapped their hands around hilts. The Warrior of Light arrived beside Guydelot, harrowed and blood-splattered. Celaine stood by the heads of the fallen, her pretty face twisted in grief, and wished them farewell with a song.

It brought Sanson out of the battle-rush so swiftly he felt sick. Of course — "I was trying to make you sing a song of mourning? Gods strike me down for a callous fool."

As he limped closer, he took his weight off his lance to stand up straight despite the pain. The least he could do was endure it while he held a salute until Celaine sang her last note. Behind him, Guydelot bid their companion do the same.

The Convictory captain began organizing to get their injured and fallen back home as Celaine addressed them. She regretted not taking the time with her comrades, Guydelot nodding gravely as he said, "There's no need to deprive yourself of the joy of friendship."

Pain was starting to make him hazy, but Sanson wished Guydelot felt that way about him.

Celaine surprised them both. "The two of you bicker like an old couple." Sanson saw the Warrior of Light turn his face away to hide a smile. "Have joy of each other's company while you still can."

Sanson couldn’t stop himself from glancing at Guydelot. He was looking off to the distance, jaw tight. Probably wishing for any other company than Sanson the Stiff.

Celaine told them of the scholar Sylviel in Tailfeather, and Sanson thanked her profusely. He shifted his weight back off his lance to follow her, only to collapse to one knee from the pain. His ankle wasn't taking on any pressure. Gods, he flinched at the idea of getting his boot off later.

"Sanson?" Guydelot said, then gestured to the Warrior of Light. "We'll need to help him."

He hobbled back to their chocobos, held up between his two much taller Elezen companions. The pain made his tongue loose. "Well this makes me feel like an idiot."

Guydelot's jaw got tighter. "You are. I can't believe you did that."

"Now we're even on dangerous, stupid things that saved lives."

They got him on his chocobo, barely. The quarter-bell ride to The Convictory left him exhausted and rattled — and there was no room to spare for him in the infirmary tent.

"He needs to see the chirurgeon," Guydelot insisted to the assistant. "He may have broken ribs."

"I'm sorry, m'lord, there's just not a cot. If you can get him to your tent, she'll come to you —"

"No," Guydelot said, "Can anyone linkshell the infirmary in Falcon's Nest?"

"Yes," the assistant said, surprised. "But he's in no state to teleport —"

"I can get him there," the Warrior of Light said, still holding Sanson up. He tried to protest.

"No," Guydelot said to him sharply, "I won't see you stand around in this state. Please get him there. You, will you let them know they're on the way? Thank you. A six fulm fall, struggling to breathe, right ankle might be broken. I'll pack up our things and —."

Sanson found his voice through the haze. "Guydelot, I'm —"

"You are not fine," he snapped with a vehemence that Sanson had never heard. "You didn't see your fall, I did ." He put a hand on the Warrior of Light's shoulder. "Get him there, brother. I'll be along as soon as I can."

Sanson found himself led away, felt the pull of the Warrior of Light gathering his aether, saw Guydelot give them one last glance before the flash that put them standing at the Falcon's Nest aetheryte. "He'll do fine on his own," the Warrior of Light said as he helped Sanson across the courtyard. "I'll get you to the chirurgeon and go back to help him if he needs it. But Sanson, you know he's capable. Let him worry about you for once."

"I'm not worried." A small laugh. "He looked so upset."

The Warrior of Light sighed.

A pair of chirurgeon's assistants hurried out to help, and the Warrior of Light let them take over. Soon, he was on an infirmary cot with his ankle raised, watching one of his favorite boots get cut away from his leg. The chirurgeon, her round face serious, handed him a cup. "For the pain," she said. "Getting the rest off will not be pleasant."

Sanson gulped the bitter draught down and praise the Twelve, it was all a blur after that. Pain, as they yanked the rest of the boot from his swollen ankle. Precise hands prodding his ribs, then applying salve. The voice of the chirurgeon in brief snippets, saying things like, not broken, off his feet, more concerned about the broken rib. Then another deeper, more familiar voice, hard fall, and checked his head? That broke him from the potion-induced stupor enough to open his eyes. "Guydelot?"

"Hey chief," Guydelot's face leaned into his vision. His light eyes were relieved. "We're going to get you to a real bed soon."

"Sounds good," Sanson closed his eyes to a quiet chuckle.

After that, it was Guydelot: throwing Sanson's arm over his shoulder, coaxing him down a hallway, getting his remaining boot off and injured ankle up. His whole body started aching in a distant, disjointed way by the time he had a pillow under his head and a blanket covering him. There was the crackle of a fire, the smell of the salve on his skin, the softness of a feather mattress over the canvas of a cot. And Guydelot, singing.

The words were indistinguishable but irrelevant in his soft, low tones, a simple melody meant to soothe. It was tangible, like a whisper in his ear or a smile against his skin. The blanket felt warmer, the pillow softer. The grogginess from the pain and potions faded into a relaxed weightiness. He had a thought, so close to one he remembered having moons before, that he would be able to get a peaceful night's sleep if only he had a bard to sing to him every night. It made him smile. He wanted to tell Guydelot how good he felt — to reassure him, but also to thank him. Sleepiness began to overtake him again, so he pushed the words to the front of his mind so he'd remember to say them when he woke.

When he did wake, it was to late morning sunlight and the inn room he'd been keeping before The Convictory. The aching was sharper now, a jab between his ribs while he breathed and a deep throb in his ankle. He shifted uncomfortably, causing the figure next to the bed to notice. Guydelot sat in an armchair with his harp and smiled when he saw that Sanson was awake.

"Excellent timing," he said and strummed the harp for effect, "The chirurgeon should be here soon."

He was much cheerier than he had been at The Convictory. Sanson supposed it was a good sign for his injuries. He struggled to sit up.

"Easy with that, now," Guydelot poured water from the pitcher into a cup and held it out. "You cracked two or three ribs and they're not completely set yet."

Sanson propped up on an elbow and took the cup. His throat was so dry he wasn't sure he could talk. He downed the water but it still came out rough when he said, "Thank you."

Guydelot gave a smile like there was a joke he didn't want to explain. "You're welcome."

Sanson carefully laid flat again and asked, "My ankle isn't broken?"

"No. You will still need to stay off of it for a few days."

He nodded as that matched his vague memory. "Don't suppose the boots could be salvaged?"

Guydelot laughed. "Attached to them, were you? No, they cannot be saved. They were ruined by dragon blood before the chirurgeon got to them. Nasty stuff. Did you know the Temple Knights treat all their leather armor to resist it? I know a few leatherworkers back home who would love to hear all about it like I did." He stood and scooped something from the floor by the bed. "You'll have to wait for replacement thighboots until we're back in Gridania, sorry to say. Best I could find here were calf boots." He held up a pair. They were plain, but so had been the thighboots. "They should resist staining for your next dragon kill, at least."

"That was your kill."

Guydelot shot him a look. "Hardly. If the Dragoons don't come by in an attempt to recruit you, all of Falcon's Nest will be surprised."

That made Sanson smile, even if it was hyperbole. "It wasn't your kill just for the arrow. I wouldn't have made the jump without your battlesong. I could do it because of you."

Guydelot turned pink at the compliment and dropped the boots to the floor again. By the Twelve, it even reached his ears, which Sanson found fascinating. He picked up the faerie tales from the bedside stand and said, "I was reading this while I waited for you to wake. I think you just read the tale of Haldrath one too many times and got grand ideas into your silly little lancer head."

Sanson laughed, and it hurt. "Oh seven hells."

Guydelot grimaced. "Shite, sorry." He gave a laugh. "Never quite sure what will trigger your queer sense of humor."

That Guydelot even remembered that part of the conversation warmed him. "You're getting better at it. To my current disadvantage."

Guydelot grinned and sat down again. "I'll endeavor to behave."

"No you won't," Sanson said with a smile.

Before Guydelot could respond, there was a knock on the door. The chirurgeon strode in when Guydelot opened it. Her first words upon seeing Sanson awake were, "I distinctly remember asking you to not end up back in my care."

Sanson tried to look sheepish. "At least it's a different injury?"

"And what an injury," she scolded as she opened her bag. "You'll be the talk of The Convictory for weeks, saving the life of that soldier like you did."

"She'll survive?"

"Yes," she responded with a soft smile. "She's worse off than you, but will fully recover."

"Thank the Twelve." Honestly, Sanson barely remembered the moment, just the drive to prevent the dragon from snapping its jaws shut.

"Wait," Guydelot said, "When did you go to the infirmary?"

"Poor thing stumbled in the night of Ser Alamenain's celebration, practically blind from headache. I gave him a sleeping potion." She seemed surprised he didn't know.

"Is that why you slept so late?" Guydelot murmured, with a look Sanson didn't understand.

"Let's check your ribs," the chirurgeon said, and helped Sanson pull his nightshirt up. His right side was a massive bruise, from under his armpit to his hip.

Guydelot whistled. "No wonder it hurts to laugh."

She hovered her hands over it, face serious with concentration, then nodded. "They're set correctly and well along with healing. I gave them a boost that'll speed it up some. By the time the bruising starts to fade, you'll be in the clear. Your ankle, however..."

She turned to the lifted limb, and did the same actions with her hands. The throbbing ache lessened. She cupped his calf and tipped his foot back and forth to test his pain. "You'll need to stay off this for at least another day." She looked at Guydelot, who nodded. "Tomorrow we can check to see how it takes your weight. But it will need care for a while yet, you understand? It will be easy to re-injure and harder to heal if you do."

Sanson nodded. She mixed another potion for him to drink and reminded him to use the salve she had given him on his ribs and ankle. After she had left, Guydelot looked at him from the armchair and said, "I have a feeling you'll enjoy this idleness much less than I will."

Sanson threw his arm over his eyes. "No exercise yard, then. You're getting off easy."

Guydelot laughed, which made Sanson smile. "I think not. Someone has to make sure you don't attempt to take on any dragons for the next few days."

The potion started to kick in, making Sanson sleepy. "Thank you, Guydelot. I am grateful."

"I know," he replied softly. "You're welcome, Sanson."

The next few days proved Guydelot correct: Sanson was about to go mad from idleness by the end of it. He read, he wrote in his journal, he slept. He listened to Guydelot sing while he thought Sanson was asleep, and wondered why he always stopped when it was just the two of them. The chirurgeon returned and cleared him for limited walking. He gratefully hobbled to the shower as soon as she left.

His bruising was very apparent. His palms and elbows were scabbed as well, making a thorough wash sting. By the end, he was exhausted again and had to admit that he must need the rest. Since he was mobile now, Guydelot had taken to checking in on him every few bells, bringing food or tea or a story before disappearing again. Sanson didn't ask — he was just glad Guydelot was willing.

By the third night, he had slept and healed enough to get restless. He wasn't surprised when he woke up in the dark, dawn still bells away. Nothing to do but try to go back to sleep. He rolled to his left side, pushing the stacked pillows into place under his ankle, and realized as the sheets twisted around him that he had woken up hard.

He chewed his lip and considered ignoring it. But he wasn't very tired, and it had been a few weeks since he'd had the privacy. Gods knew what amenities Tailfeather had. He might as well take advantage now, and it would help him fall back asleep.

Sanson shifted more onto his stomach, careful to mind his ribs as he wrapped a hand around his cock. Oh, yes, he was more in need than he thought — just the grasp made his breath catch. He rolled his hips against his palm experimentally. Whatever ache it caused was immediately overshadowed by the jolt of pleasure it brought, and Sanson slipped into it.

His mind dutifully supplied a favorite fantasy, this time featuring his latest attraction: Ser Handeloup. He was truthful when he'd told Guydelot he had no intention of seduction. But as a fantasy? He'd allow himself that without guilt. 

It was of the man underneath him, long legs wrapped around Sanson's hips, asking to be thoroughly fucked. Arching against him, seeking him, with an edge of desperation. He didn't need — didn't want — Sanson to be slow or gentle. Sanson writhed into his palm, letting the details come out: the sound of his name said with a whine, fingertips digging into his shoulder blades, handsome face tipped down to him to plead, except — except —

The intelligent eyes were no longer soft gray but ghostlight blue, the brown hair on the pillow now shot through with teal. The voice repeating his name was the smoky baritone from the laughing, lovely mouth of Guydelot. A fierce bolt of pleasure took him as he pictured the bard's legs bent to his chest, the warmth of his body as he let Sanson inside and received him fully with an arch to his back. Oh, he should be feeling guilty for this , but he was too gone chasing his climax to stop — Guydelot, head thrown back, slender throat on display, hips widened, but mostly it was the thought of his voice, his power with music not diminished at all as he bid Sanson to be harder, rougher, to make him come, singing out to the sound of their bodies together, pulsing around him, a noise like a laugh as he did. The idea that Guydelot would laugh through climax brought Sanson to his, as he gave a final rut against his palm, face in the pillow to not give away the centerpiece of his fantasy to the inn at large.

Sanson gasped as he came down. Had he just made a grave mistake? It was one thing to picture a man whom Sanson had little reason to seek out, but another for it to be his travel companion whose company he'd be keeping for the foreseeable future. Someone who Sanson wasn't even sure he was attracted to. It would be a distraction from the mission, if thinking of Guydelot became picturing him with his knees open, asking to be taken...

In Sanson's hand, his spent cock gave a weak shudder.

The line of thought was dangerous. He'd have to find a way to put it aside and not repeat the fantasy. A one-time indulgence. Not to mention if he'd be able to look Guydelot in the face during their next inevitable argument.

Sanson stripped out of his messy nightshirt for a fresh one. He put more wood to the fire and sat in the armchair to stare at it. He was sure it would pass. It was just that Guydelot had been so, well, attentive while Sanson was recovering. It had been a long time since someone had looked to his needs before he could even voice them. Sanson had new boots, a borrowed book to read, coffee in the mornings. It felt nice, if unexpected, to be looked after. That was all it was. Sanson would do the same if their positions were reversed.

But needs were needs — as he let his thoughts drift again, they turned immediately to how else Guydelot could satisfy him. Sanson shifted his knees apart. As if Guydelot were between them now, on the floor with the firelight glinting off his mischievous smile, hands sliding up Sanson's thighs to underneath the nightshirt, finding him bare and ready. Following his touch with his mouth, with his tongue —

Sanson groaned and rucked up his shirt to not mess it again. Once again pumping into his palm, he imagined it the push of Guydelot's long throat giving way, humming with encouragement as he sank in, his palm cupping Guydelot's throat to feel the swallow around him from both sides. Guydelot's fingers pressing his closer as he did it again, making sure Sanson could feel how full he was. Oh, his thumb rubbing circles on the inside of Sanson's thigh, a tease pressing closer and closer to the sensitive spot behind his bollocks that felt so good. He pressed his own fingers there and pictured Guydelot's eyes as he told him how much he needed Guydelot's throat around him when he came, needed, needed to feel Guydelot swallow all of him down —

Sanson cried out again as he finished, thankfully only noise instead of a name, a giveaway nonetheless. He'd be embarrassed later at the thought, but he half-hoped Guydelot could hear through the wall that separated their rooms. He slumped deeper into the chair, aghast at himself. A one- night indulgence, then. Tomorrow he would wipe all this from his mind.

