Archive of Our Own ^beta

A rare clear sky graces Ishgard, the first blushes of sunset appearing over the mountain peaks as the sun dips towards the horizon. Haurchefant admires it as he waits at the airship landing. ‘Tis fine weather for a voyage through the skies, and he hopes that Estinien is finding at least a glimmer of enjoyment in the long trip from the Far East.

He cradles a bouquet in the crook of his elbow: lavender, cornflower and white arum lily, bound together with a sapphire ribbon. The flowers are for Aymeric, of course; Estinien will no doubt realize this soon enough, but in the meantime, Haurchefant will enjoy the brief embarrassment that the sight of the bouquet will likely induce. 

It has been far too long since the three of them have all been together. Estinien continues his travels all over the star and beyond, splitting his time and assistance between the Scions of the Seventh Dawn, the Radiant Host of Thavnair, and the reformed order of Knights Dragoon in Ishgard. Aymeric rarely has cause to leave the city, but the Eorzean Alliance has demanded his presence often of late, and he has only recently returned from a long series of meetings and trade negotiations in Ul’dah. 

The dinner party had been Haurchefant's idea, though Aymeric is to play the host for the evening. Though Artoirel would have been unlikely to decline a request from his brother to take over the Fortemps’ dining room for an evening, Haurchefant feels more comfortable in the more modest halls of Borel Manor – and certainly Estinien, never one for High House gatherings or formal dining rooms, shares his preference. 

He has been looking forward to the evening ever since Estinien sent word of his return. To indulge in Aymeric's sumptuous cooking, not to mention his extensive reserves of exquisite wines, and end the night by sinking into the massive four-poster bed in between the two most handsome men in Ishgard – Haurchefant can hardly imagine a more pristine heaven on earth. 

A shadowed speck rises from the mountains, drawing Haurchefant's eye as it slowly increases in size and takes on the form of the long-awaited airship. Haurchefant straightens his spine, his entire body nearly tingling with anticipation. While he and Estinien do not share the same romantic bond as the both of them share with Aymeric, he still misses the man's company, and his heart is gladdened to see him well each time he returns to the city. 

The ship docks, and its passengers begin to disembark. When Estinien steps through the gate and his eyes fall upon Haurchefant and his bouquet, the tips of his ears turn a wonderful shade of rose.

“Those are for Aymeric, I take it,” he says gruffly, squinting at the flowers, and Haurchefant beams with the satisfaction of his little prediction coming true. 

He cannot resist teasing Estinien further, however. He tells himself that it is because it has been so long since Estinien left on his latest series of travels; he knows deep down, though, that he will take any opportunity to make his stoic friend flush, no matter the occasion. 

With a smile, he makes a flourishing gesture at his erstwhile companion with the bouquet. “My, is that a hint of envy I hear in your voice, dear Estinien? If you wish for me to bring you a bouquet as well, you know that you need only say the word.” 

“Hmph. Try it, should you care to watch a bouquet being thrown off the balustrade,” Estinien huffs, a wholly empty threat. 

Haurchefant laughs. Mayhap, upon Estinien's next voyage, he should indeed refrain from making himself look absurd by carrying two full flower bouquets at once to the airship landing, but he very well might consider bringing a single flower to tuck behind Estinien's lovely and tragically unadorned ear. 

He can nearly see the pout upon his features now – and just as clearly, the way in which Estinien will instantly acquiesce when Aymeric calls the accessory ‘charming’. He smiles. Yes, a single flower will be the perfect accoutrement to his long white locks. Perhaps a blue thistle, or even…

“Come on, Greystone. Aymeric is expecting us,” Estinien calls, interrupting him in his daydreaming. 

They walk side by side out from the airship landing and down the road, the soles of their boots clicking against the stone tiles, street lamps flickering to life around them as the skies slip into night overhead. Estinien is quiet, his spine tense with anticipation as they approach Borel Manor. It is rare to hear him say the words aloud, but Haurchefant can always tell when Estinien has missed their mutual lover. Even when he chooses not to speak, his body says all that needs saying in the clearest of terms. 

They approach the stately doors, and Estinien stands aside as Haurchefant knocks. (On his previous visit, he received a scolding from Aymeric after being careless with his gauntlets and scraping the venerable dark chestnut wood, and though Haurchefant found the whole affair raucously amusing, Estinien is understandably less keen to repeat the experience.) After a moment the doors creak open, and a young woman appears: Margaux, the granddaughter of Aymeric’s venerable manservant, who has but recently succeeded the post after the retirement of her increasingly-infirm grandfather (who in turn retired only after much urging by Aymeric himself). 

“Sers! Oh no… his lordship isn't back yet,” she says, chewing on her lower lip. “Please tell me he's right behind the two of you. Dinner just came out of the oven and if he's late again it'll go cold…” 

Estinien emerges from the shadows, speaking from behind Haurchefant's shoulder like an apparition. “Late ‘again’? You're saying he's been late getting home for dinner often?” 

Margaux’s eyes widen. Haurchefant sighs. “Estinien, do at least attempt not to sound as if you intend to skewer the poor girl upon your lance,” he chastises him. He turns to Margaux, palms outstretched in a peaceful gesture. “Estinien is merely concerned about Ser Aymeric's workload. ‘Tis quite unlike him to have a social call slip his mind. Has he mentioned aught to you?” 

The serving girl bites her lip even more forcefully, nearly making Haurchefant himself wince. “I can't say he has… he's been bringing all sorts of papers when he does come home, leaving them scattered all about his bedchamber. I don't rightly know what a Lord Speaker does all day, but ever since that Garlean lady went back to her homeland, he's been returning later and later at night.” 

Estinien huffs. “I’ve told him time and time again to take on more subordinates now that Lucia is in Garlemald. I should have a word with Handeloup afore I leave the city again.”

Haurchefant ignores the ominous statement from Estinien, instead bowing deeply to Margaux. “Our sincerest gratitude for your diligent dinner preparations is yours, miss, and we assure you that we will bring Ser Aymeric home within the bell.”

The tension in the girl’s brow eases, and she nods gratefully. “I’ll have the food ready for all three of you,” she promises, then the stately manor doors close once again.

Estinien is already halfway down the entryway stairs by the time the lock clicks shut, and Haurchefant hurries behind him. The night is beginning to turn from merely bracing to downright freezing, but mercifully the trip to the Congregation is brief with the aid of the city’s aethernet, and Haurchefant's fingertips are only just beginning to go numb in his gloves by the time they arrive. 

“Ah, Lord Haurchefant, Ser Estinien,” Handeloup greets them the moment they pass the great doors of the Temple Knights’ headquarters. The candles burn low at the great planning table, specks of wax dotting the surface of the wood, and Handeloup himself seems to have sported a few more lines upon his face than when last Haurchefant spoke with him. “I take it you are searching for the Lord Commander?”

“Aye,” Estinien says. “Where is he?” The words come out sharp as adamantite.

“What Ser Estinien means to explain is that he was meant to receive us for supper a half-bell past,” Haurchefant explains, smoothing his own words over his dear companion’s artless interrogation. “Has he merely lost track of the hour, or is aught amiss in the Temple Knights?” 

Handeloup sighs. “There has indeed been trouble, and no end to it as of late,” he says, wearily. “Once again Lord Aymeric sees all of it as his personal responsibility, and insists upon spearheading the work. All of us have helped to the best of our abilities, but he has spent many bells alone in his office these past days. Had I known of his plans, I would have certainly urged him to go home sooner, but he should be glad to see friendly faces at last, I am sure.”

Estinien's face is as dark as a thundercloud, and Haurchefant decides to speak on his behalf. “Our thanks are yours for all of your assistance, Ser Handeloup. Rest assured we will do our utmost to help Ser Aymeric see reason.” 

The guard shows them into the Lord Commander's audience chamber, then prudently leaves them to their privacy. Haurchefant takes the lead to open the door to the office before Estinien can do something rash without thinking, such as slamming the door and startling their poor lover. 

Aymeric sits at his desk, a foreboding number of papers and missives piled about him. He does not notice their arrivals, his concentration fully fixed upon the words he is currently writing. His eyes, lovely as they are, seem to be rimmed with even darker circles than are generally seen to mar that perfect visage. 

Haurchefant puts an arm in front of Estinien to stop him from rushing to Aymeric's side, and waits for their mutual lover to replace the pen in his inkwell before speaking. “I do believe you have forgotten something rather important, Lord Speaker.” 

Aymeric startles, but blessedly does not upset his inkwell (thanks to Haurchefant’s foresight, for which he is quite proud of himself). “Haurchefant… and Estinien? I confess that I did not expect your airship to arrive for several more… oh dear, whatever is the hour? I seem to have quite lost track,” he admits.

Estinien crosses his arms. “Nearly the twentieth, Aymeric. You know, there are these marvelous inventions called windows – you ought to try using yours sometime.” 

