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Mi’ar wondered how he always ends up in these sorts of situations.
It all started when Thancred saw him pass out, he was certain of it. Mi’ar had known he was more sensitive to aether before he’d been diagnosed with the Echo and all it entailed, but sometimes it was nice having someone to blame for all his problems even if it was all in jest. Mostly. Maybe.
Still, this was erring more on the side of Hildibrand’s brand of unusual than typical, considering that his friend wasn’t even here.
His fingers clutched onto the sloped saddles between neck and pauldron, trying to give himself enough lift to not wrench his horns painfully in the narrow fit. The unfortunate man who’d been trapped in this bizarre conundrum alongside him was wise enough to stop struggling despite having the enemy all but sitting on his lap with skin and scale of his chest blotting out the helmet’s already limited vision.
They both sat there for a moment, their heavy breathing loud above the mechanical hum of the Allagan monstrosity beneath their feet and the distant sounds of gunfire and spells as the Scions played distractions with the VIth Legion.
“…Well then,” Legatus Regula van Hydrus began, the metallic hum of his helmet slightly muffled by the proximity of Mi’ar’s chest. “This is quite the predicament.”
Mi’ar couldn’t help the soft huff of a laugh that escaped him before wincing as his horns clacked against the curved hoop adorning the Legatus’ helmet.
There were so many hazards to contend to while on the field of battle. Traps, aerial attacks, bombs, the weather, third party interference… there was so much to keep track of, to dodge and weave and use against the enemy, especially whenever he picked up the Monk soulstone and dove headfirst into battle. And he knew from experience that Garlean armor hurt when he accidentally punched a spike or sharp edge, but he hadn’t realized he also had to avoid getting his head stuck into ornate doorknocker-shaped structures of one’s helmet when he Thunderclapped into the Legatus.
It was a vulnerable position for both of them, but especially so for Mi’ar. Any sort of wrestling could break his neck if he wasn’t careful just on the awkward position his head was at, and while the Legatus had lost his gunblade somewhere out of reach in the tangle of limbs, he was still dangerously close to his unarmored belly. The only saving grace was that if the soldier did kill him now, it would be a bloody mess and more dead weight than anyone knew what to do with, and it was clear that the soldier knew this as well.
They had to work this out together regardless of their allegiances.
“Easier solution first- I am going to check my helmet latches,” the man under him spoke before his hands moved, cool armor brushing against his skin that he resisted shivering against before metal fingers poked and prodded somewhere around the neck region. Mi’ar remained still, his breathing slowly settling back to a normal pace as he listened to the soft clacks and scrapes. It was nice that the man vocalized his intentions, but there really wasn’t much Mi’ar could do to stop him.
“Broken,” came the mutter with a soft curse. “Remind me once we get out of this mess to reinforce my armor. Clearly there’s weak points.”
Mi’ar let out a low hum in response, slowly turning his head this way and that to see if he could squeeze his horns through the gap with little to show beyond clunking them against the hoop with no real force. He vaguely remember punching the Legatus somewhere in the neck region during their skirmish, but he hadn’t heard the crack of damaging parts over the adrenaline of staying alive so close to the receiving end of a gunblade.
Giving the saddle a dual-knock of his knuckles to signify he was moving, Mi’ar slipped his fingers between the gap of metal and neck, immediately finding the soldier’s own fingers. He was allowed to blindly follow them down to feel the clasps for himself, closing his eyes as he tried to picture the image his touch were tracing over.
Mi’ar couldn’t proclaim himself to be an engineer. He barely constituted himself as a machinist, although Stephanivien, Cid, Wedge, and Biggs alike had in their own way tried to convince him to believe otherwise. He knew what tools did what, and he could do some very basic tinkering, but nothing he did was anywhere nearly on par as those who always seemed to gravitate to and watch them create in their respected workshops.
He was, however, good at simplifying their overthinking.
Knocking once more on metal, Mi’ar blindly moved his hand to where he believed the Legatus could see it. He pointed his thumb up, then held up three fingers, hoping the man would understand. From the way the Legatus clasped his hands to his shoulders proved correct, and on a silent “three”, Mi’ar and the soldier rose up as one just enough to get his left foot up from under him.