He found a washrag and cleaned himself up before crawling back into bed. At least he was tired enough to fall back asleep now. His ankle was feeling much better. They'd move onto Tailfeather in a day or two. The boredom would cease, and Sanson could go back to his usual focused self.

Whatever this night was, it was a just hitch in the usual course of things, Sanson was sure.

The Warrior of Light returned to The Convictory within a bell after Guydelot watched him teleport a very disoriented Sanson to Falcon's Nest.

"He's under the care of the chirurgeon," he told Guydelot without preamble. "I told him I'd return to help if you needed it."

Guydelot rolled his eyes. He'd already packed up and arranged to have their nonessentials sent back on the next supply run. His burdens were their personal belongings and weaponry, and he could teleport back to Falcon's Nest with it all. He looked at Sanson's custom-made lance in his hand. A Knight had graciously cleaned it, seeing that Guydelot didn't know how. "He truly doesn't trust me with anything."

The Warrior of Light smiled. "I don't think that's why." Guydelot understood the implication, but shrugged. "I told him to let you be the one to worry."

Guydelot laughed. "I don't think that man could stop if he tried. I have this under control, returning to Falcon's Nest shortly. Will you be along?"

The Warrior of Light shook his head. "I'm needed in Ishgard."

"Then may the Twelve watch over you, brother."

A nod, then he was off to fetch his chocobo while Guydelot triple-checked his mental list. He'd get them inn rooms again as soon as he returned, then to the infirmary to check on Sanson. He replayed the fall over in his head, not for the first time. Before his arrow even hit home, he'd known what would happen next. As he moved in, he tried to figure out if he could break Sanson's fall somehow. But it happened too fast, Sanson hitting the icy ground hard enough it echoed off the rocks around them.

Guydelot pinched the bridge of his nose. When he was thirteen summers old, they nearly lost his grandfather to a much shorter fall. If Gold Spire hadn't been right there with her healing magicks, they would have. Even though he recovered, he was never quite the same man afterward, forgetful and prone to temper where he had not been before. Guydelot knew he was reacting so strongly because of that experience, but he couldn't stop himself from snapping at the infirmary assistant and even Sanson himself. Though Sanson had deserved it — he was the worst fool to try to protest. 

But his eyes had been steady and able to focus, and he'd made that godsawful quip about Guydelot's voice as soon as he could stand. The man clearly understood his own reaction to pain, which made it all the more infuriating. Guydelot wondered how he'd handled his shoulder injury. Had he had any help? Did he even know how to accept it?

It didn't matter. Guydelot didn't have a healer for a parent to learn nothing from it. Some people needed — deserved — to be bullied into taking care of themselves.

Once he reached the infirmary, he was glad to see the chirurgeon was of the same mind. "The potion mix I gave him helps with pain and will make him sleep heavy for the next few days. It will force him to get the rest he needs to heal properly."

"Good." Guydelot looked at Sanson, passed out on a cot nearby. His ankle and ribs were both wrapped. "It was a hard fall. Did you check his head?"

The chirurgeon nodded. "He was lucid when he got here —"

"Guydelot?"

It was plaintive, like he wasn't quite sure. Guydelot leaned over the cot to see Sanson's eyes barely cracked. "Hey chief, we're going to get you to a real bed soon."

His eyes closed again. "Sounds good." It was so casual that Guydelot laughed.

Something caught his eye by the end of the cot, and it took a second for Guydelot to parse out what it was. A very mangled thighboot. Which was a godsdamn shame to lose with how Sanson looked in them. He glanced back at Sanson: his other boot was still on and intact. Easy enough.

He turned back to the chirurgeon. "Do you happen to know where I might procure a new pair of boots?"

After he finally got a very drowsy Sanson settled into his bed, he sat in the armchair and considered what to do next. It was barely nightfall. He could leave Sanson to sleep, but he loathed the idea of him waking up without someone to assist him. He thought about his harp, but he didn't want to risk waking him. Celaine's melody was still in his head, so he hummed a bit of it. When Sanson didn't stir, he sang it softly with nonsense syllables. He could hear the possible harmonies as he did, harp or voice. It felt not unlike singing the choral piece in The Congregation Library, an almost quality he couldn't quite pin down.

That reminded him of Sanson's ridiculous compliment after his fall. Guydelot could admit that the instant he'd started singing, it was for Sanson's benefit. He hadn't hesitated when he charged into the battle, but Guydelot had seen enough of lancers to know that was their tactic. That was what he tried to channel with the song: resolve, control, tenacity. All things he had come to associate with the man.

And when Sanson had called for an arrow — he had to have known that if Guydelot breathed wrong, the arrow would be in his leg instead of the dragon's eye. But there was no doubt, no fear to his face in that split second decision. So Guydelot hadn't felt any, either.

He sang the melody through again, slower like a lullaby. That felt more peaceful, took the sorrow out of it. It was right to this exact circumstance of watching over someone sleeping, a fire crackling out the only light.

Sanson stirred. Guydelot cut off the bar he was in the midst of to hear, very softly: "Feel good." Sanson's brows drew together in concentration. "Thank you."

Guydelot felt like he'd choked on his own heart as Sanson slipped back to sleep. Whatever excuses he'd told himself since the night in the tavern were pure rubbish. Against his better judgment, he was growing fond of this uptight, awkward lancer with an unexpected confident streak. There was no other reason why being ignored had hurt like it did.

Guydelot sat for a while yet, singing every lullaby he knew, until Sanson's breathing was deep and his face relaxed. Then Guydelot picked up the intact boot and went to find Sanson another pair.

He tried not to hover over the next few days. But by the Twelve, he was bored. Sanson, at least, could sleep. Guydelot felt like he was going out of his senses. Unlike The Forgotten Knight, the tavern here remained mostly empty of people until dark. Busking in the courtyard was near impossible due to the cold. He could sit in his room and read Sanson's book of folktales for the third time, but then he would overthink whether or not Ser Handeloup had meant the gift as an overture and if Sanson hoped it was. That was a sure way to chase his idle mind right into a dark pit. He knew it was bad when he found himself on the archery range for the second time in a day. What he truly wanted to do — what made every other way he could spend his time so painful — was charm another pot of tea off the innkeep and take it to Sanson. Maybe they would play cards. Maybe Sanson would doze and Guydelot would play his harp. Maybe they would talk about military strategy or Jehantel or growing up in the Twelveswood. What mattered was it didn't matter . Guydelot just wanted to be in the same room. It was that early, unnerving wave of infatuation, but Guydelot had already been turned down. It was all out of order and there was no escape. Hence, target practice, again , until he could bring Sanson supper before fleeing to the tavern to sing away the restlessness.

Which was where Orleaux found him, during a break between songs. He leaned against the bartop next to Guydelot, arms braced. While he was racing through excuses in his head, Orleaux said, "You don't need to avoid me."

Guydelot said, "What?"

"You've avoided looking at me for two nights now. I don't know why, but you don't need to be worried."

"I didn't want you to think..." Guydelot trailed off. He didn't know what he didn't want Orleaux to think, since he'd been avoiding doing it himself since they'd slept together.

"See? That's what I mean. I'd be willing to give it a repeat, but certainly not heartbroken otherwise. You don't need to worry."

"Oh." Guydelot turned to look at him fully. "Thank you."

He nodded. "I heard your companion was injured out at The Convictory. Is he healing well?"

"He is."

"I also heard he saved a soldier's life."

Guydelot nodded. "He did."

"Then the two of you are a well-matched pair."

Guydelot swallowed, none of the responses he wanted coming to his mouth. We are. Are we? We're really not. I wish we were.

He settled for another nod. Maybe he'd spent too much time with the Warrior of Light.

He chatted with Orleaux for a while. When Alamenain showed up, Guydelot cornered him before he could settle. "Can I convince you to sing with me? Privately? I need a second voice."

Alamenain was willing. "Is it a battlesong? All you need is a voice, not a bard?"

"Aye," he said. "From the soldier at The Convictory. I don't know for sure yet."

They found an overhang outside that blocked the worst of the wind. Guydelot sang through the melody once or twice until Alamenain nodded, then sang it back perfectly.

"Now, whatever I do, keep with the melody. And let me know if you feel anything?"

"Feel anything?"

Guydelot hesitated. For all the time he'd spent talking about music, he struggled to describe the effect. "It'll heighten your senses, or give you a boost of clarity. It's different depending on the song, the bard, and the listener. So anything out of the ordinary."

The first round, Guydelot kept the harmony simple, not trying for power. It was a pretty lullaby, nothing more. The second, when he added in clashing notes, was more of the almost feeling. He watched Alamenain's face — he was concentrating like he hadn't before.

"That was interesting," the Knight said. "More than the usual high of a particularly good harmony. And it wasn’t even that."

Guydelot was relieved. "Thank the Twelve, I thought so. Again?"

This time Guydelot leaned into it, the clash and dissonance that would never do in an everyday lullaby. Alamenain's eyebrows shot up, and he shook out his arms during a particularly long note. After they finished, they stared at each other with wide eyes.

Alamenain was the first to speak. "Was that... typical?"

"No." Guydelot thought back to all the times he'd sang with Jehantel. "Battlesongs don't rely on harmony. Enhance, yes, but relying on it would be pointless. And that didn't feel like a battlesong." Guydelot considered for a second. "A buzz under your skin? A warmth in your chest?"

Alamenain nodded.

"Godsdamn it, I wish Jehantel were here." Guydelot grinned. "In fact, I should drag the old man out to meet you once I'm done with this mission."

"I'd be delighted."

Guydelot was reluctant to let Alamenain go, but it was cold and the man deserved his leisure time. He did assure Guydelot he'd be willing to sing with him anytime, for joy or purpose.

"You've become a very good friend, Alamenain," Guydelot said as they went back inside. "So, if that baby turns out to be a boy..."

Alamenain laughed at him and bought him a drink.

Chapter Text

Guydelot hated Tailfeather with a fondness he thought he could only hold for Hyrstmill. It was his home village, only in Dravania and with more fully grown men acting stupid. Hunters were all the same.

Marcechamp, the Elezen who ran Tailfeather, was malms more competent than the men he oversaw. Sanson was able to discover this within a half-bell of them arriving, and insisted they ask him of Sylviel. The rest of the camp mostly gave them uninterested looks.

"I didn't expect a warm welcome, but a little curiosity would go a long way." Guydelot muttered to Sanson as they crossed the bridge to Marcechamp's hut.

Sanson smiled without looking at him. That had been happening the last few days as they traveled to Tailfeather. If he managed to make Sanson laugh or even smile, the man avoided his eyes afterward. It was a baffling new twist to his behavior. But they hadn't argued, even at The Convictory where they stopped overnight. As soon as they were set up there, Sanson went off to the infirmary to check on the injured soldier and her fellows. He'd returned to their tent relieved and content, but still not meeting Guydelot's eyes. He gave up trying at that point, seeing as Sanson was smiling more often.

Dravania's climate was much milder than Coerthas, but the ride to Tailfeather had been long. "How's the ankle?"

"Stiff like the rest of me," Sanson said with the briefest of glances and a sideways smile. He stopped to lean on the bridge railing and roll it back and forth a few times. "But not painful. That chirurgeon worked wonders."

Guydelot looked around at the chocobo hunters' settlement. A cluster of stone buildings, mostly stables. The only building that stood alone was the one a hunter had pointed them to for Marcechamp.

He was a no-nonsense, middle-aged Elezen with an impatient air. Sanson explained their mission and that they were seeking Sylviel; Marcechamp looked unimpressed. "Sylviel and his band set off yesterday, and aren't due back for a week. If they come back at all."

"Why's that?" Guydelot asked, not fond of the dismissive tone.

"The ruins they wanted to research are on the edge of Gnath territory, and they're getting more hostile to outsiders by the day. Even kicked out some of their own kind from the hive. They were warned."

"Gnath?" Sanson said before Guydelot could ask why the hells no one seemed to care.

"The local beast tribe, to the south. As long as you stay in the forest, you shouldn't encounter them."

"Did the researchers have protection?"

"Aye, a sellsword."

Sanson nodded. "Do we have your permission to stay in Tailfeather whilst we await their return?"

Marcechamp assessed them with shrewd eyes. "We have a spare stall at the moment. But we're not in the habit of hosting outsiders for their entertainment. You'll be expected to contribute."

"I can hunt." Guydelot was getting ahead of Sanson on this. "He's still recovering from an injury. He needs light duty."

"Guydelot."

"If the chirurgeon who can work wonders told you to mind your ankle for a while yet, do you think it's wise to gainsay her?" Sanson gave a resigned sigh. "I didn't think so."

"I can cook," said Sanson. "Or assist in the stables."

Marcechamp nodded. "I'll have someone show you the bedstall."

It was, in fact, little more than a stable stall. Walls had been built up for some privacy, but they didn't reach to the ceiling and there were gaps between some slabs of lumber. "Charming," Guydelot said as he put his bag down on one of the two cots that barely fit inside.

"Better than the wilds," Sanson said.

"I beg to differ," Guydelot said. "You can cook?"

"You can't?" Sanson said with a chuckle. "My mother taught me."

"That explains it. Mine can't cook worth a damn."

"But you can hunt?"

"You can't?" Guydelot parroted back, and Sanson made a face. "I wasn't raised in Gridania, but out in Hyrstmill."

Sanson whistled. "That's off the beaten path."

"Aye, so I know how to hunt. If I'm going to sleep little better than a chocobo, then I'd rather be one of the wild ones who can at least see the stars."

Sanson gave him a long, unfathomable look. "That would be fitting, wouldn't it?"

Guydelot gazed back, taking Sanson's eyes on him where he could. "To look upon something with the power to inspire me will be my choice, every time."

"Spoken like a true bard." Sanson crossed his arms and glanced around to make sure they were alone. "I don't like the disregard Marcechamp had for Sylviel's safety. I know you didn't, as well. I say we wait the week. If they don't return on time, we go after them, these Gnath be damned."

"I'll be giving them a piece of my mind while we wait."

Sanson gave him a stern glance. "Don't get us kicked out. I won't be on light duty if we have to camp on our own."

"Fair enough."

"Let's go find this Loupard, then."

Guydelot ended up at one of the outlying camps, tasked with stocking their coffers. He was out of practice, having not done any real hunting since he'd joined the Quiver. But he'd been hunting since he was eight — it didn't make much for him to remember. He spent two nights away from Tailfeather, returning midday more than successful. He'd taken down a brown bear that morning — too much meat for the one camp, so back to Tailfeather with it to split as needed. He was in remarkably good spirits, whistling as he arrived. Sanson wasn't in the kitchens with the cook, so he left the kill for her to dress and went to find him. Best make sure no word arrived while he was gone.