Aymeric rubs at the space between his brows and shakes his head at his lover's commentary. “I cannot apologize enough for keeping the two of you from your supper – not to mention upsetting dear Margaux. Poor girl, she is always fretting terribly over the state of the cooking, though I regularly assure her that I do not mind simple fare. I expect she was close to frantic when you arrived at the manor.” 

Haurchefant smiles. “She was, but I placated her with a promise of your swift return. We should get going – not only is your lovely chef waiting, but I suspect Estinien is going to start eyeing the very birds in the sky to jump up and skewer before long, should his supper be delayed further.” 

“Truly, I am sorry,” Aymeric begins, his face the very picture of contrition. Estinien scoffs. 

“I am fine, Aymeric. Think naught of it. The two of us can certainly endure a lukewarm dinner – we are far more concerned with how you fare. Ser Handeloup mentioned trouble.” 

Aymeric sighs. “‘Tis a lengthy tale, and this is no time to begin telling it – as you yourself have made me aware, there are far more important matters at hand. Come, let us return to the manor – I shall explain all over the dinner table.” He looks at the papers still clutched in his fingers, and begins to roll them up for the journey out of doors.

Estinien eyes the papers with marked incredulity, but says naught more as the three of them leave the office and make their way out into the night. Handeloup calls out a good-night as they pass, and the moment they exit to the plaza, Estinien takes Aymeric's hand in his own, twining their gloved fingers together.

The dinner, once they arrive at the manor and are served by a visibly relieved Margaux, is marvelous, even lukewarm – roast karakul with cabbage and pearl sprouts, and bowls of wonderfully warming beet soup on the side. As is his wont, Estinien scarfs it all down as if he had not eaten during his entire voyage from the East, while Haurchefant takes his time to savor each bite. Aymeric has procured a celebratory wine from the recesses of his cellar for the occasion, and it demands to be appreciated. 

He waits until Aymeric has finished his meal and refills his wine glass to speak. “Now, Aymeric, pray tell us what has been troubling the Temple Knights – and keeping you from your supper.” 

Aymeric swirls his wine, staring into the glass with a slight air of melancholy darkening his features. “As I mentioned earlier, ‘tis a lengthy tale, but I shall endeavor to start at the true beginning.” He pauses, taking a thoughtful sip. “Some time ago, there was a rather shocking incident at Saint Endalim’s Scholasticate – I would be surprised if you had heard nothing of it, Haurchefant, though I cannot say the same for Estinien. I believe that he was wandering aimlessly about in Gyr Abania at the time.” 

Estinien only shrugs, but a spark of recognition does jump into Haurchefant's mind. “Ah, indeed, I remember hearing something of the sort from Emmanellain,” he says. “If I recall, there was a staged kidnapping of a student, and the culprit was revealed to be a false priest with a grudge against the school.” 

“I am not surprised that Lord Emmanellain chose to preserve the most salacious details of the story,” Aymeric says, shaking his head as amusement flickers over his lips, “but the matter of the priest’s motive is what concerns the Temple Knights now. His grudge was born from the death of a dear friend, one who had been consigned to live as an expurgator in the depths of the Vault – playing the role of a sort of living historical document, bearing the burden of our history’s truth and suffered to live only for that knowledge to be accessible by a future Archbishop. The entire institution was a miserable atrocity of whose existence none save Thordan and a select few archival staff have ever been aware – until Saturnois revealed all before the Scholasticate tribunal.” 

“This all happened quite a while ago, then,” Estinien points out. “If I know you, Aymeric, this false priest's confession would have hardly ceased echoing off of the Scholasticate walls before you would have sent a platoon of knights to free these poor souls from their imprisonment. Why is the matter still causing problems now?”

Aymeric takes another long draught of his wine before answering. “There was an investigation team sent into the Vault, but no trace of these expurgators or their dwelling was ever found. We believed them either killed or so thoroughly hidden away that any hope of their liberation had died with the Archbishop.” He sets the wineglass down, face grim. “But now, we have finally found the catacombs where they were kept hidden from the rest of the Vault – and my knights have started to go missing.” 

He closes his eyes, a deep frown etching his brow. Haurchefant reaches out to him, placing a hand upon his shoulder. 

Aymeric is a brilliant commander and a powerful force on the battlefield, but he has always been deeply affected by the loss of those men he leads. After every battle, Haurchefant knows full well how he pores over his every action, searching for a way in which he might prevent such losses during the next campaign. And when he loses his men unexpectedly, outside of battle… he is even more prone to taking the loss to heart, placing the culpability for such deaths squarely upon his own shoulders.

“Aymeric, you are not to blame for this,” Estinien says, his mind clearly following the same path as Haurchefant's. “Simply call off the investigation and seal off the accursed catacomb. Surely after all this time it isn't possible for anyone to have survived down there, anyroad.” 

Aymeric shakes his head. “I cannot risk losing any more good men, but neither can I board up the recesses of the Vault and pretend that no one was ever imprisoned there. I see only one course of action – I must be the one to continue the investigation.” His tone is firm, commanding as it is on the battlefield: his mind is made up, and he will brook no argument. “Even if the ranks of the expurgators are no more, Ishgard deserves to know of their existence, that we might avoid repeating these grave mistakes of our forebears.”

Estinien wears a troubled expression. “You don't mean that you intend to go into those catacombs alone?” 

“‘Tis I who am ultimately responsible for each and every man who has vanished,” Aymeric says. “‘Tis only right that I be the one to investigate what has become of them.” 

“Don't be absurd,” Estinien says through gritted teeth, shoulders tense as he leans forward in his seat. His fingernails dig into the upholstery, earning him a cautionary look from Aymeric, which he ignores. “We know better than anyone the darkness that has long festered beneath those halls. Even if there were no chance of danger, you should not take on such a burden alone – and since there is , you will not persuade me to stay behind. Ishgard cannot lose you, Aymeric, and neither can I.” 

“Nor I,” Haurchefant interjects. “My dearest Aymeric, I would never doubt your strength in battle, but even you have admitted that you have no idea what manner of foe may be lurking in these catacombs. Pray allow the two of us to accompany you.” 

Aymeric sighs. “I don't suppose that anything I might care to say will dissuade you.” 

Estinien scoffs. “Nay.” 

“I believe you have already answered your own question,” Haurchefant says with a smile.

Aymeric closes his eyes for a moment, pondering, before giving the both of them a decisive nod. “Then on the morrow,” he declares, “we make for the Vault.”

The night is as perfect as Haurchefant could have ever wished for – clear and calm beyond the bedchamber window, while the banked fire turns the room into a sanctuary of warmth. Aymeric falls asleep nearly the moment his head hits the pillow, his exhaustion combined with the wine from dinner great enough to overpower him at last. Haurchefant and Estinien curl their bodies around him, savoring the heat of his skin, the calming rise and fall of his breath, and the serenity of his dreaming face. 

When Haurchefant sleeps at last, his dreams, too, are placid and sweet. 

In the morning, they break their fast with Aymeric’s cooking – his signature fluffy dodo omelets with popotoes and a creamy mushroom sauce – then, as planned, begin their journey to the Vault. 

The hour is not so early for the Pillars to be empty, and the passage of three highly decorated soldiers of Ishgard in full armor draws no small amount of attention. By the time they reach the grand stairs that led to the towering spire, they have amassed several small crowds of gossipers in their wake. 

Aymeric's face betrays nothing as the guards hurry to allow them entry. The great hall is as grand as ever in the silvery morning light, but they quickly turn away from the public face of the Vault and make for a side door, utterly unassuming to those who know nothing of the secrets that lurk beneath the carved stone and gilded lattices.

Since the… incidents surrounding the Final Days and the blasphemies, far fewer priests walk these halls than Haurchefant has ever seen on his previous visits. Silence falls around them as Aymeric retrieves his keyring from a coat pocket and unlocks the door, as if the entire building is holding its breath for what lies beyond.

The door opens. Estinien’s features are pinched, his disquiet apparent at a glance. The two of them, Haurchefant surmises, share the same thought: the last time they descended the stairs that lay before them, ‘twas Aymeric himself who languished imprisoned in the depths of the Vault. 

Though he wholeheartedly trusts in Aymeric's strength and understands full well his devotion to his knights, when faced with the thought of walking with him through the very cells in which he was tortured, Haurchefant cannot help but have doubts.

“Aymeric,” he ventures. “There is no shame in –” 

“Come,” interrupts Aymeric. He holds himself like a statue as he begins his descent. 

Haurchefant and Estinien share a glance. When Aymeric is like this, there is only one choice for them: to trust and follow him wherever he leads. 

Though Aymeric walks tall and unwavering as ever, their passage through the gaol stirs up no small number of unwelcome old memories. There has clearly been some effort to clean and refurbish the halls and remove the iron bars from the cells to repurpose them as storage, and the air does smell rather less of blood and ash than it did before – though Haurchefant suspects that no cleansing magicks short of a holy benediction from the Twelve Themselves can fully excise the centuries of suffering from this stone. Still, he cannot help but recall the look of the place before the end of the war and shudder.