They went back down as once, Mi’ar now up on one knee in an awkward genuflect, the new angle of his head sending stabbing needles along his neck and spine but he couldn’t do much about it. Instead he tapped against the Legatus’ shoulder before he blindly fished for the boot of his cocked knee.
“A knife,” the soldier mused, realization and wry disbelief in his tone. Metal touched Mi’ar’s bare skin, gently knocking his hand out of the way so the Legatus could pluck the item out himself. “How clever.”
Mi’ar settled back and forced himself to relax, letting the man put the knife to the broken latches so close to his neck and yet so close to Mi’ar’s own torso. The others would certainly have things to scold him for if they found out he was working with a Garlean soldier and giving him access to a knife. Unnecessary risk, they would most likely say, nagging him for being reckless while they sent him off to fight whoever it was on the list that day.
He didn’t want to think ill of the Scions. They were friends, he thought, but more often than not Mi’ar felt as if he barely sat down before he had to get up again and risk life and limb. It wasn’t their fault, but sometimes it felt as if the only ones out of the Scions who would wait for him to think things over and get his hands to sign out his thoughts were Alphinaud, who at first had to learn La Noscean sign in the same way Mi’ar had to learn how to write before he grew to appreciate Mi’ar for simply being Mi’ar, and Tataru, if because she could friendly bully him into doing various non-violent, easily performed tasks as if she had a sixth sense for knowing when he needed time away from his usual duties and unwind.
Mi’ar wondered how upset they’d be if he retired. If he slipped off into the night. Found a nice little cottage somewhere and plant a garden. Catch fish in the river. But he knew that dream would never come to pass, and he knew if he gave up now, no one else would rise up in time to stop the disaster hanging above their heads like an executioner’s axe. The Scions were doing all they could to help stem the tide of chaos, and it wasn’t their fault that Mi’ar was the only one who could effectively accomplish this.
Even if he was tired.
“…reports claimed you were quiet,” the Legatus’ voice stirred him out from his thoughts, the sharp edge of the blade scraping against the inner workings of the latches. “I didn’t quite believe it at first. Most of Garlemald’s enemies prefer to announce on sight of their disgust.”
Mi’ar huffed in amusement, thick tail thumping once in lieu of a shrug. The scales rasped against the grooves of the man’s armor before settling down along his leg so that he wouldn’t further distract the soldier with a knife digging around close to his throat. He didn’t really know Garlemald that well, or the Empire beyond the whole “they’re evil and want to take over the whole star” speech he seemed to hear from everyone. It… confused him, really. The Ala Mhigans had all right to be upset their home was invaded, but then they were also angry that the Eorzeans did nothing to help them beyond allowing them within their borders when the Eorzeans had no obligation to do either. There was the Resistance, which was also fair, but within the twenty years or so since the invasion and five years since the Calamity, when Garlemald was the weakest, nothing came from that either. And van Baelsar had acted on his own, during civil unrest after the death of the previous Emperor for whatever reason, so he didn’t actually count. It was like the Crystal Braves who turned against the Scions- just because they were from the group didn’t mean they were acting in their stead.
Perhaps it was because Mi’ar had no experience with the Empire prior to arriving to Eorzea. He had lived a quiet, sheltered life in the wilds- there were no Empires or nations, no dragons, no primals. He could objectively understand the agony of history weighing down upon everyone he met, but…
A sharp snap and a triumphant noise in the back of the Legate’s throat pulled him back to the present once more. Without delay, Mi’ar used the cocked knee to push himself upward and to his feet in one swift motion, taking the dastardly helmet with him. It fell free over his face and dangled around his neck like some sort of unwieldy collar, but it also allowed him to look down upon the man he’d been ensnared with for the past many minutes.