Guydelot followed the path through Tailfeather once he confirmed Sanson wasn't in their shared bedstall, either. If he remembered correctly, there was a set of hardly-used striking dummies this way — no doubt Sanson had made it his home away from home. He saw Sanson's lance first, stowed in a rack, which meant the man was somewhere about. Except the yard was empty. Guydelot stood in front of the line of dummies and frowned. He'd opened his mouth to call out for him when he heard rustling, turning to see Sanson standing barefoot at the edge of the river.

His back was to Guydelot, his posture relaxed — clearly thinking he was alone. Guydelot hesitated. He could still call out and break Sanson's peace, but as he watched, Sanson pulled the cord from his tail and his shirt over his head, dropping both onto his boots. 

Guydelot's breath caught and he ducked behind the corner of a stable. This was stupid. He should leave. But he was also curious as to why Sanson would bathe in the river when there were heated showers available. He peered around the corner again to see Sanson kick off his trousers, shake his hands out like he was gearing up, and walk into the river in his underclothes. Up to his waist, he paused to stretch arms above his head. Bruising still wrapped around his side to his back — Sanson must be seeking the cold after a workout. The river came from glaciers in the mountains, far more bracing than any of the ones in Gridania. It would do good for any lingering injury.

By the Twelve, did Sanson have a lovely shape to his shoulders as he stretched. Guydelot watched the muscles bunch and shift, fascinated and embarrassed. He leaned against the building to catch his breath, out of sight again. What if Sanson caught him gawking? Guydelot covered his face with his hands when the thought made his belly tighten and his prick pay attention. He was a mess. Not once had someone made him so unraveled. Worse, Sanson didn’t even seem to notice.

He didn't know what to do. Every day, his attraction grew. Every day, it was obvious that either Sanson was oblivious or deliberately ignoring it. He didn’t know which was worse, but true ignorance felt better to his ego.

Just as he was about to turn and walk away, he heard humming. It was rough but not unpleasant. He strained to identify the song, and regretted it as soon as he did. Sanson was humming Close to the Heavens, the song about unrequited love and yearning sacrifice. What had Sanson said? That was what made it a love song?

Guydelot left then, retreating to his cot. For the first time, he wondered if there was anything to do about his attraction. He couldn't vanquish it any more than he could make Sanson return it. He'd played a long game of seduction before, but not at the risk of his own heart. Could he make peace with the longing until it faded on its own? Or would he need to break from Sanson's company, for the sake of them both? How would he explain it to him, to Jehantel?

He'd just have to endure.

He heard footsteps, then the door to the stall pushed open. Sanson came in, still drying his hair. "Oh good, you're back. Were you successful?"

Even with Guydelot's disquiet, it was good to see him. "Aye. There's a whole bear waiting for you to deal with at the kitchens."

Sanson stopped digging through his duffel to look at Guydelot, incredulous. "A bear?"

"Aye."

"By yourself?"

Guydelot grinned and sat up. "Marcechamp's hunters set the trap, but I took care of the rest."

Sanson shook his head. "I don't know how to cook bear ."

Guydelot stood and clapped him on the shoulder. "Seems you're about to learn. I'd best see if I can keep the pelt. That's a trophy to bring home, ain't it? A Dravanian bear pelt?"

Sanson rolled his eyes with a smile.

At supper that evening, most of the camp gathered around a large central fire to eat. Guydelot plopped himself on a sitting log next to Sanson. "Stew, huh? Couldn't be a little more creative?"

"Do you want to plate meals for two dozen hungry hunters?" He volleyed back. "I didn't think so. Easiest gets them fed fastest."

Guydelot looked at the circle of people around the fire. "I see your point. Any news while I was gone?"

Sanson frowned into his bowl. "Not about Sylviel, no."

"But other news?"

Sanson's gaze drifted. "I heard back from The Congregation Library on a lead I was pursuing before we left Ishgard. Another dead end."

"What was it?"

Sanson glanced at him sideways, like he wasn't sure if Guydelot was serious. "You remember that choral piece I had you try? The composer had a writing partner. But he was exiled, and she started composing solely for The Holy See. I was trying to find scores of their joint pieces."

"Exiled? As a heretic?" That was alarming, if Sanson let it be known that was what he'd been after.

But he shook his head. "He would have been executed, if that was the case. The Library couldn't discover the reason, either." Sanson sighed. "I have a feeling the answer lies in the guarded Church records. It was like every trace of Felixient was destroyed purposefully."

 "You think he was a bard?"

"I think the history is suspect. The Church began exerting more control over composers and musicians under that Archbishop, which got Ishgard to the restricted state it's in today. I'd know if I could get my hands on a score, but alas."

Guydelot thought it over. "If Sylviel is a historian, he might know more."

"Exactly."

"Two birds, one stone."

That earned him a grin that made his chest flutter. "Who's putting their nose into foreign affairs now?"

Guydelot huffed disagreement. "Hardly."

Sanson laughed. "We'll make a diplomat of you yet."

"No thank you," Guydelot said with an exaggerated shudder.

By the end of supper, Guydelot was itching to play. He had left his harp behind as impractical whilst hunting. These hunters were getting a performance whether they liked it or not. He was surprised to see Sanson settle back down next to the fire, stretching his legs out to it. He leaned back on his hands and smiled at Guydelot across from him. Except for that disaster night in Falcon's Nest, Sanson hadn't joined any of Guydelot's performances. It didn't seem right that he'd never sung for a crowd that included him. Here Guydelot was, under stars that weren't blocked out by snow clouds, with a handsome man smiling at him. Life could have put him in worse circumstances, he supposed.

More hunters hung around than he'd expected. It seemed that word had gotten around he was a bard before he came back; they were starved for entertainment much like Falcon's Nest. Not as rowdy as the Knights, though, save one or two who got louder the more they drank. One was a Hyur woman who had worked her way around the firepit to sit close by, swaying more and more toward him. After one song, she reached out toward his harp.

Guydelot casually pivoted it away from her fingers.

She looked at him, hurt, before saying, "It's so small and pretty. I thought harps were larger."

"They are," Guydelot responded. "This is a hand harp. I have a bigger one at home."

"I bet you do," she said with an attempt to be sultry. "Can I see that one, too?"

Before he could open his mouth with a comeback, a voice came across the fire. "Guydelot."

Sanson, back to a log, arms across his chest. He hadn't said a word in the near bell Guydelot had been playing. He hadn't had anything to drink, either.

"Aye, chief?" He shifted away from the woman. 

"Do you know Like A Summer Rain?" Sanson wasn't looking at the woman, but his tone carried an edge directed at her. "I'd like to hear it."

"Aye, chief," Guydelot gave him a crooked grin. He could play this game. "It's all yours."

The woman backed off and didn't try to touch Guydelot's harp again.

As a thank you, Guydelot started Close to the Heavens next. Oh, these lyrics were more tragic than he remembered. The maiden's beloved went off to a battlefront with small hope of winning, and the chorus was her lament that if his return to the Lifestream was imminent, that she be allowed to see him smile in the next life. Not love him, not have that love returned, but see him smile to know he was at peace. He could see where Sanson was coming from, now.

Sanson gazed into the fire for the length of the song, a pleased twist to his mouth. When Guydelot finished the last note, he glanced up and let the smile widen. Thank you, he mouthed. Guydelot darted his eyes to the woman and back, then gave a nod. 

He let the warmth of that small exchange carry him through the rest of the night.

When they were walking back to their stall in the dark, Guydelot had the thought again: he could seduce Sanson tonight. Cots weren't ideal, and neither was the sparse privacy. But he could get on his knees, and as long as Sanson wasn't loud, no one would be the wiser. Or maybe they would be, Guydelot didn't care. He thought about flexing shoulders, about muscled thighs in the thin black cotton he'd spied earlier. He thought having his mouth between them, a hand in his hair like his fantasy.

He thought about Sanson, humming.

One night wouldn't be enough, he realized. If it was all Sanson had to give, he wouldn't want it. He'd rather have this, walking side by side with ease, Sanson lighting the kerosene lamp while asking what Guydelot's plans were for tomorrow, changing into nightclothes with their backs to each other, making Sanson chuckle by joking about how warm a bear pelt would be in the chill. It would hurt too much, he thought, to have one or two nights of travel-convenient fucking only to lose out on Sanson's smile once home in Gridania. It was a strange realization, one he'd never encountered before. He didn't know what to make of it.

So he told Sanson good night as he blew out the lamp, and listened to the rustle of blankets and the rhythm of Sanson's breathing until he fell asleep himself. 

The next morning brought news of Ser Haurchefant's death. Not directly about him — but of the Archbishop's power-hungry betrayal of his people and his imprisonment of his bastard son, the Lord Commander, who came to confront him. Of a band of Temple Knights and Scions, besieging The Vault in rescue. Of a valiant Knight who perished at the hand of the Heaven's Ward, giving his life in protection of his friends. But no one in Tailfeather had met him, and few the Warrior of Light. No one else had seen how they were, together.

Guydelot was preparing to go check a round of traps when he heard. Knots of people were standing around the aetheryte by a Temple Knight crier, who didn't have answers to any of their questions. Even Marcechamp was grilling the man to no avail. It was simply that no one knew what was next for Ishgard.

Guydelot abandoned his task to find Sanson. He turned toward the building that housed the kitchens, only to see Sanson already headed for him, wiping his hands on his apron.

"What do we do for him?" Guydelot asked helplessly as Sanson approached. "What can we do?"

Sanson's eyes were tight but steady. He looked up at Guydelot and squeezed his arm. "We give him all the time he needs. The Ballad of Oblivion is of little consequence compared to this. All of Ishgard has been upended." Guydelot nodded, grateful for the hand on his arm and something like an answer. "It means that if Sylviel doesn't return, we go investigate on our own, without troubling him. Can you be prepared to do that?"

"Yes, of course."

"Good. I think it's safe to say most aren't aware of the depth of the tragedy. We should keep it to ourselves."

Guydelot took in Sanson's calm expression in confusion until he remembered that he was a veteran of Carteneau, that he had not stopped fighting as his comrades fell around him. Between them, Sanson knew best what their friend was facing. Guydelot took a deep breath and resolved to follow his lead. "I will."

"Good." Sanson squeezed his arm one more time and let go. "Try and stay steady, Quiverman. The world around you is going to need it."

"Aye, Captain." Guydelot managed a smile and got one in return. "Thank you."

Sanson nodded. "Were you headed out to hunt? I don't think anyone would notice if you stayed behind today."

"I was, and I'll go. It was just a shock to hear."

"It was," Sanson said softly. "Ser Haurchefant was such a good soul. I can't imagine what the loss must be like."

" Have joy of each other's company while you still can ." Guydelot quoted Celaine before he thought too hard. "I hope they did."

"I hope so, too." Sanson looked past him, his eyes sad. "By the Twelve, I hope so."

Guydelot felt shaken the rest of the day. He avoided talking to most of the hunters when he returned, instead returning to the empty bedstalls for his harp. As he sat on his cot, the song that rose in his mind was, of course, Close to the Heavens . He played it through without singing, the sorrow too close to put to words. The world was too wide, too complex to cease from a single soul's passage to the Lifestream, but that didn't stop centuries of singing like it could. He knew being a bard meant being a keeper of other people's stories. Perhaps when the time was right, he'd ask to compose one for Ser Haurchefant's.

That brought him to what Sanson had mentioned of the exiled composer, Felixient. Curious, that both Celaine's song from Sylviel and the choral piece were so close to battlesong. He couldn't repeat the effect of the harmonies with his harp; whatever it resonated with, it required vocals. Shame that Sanson wasn't much of a singer. But he was on the right path, Guydelot thought, to pursue earlier compositions. He'd like to get his hands on those scores as well.

Sanson kept a concerned eye on him throughout the day — making sure he ate, asking him on a walk, telling him tidbits about botany, asking how he came to play the harp, letting silence fall without pressure when Guydelot's thoughts took him out of conversation mid-sentence. Guydelot appreciated it, but he didn't know what to do with it, any of it. He had never been any good at corralling his mind when it turned into a whirl like this. Time was really the only cure, as much as he hated it.

Guydelot didn't play that night, and no one asked him to. For one of the first times in his life, he was grateful for it.

Sanson sat on a rock by the river, writing in his journal, when the Tailfeather aetheryte pulsated with a strong current of aether and revealed the Warrior of Light in the next blink. He was run ragged; there were dark bags under his eyes and his long dark hair, usually loose, was pulled back in a braid that looked slept in. Sanson's heart clenched in sympathy.  He'd seen that look of grief on so many others, and his own face in the mirror, in the wake of the Calamity.

The news of Ishgard's upheaval had reached Tailfeather as an afterthought, the Temple Knight crier arriving several days after it occurred. Sanson had no idea what had happened between then and now, but he assumed it was a lot. If the Lord Commander had recovered from his injuries, he had no doubt assumed temporary leadership of Ishgard. Having shown he was no pawn to the Church, it was bound to be a contentious move, alongside any attempts to bring the Archbishop and the Heaven's Ward to justice. 

Sanson closed his journal and slid it into his breast pocket, crossing the grass. "My friend," he called out, and the Warrior of Light turned toward him. He grasped the taller Elezen by the arms and was surprised to be pulled into a fierce hug. "I am so sorry."

When he stepped back, the Warrior of Light dashed tears from his eyes. "Thank you. What progress has been made?"

Sanson made a disbelieving noise. "You hardly need to be here. It can all wait, or Guydelot and I can handle it."

He shook his head. "We're waiting on Cid Garlond to construct a miracle. I need to occupy my time."

"If you're sure?" Sanson searched his face. He nodded. "Let me find Guydelot. He... struggled with the news, so forgive him if he's not his usual self."

Struggled was the simplest way he could think to put it, as he went in search of Guydelot. The man had been distressed, and it had lingered all the previous day. Sanson hated to see it. It wasn't something he'd usually do with soldiers under his watch — but Guydelot had looked after him so well while injured. Still was. The least he could do was return the favor as best he could, and so tried to keep him occupied without prying.

It was the day Sylviel and his fellows were set to return. Now with Guydelot in tow, he reiterated everything they knew. Really, it wasn't anything more than when they'd first arrived in Tailfeather. Guydelot was shifting from foot to foot, staring off into the distance, so he was the first to register the shouts for help.

By the time Sylviel's sellsword reached the aetheryte, Guydelot was already moving toward him. When he said no one else was willing to help, Guydelot looked ready to fight the whole camp. "And why the hells not?"

"They warned us, but we ignored them, thinking we could manage. How wrong we were." The man was still breathing heavily, bent over from running back to Tailfeather.

Guydelot turned to the Warrior of Light as Sanson looked around the camp in surprise. It was one thing to warn, and another to deny help because the warning wasn't heeded. Not a single hunter seemed to care. In fact, some were glancing over in irritation at the conversation. Unbelievable. People's lives were in danger, and no one lifted a finger.