Aymeric stops at last before a firecrystal torch, mounted on the wall at what is seemingly a dead end. “Stand back,” he says, then reaches out to grasp the torch’s haft. Haurchefant watches with curiosity as he pulls down, and the torch’s mounting reveals itself to be some form of lever mechanism. At Aymeric’s feet, there is a grinding of stone on stone, and one floor tile begins to sink downwards at an agonizing pace. 

“Remarkable,” exclaims Haurchefant in astonishment. 

Estinien, less easily impressed, crosses his arms as they watch the tile’s descent. “Why couldn't that priest tell you about this place? You said he was a guardsman to the expurgators – surely he would have regularly passed in and out.” 

“We do not know for certain, but we have come to believe that either his memories were altered or that the location of the expurgators’ quarters was changed regularly,” Aymeric explains. “There was also a glamour placed over the entry mechanism when we first investigated this area, so there is also a possibility that the disguise was placed after Saturnois had already left the service.” 

“To think that the Church would go so far as to alter the memories of her most loyal servants…” Haurchefant shakes his head, disgust curdling in his stomach. To take pride in his homeland is an ever more daunting task as more and more of the Holy See’s past misdeeds come to light – he can understand all too well why men such as Aymeric's detractors are so easily seduced by the lie of a return to an imaginary past to avoid confronting an uncomfortable present. 

The hidden mechanism, with an ominous clunking sound, finally halts. The stone that fell has revealed a short shaft leading to a narrow hallway – barely tall enough to admit an Elezen man of average height such as Aymeric or Estinien. A man as tall as Stephanivien de Haillenarte, Haurchefant surmises, would have to stoop. The opening is as dark as a voidgate, but as he peers into the blackness, he thinks that he can just glimpse the faintest flicker of magicked firelight. 

“There are hand-holds in the wall, should you –” Aymeric begins, but before he can finish his sentence, Estinien has already leapt bodily into the shaft. His armored boots hit the ground with a deafening clatter that seems to echo all around them for a long moment. 

“Let's not waste time,” he says gruffly. 

“I should not need to remind you that not all of us have been trained in the aerial art of the dragoon,” says Aymeric, exasperated but with a hint of fondness to his tone. He descends after his lover, and Haurchefant follows them both into the unknown dark. 

Inside the tunnel, Haurchefant cannot shake the unease that pervades him. Perhaps it is the way the walls and ceiling seem to close in on him, or his lack of knowledge on what may lie ahead, but as he brings up the rear of their procession he cannot seem to bring himself to relax his grip on his shield. 

The surroundings are more than discomfiting on their own, but then Haurchefant recalls at last what the experience reminds him of. The narrowness of the entry, the smell of damp stone, the lingering chill that worms its way beneath his armor – ‘tis not unlike the entrance to the Fortemps family mausoleum, which he last visited when his stepmother was interred. 

The thought makes him shiver. From what he had learned of Saturnois’ testimony, esteemed graduates of the Scholasticate had made up the ranks of the expurgators. The thought of one of the bright young students he oft sees around the Pillars looking forward to their first appointment in the Church, and instead being shut away from their home and their future in what is a tomb in all but name, is enough to turn his stomach. 

At last, the light of crystal-fueled lamps begins to signal the end of the corridor. Haurchefant blinks as the pale illumination grows. He can hardly see anything around the silhouettes of Estinien and Aymeric before him, and the anticipation coils tight in his chest. 

At last, their trio emerges into what appears to be a small antechamber. Two rooms split off on either side, and a quick glance identifies them readily as a storeroom and a small sleeping quarter. The beds are disheveled, as if abandoned in a hurry, and the sacks and barrels of foodstuff in the storeroom appear to have long since been broken open and emptied. On the far wall is a foreboding iron-barred gate, with another dimly-lit room beyond. 

“This is for the guards, I presume,” Estinien says. “Little wonder Saturnois sought to escape his assignment – even the lowest squire in the Temple Knights receives better accommodations.” 

“Thankfully, his memory was left intact when it came to this,” Aymeric says, producing a key from his pockets. “The leaders of our investigation were all given copies, so ‘tis safe to assume that they ventured beyond this room. We must needs tread carefully.” 

Haurchefant holds his breath, along with the hilt of his sword, as Aymeric unlocks the gate and they pass through into another large room, only to release it in surprise at the sight of their surroundings. 

It is as if they have entered one of the great libraries of the Scholasticate, though as it might appear after a fierce battle. Books and more books line the walls and lay scattered over the tiles. The shelves bear extensive damage, with several prominently burned areas that have left a number of tomes charred and blackened, but evidently the fire had been prevented from spreading enough to enact total destruction. 

Aymeric bends down and retrieves a book from the floor, examining the title with a thoughtful eye. “I know this book,” he says. “It was confiscated from a deposed nobleman's collection and deemed heretical some years ago. I was under the impression that the Inquisition had destroyed it – but if it has instead been interred in this archive, its contents may very well be historical truth.” 

“Then all of these books are unbelievably valuable to the history of our new republic,” Haurchefant says. “‘Tis a tragedy that many appear to have been damaged, but we should attempt to recover as many as possible.” 

“We can begin carrying out books after we locate Aymeric’s men,” Estinien says pointedly. He peers into the recesses of the room, where an unassuming doorway leads to a darkened corridor, and his narrow mouth pinches. “There is something… I mislike the feel of this place.” 

“Of course,” says Aymeric, though he still tucks the volume he holds into his gambeson rather than tossing it back onto the tiles. 

The corridor slopes downwards and to the left, bearing them inexorably deeper into the earth. The next level of the dungeon is much the same as the first: high shelves and scattered books, scorch marks upon the stone, and a few simple cots laid out along the far wall. Crucially, there are no signs of any living men, either knight or expurgator. 

The damp creeps beneath Haurchefant's clothes and sinks into his skin, making him shiver. He wants naught more to turn back, the pale, somewhat dim crystal-light making him crave the sun's bounteous warmth all the more. It is difficult to say how many bells they have spent below the Vault: without windows or even chronometers to tell time, there is a disorienting quality to the place. 

‘Tis his belief in Aymeric, in his vision of a better Ishgard whose peace is secure and whose wrongs are made right, that strengthens him enough to take the next steps down into the winding corridor. 

Estinien's nose wrinkles in disgust as they descend. “I fear we have come too late,” he says. “Death lies ahead.”

His words are proven true when they reach the next level. Even at the foot of the sloping corridor by which they enter, dark stains mar the stone floor, spreading and merging with one another until little of the original color is visible – and in the center of it lies a Hyuran man, prone and clad in Temple Knight mail. His face is turned away, but the reek in the air confirms that he has indeed perished. 

“By the Fury,” Haurchefant breathes. 

“These bloodstains are old. They do not belong to him,” Estinien remarks, speaking candidly, though his brow is furrowed and his eyes are dark. 

“I see no wound upon him,” Aymeric agrees. “Would that, however his death may have come about, he felt little pain as he passed.” He bows his head and begins to murmur the familiar first phrases of a battlefield prayer. “O Halone, we beseech thee to guide this man’s soul unto thy halls…” 

His solemn words are interrupted as the air, already carrying a chill, suddenly becomes downright glacial. The magicked lanterns flicker, then go out, plunging the three of them into blackness. 

“On your guard!” rings Aymeric's voice in the dark, with a muttered curse from Estinien following swiftly. Haurchefant has already drawn his sword, of course, but he brings up his shield for good measure. 

He strains his ears, but can hear no enemy's approach. The only sound is the breathing of his companions and the slow dripping of water upon stone from an unknown source. He tightens his grip on his shield. ‘Tis a rare foe indeed that can make him feel genuine fear – but the uncertainty that envelops him now chills him all the way to his core. 

Suddenly, his limbs feel leaden. The blackness seems to swirl before him, and his mind fills with fog. He can hardly even open his mouth to warn his companions before the dizzying sensation overtakes his consciousness. 

A voice like a silver bell pierces his awareness. “Haurchefant, darling, you really must wake up! ‘Tis nearly the afternoon!”

Haurchefant blinks, and golden sunlight floods his vision. He squints into the light, disoriented. Where was it coming from? There hadn't been any windows around when he had lost consciousness, he is certain, yet the light and warmth persist stubbornly, stinging his eyes in a way that certainly feels real enough.

As his mind coalesces into wakefulness, he realizes that he is lying in a bed – and not simply any bed, but a familiar bed. 

“Where am I?” he mumbles without thinking. He had been in the Vault, he is sure of it… but the room around him is nothing like the dungeon he remembers. Has he been wounded and brought back to the Pillars, or has the expedition all been naught but a dream? Even as he tries to grasp them clearly in his mind, the memories grow hazier with every passing moment. 

The voice rings out again in reply. “My, my, darling, have you been at the wine again? Not that there is anything wrong with enjoying yourself, but… mayhap you would do well to save the festivities for the evening, hmm?”