The Legatus’ eyes were very blue. It was the first thing he managed to notice. Very blue, set on a pale, handsome face with dark hair mussed by the sudden absence of the helm. He looked both older and younger than Mi’ar had been expecting- but then again, Mi’ar never had been good with the age of Garleans, not when he made the mistake of referring to Nero as “ancient” once and Cid had laughed himself hoarse for it. His only saving grace was that Nero, for all his supposed knowledge, didn’t know La Noscean sign and had quite loudly demanded to know what Cid was laughing about and never got an answer for.
Mi’ar… hadn’t really been expecting the Legatus to be handsomely pretty. Granted, his sample size was very small, with the whole “Garleans are our enemies” and the fact they rarely take off their helms. The only ones he had for reference were Cid (whom he cherished dearly as a father figure and didn’t really count as a Garlean considering his height or lack thereof), Nero (of whose relationship with Cid he had yet to clearly define, but designating him with the sign-name of “evil step-dad” always made Cid sigh and shake his head), Lucia (undeniably pretty but in a way that would probably get his legs broken if he said so), and the Emperor of all people (who was… interesting to look at to say the least. In some sort of morbidly fascinated way one would watch flesh rot off a corpse). Still, he was taken rather aback at the too-blue eyes and serious frown that was pointed back at him, scrutinizing him while Mi’ar gawped.
[Sorry], he was quick to sign, startling himself out from his staring when the brows started to bunch together and the frown deepen into almost a scowl. He flapped his hands uselessly for a quick rotation before holding them out to the Legatus, hoping he conveyed enough I mean no harm! in his stooped posture and wide pleading eyes.
The soldier eyeballed him for a moment, his expression unreadable. It only lasted a scant few seconds before the man accepted the hand, armored fingers clasping one of Mi’ar’s wrapped palms and being heaved up to his feet.
“Thank you.”
Mi’ar made a rumpled purr in his throat, eyes squinting in his version of a smile.
There was something calculating in the Legatus’ eye, his mouth still downturned. With the helmet still looped around Mi’ar’s neck, the soldier seemed much smaller, only rising up to a space between his shoulder and chin, but how much was that just the additional height of his armor, he couldn’t ascertain. Overall he was, perhaps, the same height as Aymeric. Maybe he was like Alphinaud and hid wedges in the heels of his boots to add height. There was a factor of intimidation with height, Mi’ar had found prevalent across the lands he has traveled, but there was a viciousness to smaller foes that many never suspected until it was too late- one that Mi’ar made certain to be cautious of and admire from a safer distance.
Unfortunately, he was admiring this one closer than anyone would like, and the sharp, unwavering scrutiny from that rich blue gaze made him fidget with the helmet still locked around his neck. The rough edges of the design scraped noisily against the scales protecting his throat and the back of his neck, and he was sure it was going to cause some pain during the many attempts of wiggling it over his horns. He might even lose a scale or two- or create a deep enough gouge in dusky skin to promote new scale growth if he managed to get it off before he found a healer to patch him up.
The Legatus, however, had other ideas.
“Stop that,” he chided, the knife borrowed from the Au Ra shoved into a loop on his belt and freeing his hands to slap at Mi’ar’s in order to get him to let go of the strange helmet. “You’re going to manage to saw your own head off like that. Let me-“
“…Sir!”
A familiar crack of a gun and a whizzing past Mi’ar’s ear made him leap back like a spooked cat. Scrambling over the ridge came a small squad of VIth Legion troops, one overly eager to protect their commander after seeing him too close to the enemy and wanting to provide support. He didn’t stick around to listen to what the Legatus was yelling, instead throwing himself off the ledge and landing hard on the ground below with the Legatus’ helm still clanking and swinging against his neck as he darted off into the unknown once more.
“I don’t know how you manage to do this,” Cid said bells later in the Skysteel Manufactory, sitting on a stool with Mi’ar on the floor between his knees, calloused hands carefully working the looped helm past one of his horns with no little amount of oil slicked across his scales. Stephanivien was no longer even pretending to work at the workbench nearby, practically vibrating in anticipation of examining a true Garlean helm and all its intricate secrets. “You certainly have a knack of getting into the strangest situations, kid.”
Mi’ar could only crinkle his eyes and shrug in response.