Sanson turned back to see Guydelot livid, shouting, "Tell these craven bastards here that they're a bunch of craven bloody bastards!"

He turned to Sanson, eyes defiant and daring him to chide. Sanson said, "I'm coming as well."

They galloped their chocobos south, toward the plumes of greasy, green smoke that the Gnath used to keep the dragons at bay. "That bloody place is worse than Hyrstmill," Guydelot swore. "At least at home they don't leave people to die over a poor decision."

Sanson knew little of Hyrstmill, having never been. It was a several bell ride to Fallgourd Float, the closest aetheryte. As north as one could get in the Shroud, it was one of the few places that got reliable snowfall. He imagined in a small village like that, people were forced to rely on their neighbors, which explained much of Guydelot's rage at the hunters of Tailfeather. It also explained why he rushed to help others at every opportunity.

That was the foremost quality of Guydelot the Spent, Sanson had discovered. From Alamenain and Abby, to Sanson's own injuries, to Ser Haurchefant's passing — his first reaction was to offer help. Maybe it wasn't always wise, maybe he didn't always think it through, but it was always genuine.

He thought back to the things he believed about Guydelot before having met him: lazy, irresponsible, arrogant. None of that showed in the angry, determined face riding alongside him, to rescue strangers where others wouldn't. Sometime in the past few weeks, he'd stopped believing it. Now he could see Guydelot as he was: kind, clever, thoughtful. A good heart, like Miss Tataru had told him. He hadn't seen enough of it to believe her then. But he saw it now, and he wanted to witness it again, and again, as many iterations as Guydelot would allow him.

It was a bad moment to have the thought. Sanson needed time to piece it together, even if it seemed obvious on the surface: the way Guydelot held his attention; the fantasies; how warm he'd felt hearing the bard sing his favorite song unprompted. And if it was the obvious answer, well, he wasn't certain there was anything to be gained from doing something about it. He glanced at Guydelot again. No, surely not. Best to put the whole bundle aside for later.

Guydelot stayed furious as they fought to free Sylviel from his Gnath captors. It was a storm of song and arrows, with the two of them nearly taking down every attacker by the time the Warrior of Light returned from escorting the historian to safety. As soon as they were outside the hive again, Guydelot turned to him. "Are you all right, chief?"

Sanson gave him a look. "I'm fine, Guydelot. A few bruises. Stop worrying so much, please."

Guydelot crossed his arms and looked away, peeved. The Warrior of Light watched them with a curious expression and lifted an eyebrow at Sanson. Dear gods, he didn't want to know what he was thinking. Sanson shook his head to deflect.

Once back in Tailfeather, they gathered near to aetheryte to debrief. Sylviel's sellsword was relieved to see him and his assistant returned unharmed; he apologized for failing to protect them so profusely that Sylviel had to put both hands on his cheeks to get him to meet his eyes. "It's all right, lad," he said. "You saved us in the end by seeking help. You did right by me."

Finally, the young man nodded. Sylviel let him go, and Sanson watched as the sellsword turned and swept the assistant into his arms without hesitation. Oh. Sanson glanced away, awkward for staring, only to catch Guydelot doing the same — when their eyes met, Sanson immediately dropped his to his own feet. He felt his face heat, and he was sure his expression gave away why.

A hunter approached, eyes darting between Guydelot, who had crossed his arms, and Sylviel, who had certainly noticed that Guydelot had angled himself between them. The hunter finally looked to Sanson. "I've something to say, if you'll hear me out."

Sanson gestured for him to continue, none too impressed himself.

It turned out Guydelot's rage had rippled some shame throughout the camp. Several of the hunters regretted their callousness, and this one was brave enough to make the apology for them all. As he retreated again, Sanson expected Guydelot to crow about being right. He was surprised to see him watching the reunited lovers slip away, hand in hand. But before he could get his attention, Sylviel brought up the Ballad of Oblivion.

Right. The entire reason they were all here, the object of Sanson's mission that he refused to go home without. It would save lives, raise the esteem of both the Twin Adder and Gridania, and give him and Guydelot a chance to change their respective companies for the better. Sanson needed to focus, godsdamnit.

"Coerthan legend speaks of a saint of song in the heavens. Tis said he can bring a battle to a conclusion with a song." Sylviel looked thoughtful, and Sanson felt a flare of hope in his chest. "As for being in the heavens, I suspect it is a figurative expression, but I cannot say for certain at this juncture. I shall investigate the legend further." He smiled at the lot of them. "A small gesture of gratitude for having saved our lives."

"We would be most thankful, Master Sylviel," Sanson said. "This sounds like the legend that led me to the Ballad to begin with. Any insight would be extremely helpful."

Sylviel gave a bow. "I will start making my inquiries, by your leave."

Sanson turned to his bard companions, triumphant. Finally, a promising lead on concrete proof of the Ballad's existence. The Warrior of Light seemed pleased, but Guydelot appeared... annoyed? What could possibly be wrong with this progress?

"Let us continue our own investigation. Coerthan literature may yet yield more clues." He turned to the Warrior of Light to bid him to rest, but Guydelot spoke first. 

"If you ask me, it sounds like naught but a faerie tale." Sanson closed his eyes; he should have foreseen this. Between Guydelot's mood and his own lack of discipline, an argument was bound to start. Why it had to be this, of all things, escaped him. "I'd wager that heavens is just a metaphor for a natural phenomenon. We've hit a dead end. I say we return to Gridania for now and pursue other avenues."

The disappointment that swept Sanson threatened to derail him. He fought it back and tried, he swore he tried, to choose his words carefully. But Guydelot had that disdainful air that had been so prevalent in Ishgard. Its sudden reappearance rubbed Sanson raw.

"And if you ask me, I say it's far too early to draw conclusions." He would not go back empty-handed. He would not. "If you choose to abandon our mission, I'll not stop you. But know you will be judged a deserter and you would lose your place in the Gods' Quiver." He suspected Guydelot cared little about that, but if he guessed right... "And that would be precisely what your superiors intended."

Guydelot's eyes flared with hurt. Underneath the disappointment, Sanson struggled with the desperate need to make him understand. "Look, Guydelot. You of all people must understand the true reason they chose you for this mission. They wanted you out of the way! Your skills had naught to do with it. And it isn't so different for me. I was a thorn in their side, demanding cooperation where they didn't want to give it. They were pleased to get rid of me as well."

Even the Warrior of Light was looking at him, alarmed, now. Sanson realized his voice had raised nearly to a shout, but he couldn’t wrestle it back down. He needed Guydelot to see, godsdamnit, that this was something they had to do together . "That's why we must succeed! That's why we need to find the Ballad of Oblivion!"

He searched Guydelot's face for any trace of agreement. All he saw was his curled lip, his light eyes narrow with contempt. Sanson was back in that moment on the landing in The Forgotten Knight, wrought with the knowledge that he'd done it all wrong somehow and he'd never figure out why. Only this time, he knew Guydelot as someone who found him new boots and made him laugh. Someone who, with a spark of hope, Sanson wanted to be a friend.

If he'd thought then that his heart might shatter, it was naught compared to what was about to come.

"If you want to find that song so badly, you can bloody well find it yourself. I've had a gutful." The disgust in Guydelot's beautiful voice was thick enough to make Sanson ill. "You're no bard. I doubt you even understand what gives a song its power. Yet here you are, gallivanting about searching for one. To you, the Ballad of Oblivion is just a way to curry favor with the brass hats. That's an honest-to-gods insult to real bards like me and him."

Oh gods , Sanson had made that speech in front of the Warrior of Light. Who was now witnessing Sanson try not to crumble from rejection, sharper than a snapped bowstring cleaving through skin, after Guydelot gave him a final dismissive glance before stalking away. He clenched his fists and stared up at the afternoon sky, blinking until he was sure tears wouldn't fall. Guydelot was out of sight by then.

"I did not mean to be antagonizing," he told the Warrior of Light. "I swear. I just want him to understand..." We could be good together. Sanson shook the thought from his head. He didn't even know what he meant by it. It would be too dangerous to speak it aloud.

The bard looked at him with sympathy. He laid a hand on Sanson's shoulder. "I know. I think he does, just not yet."

Sanson nodded. "I'll give him some time." He needed it, too. "I ask you have patience with us. I won't keep you any longer."

When he returned to their bedstall, he was hurt but not surprised to find Guydelot's belongings gone. Was returning to Gridania without Sanson better than staying in his company, after that? Would Guydelot truly give up so easily? Maybe he didn't know the man after all. Maybe this was another indication that Sanson was too intense. Maybe it was best for them to part ways now, before Sanson lost his focus again.

He sat on his cot and put his face in his hands. Guydelot would come around; it did no good to worry about where he was or what choices he was making in the meantime. If he didn't, then Sanson was better off for it. When he returned home, he'd file his report and ask Jehental to recommend a different bard for the unit. He'd have to lean on the Warrior of Light's skills for the rest of the mission, and he hated the thought. But the need to see it through was in his very core.

The worst of Guydelot's words would circle in his mind a while yet, he knew. I doubt you even understand what gives a song its power. He had believed he did, as well as one could without being a bard, before leaving Gridania. Having stood on that dragon's neck, surrounded by Guydelot's voice? He'd be damned if he could put it into proper words, but his understanding before paled in comparison to now. It was the cruelest twist of fate that the voice that guided him to it was the one accusing him of treating it frivolously.

Sanson could do this without Guydelot. But seven hells, he wished he wouldn't have to.

Guydelot was a thrice-damned idiot. An utter fool. A halfwit of the highest order. The entire time he'd been throwing things into his bag, storming out of Tailfeather, and riding a chocobo to the hunters' camp, he'd known what he was doing. He'd known it was futile. It was little better than a tantrum in the end, rash and pointless. His mother was probably shaking her head at the thought of her only child right then without knowing why.

Sanson wasn't going to come chasing after him. Guydelot knew that. It wasn't in the man's nature, to start. No, he was equal parts patient and stubborn when he wasn't in the wrong. If he had been, Guydelot wouldn't have gotten out of the sight of the aetheryte without an apology, much less all the way to the bedstall. Sanson letting him go was damning evidence he was already making a mistake.

But that was also the thought that had carried him all the way out here. Sanson was letting him go . Guydelot didn't know what he'd expected or wanted, other than a sign that Sanson wanted him half as badly as he wanted to find that bloody song. Guydelot was stupid.

All of this was spiraling through his mind as he waited just south of Tailfeather for Sylviel. The historian had agreed to meet him, and Guydelot didn't have anything better to do than show up early and sit on a boulder to mope in misery of his own making.

"You look troubled, lad," Sylviel said, making Guydelot jump.

"Good gods, man."

"What's got you frowning into empty air so much that you've let your archer's guard down?" Sylviel asked, unbothered, as he sat next to Guydelot. "And why was the lancer doing the very same thing as I made my way here?"

"That's not why I asked you to meet me."

Sylviel gave him a calm smile. "Come now, tell me what's on your mind, and then we can talk about the Ballad of Oblivion."

Guydelot flinched. "That's not why, either." He leaned forward and rubbed hands over his face. Might as well. "Your assistant and his..."

Sylviel let him trail off.

"Are they all right?" Guydelot finished.

"Yes. Very relieved to be together again."

"I'm glad." Guydelot struggled to form the question. Sylviel took pity on him.

"Is it that they're two men that vexes you?"

Guydelot huffed. "Far from it. Envious, I suppose. My own heart has not fared so well lately."

"I see." Sylviel looked thoughtful. "Theophix — my assistant — was on the path into the clergy when I first met him. He was much like my younger self, enamored with learning about the world and not much else, making The Holy See a very appealing life. I convinced him out of taking the vows a week before he was set to, preventing him from making the same mistake I had made at his age."

"You're a man of the Church?" It was a lifelong order.

"Not for nearly fifteen years. I was dismissed with prejudice."

"Not heresy?"

Sylviel gave a short, bitter laugh. "No. There are a multitude of reasons to be dismissed. Not that you'd realize today, when the slightest wrong move gets you branded heretical. The Archbishop held the Heaven's Ward and the Inquisitors more accountable back then."

It dawned on Guydelot that Sylviel had spent the past week away from any news. "Have you not heard what has become of Ishgard?"

Sylviel looked alarmed. "What occurred in my absence?"

Guydelot took a deep breath and recounted what the Temple Knight crier had spread. There had been no other news since.

"This changes many things," Sylviel said. "The Church Archives will be combed for any indications of the truth — all of Ishgardian history has been called into question. I hope the Lord Commander has his most trusted on the task, or much will go conveniently missing."

Guydelot thought of Ser Handeloup, by all accounts a genius with logistics. "Nothing to worry about there, I think."

"If I could be allowed back onto hallowed ground..." Sylviel shook himself. "Momentous, but mainly to my own interests. You want to know why I was cast out of the order? I took a lover from within it. Chastity is a demand of Halone, so they say. They turned a blind eye when it suited them, of course. Even then, Ser Aymeric's birth origins were an open secret. But for us commonborn priests, our choice upon discovery was to recant or be dismissed. My lover chose to recant his sins. I didn't blame him, then or now — but I knew it was not an option for myself. You see why I begged Theophix to give himself a few more years to grow into his own man before committing to the order. There are some whom the chastity suits perfectly well — but Theo's aversion to marriage wasn't borne of a lack of desire, but what he believed to be a misplaced one. It didn't take long after I first hired on Percevains for him to come to terms with it, thankfully. It wasn't unlike watching a set of young chocobos figure out their first courtship dance."

Guydelot laughed.

"I take it Captain Smyth isn't a man of similar inclinations?"

"I don't know, but I don't think it matters," Guydelot told him honestly. "Theophix and Percevains embraced and he looked away like it burned him to watch. After you left us, we argued like we tend to do, but I took it too far. Not only did I gravely insult him, but it wasn't even truthful. He understands bardsong better than half the bards I've trained with — he just can't sing for shite."

Sylviel chuckled at that. "Perhaps he's like young Theo, and struggles to accept the truth for himself?"

Guydelot shook his head. "He's a man made of more conviction than most, and Gridania has long recognized such couples. I can't imagine that would hang him up." He sighed. "No, I'm struggling to accept a friend where I'd rather have a lover. It got to me in the moment, and I stormed out of Tailfeather. Now I'm too ashamed of my words to return." He met Sylviel's eyes. "I'd be pleased if you didn't mention this conversation, or that you saw me at all, to him."

"Of course."

"I didn't mean to unburden my feelings on you. I have a proper request. Do you have any knowledge of an exiled composer by the name of Felixient?"

Sylviel blinked in surprise. "I haven't heard his name in years, but yes, I've come across mentions of him. His exile is notable during that era."

"If at all possible during your inquiries on the Ballad of Oblivion, can you seek out information of either his compositions or his exile? Sanson began researching him, but wasn't able to discover much. I think it might be key to a separate matter I've been pursuing."