Haurchefant blinks again, his vision slowly clearing, and the details of his surroundings gradually emerge. ‘Tis most definitely a room in the Fortemps Manor: The wallpaper that bears the crest proves it, though he need not inspect the pattern to know the shade of crimson by heart. 

The voice, though, he cannot quite place. There is a familiarity to it, but he struggles to pin down who might be the source of it – save for a few maidservants, there are few women within the walls of Fortemps Manor, and none of the servants would dare speak to a lord, even a Greystone, in such a familiar way. 

With some effort, his limbs still heavy and his head still fogged with dreams, he sits up. At the foot of his bed stands a woman – but he knows instantly that she is no servant. The gown she wears is of fine brocade, a lovely shade of blue-violet with delicate designs in silver. Luminous hair the color of a winter’s morning falls loose about her shoulders. Her face, at first glance, is one of a stranger – but as he takes a closer look, some deep part of him resonates with recognition.

He can find only one word upon his tongue. “Mother?”

The woman’s brow furrows. She raises a hand, places it on his brow, and he is too shocked by the sight before him to even consider flinching back. Her skin is smooth and cool, her fingers delicate. “No fever, but… are you feeling quite well, darling? ‘Twould be a shame to fall ill on your special day… I shall send for the chirurgeon, there must be some medicine he can administer so that you might still enjoy yourself…”

“No, no, there’s no need for the chirurgeon,” Haurchefant says, hastily. He has never felt so unmoored, his thoughts awhirl so much that he practically feels dizzy, but he forces a smile onto his face. “I feel perfectly well. I must have simply had a poor dream.” 

“Oh, what a relief,” says the woman. “There is little worse than having to spend a nameday abed! Especially with how much you’ve been looking forward to your party!”

Haurchefant can only sit still as he attempts to orient himself. It is his nameday, apparently, and he is in the manor. ‘Tis as lovely a place to awaken as he could ever wish to do so, but a discordant echo prickles at the back of his mind. The woman who so resembles his mother… surely she cannot truly be his mother. His mother is… is… whatever became of her, again? 

The more he thinks on the matter, however, the less he is certain that aught is amiss. He tries to focus on his feeling of uncertainty, but finds his mind muddled and his memories blurred. He is certain there is some reason, some evidence to contradict what his eyes and ears are telling him, but the more he tries to grasp the answer, the more it eludes him. 

He looks around the room once more. Everything seems to be in its place, anyroad. The crimson wallpaper is just as he remembers, as are the books on great historical battles and tactical swordplay that lay haphazardly on various flat surfaces. Mayhap his excuse of poor sleep and nightmares had been an unknowing truth. 

“Well! Now that you are awake, I shall fetch the manservant,” says the woman… his mother, clapping her hands together. “Once you are dressed, your father and I will be waiting for you in the parlor. Oh, I can hardly wait to see how the nameday outfit will look on my darling boy!” 

The door clicks softly shut. Slowly, Haurchefant rises from the bed, his body going through the motions of its own accord as crosses the room to his vanity. A part of him still half expects to awaken abruptly at any moment, but the rug ‘neath his feet and the bedclothes against his skin feel as tangible as any real object outside of a dream ought to be. 

Splashing water on his face, he peers at his reflection in the mirror. As far as he is able to tell, ‘tis the same face upon which he has looked every day of his life. Nothing appears to be amiss, no matter how much he scrutinizes every pore and patch of stubble. 

The manservant arrives to dress him, interrupting Haurchefant's brooding. He stands still as he is layered in a set of supple rainbow cotton shirt and breeches, tall white leather boots, and an embroidered vest of finest Coerthan wool, all fashionably cut and tailored to his exact measurements. 

The satisfaction of being well-dressed quiets a measure of Haurchefant’s inner turmoil. He takes a moment to admire himself in the mirror, stretching out his long legs to observe the fashionable cut of the boots, before he remembers that his mother and father are waiting for him. 

When he arrives at the parlor, he is struck still for a moment at the sight. His father stands in his finest coat, made of lush crimson velvet, and leans on his cane in one gloved hand. Edmont’s other hand wraps around the waist of Haurchefant’s mother, and he gazes down at her with adoration plain on his weathered features. 

Haurchefant finds himself struck still, unable to look away, or even to move, pierced to the very core by the sight of such simple affection between his parents. A lump rises in his throat, and he blinks unbidden tears from the corners of his eyes. 

His mother looks up, and beams when she sees Haurchefant standing in the doorway. “Oh, I knew you would look wonderful in that vest,” she coos, rushing to him and brushing an invisible bit of dust from the embroidered leaves and roses. “I can still hardly believe how much you’ve grown – you are getting to be as handsome as your father!”

Edmont chuckles. “I would say that he much more resembles his mother – and the two of you are equally fetching. Now come, son. The guests are waiting for you.”

Haurchefant shakes himself from his stupor and follows his father down the long hallway. The inexplicable, lingering tears in his eyes dry quickly as excitement starts to build under his skin. As they approach the manor’s ballroom, his parents move to his side, each of them taking one of his arms. A pair of servants open the double doors, and reveal a scene straight out of Haurchefant’s most pleasant dreams. 

A sharply dressed butler clears his throat as they enter. “The Count and Countess de Fortemps have arrived with their son, Lord Haurchefant!” 

Haurchefant hardly hears the man’s words as he takes in everything around him. The room shimmers with golden candlelight, and a table in the center is piled high with all of his favorite sliced meats, cheeses, and cakes. A group of musicians, dressed in Ishgardian finery, fills the air with music. And all throughout the room are the myriad guests, men and women both, all smiling and toasting a blessed nameday to him .

Edmont pats Haurchefant on the back, and is smiling warmly when he turns to face him. “Go, enjoy yourself, my son,” he says and Haurchefant is all too eager to do so.

The bells blur together as food is served and music is played. He finds himself swept into dancing with a series of young noblewomen, each as beautiful and charming as the last. He strangely does not recognize them by their faces, but he is easily distracted from such doubts as they sway and waltz about the room. Their delicate hands slip perfectly into his as he leads them through the familiar ballroom steps, and they smile and laugh at his light conversation before passing him on to the next lovely face whenever the music slows. 

It is with one lady in his arms that he finds himself in the midst of a slower dance, their bodies drawing scandalously close together. He has quite lost track of how many dances he has had thus far, though his feet have not tired in the slightest. The pianoforte player sweeps their hand up and down the scales, creating a rippling waterfall in the middle of their piece without a single note out of place. Haurchefant pauses in his conversation to admire the skill and beauty of it, a small, unobtrusive thought floating to the top of his consciousness. 

“I daresay Artoirel would enjoy a roll of this performance,” he says absently. 

The noblewoman smiles. “Artoirel? Is that a new friend of yours?” 

Haurchefant nearly steps on her foot in bewilderment. “Of course I speak of Artoirel, my…” 

He looks around the room, but cannot see the familiar head of dark hair that should be present, conversing and dancing, surrounded by noble friends and hopeful suitors alike. This cannot be right – why would Artoirel not be present at a Fortemps family gathering? 

His stomach plummets with a sickening burst of realization. The answer is all too clear – if Haurchefant's mother serves as Countess, then the Countess that bore his brothers – and thus, Artoirel and Emmanellain both – must not be present in this world. 

Without another word, he pushes his dance partner away, staggering from the dance floor. It is as if scales have fallen from his eyes, bringing his surroundings into blinding clarity. There is a sea of faces about him, strangers all, and the notes of the orchestra blur and twist into a cacophony that pounds inside of his skull. No matter how deeply he inhales, he feels as if he cannot get enough air. This is not right. This is not right!

Though their relationship has never been without its troubles, Haurchefant can scarcely imagine an existence without his brothers. His mother's life and his father's affection may be things he desires, things he wants with all his heart to be reality, but never would he wish for them in a trade for Artoirel and Emmanellain. 

Whatever twisted simulacrum into which he has managed to stumble, for all its gilded glamour, is no heaven – and he knows, with a cold, sickening certainty, that he must find a way out as soon as possible. 

His mother appears in front of him, her eyes full of concern as she reaches out and – no! He shakes his head. He remembers the sickening truth, now: his mother is dead, and never had the chance to be a Countess at his father’s side – never wore the dresses she described in such detail in her bedtime stories of loyal knights and beautiful princesses. The woman standing before him bears her face and her elegance, but whatever she may be, she cannot be his mother. 

His eyes well up with tears and he turns away, unable to look upon her for a moment longer. “I apologize, but I cannot stay here any longer. This is not a world in which I belong.” 

“Darling, are you quite certain you are not ill? You cannot mean to go out in the cold in such a state –  the guests will understand if you wish to rest in your room,” she offers, her plaintive voice still so very familiar in a way that makes his stomach twist. 

Haurchefant shakes his head. “I must leave this place. Goodbye, my lady.” He can no longer bring himself to call her Mother. 