"Inquiries will be simpler from the current upheaval. I've maintained scholarly contacts in the Archives, friends who were unhappy with my dismissal. My research — and yours — will be much freer now." Sylviel's grin had an edge to it. "Yes, it would be my pleasure to dig up further proof of the Church's past sins. The corruption deserves to be brought to light."

"So it does." Guydelot liked him. Historians and bards both invested in stories of the past and their power in the present — they were invaluable allies. "Thank you, Master Sylviel."

He called on Sylviel more times than he probably should have over the next few days. Guydelot felt like a fool, sneaking into Tailfeather from the south after checking the practice yard to make sure Sanson wasn't present. He could be caught out at any time — he just hoped it would be by the Warrior of Light instead.

Sylviel took it all in stride, Twelve bless him, though he could not understand why Guydelot refused to reconcile with Sanson. "I've not found a way to make amends that won't come across as lovesick. I may be a bard but I do have some dignity."

"A cold comfort."

"But a comfort nonetheless. I won't be sleeping warm even if I throw it away."

Sylviel leveled his intense stare at him. "You ask me the same questions. You fret over each other. You have the same purpose! But only one of you is being a stubborn git about it. I daresay Captain Smyth would benefit just as much as I would if you were to simply apologize."

It was like being scolded by Jehantel, and it only made Guydelot dig his heels in deeper. "I won't, not yet. Have you heard anything from Ishgard?"

Sylviel sighed. "I only sent Theo and Percy there yesterday, and I just told Captain Smyth the same. I'm sure you'll notice when they return, with how you've been lurking about."

Guydelot's face heated. "I'm not lurking about."

"You are, because you have nothing better to do."

Now he sounded like Sanson, damn it all. "I'm off to hunt. I'll check back in tomorrow."

"I know." Sylviel waved him off with a smile.

It took two more days of torturous boredom before they returned to Tailfeather. Guydelot knew he wasn't the only one going stir-crazy, as more than once he'd approached only to see Sanson pacing the length of the practice yard with his eyes unfocused and brow furrowed. His path expanded over time until he was pacing the length of Tailfeather, from the arch over the river to the striking dummies. Sometimes he'd be sitting on the rocks, writing in his journal, when Guydelot would slip by.

Finally, Sylviel had his replies. "You've hit some luck, lad, with your questions about Felixient. The Church kept track of him after his exile. From what Theo discovered, he assumed a new name and became a citizen of Gridania. He never set foot in Ishgard again, but he continued to compose music in his new nation."

"What name did he use?" Guydelot's hopes went up. If he was well-known enough, Jehantel might be familiar. Or, when they returned home, Sanson could...

Except he didn't want Sanson to know what he was mucking about with. Felixient was a dead end as far as the Ballad of Oblivion was concerned. This new lead on the saint of song legend didn't sound promising, but he knew Sanson would pursue it anyway. Guydelot had to rely on his own wit and hard work if he wanted to dig up this mystery, which he hated. But his curiosity was too strong.

Two things occurred to him at once. Before Sylviel could answer his initial question, he blurted out, "Has Sanson asked about him at all? Where did the song you taught to Celaine come from?"

Sylviel blinked. "Celaine?"

"A soldier at The Convictory. Pink hair. You taught her a requiem?" Guydelot realized he hadn't mentioned that he'd met her, or that her song had anything to do with Felixient. Who went by a different name in Gridania. He waved his hands to backtrack. "Wait. What name did Felixient use in Gridania?"

Sylviel had an amused smile. "Does this all tie together?"

"Yes! I hope so." The threads of Guydelot's thoughts were starting to twist together into some sort of shape, but he didn't know what, yet. He just had to keep track of all the strings. "I'll explain."

"He went by Felix Caconier. The Church made sure none of his music made its way into Ishgard."

" Caconier? Dear gods."

"I take it he was successful in Gridania," Sylviel said with a smile.

"Aye," Guydelot said. "Not very famous or popular, but enough. He's one of my mentor Jehantel's favorites. Huh."

"Lad," Sylviel said, "I still don't know what all this means."

Right. Guydelot managed to sift his train of thought into a decent explanation, from the joint choral piece to Celaine to harmonizing with Alamenain. But Sylviel frowned at him when he was done. "Why would Captain Smyth ask about this?"

"He's the one who first caught on," Guydelot said, "He found the choral piece and inferred there was something unique about it. Oh! And he thought there was something suspect about how the Church started to clamp down on who could compose during that era. Caconier's composing partner only wrote for The Holy See after he was exiled. Sanson thought it was a lead on the Ballad."

"Interesting." Sylviel tapped his chin with a finger. "I hadn't thought about the Church's history of controlling music. You know what I'm going to say, don't you?"

Guydelot groaned. "He doesn't need to know."

"That's not why I'm suggesting it." Sylviel smiled when Guydelot grumbled. "Guydelot, I say this with all gravity — I've been where you are. Don't let your feelings become an excuse to lose what you already treasure for want of more."

It was Celaine's words to them once again. He thought of Sanson saying, by the Twelve, I hope they did of Ser Haurchefant and the Warrior of Light.

"I'm trying," Guydelot said, pained. "I am. I just don't know how yet."

"When you do, don't hesitate to make amends. But don't get too caught in your head over how."

Guydelot nodded. "Did Theo find why Caconier was exiled?"

"Not yet." Sylviel shook his head. "That one will take more time, I believe, as trials of that nature are privileged information even within the Archives. I'm hopeful, however."

Sylviel's eyes flicked over Guydelot's shoulder, and he felt dread as he registered footsteps. He'd been caught out, hadn't he? When he turned, it was — thankfully — the Warrior of Light, and he had news.

Sanson had been right, godsdamn it, to not give up on the legend as a natural phenomenon. There were moogles living on the summit of Sohm Al. If the creatures were anything like their Gridanian counterparts, they were avid lovers of song, and would know more about the source of the legend. Sanson was already waiting at Anyx Trine to ascend to the Churning Mists.

Guydelot panicked. It was proof that Sanson wasn't waiting for an apology. He expected that, but he hadn't thought there would be any truth to the legend. If he wasn't there if they discovered the Ballad, would he still be considered for Sanson's bard unit? When had he started caring about that? The thought of the opportunity going to another bard made him feel a little rabid. He was the promising one, Jehantel had said. No one else would understand the depth of Sanson's commitment. He'd been learning everything he could from the Warrior of Light. It was beyond wanting to spite Bowlord Mourechaux now. This was meant for him .

His pride demanded he go to the Churning Mists, but it also wouldn't let him face Sanson yet. The Warrior of Light was watching him like he already knew the conclusion Guydelot was about to come to. He probably did. "You reckon I should go as well, eh? I'll... I'll think on it."

Guydelot was going to sneak his way into the Churning Mists. It was so stupid, he knew. The other stupid part was that he really wanted to know Sanson's thoughts on all of it: the moogles living in the clouds, the saint of song legend, Felixient becoming Felix Caconier, the bizarre effect of the harmonized lullaby. Especially the last two. Guydelot imagined that if he could only hand all of the pieces over, Sanson's tenacious mind would find how they fit together.

Anyx Trine was imposing. Not just the structure — if he wasn't in a hurry, he'd be admiring it, he'd have to remember to ask Sylviel about its history — but because it was filled with dragons. Not the feral kind they'd encountered in the Highlands, but intelligent ones that could speak. And he needed to pass through their territory. He hadn't thought about this.

Several small dragons watched him approach but didn't stop or speak to him. There was a larger — much, much larger, dear gods — one in the base courtyard who greeted him. It was less something he heard and more of a rumble that became words, both fascinating and terrifying.

Have you become separated from your companions, little one? She asked.

"Uh. Yes," Guydelot responded, somehow knowing she understood his speech. "They've already passed through to Sohm Al?"

Indeed. The powerful one said to give you passage if you speak to our brood-mistress.

"Thank you," Guydelot said faintly. "Where might I find her?" Perhaps the most impressive thing about Anyx Trine was the dragons themselves. Guydelot knew this one could crush him without effort, and yet she was laying in a patch of sunshine like a house-coeurl. He wanted to both pet her and not get any closer than he absolutely had to.

Vidofnir is up the stairs in the spire. A pause, like she heard something. She is waiting for you.

Guydelot swallowed. "Many thanks."

Each step up the stairs was more unnerving than the last, until he was crossing a stone floor to stand before an awe-inspiring creature with piercing black eyes and the presence of a landslide. He had to remember that the Warrior of Light counted them as friends. The powerful one, indeed.

You are the one called Guydelot? I am Vidofnir.

"I am. Pleased to meet you." Whatever social charm he had cultivated was reverting back to the manners of a child when faced with these creatures. He briefly wondered if this was how moogles felt all the time.

I was asked to provide you safe passage to the Churning Mists. We will escort you to the summit. Is that agreeable?

"It is, my lady." Was that appropriate? She gave a faint rumble that Guydelot decided was pleased. "I'm grateful for your assistance through your lands."

Some of my brood are fond of man's songs. Might you sing for them as they guide you?

He couldn't help it; he laughed. "It would be my pleasure, my lady."

Another pleased rumble that he felt in his chest. Thank the Twelve.

And so Guydelot had the unimaginable experience of singing for a handful of dragons whilst ascending Sohm Al. He could already picture the disbelieving look on Sanson's face. That alone made the trek worth it.

Chapter Text

The Churning Mists were incredible. They'd hardly exited the caverns of Sohm Al when Sanson had to pause to take in the views, awestruck. Giant, intricate sculptures rose off the floating islands: a set of breath-taking wings, a beautifully tragic woman, ancient spires that echoed Anyx Trine. Clouds wove amongst them, giving the land an eerie quality. It was easy to picture dragons weaving their way through it all, majestic wings wide. Sanson wished Guydelot was here so he could see the bard's face as he took it all in. He had noticed a pattern with Guydelot: he would be staring off at nothing, brows pulled together, before his expression would relax and he'd take a deep breath before reaching for his harp. Out would come a new twist on the melody or harmony of whatever he'd been strumming that day, or better, it would be a brand new line of song. When it was the latter, he'd break into a grin as he played the first few times. Sanson was almost certain it was unconscious on Guydelot's part. He seemed to entirely forget the room he was in or who he was with when inspiration struck. Sanson had begun to look forward to when it occurred — not only was Guydelot's mood improved after, but he tended to smile when he caught Sanson watching.

Guydelot would have that expression now, Sanson knew. He'd just have to try and capture the essence of the view in his journal to describe later. As he stood peering off the path, as close to the edge as he dared, he told the Warrior of Light as much. Then he realized that had to be the third time he'd mentioned the bard on their trek up here.

Sanson heaved a sigh and straightened his spine. He wouldn't let Guydelot's absence slow his progress. He was so close. "Let's go find the chieftain of Moghome."

Moglin was enormous, in both presence and size. Sanson didn't realize moogles grew that large. He was easily three times the size of the rest of his tribe. Was that how they determined leadership? From knowing some of the Twelveswood moogles, he wouldn't be surprised if that was their logic. Funny little creatures, moogles. Sanson had always found them delightful.

This tribe, however, was strange. Moglin insisted they go north to look for the bard Mogta — but instead of telling them that, he acted like he didn't want them to. It was the sort of backward behavior that bothered Sanson the most, but in a laughably obvious way. Moogles weren't known for their subtlety. At least that held true here in the clouds.

Mogta turned out to be much more like what Sanson was expecting: small, eager, and excitable. He even had a tiny harp and bow. Having fought their way to where they found the creature, he couldn't imagine the bow and arrows being very effective against the local fiends.

"Oh joy of joys, I have friends!" The creature danced in the air around them, ecstatic at two strangers joining his search for the Ballad of Oblivion. Sanson laughed. It even brought a smile to the Warrior of Light's face.

"Are there many bards in your tribe, little one?" Sanson asked as they made their way back to Moghome. "The forest moogles in Gridania love music, but I haven't known any of them to sing or play the harp."

Mogta fluttered his wings sadly. "Just me, kupo. Chief Moglin says there hasn't been a bard around for a long time. That's why he was so stern about my asking about the Ballad — music must be treated carefully."

Curious. "Why's that?"

"It's too powerful, kupo! It can shake the skies or worse, make you cry! I played a song once and the whole tribe moped for days. Chief Moglin scolded me then, too. I'm so glad to have met others who understand!"

"I understand his reasons about music being powerful. It has made me cry many times. That's why I love it, though."

"Because it made you cry?!"

Sanson nodded. He was aware that the Warrior of Light was watching him. "There have been times I've needed to cry, but can't manage to. Music helps me remember how, and then feel better again afterward. That's why bards are so important. They help us remember how to feel when we struggle. Is it different for moogles?" They wore every emotion out in the open; Sanson was envious of the simplicity.

"I've never thought about it like that, kupo. Playing my harp makes me smile, and I like it when it makes others smile, too."

Sanson laughed. It was such a good answer. He'd have to ask Guydelot if that's why he took every opportunity to perform for a roomful of people. "Well, I'm looking forward to hearing your songs."

Mogta did his joyous air dance again.

Chieftain Moglin was a letdown when they returned to Moghome. Sanson was already trying not to wallow in the knowledge that Guydelot should be there with them, when they were so close to getting results. He kept thinking of the future, of his bard unit, but he couldn't shake the image of Guydelot as his bard. If he'd gone back to Gridania, he might well already be stripped of his rank in the Quiver. They were not known to be sentimental about that kind of thing. 

So it really didn't help when Moglin insisted they were missing something. Sanson groaned internally. He didn't need this reminder that he had a bundle of unsorted feelings in the shape of a lanky bard. "Guydelot — he is our missing piece. I believed he would come back, but I was wrong."

He watched as the Warrior of Light's faint smile became a lopsided grin. "I believe he followed us. I thought I saw him near the caverns of Sohm Al. It seems he decided not to go back to Gridania after all."

The relief Sanson felt must have shown, because his grin got wider as Sanson went, "Truly? You saw him here in the Churning Mists?" Then it dawned on Sanson what that meant — passage through Sohm Al, not terribly dangerous unless one was alone — and he said, "I'm going to throttle him."

The Warrior of Light snickered at Sanson's ire, and said, "I negotiated safe travels for him with Vidofnir, don't worry."

He could practically hear Guydelot: stand down, chief. He would not until he could tonguelash the man himself. "If he had just come with us! Why does he make these rash decisions? What was he thinking?"

Moglin and Mogta stared at him, appalled, while the Warrior of Light tried not to laugh behind a hand. "I'm sure he had his reasons."

Sanson crossed his arms and grumbled, "They had better be good ones."

Mogta ventured, "This Guydelot fellow — does he love music?"

"Aye, that he does," Sanson said with a sigh. "He's a bard, like you, and he loves music with all his heart." He could hear the fond resignation in his own voice. 