“No, please! Don't go! Anything but that!” The voice fills with panic and anguish, warping and distorting to something akin to a squealing animal, something wholly unlike his mother. It sends a chill down Haurchefant's spine. 

“Don't leave… please…” the guests begin to repeat, voices blending and spilling into one another until the words lose their shape and meaning. Arms reach out for him like a thousand undulating serpents.

Haurchefant runs. 

The ballroom doors fly open of their own accord as he approaches. He runs blindly, pushing past more strangers in bright party clothes, his own panicked mind drowning out the questions and calls that trail after him. The halls of the manor seem to stretch and lengthen before his very eyes, twisting one way and then another in ways that he knows do not exist in the manor. 

He swallows the panic that has begun to rise like bile in his throat. He is a knight – he cannot lose his head. If he entered this place in some manner, there must be a way to escape. He will find it. He must find it! He wants naught more to do with this twisted nightmare.

Suddenly, his vision is filled with the sight of a large set of doors. Without a thought, he slams into them and forces them open, tumbling into the blackness beyond.

…

…

Haurchefant stumbles and falls to his knees, catching himself with his hands. The stone floor is cold upon his palms, and the smell of water and musty paper fills his lungs upon his first heaving, gasping breath. He knows not how he has done it, but he has returned to the chamber below the Vault. 

For a long moment, it is all he can do to hold himself up as he catches his breath. His head spins from exertion and the dizzying weight of all that he has just experienced. 

Had it all been naught but a dream? But every sensation had felt so real, and every detail of his mother's long-lost face had been painted perfectly. If it had been some manner of dream, it had not been a natural occurrence, he concludes. Something far more sinister than a simple sleeping gas trap is at play. 

The thought makes his body jerk, and he looks up sharply. Blank stone and dilapidated shelves lit by pale crystal-light are all he can see, and the room is deathly silent – not even a mouse scuttles across the stone. He is alone! The three of them had all been together when they were ambushed, but if Aymeric and Estinien are slumbering as he did, he cannot see them anywhere.

He pushes himself up from the floor, a sudden rush of blood in his veins granting him renewed strength. If they are trapped in visions as he was, they may be in grave danger – and it falls to him to be their savior.

No matter what changes have come to Ishgard, he is still a knight, and ‘tis a knight's duty to protect his companions from such a powerful evil as the one that is lurking in the archives of the Vault. 

Haurchefant cannot shake the sense that the walls of the catacombs are beginning to close in on him. After leaving the room in which he awoke in search of his companions, the corridor has turned long and meandering, curving in wide circles until Haurchefant is unsure whether he is descending or ascending. 

Smaller rooms split off to the sides occasionally, and his heart leaps into his throat each time he looks into one and sees an unmoving pile of armor, or a charred and blackened lump, or a scattering of bones. 

He cannot know what exactly transpired here before their arrival, but he is beginning to form an educated guess, and he very much mislikes the direction in which the evidence thus far is pointing. 

Finally, he peers into a room, its floor covered in singed and scattered leaves of parchment, and sees the subdued blue of Estinien's dragon-blessed armor rather than the dull hardsilver of Temple Knight standard-issue mail. He rushes to his companion's side, his racing  pulse pounding in his skull as he kneels and reaches out to his unconscious body. 

Estinien's skin is clammy where Haurchefant presses his fingertips gently against his cheek, but his breathing is steady. A wave of pure, heady relief washes over Haurchefant to see that he is only asleep, not injured, but it is short-lived as he fails to even stir by a fraction of an ilm as Haurchefant gently shakes and then more strongly jostles him.

For a moment, he is at a loss. If conventional methods fail to wake Estinien, what is he to do? He certainly possesses more than enough strength in his arms to carry him from these accursed catacombs and unto a healer that might rouse him, but he has yet to find Aymeric, and carrying the two of them on his back would be quite the feat, even for him. At the same time, the prospect of leaving either of them vulnerable to the same fate that has befallen Aymeric's knights is unbearable. 

As he weighs his options, a thought occurs to him. What if Estinien is trapped within an illusion, as Haurchefant himself had been just a short time before?

The realization brings minimal comfort, however, for Haurchefant knows little of the arcane arts, and is at a loss for exactly how he might go about breaking an illusion. If only there was some way to communicate with Estinien within the bounds of his vision, that he might break himself free as Haurchefant did… but the more Haurchefant scours his mind for any possible fragment of knowledge that may serve him, the more bleak the situation seems.

‘Tis then that he notices the persistent force that tugs at the back of his consciousness. When he focuses upon it, curious, it seems to ebb, but not before he tastes a bittersweet draught of nostalgia upon his tongue. 

Does the illusionist's force still act upon him? Haurchefant blanches at first to think of it, but then an idea materializes in his mind. If their adversary seeks to draw him back into the realm of dreams, then there is a possibility, slight though it may be, that he could find a way to enter the dream in which Estinien currently resides.

Calling upon his childhood lessons of prayer and meditation, Haurchefant does his best to clear his mind and cease his resistance to the mental force. In nearly an instant, the nostalgic sensation swells to fill his body, the tips of his fingers and toes growing numb and his sense of balance wavering. 

Reflexively, Haurchefant pulls back, and the sensation dwindles. Breathing hard, he gazes down at Estinien's face. For a moment, he wonders if this is what it had been like for his dear friend to resist the will of the Eye of Nidhogg for so many years. 

The thought is harrowing, but gives him a small measure of conviction as well. He shuts his eyes and once more attempts to clear his thoughts, imagining himself floating in the Coerthan River, moved and carried by naught but the force of the water surrounding him. 

The effect is swift. Dizziness overcomes him, his feet losing contact with the ground as he drops into nothingness.

…

…

The smell of grass hits him first. With his eyes still shut, he cannot help but inhale deeply, the sweet, natural scent instantly calling to his mind a powerful nostalgia. Since the fall of Dalamud and the onset of everlasting winter, such mundane experiences as the smell of grass have become rare luxuries solely for those who have the means to travel beyond the borders of Coerthas. 

He languishes in it for a moment, then abruptly recalls that he is likely in the midst of Estinien's vision. Which means … 

He opens his eyes, then nearly has to shut them again as the intrusion of bright sunlight stings him. Once he adjusts, Haurchefant takes stock of his surroundings. 

He stands upon a dirt road, little more than a walking-path wide enough for a single man, and is surrounded by rolling hills blanketed in verdant grassland, speckled with flocks of black and white karakul. The air still carries a chill, but it is the gentle briskness of spring rather than the bite of winter. In the distance the wild grass gives way to fields, and in the center of the fields lies a cluster of cottages. 

Immediately, Haurchefant feels himself being drawn towards it, and though he has never set foot in the Eastern Highlands, he knows exactly upon which village he looks. Ferndale.

Seldom has Estinien ever spoken of his hometown, for even after Nidhogg's final passing, the memories carry too great of a painful weight to be easily put to voice. What little Haurchefant knows of the place has come from a few small fragments of conversation, such as the reliance on sheep for subsistence, but the warmth that swells in his breast as he walks down the road is familiar and comforting, as if his own family dwells ahead. Yes, Haurchefant thinks, there is no doubt that he has entered Estinien's dreams.

He allows his feet and the pulling sense of nostalgia between his ribs to guide his steps to a humble cottage on the outskirts of town. A young Elezen man is splitting firewood outside, his white hair cropped at the ears. When Haurchefant approaches, he sets the hatchet down and turns to face him. 

“Ho there, Ser Knight,” he says in a bright voice. “What brings you this far from Ishgard?” 

Haurchefant smiles. He has an idea of who this man is, but he must ask to be certain. “I am Haurchefant Greystone, and I have come to see a dear friend. Might you be acquainted with Estinien?”

“I should hope so, seein’ as he's my brother!” laughs the man. “I’m Hamignant Varlineau, and I'll fetch Estinien for you – or better yet, why don't you come in and see him? You must've been travelin’ a while to get all the way out here, and Mam’ll be glad to fill your belly.” 

He beckons Haurchefant to the doorstep of the little cottage and opens the door for him. It is a modest dwelling, moreso than any home Haurchefant has ever known in Ishgard, but Estinien's brother beams with pride as he steps over the threshold. 

Haurchefant blinks a few times as his eyes adjust to the dimmer light indoors. When he regains his faculties, he sees that an auburn-haired woman nurses a white-haired infant by the hearth, while a much older woman works a roving of wool through her spinning wheel with aged fingers. And at the table with darning needle in hand, sitting before a pile of clothes for mending, is Estinien. 

“Mam, we have a guest,” says Hamignant. “One of Estinien's friends, all the way from Ishgard!”

The occupants of the house, with the exception of the infant, all look up at his words. The women’s eyes are wide with surprise, and the spinning wheel slowly grinds to a halt.

“Haurchefant?” Estinien says first, standing up abruptly from the table. “What are you doing in Ferndale?” 