The Warrior of Light wasn't hiding his laugh anymore. He squeezed Sanson's shoulder. "When I said he would understand in time, I didn't expect him to be this queer about it."

"Why he won't just reveal himself if he's here..." Sanson shook his head. He was going to have to go looking for him. What a farce this had become. "I swear to all Twelve, the man makes less and less sense."

"Then it's settled!" Mogta chirped. "Once Guydelot joins us, we'll embark upon our journey! Our band will be all the merrier for his company!" The last part was aimed at Sanson with forced cheer. Right, moogles wouldn't comprehend light-hearted exasperation. "If he's nearby, we're bound to find him, so please cheer up, kupo!"

That evening, Sanson sat on his bedroll to write in his journal. He was tucked away near the wall of the cavern that made up Moghome, out of the way of the moogles' fluttering paths. They were curious creatures, so he'd been answering a steady stream of well-intentioned if pointed questions. About Gridania, the Twelveswood moogles, why he was looking for a song if he couldn't sing, if he thought a painted rock was better than the art of his homeland. It was a very amusing way to burn time until tomorrow, when he could start a proper search for his wayward companion. He had just pulled the journal from his bag when Mogta, having kept his distance, floated over.

"Hello, little one," Sanson said.

"Do you not like Guydelot? You were so mad at him." Mogta's air dance was apprehensive. "I want us all to be friends, kupo. We're a fellowship!"

Sanson couldn't believe he was saying this out loud to a moogle, but that made it easier somehow. "Don't worry, Mogta. I like Guydelot very much. I meant it when I said he's the missing piece." He swallowed, tapping his pen on the cover of his journal. "We... we had an argument, and he left. But I'm sorry for what I said, and I want to tell him that. I want to find him, I'm just mad he's making it so difficult to apologize."

That couldn't be why, could it? To make sure any apology was sincere, like Guydelot had said back in Ishgard? Had he been let down so many times that this was necessary? Did he realize that Sanson was nothing if not determined?

"I don't understand why he would follow us but keep it a secret, unless he can't stand the sight of me," Sanson went on. "But he didn't care much about the Ballad, so why would he follow to begin with? I wish I understood him better." He sighed. "I wish I understood my own reaction to him. He tries my patience constantly, but I want for his company since he left. He's not far from my thoughts, and I..." Sanson realized he was confessing all of this to a moogle who had asked a simple question. "I apologize, none of this matters. We will all be friends, Mogta."

His little head was tilted. "What is that ?"

Mogta was looking at the journal in his hand. Most of the Twelveswood moogles could read, but they had no history of it. It was a skill they acquired once they started to live alongside man.

"It's my journal," Sanson explained. He held it up and flipped through its pages. "I write in it everyday. It helps me remember all my thoughts."

"Like letters, kupo?"

Maybe they did have use for written words. "Yes! Letters I write to myself." He'd flipped to the back and frowned at the lack of blank pages. "This one is full, but I have another."

Mogta fluttered closer. "Do you make them? Does everyone keep one every day? What do you do with them when they're full?"

Sanson chuckled. "Others make the paper, and cure the leather. I put it all together into a journal. Not everyone does it — but I have my whole life." He set the blank one down in his blanket and Mogta began turning pages. "You don't have books in Moghome?"

"Only letters, kupo. Sometimes tied together, but not as neat as this. May I show the others?"

That made Sanson smile. "You may. But not for too long, I still need to write in it tonight."

"Kupo! They'll be excited but I won't let them take it! It'll be right back." Mogta picked it up — Sanson wasn't sure how, when it was nearly as big as the creature, moogle magic should be studied — and floated off to show it around.

Sanson lay back on his bedroll and opened the full journal to when the journey had begun. He skimmed the pages, pleased to note that his penmanship had much improved with the Ishgardian pen. He'd have to commission custom ink for it when it ran low, which the librarian had assured him any competent alchemist could create once they studied the pen. He also noted Guydelot's name showed up more often with each entry until it was on every page at least once. Sanson's face heated. He had very carefully not written about Guydelot the day after he'd had the wickedly vivid fantasies. The surrounding entries only made it more obvious. Too obvious to ignore.

He tapped his pen again. Sanson was no stranger to attraction, even though he had put pursuing it aside indefinitely. A relationship had been out of the question, and he'd had his fill of sexual flings. His life was fulfilling in many other ways, so it seemed the practical choice at the time. Attraction didn't tend to sneak up on him — Ser Handeloup was a prime example — and it was easy to contain. Until now. He closed his eyes and Guydelot's grin, lit by firelight as he sang for the hunters, came to his mind immediately. It had squeezed his heart tight at the time, as it did now. Later that night, when Guydelot cracked a joke about the cold, he'd even had the thought that there were a few good ways to ward off the chill without a bear pelt.

The question was if he wanted to do anything about it, and if Guydelot even returned the attraction. Sanson was near certain the answers were no and no. He'd seen how Guydelot flirted with a crowd, and that smile and charm had never been turned on him. A different, friendly charm, yes. But the one that invoked roguish seduction? Not once. It would have burned his mind if it had been.

He needed his blank journal back; there were lists he needed to make. Fortunately, Mogta was on his way back, wings going wild. "They loved it, kupo! Will you show me how to make them? I could make so many new friends if I knew! Did you teach Guydelot how, or does he not need it because he can sing to remember his thoughts?"

"I can visit and show you how to make them," Sanson said on a laugh.

"Oh please, please! You'll make friends too!"

He had secured the friendship of the moogle for life by the time Mogta wandered away. He tried to imagine the daily journal of a Churning Mists moogle — it would be fascinating in its own way. Sanson opened the untouched journal to the first page and wrote his name, the date, and where he could be found in Gridania. He'd never lost one before, and Twelve help it get back to him if he lost it here. Still, he liked to know that if he ever did, there was a chance it could make a return.

Instead of a day's entry, he began with the lists. Traits of Guydelot's that he liked and didn't like. The best sights he'd seen in the Mists. Ways the moogles here and in the Twelveswood differed. When he did get to his entry, he'd cleared his mind out enough to keep it short:

Guydelot has followed us to the Churning Mists, the idiot, instead of just coming along like a rational person. Tomorrow I'll find him and let him know exactly what I think of this behavior. We're so close to finding the Ballad of Oblivion, and he needs to be there when we do. 

I can't wait to see him.

Guydelot held a hand over his mouth to stop himself from laughing. He was going entirely mad and didn't have anyone else to blame. He didn't know what Sanson's excuse was, though. Because they both had to be mad to be in this predicament.

"If you can hear me, bard, I will be kicking your arse when I find you! Stop being an idiot and come out!" Sanson shouted from where he was standing by the aetheryte, oblivious to the fact that Guydelot was on the summit above him, giggling like a child. "You know how stubborn I am!"

That was how they got here. Guydelot's refusal to do anything except on his own terms, and Sanson's drive to have everything be correct had turned into this coeurl-and-mouse where Sanson stomped around yelling at him while Guydelot dodged out of his path. For all the man's other talents, he was not stealthy. 

Part of Guydelot's madness was from how backward it all was. In Falcon's Nest, he'd wanted Sanson to chase him, to show an inkling of the desire Guydelot had felt. Now, when Guydelot had given that up and truly didn't want to be discovered — Sanson was climbing over rocks and shouting his name. If only this was a seduction, instead of whatever it was. Then, at least, Guydelot could claim it as one of the wildest he'd ever had.

"Guydelot," Sanson called, a slight edge of desperation in his voice that Guydelot wished he was hearing in a very different context, "If you're waiting for an apology, you have it. I'm sorry for what I said in Tailfeather, and I was the moment you walked away. Has this proven difficult enough to convey my sincerity? For I will continue until you decide to reveal yourself."

What was he talking about? But when Guydelot remembered, he lost his breath. That half-joke he'd made in Ishgard, when Sanson asked why he was making it hard to apologize. This was Guydelot's flippancy come back to bite him, because Sanson took it as truth, and was now trying to prove something he didn't need to. He didn't need to apologize at all. Guydelot was the one who had to improve.

"I don't know which is worse, if you can hear me or not. One means I'm acting a fool and the other means an apology isn't good enough." Sanson said, quiet enough that Guydelot had to strain to hear.

It was almost enough to make him stand up and shout, Up here! Come get me! But it emphasized how wrong all this was — Sanson was too honest and selfless for Guydelot. Sanson hadn't even wanted him on the journey to start, and he'd mostly just made trouble for him along the way. How was he supposed to make it up to Sanson, even though every minute of delay made it worse? He'd dug himself too deep a hole. Usually, he would act like it didn't matter. That wasn't an option this time. It would destroy any chance of a true friendship.

Sanson continued to search for him for another bell. Guydelot would have been found, if he hadn't convinced the little bard Mogta to use his magicks to conceal the spot where he'd set up camp. The moogle had been so thrilled when he'd found him the previous day — and so disappointed when Guydelot explained that he couldn't join them. When he came back that morning, Guydelot had to fend off another round of questions before Mogta told him Sanson was planning on looking for him. What had given him the idea that Guydelot was here, he hadn't figured out yet.

Mogta was a nosy one, asking question after question about Sanson's journal, of all things. Did he keep one? Did he know how to make one? Did he know that Sanson knew how to make them, and said he'd teach Mogta? Did Guydelot think it would make him more friends? Did Guydelot want to be Sanson's friend? Did he know that Sanson liked him very much, and wanted to be his friend?

"He told you that?" Guydelot asked, his wandering train of thought stopped in its tracks.

"Yes, kupo!" Mogta beat his wings in exasperation. "He said you're our missing piece in finding the Ballad!"

That brought both disappointment and elation. Of course it was about the bloody song — but Sanson had two other bards now and he still wished for Guydelot. He had spent nearly three bells looking for him, and told a moogle, gossipy cretins they were, that he liked him. Sanson had proven, in deeds and words, to want Guydelot's friendship. Guydelot wanted to be worthy.

It was easier to handle when Sanson wasn't around. Even that morning's brief glimpses had thrown off his conviction to stay apart, to hold himself away until he knew how to be a better man. If he could be a better man. Guydelot wasn't convinced it was possible.

When the Warrior of Light showed up the bell after Sanson finally gave up the search, he was holding the familiar worn leather of Sanson's journal.

"How did you fare with Vidofnir?" His fellow bard asked with his characteristic faint smile. 

"Quite well, thank you for that." He was sincere, but knew it for the test it was. Walk into a wolves' lair as prey, or turn tail as a coward. "Did you know they like song?"

"I did," he replied. "Where did you think they first heard it?"

Guydelot laughed, tickled by the image of the Warrior of Light, Eorzea's primal slayer and Ishgard's savior, taking song requests from a roomful of dragons. "Brother, I knew you had stones, but you never cease to surprise me."

"I'd like you to surprise me, as well," he held out the journal. "I ask that you join us in Gridania. Sanson is already there, securing an airship to take us to the Sea of Clouds."

Guydelot took the journal to flip through its first pages. Moons ago, and Sanson was already writing about creating a bard unit. The bulk of the middle was research from Ishgard, pages about what scores he'd looked at, what composers they were, what legends he'd read, all in inescapable detail that would put any scribe to shame. He caught sight of one of Sanson's nightly entries, saw his own name, and snapped it shut. "To see this, you'd think him a bard."

The Warrior of Light nodded. "I know, and so do you. You two might clash, but it's harmonic. The world will bend if you work together."

Guydelot was struck like a blow. "I've done a lot of thinking since we last spoke. Sanson's no bard, but he's keener on it than any one of us. I couldn't understand why, but now I do." He swallowed. "I accused him of using song as a tool, and it was ill done. I know better, I truly do. It scares the piss out of me to have someone like Sanson believe in me as he does. I'll let him down again, and again. He deserves better, and I can't bear to be in his company knowing that. I wish you luck in the Sea of Clouds, but I don't have the right."

"You do," was the soft response, "As much as the rest of us, Guydelot. I've seen it — you change him as he changes you."

Guydelot shook his head, tears threatening in the corners of his eyes. "I need to be alone right now, and take a long, hard look at myself."

"I will delay our departure for two bells. Take a look at that ," he gestured to the journal, "And come join us at the airship docks. You need to be there, Guydelot."

He shook his head again, fully in the grip of insecurity now. The Warrior of Light gave him a sad look before parting, headed to the aetheryte.

Guydelot sat near the rim of Sohm Al's summit to stare at the clouds awhile. He wanted this chance more than anything — to be a part of the bard unit, to fight alongside Sanson again, to earn his trust and friendship. But like so many other things over the course of his life, he knew he would blunder it. The charm he'd developed smoothed it over most of the time, and the feigned carelessness took care of the rest. Sanson saw through the first and wouldn't allow the second. That would leave Guydelot defenseless in the face of Sanson's expectations. He was too afraid to try to live up to them.

After a quarter bell, he turned to the journal. There must be something the Warrior of Light thought he should see, beyond Sanson's conviction. Guydelot dreaded what it was, couldn't help himself from cracking the spine open to the back, the most recent entries.

In Falcon's Nest:

I will admit that Guydelot's actions today were more than just reckless. I would be praising any other soldier I oversaw, if not for the heedless way he went about it. He calls me soulless and "The Stiff," but if I could have captured Ser Alamenain's joy in song I would.

From there, Guydelot was mentioned more and more. His accuracy at the target range. His swift action to get Sanson to the chirurgeon. His battlesong tailored to Sanson's combat style. His bringing tea and gossip the days Sanson was bedbound.

In Tailfeather:

Guydelot played Close to the Heavens at the fire last night. I was surprised he remembered I favor it after such a passing conversation— but I shouldn't have been. His consideration and skill with people are his greatest strengths. I'm envious, yet glad he's been on the journey with me.

Later that evening, after Guydelot had left Tailfeather:

Though my pride won't let me tell him this, I know that Guydelot is a truly exceptional bard. With his skills married to my unit composition, I had hoped to prove our detractors wrong. I failed to convey that, and I fear Guydelot has gone back to Gridania because of my misplaced words. I feel as though I've lost the chance at an incredible cooperation together. Honestly, I miss his company and struggle to think of the rest of this journey without it.

Guydelot had to get to the Sea of Clouds. Curse the Warrior of Light for being right. A plan started to form in his mind. It was theatrical, but he was a bard. It was a gesture . And that's what he needed to make, didn't he?

He snapped the journal shut and went to find Mogta. With any luck, the little bard hadn't gone on to Gridania yet. Mogta was more than amenable — because it turned out he was the one who put Sanson's journal into the Warrior of Light's hands. The little shite. Guydelot should have known the man was too valorous to snoop.

For a hasty plan, it went off altogether too smoothly. Guydelot stood on the deck of the airship, cloaked in moogle magick, and watched Sanson pilot it into the Sea of Clouds with care. If the Warrior of Light had any idea he was there, he didn't show it.

Now all Guydelot had to do was pick his moment. When they had docked, he let the rest of the party go ahead. Something about the little island felt off. He tried to brush it off as nerves, but the longer he waited, the stronger the dread grew, until he couldn't stand it anymore.

Guydelot was already approaching at a brisk pace, but when he heard the melodic screech of the siren, he broke into a run and began to sing.

Sanson's head was like an egg thrown against stone. It felt as if he was being severed from everything he was, his sense of mind and self. Ye gods, the pain. If he only let go, it would vanish...

And so would he. Sanson grasped onto the pain, knowing it as himself, and held it with every onze of his considerable will. This siren, the screeching terrible creature in front of him, had devastated a whole tribe of moogles and was like to do the same to the three of them.

No! He would not let that happen. He had done this by impulsive action, and he would undo it to keep the others safe. No matter the cost. It took all that he had to unholster his lance from his back and hold it before him.

"All this time, the thing I sought didn't exist..." There would be no peace won, no lives saved by this soul-rending song. Sanson shook off the despair for later, if he survived the encounter. "I released this menace into the world. I will vanquish it, even if it costs me my life. Flee this place, the both of you!"

He faced the siren, lance at the ready, and prayed to the Twelve he could deal it a weakening enough blow to seal it away again. He had trained his body and seen his mind through worse pain. He could do it now.

Sanson's only regret was that he wasn't able to hear Guydelot sing one last time. He recalled Close to the Heavens just a few nights previous, let the memory fill up the space he had fought free in his mind. It eased some of the shrill ache, to remember Guydelot's rich voice. It was as if the memory got louder, clearer, shaking the dread effect of the siren from him...

"Who do you think you're going to impress by dying here?" The admonishment was sharp and oh so welcome, even as Sanson staggered in surprise.

Guydelot, arrow already aimed at the siren. He let it loose and made it screech painfully, but it fell back from the blow. Sanson stared in wonder.

"They're not running anywhere, and neither am I — we're in this together until the bitter end. You hear me, Sanson?" He sounded utterly vexed.

"Guydelot?" Sanson said, still not sure if he had manifested him in some sort of near-death delusion. "What are you doing here?"

Guydelot let out a heavy sigh. "I'm here because you know nothing, Sanson the Stiff," his mouth twisted into a bittersweet smile. "I can't well leave you to your own devices."

Oh yes, this was the real Guydelot, looking at him as if Sanson was the one who ran off then reappeared at a dramatically appropriate moment. Godsdamn the bard.

"Prick up your ears, because I'm not going to say this again," he let off another arrow to keep the siren back, "It's the fervent desire to aid our comrades that bestows our songs with power. If you think I'm going to let you sacrifice yourself like an idiot, you don't understand bards at all."

Sanson shook himself and readied his lance once more. Now that the siren was taking damage, its effect had lessened. "Yes, yes, you have the right of it." Guydelot grinned at him and Sanson grinned back, despite the pain. "Let ours be a song of triumph, then!"

"Hah! I like the sound of that." Guydelot fell behind Sanson, covering him with bow and arrow. "Concentrate on my voice, chief. It will help you resist its pull."

If he only knew. "Don't let me down, bard."

Sanson charged in with a yell and a precise thrust of his blade. And Guydelot sang. The siren's call faded to bearable — as with everything about the man, it was impossible for Sanson to ignore Guydelot's voice. He let his body take over the fight, action and reaction, as his senses sharpened like the point of his lance. Guydelot's song was the heartbeat that kept him focused.

There was a brief, teetering instant where the siren's pull grew too strong. Even with three bards at his back, Sanson was both closest and most vulnerable. He faintly heard a shout of his name as his guard began to drop, lance lowering to take a step nearer, a drag that would suffocate him slowly and sweetly until all was dark, close, silent, peaceful as...

Oblivion...

A sharp whistle cut through, bringing back pain and light and sound. His lance almost slipped from his hands. He flinched from the sensations and wanted to drop back into that calm, cold abyss until he heard his name again, close and urgent — "Godsdamn it, Sanson, I'm right here, listen to me!" — and the vibration of a bowstring whipping through the air. It wasn't until he watched the arrows hit their mark that he started to surface again. Just in time to hear —

"Your music is bad and you should feel bad!"

— over the screech of the siren.

Sanson slammed back into himself, fully aware once more. A laugh ripped out of him as he adjusted his grip. Guydelot was looking at him from the corner of his eye with relief. "I hear you! Time to finish this!"

Guydelot let out a whoop and danced behind him again, voice surging. Sanson let it fill his mind, blot out all other but that silk slide of notes. It shivered down his spine like the first time he'd heard Guydelot sing, his body the instrument tuned pitch-perfect to receive it, use it, channel it. Sanson took a running start, leapt to plunge his lance into the siren's chest, landed, whipped around and thrust the splattered blade into its stomach.

It let out a soul-rending scream. Anguish and rage flooded out of it and Sanson lost his breath. One more. One more hard pierce of its scales would render it too weak to resist the sealing stone. Sanson pivoted his stance and grip, thrusting up into its ribs as above him came a hail of arrows into its head and neck. The scream waned, a wail of defeat as it collapsed to the ground. The sealing stone pulsed, its carved lines writhing with aether as the siren thrashed until it puffed into nothing, sucked back into its deserved prison.

Sanson went to his knees, head throbbing and ankle protesting. His lance was smeared with the blue-green blood of the fiend, and he was sure he was as well. But they had triumphed. The song the battle had created was true. He'd been so sure the rock held the Ballad of Oblivion, and it paled to the conviction that he knew in this moment. He was made to do this , to fight with Guydelot by his side, his lance guided by the bard's song and his mind bolstered by his passion. It was wondrous and sparkling and entirely overwhelming.

"Sanson!" Guydelot skidded to a crouch next to him, hand on his shoulder. "Are you hurt?"

Sanson let out a burst of laughter. "Never better." He caught his breath and turned to look up into Guydelot's blue eyes. What a welcome sight. "'Your music is bad and you should feel bad'? Really, Guydelot? That was the best you could come up with?"

Now Guydelot was laughing maniacally. "It worked, didn’t it?"

Sanson grinned up at him. "Through sheer idiocy, Twelve save us. Gods but my head hurts. I'm going to have this headache for days."

"Better that than enthralled to a murderous siren. Must you always leap? My ankle hurt just witnessing it."

"Oh, don't worry, that's agonizing right now, too."

Guydelot sprawled out in the dirt next to him. "What am I supposed to do with you, chief? If you insist on throwing yourself into battle like this."

"Keep singing for me, Guydelot." The words left his mouth like a supplication. He could slap himself for them later, after the battle-rush wore off. Right now, he was so grateful he couldn't contain it. "Your voice is always beautiful."

To Sanson's delight, Guydelot blushed a very fetching pink before he rolled to his feet. He held out a hand to haul Sanson to his. "You've gone mad again. Up with you."

Sanson laughed and grasped his palm. He tested his ankle while Guydelot took some of his weight. "It hurts, but not as near as the first sprain. I'm fine."

"You'll be home with it up and iced anyway, if I have any say when we get back to Gridania."

Which reminded Sanson of the airship. "How —?"

Guydelot's smile was sheepish. "I was on board."

"You were with us aboard the airship? " Sanson lost control of his volume in his astonishment. The Warrior of Light and Mogta glanced over from where they were examining the sealing stone. "Never mind where you were hiding, you made us all worried sick!" He shoved Guydelot lightly to emphasize. "Do you realize that?"

Guydelot had his I know something you don't grin. "If I didn't before, I certainly know now. I also know how hard you've been working, thanks to this." With a flourish, he produced a familiar leather cover from his jacket.

" My journal? " Horror swarmed Sanson before he realized it was his previous one. The decidedly warm thoughts he'd written out the night before remained in the chest pocket of his coat. "Where did you get that? Give it back this instant, I need it to write my report!" As he said it, he knew. Mogta. The overly curious moogle must have snuck it from his things while he slept. Damn it, he did this to himself by indulging the creature's fascination.

"The balls you do," Guydelot said as Sanson reached for it. He held it up, out of range, with a laugh. Sanson, desperate from panic, jumped to grab it and missed due to his aching ankle. He winced and then glared at the amused bard before him.

"I will tackle you, you incorrigible fiend. You know I will," he threatened.

Guydelot lowered his arm. "If only so you don't hurt your ankle further." 

Sanson snatched it from him, still glaring. "You care more about my ankle than my privacy, I see."

The endearing, sheepish smile again. "To be fair, it was given to me. I haven't had much chance to return it." Sanson grumbled as he tucked it safely away, making Guydelot chuckle. "We composed our own Ballad of Oblivion. That's all you need to write."

Hardly. "My superiors will demand more tangible results than that." What could he produce that would satisfy them that this mission was a success, and give him his bard unit? "Ah, but the abilities our hero friend has mastered over the journey — those should serve admirably."

Guydelot rolled his eyes. "Bah, make up your bloody mind."

Mogta interjected at that point, reminding them both they weren't alone and should be headed back to Gridania. Guydelot spoke of returning to the Quiver and his bard training with more fondness than Sanson expected. "Who knows? I might even try behaving myself from now on." He cast Sanson a wink.

"Liar," Sanson muttered.

"And I won't rest until I've surpassed both you and Jehantel," he said to the Warrior of Light.

Sanson crossed his arms. "I look forward to it if you do." Guydelot shot him a glare, but Sanson just smiled in return. "Remember, my plan won't succeed without you, so I need to keep you motivated."

"You'll rue those words, Captain Smyth."

"And I await the day, Quiverman."

The Warrior of Light cleared his throat as Mogta, perhaps thinking they were arguing, said, "Please tell me when the unit is formed! I'll come pay everyone a visit, kupo!"

Sanson exchanged a smile with Guydelot. "You shall be the first to know, my friend."

Guydelot stretched his lanky arms over his head. "On that note, let's go home, shall we?"

"As long as someone stays visible the whole journey."

"Don't worry, chief. My disappearing act is done."

"It had better be," Sanson shot back.

Guydelot swaggered toward the airship. "You can't shake me now!"

"I won't even try," he said under his breath. The Warrior of Light covered his mouth with a hand, a gesture Sanson knew was to hide a smile. He shrugged in response. What else was he to do? "Upon return to Gridania, I must report to the Twin Adder and the Gods' Quiver. Might I trouble you to pay Jehantel a visit? He will undoubtedly want to hear an account of the journey."

The Warrior of Light smiled. Sanson pretended he didn't realize Jehantel would get colorful commentary besides. "I would be glad to."

"Thank you, friend — for everything." Sanson glanced toward the airship, where Guydelot and Mogta were waiting. "Let's get off this infernal island."

Guydelot was on his second glass of wine when Sanson found him in the Carline Canopy. He looked exhausted and walked with a slight limp, making Guydelot frown at him as he sat. "You haven't put your ankle up, I assume?"

"You're worse than my mother," Sanson shot back. He waved to Mother Miounne from the table. "She frequently curses my choice of career. I didn't expect this level of fretting from a fellow soldier."

Guydelot turned the stem of his wine glass. He wasn't about to give that a direct answer. "I suppose you didn't check in with a conjurer on your way out of the Adder's Nest, either?"

A server appeared and set a goblet of what looked like mead in front of Sanson. "Thank you," he said, then turned back to Guydelot. Dragging a chair closer, he slung his leg up on it. "There. Happy? I will ice it when I get back home."

Guydelot took him in, finally. He wasn't in uniform anymore, but black trousers tucked into a different pair of thighboots and a soft gray, sleeveless tunic. His hair was damp in its customary tail. Sanson hadn't come here directly after dutifully discharging his responsibilities, as he assumed. Granted, he had been splattered with the blood of the siren; bathing had been necessary for Guydelot, too. But it meant that Sanson had elected to seek him out instead of resting. Guydelot found he wasn't too bothered anymore.

Sanson slumped onto his chair and held up his glass. "To a successful mission."

Guydelot clinked his wineglass against it. "May we always spite the bastards that try to hold us back."

That made Sanson laugh and knock their glasses again. "Indeed. Between your charm and my persistence? They didn't stand a chance."

"We're a pair, that's for certain." Guydelot fidgeted with his glass before deciding to hells with it. "Sanson, I treated you abominably in Tailfeather, and I can't apologize enough. What's worse of me is that I knew how deeply you care about bardsong and instead of being thankful for all you've done, I panicked about what you might expect of me." He thought of that first honest conversation they'd had in Ishgard and how readily Sanson had admitted his envy. Time to return the favor. "I don't often try to live up to others' expectations. They're often pointless, yes, but not yours. It's easier to let people believe I'm happy being a failure."

"Guydelot," Sanson removed his foot from the spare chair and leaned toward him.

"Can I finish? Let me finish." Sanson nodded, and Guydelot continued. "I know what impression you had of me, and I'll admit it's not wrong. But it is deliberate, and it didn't once work on you. You kept arguing with me, pushing me to be better than that. And I pushed back when I shouldn't have, then didn't know how to make proper amends. I'm sorry."

Sanson leaned forward on his elbows. "Thank you. You have my profuse apologies, as well. My words weren't what I wanted them to be. I get too focused on a goal and ignore all else, often to my detriment. It caused me to disregard your input. I'm sorry, too." He gave Guydelot a self-conscious smile. "I hope we can continue to work together? Even though we have no Ballad of Oblivion, I'll still need a bard for the new unit. If you're up to it."

"I'd like nothing more." Guydelot's silly heart was pounding at the thought. "I won't let you down, chief."

Sanson beamed at him. "Excellent. I'll include it in my report. I'll get Jehantel and the Warrior of Light's recommendations, as well. They'll have naught to do but approve it."

"Thank you," Guydelot said.

"We're in this together, bard. You said you'd start behaving yourself."

"I said I might. And I make no guarantees when I'm off duty." He wagged his eyebrows, making Sanson roll his eyes.

"I'll just have to keep an eye on you then, as well." He said it with a grin that made Guydelot warm all over. Was this Sanson flirting? Please gods, let him be flirting. Guydelot opened his mouth to say, how close of an eye? when Sanson looked over his shoulder, expression lighting up. "Jehantel!"

Thwarted, again. He sighed and turned to see his mentor approaching, looking pleased. Guydelot felt a surge of pride.

"Welcome home and well done, lads," Jehantel said. "May I join you?"

"Please do," Sanson pushed out the empty chair with his foot.

Jehantel got an ale, and they raised glasses once more. Sanson immediately began relaying their journey, even though he had asked the Warrior of Light to do just that. Guydelot didn't mind. It gave him a moment to reflect.

The task before him was terrifying in its gravity, on both fronts: being the inaugural bard of a joint-effort unit, and not disappointing Sanson. Really, he could handle the first. He always liked to blaze his own path, anyway. With Sanson there to steady him, well. They made a good team on the battlefield.

Maybe that was key outside of it, too. He had been frank with his apologies, and Sanson was frank with his. If he misstepped in their friendship, Sanson wouldn't abandon it. That much had been proven true. With the way Sanson kept glancing at him, looking for a nod or a smile as he told their tale, Guydelot could see it in front of him. It was something precious enough to risk trying for.