The Estinien before him is one Haurchefant has never seen before, not even as his friend has found a good measure of peace in the end of the war and his own worldly travels. His face, so unguarded and open, the customary dark circles that line his eyes entirely absent, is like that of an entirely new man – or perhaps it is what he was, decades ago, before Nidhogg stole this future from him. 

In an instant, Haurchefant is certain that Estinien has not merely been strung along and muddled into a magical stupor. He wants to believe this illusion to be true – wants it even more than Haurchefant did his own false world. 

“Well, aren't you going to introduce your friend to us, Estinien?” chastises the woman with the baby. 

“Aye, you might have told us sooner that he was coming, but since he’s already here I won’t have him telling the Ishgardians that we Ferndale folk are poor hosts,” teased the Varlineau matriarch.

“Right,” Estinien says, thoroughly chastised. “Haurchefant, this is my mother and Bernadette, my brother's wife. The babe isn't yet old enough for her Halonic naming, and if her parents don't decide on one soon, she may never get one.” 

“You say that as if it's my fault when we all know that it's Hamignant who can't make up his mind,” Bernadette is quick to interject. “I’ve come up with dozens of perfectly good names, and he finds some fault with every one. Too youthful, too old-fashioned, too easy to twist into some silly nickname…”

“It's just… it's our very first child, so I want to get this right ,” Hamignant insists. “Do you have children of your own, Haurchefant? If you do, then surely you will take my side.” 

“I do not,” says Haurchefant, “but I do have a younger brother, and so unfortunately I feel as if I must side with your lovely wife on the matter.” 

“You see?” Bernadette says, triumphant. 

Madame Varlineau and Estinien burst into laughter, and Haurchefant cannot help but laugh along with them, though the sight tugs painfully at his heart underneath his outward mirth. ‘Tis all too easy to forget that these vibrant souls and their idyllic countryside are naught more than desire and memory given intangible form. 

Though he knows full well that the confines of the illusion threaten Estinien's well-being in the real, physical world, he can sense no malice in the weave of the world around him. Truly, it is as if all of Estinien’s deepest, most heartfelt wishes have been made to come true, for the sole purpose of his happiness.

But of course, ‘tis impossible for him to ignore that there is one important piece that is missing from Estinien’s illusory life: one whose absence is significant to both Haurchefant and Estinien alike.

“Well, now that we’ve a guest, I’ll need to get some more popotoes out of the storeroom for the stew,” Estinien’s mother says. “Bernie, Esti, I’ll need you to fetch more water and bring the extra blankets out for his bed.”

“Before the three of you become too busy on my behalf,” Haurchefant interjects, “might I borrow you for a moment, Estinien – outside?”

“You don't mean to leave, do you? You really must stay the night, at least – there's no inn around for malms,” says Madame Varlineau. Her voice is just as pleasant as it has been the entirety of Haurchefant's visit, but when she speaks the word leave , there is an odd ringing dissonance that vibrates through Haurchefant's skull, setting his teeth on edge. 

He pastes on a bright smile so as not to show any sign of discomfort upon his face. “Nothing of the sort, madame. I only wish to become better acquainted with my dear friend's homeland, and I hoped to speak with him as he gives me a tour of your lovely village. I have never been to the Eastern Highlands before, you see.” That much, at least, was not a lie – by the time he had completed his training as a knight and had become settled in his role as commander of Camp Dragonhead, the Calamity had already buried those lands under many tonzes of snow and ice. 

“Don’t worry yourself, Mam. I'll have him back in time to eat,” Estinien assures her. 

“I suppose that'll do,” Madame Varlineau acquiesces with a smile, her features softening. “It isn't often we get a city boy out here to visit rather than to slay some fiend – you two had best not cause any trouble!” 

Haurchefant follows Estinien out into the sun, and pauses upon the doorstep. The view is breathtaking – the mountains sweep upwards towards the sky, the famed grass of the highlands is so vibrant as to be blinding, and the sun’s perfect warmth rekindles memories that have slumbered within his heart ever since the Calamity. He could nearly weep at its beauty… as well as the knowledge that none of it will ever be seen again.

“So… this is Ferndale,” Estinien says. “My home.” His smile is so slight as to be nearly imperceptible, but Haurchefant sees it nonetheless, and his heart cracks impossibly further. 

They begin with a walk down the dirt road that runs through the center of town, greeting the men and women who look on and wave to them from the doorsteps of the cottages or as they toil in their gardens. Estinien leads him on to the fields, a patchwork of tilled earth and pasture that seems to stretch all the way to the horizon, and they continue onward until they reach the field where the Varlineau flock dwells. 

They sprawl out on their backs in the grass, gazing at the soft white clouds that drift serenely overhead. The karakul bleat softly around them, and time seems to stand still as they silently keep one another’s company. Haurchefant knows full well that he must speak up, must reveal the difficult truth to his companion, but even he cannot resist the desire to savor a few more moments in a world that has been lost to umbral ice and dragonfire. 

Eventually, though, the blush of sunset begins to gather at the horizon, and the clanging of a dinner bell in the distance knocks Haurchefant from his reverie. He sits up along with Estinien, who stretches languorously, shaking bits of grass from his long locks.

“We should start heading back,” he says. “It’s been good to see you again. I haven't spoken with you since…” He frowns, confusion darkening his angular features, then shakes his head. “It's been quite a while, surely.” 

Haurchefant frowns. ‘Twould seem that Estinien has indeed been inflicted with the same magicks as he had faced in his own trial, blurring his memories and smoothing his doubts, but he is unsure of what method might prove effective at breaking the illusion. Even moreso than Haurchefant's deceased birth mother was for him, Estinien's family are a constant wellspring of regret and grief that flows eternal within Estinien's heart, and Haurchefant senses that he must tread delicately. 

He clears his throat. “It is precisely upon the very same matter that I wished to speak with you, Estinien. ‘Twas but a short time ago that I spoke with you in Ishgard – surely you must recall.”

Estinien frowns and shakes his head. “Nay, that cannot be right. I have been here, in Ferndale, sowing the fields and tending the flock… I cannot have journeyed all the way here from Ishgard.” 

He crosses his arms, but his eyes remain clouded with doubt. ‘Tis the opportunity for which Haurchefant has been waiting, and he steels himself to go on the attack.

“Think, my dear Estinien,” he pushes. “Whence did you come to Ferndale? For that matter, how did you and I first meet? Wherefore did you travel the long malms to Ishgard to become comrades with a knight of a High House?” 

Estinien's brow furrows. “These are strange questions, Greystone. I have not come to Ferndale from anywhere, for I was born here, as you well know. As for our first meeting, are such things important? I am sure there was some reason, but… our first meeting means little when you stand beside me now.” 

“Do you not find it strange that you remember naught of any of it?” Haurchefant presses. 

“Speak plainly, Greystone,” Estinien demands, his frown etching deep lines in his sun-browned skin. “What do my memories have to do with anything?”

Haurchefant swallows. He has never once wished to be the cause of distress to either of his lovers, but he must brace himself for the pain his impending words are like to bring to Estinien. 

He reaches out, placing a gloved hand upon Estinien's shoulder. “You must listen to me, Estinien, if our friendship be true. I am glad to have seen Ferndale as it was, but we cannot stay here any longer.” 

Estinien is growing agitated, the tanned skin of his brow now sheened with sweat. “Why do you speak so strangely? I cannot leave Ferndale now – this is my life, my family.”

Haurchefant's heart breaks to see Estinien this way, but he knows he must forge ahead on his course for them to have any hope of escape. “Pray heed me, Estinien. You are dreaming, and you must needs awaken if we are to live,” he pleads. “Before I came here, I too was placed into a vision much the same as yours – a sweet dream, but a false one. Deep in your heart you must know this to be true.” 

Estinien's face twists, as if he is in pain. “I cannot… I know this place, I know my family. For them to be false… no. ‘Tis impossible.” 

Haurchefant shakes his head. “I do not doubt that your memories of them are true, but that is all they are – memories and dreams of what may have been. Only you can recall yourself, Estinien – think of who is not present in this dream of yours. Your heart belongs to another – surely you have not forgotten about Aymeric?” 

“Aymeric? I…” Estinien trails off, closing his eyes and grimacing. “No… he is not… this cannot be…” 

“Remember him,” Haurchefant urges. “Remember the Vault, how fearlessly he led us into its depths. You and I were caught in dreams, and ‘tis likely that he has been thus ensnared as well.”

Estinien clutches at his head, his long hair tangling between his fingers. Dark clouds gather at the horizon, threatening to overtake the azure expanse overhead.

Haurchefant’s heart races, and he presses on. “He is in danger, Estinien, and he needs you to rescue him once again.” 

Estinien cries out, an anguished, primal sound, and the world shatters. 

…

…

Grass and sunlight give way to mildewing stone and faint crystal lamps. When Haurchefant once again has his wits and control of his limbs about him, he finds that he is lying half on top of Estinien, and he quickly sits upright as his companion begins to stir. 