Sanson's blue eyes were animated as he chattered at Jehantel. It was the first time Guydelot had seen them together, really — Jehantel regarded him with the same patient amusement Guydelot received, a sign of his affection. He would want a proper recounting of what practical knowledge Guydelot had acquired. It would give him the opportunity to bring up Celaine's requiem and see what the older man thought. If only he had Alamenain to help him demonstrate. There was the intrigue of Caconier, too, which Guydelot couldn't wait to tell him about.

He sat up straight, stopping Sanson mid sentence. "Sylviel! Godsdamn it."

"What?" Sanson said. Jehantel looked askance at them. "An Ishgardian historian we met in Tailfeather, who assisted us. What about him?"

"I meant to go back to thank him." Guydelot scrambled to cover his outburst. "He had some very helpful advice when we talked."

"After you ran out on me?" Sanson teased.

Guydelot's face heated. "Yes, if you must know."

"He gave us the clue that the Ballad was in the Churning Mists," Sanson told Jehantel.

"After we rescued him from a beast tribe," Guydelot chimed in, and Sanson launched into that story. They spent the next bell teasing and talking over each other as they recounted the journey for Jehantel.

Sanson finished off his mead and looked around the table. "The headache from the siren will come roaring back if I have another, but do either of you want another round?" Guydelot waved him off but Jehantel agreed. Sanson walked on his sore ankle over to the bar, leaving the bards alone for a spell.

"I must say I'm surprised to see you two getting along, much less enjoying each other's company," Jehantel began. "Not that I mind. But I didn't quite believe the Warrior of Light when he told me."

"No one is more surprised than Sanson and I are. But I'm not complaining either." Guydelot looked at the man in question, chatting with Mother Miounne as he waited. "We have more in common than anyone thought."

Jehantel examined him. "I'm glad."

"He needs to stay off that ankle," Guydelot griped. "The man has no self-preservation."

Jehantel chuckled. "You'll just have to watch his back for him."

"That I will." Guydelot kept an eye on Sanson. "There are a few other things of interest to tell you, involving inquiries Sylviel was making for me. It might be nothing in the end, and I don't want to excite Sanson until I know more. Can I seek you out tomorrow for your opinion?"

"Of course," he replied, interested. "You discovered more about the Ballad?"

"Not exactly. Have you ever been to Ishgard?"

"Not for many years."

"Fancy a visit? You should meet Alamenain." Jehantel knew Guydelot was dodging the question of what he'd learned. "If he wasn't already a Temple Knight, I'd be convincing him to move to Gridania to become a bard."

"I'd be delighted."

Sanson moved toward them with ease, holding Jehantel's ale. More than one set of eyes followed as he crossed the room, to his complete ignorance. He caught Guydelot's eyes and smiled. By the Twelve, Guydelot was going to carry a torch for him as long as their friendship lasted. It should have felt pathetic, but Guydelot didn't mind.

Before they parted for the night, Guydelot insisted that Sanson ice his ankle once more. "I will find out where you live and drag a conjurer there if I have to," he threatened. "Don't make me attempt to outdo you on stubbornness."

Sanson laughed. "Aye, fine. I will. Find me at my office in the Nest tomorrow?"

"If Bowlord Mourechaux lets me. The man will be furious once he learns of our success."

Sanson's eyes gleamed wickedly. "We'll see how much longer he has a say over you."

Guydelot felt a flutter in his chest. "Be careful with the sweet talk, Captain."

At least Sanson was laughing as they went their separate ways.

The next week flew by. Bowlord Mourechaux was indeed sulky that Guydelot didn't come back in shame, and had no reason to deny him when Guydelot said his assistance was needed in writing the official report. In truth, he sat in Sanson's office and played the harp while Sanson volleyed ideas off him. Not one, but three of his journals were open on his desk. The man's prolific writing boggled him.

When he relayed his theory about Celaine's requiem to Jehantel, he had the bard's full attention. Jehantel tapped his temple in thought. "There have been tales of songs that only worked in harmony, but I was never able to substantiate any. You've discovered a mystery, Guydelot."

"I'm still not certain why the requiem, though."

When they tried to replicate the results Guydelot got with Alamenain, it wasn't right. The choral piece was the same: Guydelot didn't buzz from it. Jehantel was impressed, however. "There's power there, but to what purpose, I can't tell. There was once a conjurer who insisted harmony had the capacity to induce healing, generations ago. If she had proof, it died with her." He drew his brows together. "She was Felix Caconier's daughter, actually."

"What? Caconier, the exiled Ishgardian composer?"

"Yes."

Guydelot made a frustrated noise. "I wish I could get my hands on his compositions before he was exiled. He knew something — and maybe passed it down to his daughter?"

"That's a thought. A grain of truth in her claims."

"Yes! Do we know what happened to her?"

"I don't." He tapped his temple again. "The Conjurer's Guild would."

Guydelot groaned. "They take forever to do anything. It could be years before I get an answer."

Jehantel pierced him with a look. "You exaggerate. Moons, though. Let me see if I can speed a request along. I've looked into their archives once or twice."

"I'm still waiting to hear from Sylviel, too." He had sent a message to Tailfeather the day after they returned.

"You'll have to be patient, then."

Jehantel got him in contact with one of the Guild's archivists, who agreed to pull materials on Caconier's daughter. He began to see why Sanson did his own research — waiting on others was maddening .

Guydelot dwelled on it all while strumming his harp in Sanson's office. To Guydelot's vindication, the Twin Adder had put him on two weeks' light duty after getting an account of his injuries. It made Sanson cranky, which only made him all the more fun to tease. Guydelot was going to get a teacup thrown at his head, but he would be laughing when it happened.

"What is that?" Sanson looked up from where he was frowning at a report. "You keep playing it. I'm not complaining," he said when Guydelot got a look, "But it's familiar and I can't place why."

"It's Celaine's requiem," Guydelot told him. "I've modified it some — a different key than she sang it in, and a few other things."

Sanson's brows drew together. "Strange. Why does it remind me of Falcon's Nest?"

"Uh," Guydelot fumbled when he realized why. "I... I sang it the first night you were recovering. That's when I worked out this arrangement."

"Oh." Sanson looked both pleased and embarrassed by the memory. "Yes, that's why. What's it sound like if you sing along?"

Guydelot shook a finger at him. "Only if you put down the pen and fully listen. I won't perform to an audience of one who's only half aware."

"Fine," Sanson dropped his pen, but smiled. "I want to hear it while I'm fully awake, anyway."

"That's the spirit." Guydelot sprinkled a few notes to emphasize.

As he began to sing, Sanson crossed his hands over his stomach and leaned his head against the tall back of his chair. He even closed his eyes. Guydelot thought of that night in Falcon's Nest, serenading Sanson while he slept. He'd sought to comfort and soothe, as any good lullaby should do. His fingers plucked over the harp, softening the dissonance until it was a sweet undertone. Sanson visibly relaxed into his chair.

Guydelot felt the back of his neck prickle.

He almost dropped a note, it startled him so suddenly. But why? Why did it not work when he sang this harmony with Jehantel, but surfaced with his harp? It was not the first time he'd sung while he played. Far from it. What was different now?

It had to be Sanson, somehow. Which was ridiculous. Why would it matter who was listening? When it hit him, it was so obvious he felt like a fool. Of course someone injured had to hear it! Who else would it heal? It wasn't so different from battlesong, meant to bolster and enhance. Bards sang for those around them. He'd said it himself many times.

When he reached the end of the lullaby, Sanson looked like he might have fallen asleep, which made sense in light of Guydelot's realization. As he started to get over the shock, he too felt the effects making him warm.

Sanson opened his eyes slowly to look right into Guydelot's. He couldn't help it — a pleased smile overcame his face to see Sanson clearly feeling better than he had in days. He was rewarded with one in return.

"Lovely," Sanson said simply. The song, the feeling, Guydelot — it didn't matter which. "Always lovely."

The rest of the puzzle pieces began to fall into place over the next few days. Bowlord Mourechaux didn't bother assigning Guydelot to a post as long as he kept himself scarce hanging around the Adder's Nest. It was there that a note from the Conjurer's Guild found him. The archivist had something to show him.

"I've got to be off," Guydelot told Sanson. "I'll be back later."

"Bring tea if you can," Sanson requested without looking up from his writing.

"Aye, chief."

What the archivist had for him was a family tree. They kept close track of lineage to better understand the Padjals, and so had records back to Gridania's founding. Twelve praise this woman for becoming a conjurer.

Caconier had two daughters born to Gridania; the elder was the one in question.

"I don't know if this is of any use to you," the archivist explained, "As she has no direct descendants in Gridania. But it's what I could find quickly. Master Jehantel said you were hoping for haste."

She had no descendants in Gridania, Guydelot saw, because she had only had one child. There was a note next to her daughter's line on the tree: petitioned citizenship from Ishgard; granted and the year.

"Our conjurer was the only one in her line to spend their whole life here. Once her daughter became a citizen of Ishgard, we lost track after a generation, which is typical. Ishgard holds their records very tight."

Especially if you were the granddaughter of an exile, undoubtedly. There was only one line descending from her, a name and a birth year soon after she had immigrated: Auvaut Mudane.

It took Guydelot a half-minute to place it, dumbfounded that it sounded familiar. "Twelve preserve," he breathed when it dawned. "That can't be right."

"Sir?"

"This record here, how do you know it's accurate?"

The archivist leaned over to see where Guydelot was pointing. "That symbol means we received it from The Holy See's civil records. It appears she was petitioning after a marriage. We received record of the child because he would still have a claim to Gridanian citizenship, if he sought it."

Guydelot was a little dizzy. Auvaut was Alamenain's grandfather. Born in Ishgard, a choral director with his career cut sadly short by church politics. Who had left his beloved, talented grandson a lifetime library's worth of music scores. Alamenain was Caconier's descendant.

Guydelot let out an inappropriately loud laugh, startling not only the archivist but several others in the room. "Sorry, sorry! This is exactly the information I was hoping for, by the Twelve." He grinned at the bewildered archivist. "I don't need you to keep searching. Can I get a copy of this? I know someone who will want it."

He had to tell Jehantel. Before heading to Quarrymill, he stopped at his little one-room apartment and was glad he did. There was a letter from Sylviel, and it was not a simple note. Guydelot stood in his open doorway to read it.

I'm glad you sent me your address, as Theo and Percy returned with tremendous findings the day after you left for the Churning Mists. Felixient was not exiled over a trivial matter. He and his fellow composer claimed to have discovered what they called Halone's Blessing — the ability to manipulate aether using song, specifically healing energies. They petitioned The Holy See for permission to test it with chirurgeons on the frontlines. And they were very thorough, which doomed them. They weren't accused of heresy, but only just. Officially, they were brought before the Inquisitors on charges of false prophecy. Bless Theo, he didn't take the report at its word. He found that the Church saw it as a threat to their authority, that Halone would grant two commonborn such a gift any citizen could use. We know now why they felt that it was such a dangerous revelation. So their years of work were destroyed, and you know the rest.

From what Sanson told me of his hopes for the Ballad of Oblivion, this appears very close to what he was seeking, does it not? Truly useful on a battlefield, and similar to what bards already do. Please let me know what use you find with it, if any.

You must tell me what occurred between the Churning Mists and arriving home in Gridania. You reconciled with Sanson, I trust? Tell me how it went.

You asked about a requiem I taught a Convictory soldier. I was able to search the Church Archives myself recently and found its origin, none other than Felixient's partner. It appears to be a later arrangement of something she wrote before she was made to follow the Church's will. A small thing that survived.

I have you to thank for my new fascination with music theory and history. We've returned to Ishgard for now — I'm assisting old colleagues in their research — so seek me out if you are ever close by.

Give Sanson my regards.

Guydelot showed both Sylviel's letter and the Conjurer genealogy to Jehantel.

"This is no small discovery," was his pronouncement. "But we need to verify it. You say your friend Alamenain may have some original scores we could study?"

"That's my hope, yes. Oh! I have a new theory on how it works. I was with Sanson in his office earlier..."

They spent the rest of the evening discussing. What they needed was twofold: an original score, and someone who frequently needed healing. "Thankfully, we know a lancer who gets headaches and refuses to rest his injuries. He happens to like music well enough."

Jehantel smiled. "Verily. Shall we inform him of what we've learned?"

Guydelot hesitated. Sylviel was correct, in that Sanson would immediately want to put it to use — but Guydelot didn't want it widely known. "Not yet. He'd push on it too hard, as he can. We need Alamenain's approval, as Caconier's descendant, and who knows what political implications there might be. Let's keep it to us, Sylviel, and Alamenain for now."

"He will want to know eventually." Jehantel studied him.

"I know. I will tell him when we have something concrete to use. He'll know exactly how to best go about it."

It wasn't until the next morning that Guydelot realized he agreed to bring Sanson tea but never returned. Well, he knew a better way to make up for it. He arrived at Sanson's office with coffee and fresh pastries.

"I forgive you for never coming back yesterday," Sanson said as he poured himself coffee from the thermos.

"I visited Jehantel and lost track of time," he waved the bakery bag at Sanson. "I'm not above earning your affection with sugar."

Sanson laughed and motioned to the chair across from his. "It's been earned. Sit. I have something for you to read."

It was Sanson's final report of their mission and the formal request to form a bardsong unit. Guydelot set aside his pastry to not get powdered sugar on it and began to read. Sanson's eyes were on him while he sipped his coffee.

He had read some small amount of Sanson's writing in his journal, and seen his research notes; he thought he knew what to expect. He never thought he'd be impressed by a mission report, of all things. But impressive was what it was — factual and thorough, persuasive once it became a request. No wonder Sanson had needed three journals to write it. He covered bard history, Jehantel's accomplishments, his own track record of leadership, and a clear path to further integration of bards into Twin Adder ranks. He sang the praises of a joint effort with the Gods' Quiver, unity and brotherhood blah blah. Guydelot skimmed that. What he truly wanted to see was right at the end: Sanson's account of Guydelot's contribution to the mission — could not have been achieved without his exemplary skills made Guydelot preen — and his inevitable conclusion that Guydelot was the only bard worth assigning to the new venture. Glowing recommendations from Jehantel and the Warrior of Light didn't hurt his ego, either. But it was Sanson's praise that made him happiest.

"What do you think?" Sanson asked when he set the sheaf of papers down on the desk.

"I think it's damn fine reading for a dry military report. I liked the part where you sang my praises the best."

Sanson laughed and leaned forward on his elbows. His eyes were intense on Guydelot's face. "You would. I was planning on submitting it this afternoon. Are you ready?"

We're in this together. What a feeling, what a person to be standing beside. Guydelot never would have guessed he'd end up here, but he knew to his core it was where he was supposed to be. He took a deep breath.

"I'm ready."