A stricken expression crosses Estinien's features as he opens his eyes and takes in their surroundings, and Haurchefant cannot help but feel a rush of guilt at the sight.

“My deepest apologies,” he begins. Though he regrets none of his actions in freeing Estinien from the realm of dreams, he knows all too well how painful the process of shattering the illusion must have been for his friend.

Estinien pushes himself up and shakes his head, hair falling into his eyes. “You had the right of it,” he says. “‘Twas naught but false memory and illusion.” He grits his teeth. “In truth I should have known sooner, but I fear that I was all too easily taken in by the shades of my family.” 

“There is no shame in believing it,” Haurchefant says gently. “You have long grieved and sought to avenge them – ‘tis only natural that the sight of them alive would sway your heart.” He smiles softly. “I would be a hypocrite to criticize you for it, since I too was shown a vision of my late mother as she might have been.” 

Estinien looks at him with eyes like pools of clouds. “Was she as you remember her?” 

“She was perfect.” 

“Aye,” says Estinien quietly. “As was mine.” 

They fall silent for a moment, the distant sound of water dripping onto stone the only sound to interrupt their contemplation. After a moment, Estinien sighs.

“We cannot tarry here. Aymeric may yet be in danger. If he is incapacitated as we were, then I've a question for you. How did you manage to enter my illusion?” 

“I am not certain of that myself,” Haurchefant admits. “My sole recollection was that the creator of these visions seems very loath for us to leave them. If their influence was still active upon you, I surmised that I might attempt not to resist their will – and it worked, praise the Fury.” 

“I may have encountered magicks such as this before,” Estinien muses. “The Hannish call it akasa – a force born of emotion. At the end of the universe its influence was potent, and a mere thought could bring forth the elements such as great gales or towers of ice, or even spin vast landscapes from nothingness. Perhaps someone is wielding a similar power against us.” 

“I wonder if they are truly an adversary,” Haurchefant says. “The illusions you and I saw were not made to harm us, but to entice us. Our mage of akasa , as you call it, certainly wishes to entrap us – but to what end?”

Estinien pushes himself to his feet, lips pressed tightly together. “We can question them should we find them. First we must find Aymeric, and quickly. ‘Tis impossible to determine how much time we have lost to these illusions in a dungeon such as this.”

“Yes, of course,” Haurchefant says. “Full certain am I that between the two of us, we will be able to rescue him in good order. I can only hope that his visions have been pleasant.” 

The moment they find Aymeric, collapsed upon the tiles in yet another side room filled with old record-books, Estinien rushes to his side, moving so quickly as to appear as little more than a blur of white hair and blue-tinted adamantite armor. 

Haurchefant follows closely behind him, catching up just as Estinien kneels to the ground and gathers Aymeric into his lap. Their mutual lover appears to be only sleeping, his bright blue eyes shut and his lips slightly parted, but his body is limp and he stirs not as Estinien holds him close.

Ishgard’s light in the dark serves to guide and inspire many, more than Haurchefant could ever hope to accomplish in a lifetime, but it is also eminently visible, and far too many have conspired already to snuff it out. Seeing Aymeric incapacitated once more evokes dark, stinging memories of another bitter day spent in this very building, and Haurchefant suspects Estinien is sharing such thoughts. 

“We cannot have been here for long, or the two of us would surely hunger and thirst fiercely,” Haurchefant reassures him. “Of course we must free him posthaste from his vision, but there is no reason to believe he has come to any harm thus far.” 

Estinien continues to watch Aymeric's serene and unresponsive face. “He possesses strength and bravery enough to take on fell beasts and vast armies alike. Upon the battlefield, I do not worry for him,” he says. “But this foe… were he to have faced it alone, as he planned, I could have done naught for him. Just as I could do naught to spare him from…” 

Haurchefant places a hand at his back. He needs no words now, for he understands perfectly well how Estinien feels. He too has seen the inquisitors’ stripes upon Aymeric’s back, the assassin’s blade in his gut, and the invisible burden, the weight of all the hearts and minds of Ishgard, that he willingly takes upon his shoulders each day. Along with Estinien, he would be among the first to concur that Aymeric is the greatest hope for Ishgard’s future, but that does not mean the path to that future is an easy one to tread. 

Estinien shakes his head. “Forgive me. We must needs enter Aymeric’s dream – though precisely how we are to manage that, I’ve still no idea.” 

Haurchefant huffs a small laugh. “Why, you should be more than familiar with the principle, Estinien. You should feel the pull of the illusory magicks at the back of your mind – simply close your eyes and allow it to consume you once more.” 

“So precisely the opposite of what I practiced for years with Nidhogg’s Eye, eh?” Estinien says. “Fine, then. I shall endeavor not to fall behind.” He closes his eyes, and Haurchefant is quick to follow.

…

…

A familiar cold prickles at Haurchefant's skin. He opens his eyes to gray upon gray – which coalesces into the familiar spires of Ishgard, the very ones from whence they came, set upon a sky of rolling clouds. 

“Ishgard,” Estinien's voice comes from slightly behind him. “I might have known.” 

Haurchefant is hardly surprised, either – for all that Aymeric appreciates the distant lands of their star when he travels on Alliance business, or when Estinien returns from one of his journeys with tales and souvenirs aplenty, his heart shall ever belong to Ishgard. ‘Tis small wonder that his dreams, whatever form they may take, are centered upon their fair city.

Haurchefant looks around, gathering his bearings as his eyes alight upon familiar scenery. He and Estinien appear to have materialized in the middle of the Jeweled Crozier, surrounded by merchant stalls on either side. People bustle past with heads downturned, and though there is plenty of the usual noise of the markets in the air, Haurchefant cannot shake a sense of unease that creeps over his skin and raises gooseflesh in its wake. 

He fixes his gaze upon a noblewoman dressed in a flashy golden gown as she goes about her business. As he focuses upon her, it quickly becomes apparent that only the merchants are speaking to customers, and only for long enough to complete a sale – there is no idle gossip or small talk, and the people passing one another in the street do not speak to one another.

“This is Aymeric's dream?” he wonders aloud. “I expected the Ishgard made manifest from his heart's desires to be more… lively.”

“Something isn't right,” Estinien agrees.

Just then, a commotion begins to build among the crowds. A distant metallic sound begins to grow louder, a rhythmic clanking that steadily approaches the square. Haurchefant and Estinien are alert, searching for the source of the sound as it echoes off the stone, but no one around them seems to appear startled or surprised at all. 

Suddenly, it appears – one of the horrifically large armored creatures that were once the men of the Heaven's Ward. Haurchefant cannot tell which of the twelve men precisely has transformed himself into this one, but after storming the Vault with the Warrior of Light and nearly losing his life to these monstrosities – he cannot rightfully think of them knights, for they have forsaken their honor to the twisted will of Thordan long ago – he will never forget the look of them. 

The people on the street stop upon its arrival – the eerie quiet deepening into a chilling silence as even the small sounds of movement cease. As one, they turn to face the massive armored man, bowing low as it passes. 

“We need to hide,” Estinien mutters. 

Haurchefant looks about quickly. There is a small alcove between the buildings that line the Crozier, partially blocked off by a merchant's wagon – not his first choice for a secure hiding place, but it should at least provide some serviceable cover. He turns on his heel and makes for it as quickly as he can manage, Estinien following close behind. 

Blessedly, the common people seem to care naught for the two of them, even as they flagrantly defy the crowd. Whether their lack of reaction is because the scenery is for Aymeric's mind alone or for a more sinister reason, Haurchefant cannot rightly say – but nonetheless, he does not wish to provoke the ire of the empowered Ward. 

Once the two of them are safely concealed behind the merchant's cart, he risks a glance out at the market. The people are all frozen where they stand, heads turned in the singular direction of the Ward Knight. ‘Tis as if their actions are being controlled by it, almost as if they are… 

“Tempered! Then this is no dream,” he whispers. “‘Tis a nightmare – a vision of Ishgard should Thordan have achieved his goal of godhood.” 

“Thordan…” Estinien scowls. “We need to find Aymeric. Quickly.” He tenses, as if he means to dash off into the street, heedless of the suit of armor thrice his height that lurks in wait. 

“Wait,” says Haurchefant, grabbing his upper arm. “I know not why, but I have the feeling that we cannot allow the Ward to catch sight of us. We should not run aimlessly about the city – we must think about where Aymeric is most likely to be.” 

“Hmph. So you believe our adversary's mind has changed, and now they seek to bring us harm after all?” Estinien sighs. “I cannot understand why you and I were shown dreams of desire while Aymeric is tormented with… this.” He waves his hand after the Ward colossus as it makes its way out of sight. 

“I cannot say for certain, but I surmise that it is due to Aymeric's character,” Haurchefant mulls over. “I still believe that our mage primarily wishes to keep us inactive, to prevent us from escaping these illusions. Aymeric has ever been a man of action and has never allowed simple pleasure to keep him from his calling to lead Ishgard into her new age. The only way to keep him inactive is…” 

“If he loses his will to go on,” Estinien finishes in his place. “If he believes Thordan to have triumphed such that any resistance to his will is futile.” 

“And if Aymeric despairs so utterly, then he is likely to have gone to…” 

“The cathedral,” Estinien finishes. “I am certain of it. Ever has he relied on Halone's guidance in his darkest hours, and if he believes this vision to be true, then the hour in which he resides is dark indeed.” 

“To Saint Reymanaud’s, then,” Haurchefant concurs.  

They emerge from behind the cart as soon as the Heavens’ Ward colossus moves out of sight, and make their way through the Pillars. The folk in the streets do not speak to them as they pass, not even a simple greeting or an “excuse me” as they brush elbows, and the general lifelessness in such convincing human forms shakes Haurchefant to his core. He feels nearly compelled to grab each of them bodily, shaking them until one at least looks him in the eye, but he swallows the impulse down. None of that, he knows, will do aught to save Aymeric.

They must make a few more rapid concealments to pass the Ward colossi that patrol the streets, but as they draw closer and closer to the cathedral itself, the armored guards seem to vanish entirely. There is an irony in the fact that Thordan and his knights, supposedly the highmost champions of Halone, seem to have avoided this place entirely – but of course, he thinks bitterly, a man such as Thordan would not be like to suffer any gods before himself. 

Saint Reymanaud’s is still breathtaking, even as it stands within the bleakest of nightmares. The stained glass windows sparkle in myriad hues, though the sunlight from outside is muted by clouds. Halone stands as stalwart as ever upon Her dais, but casts Her stony gaze out upon empty pews. 

For a moment, Haurchefant feels a sting of disappointment as he looks for Aymeric but does not find him. Then he thinks to look downward, and lo: there, at the foot of the dais with no priest present to instruct him back to the pews, kneels a figure with dark hair and a long, concealing azure cloak.

“Aymeric,” says Estinien, and rushes to his lover's left side before Haurchefant can caution him. “Aymeric, you must needs awaken. This world is not real.” He reaches out, only for Aymeric to shake his head and turn away without so much as meeting his eyes.

“Begone, shades,” Aymeric whispers. He bows his head and his lips move to continue his prayer. Estinien stands with one hand outstretched and brow pinched, and Haurchefant shakes his head at him. 

“Have caution, friend,” he whispers once he comes close enough to Estinien that his voice will not echo in the cavernous cathedral. “Should we startle him, he may reject us and fall more deeply into the illusion.” 

Estinien grits his teeth, conflict plain on his face, but eventually draws back his hand. Haurchefant approaches the dais, kneeling at Aymeric’s right. 

“We are no shades, Aymeric,” he says gently. “This nightmare has no doubt been harrowing, but fear not – we are come to bring you home.” 

Aymeric shakes his head. “If you are spirits and not merely constructs of my mind, I bid you leave me to my prayers. All that I can do for Ishgard now is beseech the Fury, that She may ease your suffering and guide your souls to Her halls.” 

“Why do you think us to be shades?” Estinien says. “Surely you feel my touch, Aymeric. Should this not prove otherwise?” He extends his hand once more, the tips of his fingers brushing Aymeric’s shoulder.

“I…” Aymeric falters, his closed eyes cinching and knuckles whitening at the light touch. “No, I saw you with mine own eyes. Haurchefant, you were struck by Ser Zephirin’s spear upon the top of the Vault, and you, Estinien… you fell in Azys Lla, and Thordan bore back your body himself.” 

Estinien snorts. “I would hardly have fallen in that place. No foe there presented the least bit of challenge, except perhaps the Ascians – and the Scions made short work of them.”

“And I did not fall within the Vault, Aymeric – the Warrior of Light pulled me from the path of the spear even as my shield shattered, and I was dealt only a glancing blow,” says Haurchefant. 

Aymeric shakes his head. “I cannot… I know not of whom you might speak. Ishgard has long since closed her walls to the rest of the star. King Thordan and his Knights Twelve have no need of allies, and none in Eorzea would seek us out regardless – not after we abandoned them to the lesser moon’s fall.” 

“Ishgard does have allies, Aymeric, and ‘twas you who were instrumental in gaining their trust,” Haurchefant says. “You are our nation's greatest hope, not Thordan – ‘twas you who ended the war of ages and led us into the light.” 

“Think of Eorzea,” urges Estinien. “The great trees of the Shroud, the walls of Ala Mhigo – you know them, you have seen them, because of the Eorzean Alliance. Because of our trusted allies – and your friends who care for you and for Ishgard.”  

“The Alliance… has accepted us,” says Aymeric. His voice is strained, but no longer does it carry the sharp dismissal it did before. “Then there is hope?”

“There is,” Haurchefant says. He holds out an open hand, and on Aymeric’s left side, Estinien does the same. “You simply need to remember – remember your allies, your friends… remember us, and leave this place.” 

Aymeric takes a long breath, gazing up at the impassive stone visage of Halone above them, then reaches out to take their hands.

…

…

This time, the false Ishgard does not so much shatter as shiver and shift, the gloomy air of the cathedral fading seamlessly into the stagnant, musty air of the catacombs. Even the stone beneath their bodies is the very same stone that paves the Pillars. The smell of mildew and old leather marking their return is nearly a relief. 

Aymeric is sprawled out over his and Estinien's laps, and his eyes are the last to open. When they do, Haurchefant sees how regret fills them the moment he catches sight of their faces.

“My friends, I…” Aymeric breathes as he struggles to sit upright, his face as colorless as a death mask. 

With a hand on his back to support him, Haurchefant leans forward to place a kiss upon his brow. “My dear Aymeric, I do hope you are not about to apologize for your ordeal. The three of us were all caught unawares, and trapped in illusions of our own memories – I am simply glad that we have all escaped unharmed.” 

“And my knights?” Aymeric says. Haurchefant's heart falls at the hope in his voice, but Estinien speaks before he can find his own words.

“They have perished, Aymeric. Starved while trapped in their own visions, I would think.” Estinien's tone is resigned, speaking of death bluntly like the soldier he remains, despite the resignation of his formal title. “‘Tis likely they did not suffer, if that is any consolation, but thus far we have found no living men in this place.” 

Aymeric closes his eyes. “‘Tis solely mine own failure. Were I possessed of greater mental fortitude…” he begins, only for Estinien to cut him off with an emphatic shaking of his head.

“I was shown Ferndale and my family,” he says. “Were it not for Haurchefant’s intervention, I may never have willingly sought to break free of the illusion. If any of us can be said to lack mental fortitude, ‘tis I.” 

“Neither of you are weak in the slightest,” Haurchefant interjects. “Were it not for fortuitous timing, I too would have been taken in by what I saw. The love you carry in your hearts, Estinien for his family and Aymeric for the people of Ishgard, is exactly what the illusory magicks drew upon to create such robust false worlds – and one would be a fool to call such love weakness.” 

“Thank you, my friends, for your kind words,” Aymeric says, squeezing their hands in his own. “I only wish that I could have been present for your ordeals, as you were for mine.” 

“You can thank us once we are free of this accursed catacomb,” Estinien scoffs. “We've yet to find the one who created these illusions in the first place, and I, for one, have several words for them.” 

His voice is rough with anger and worry, and Haurchefant feels compelled to speak his mind. “I still believe that we must consider the possibility that whoever has caused this is not an enemy,” he says. 

“Not an enemy? Have you forgotten the purpose of our investigation, Greystone? You and I may have been given sweeter visions, but good men have died here because of them. Not to mention what we just saw inflicted upon Aymeric – as you yourself said, ‘twas a nightmare.” 

“Pray let him speak his mind, Estinien,” Aymeric says. 

“‘Tis little more than a feeling, but I cannot simply dismiss it out of hand,” Haurchefant explains. “I have felt no sense of malice when inside of these illusions. There is only a desire for us to remain; a desperate one, willing to conjure all manner of things to achieve this end, but without any desire to harm.”  

“Whether there was a desire to harm is irrelevant,” Estinien counters. “The harm was inflicted upon us and Aymeric's knights regardless of your hypothetical mage’s intentions.” 

Haurchefant shakes his head. “I cannot help but think that the most likely practitioner of such magicks in a place such as this would be an expurgator themselves. And if one of their number has caused this, I certainly do not believe that they deserve to be put to death by the sword – not after the Holy See already sought to entomb them here in these archives.” 

“We must be open to multiple possibilities as we proceed, then,” Aymeric muses. “Of course I seek justice for my fallen knights, but the expurgators are victims themselves. There would be little justice gained by violent retribution.” 

“Speculate all you like, but we shan’t know anything for certain until we actually find the cause of all of this madness,” Estinien declares. 

“Indeed,” says Haurchefant, and stands, holding a hand out to Aymeric to help him to his feet. “Let us go forth – together – and put a stop to this once and for all.” 

There is no need for further words as the three of them, reunited at last, continue their plunge into the deepest levels of the expurgator’s dungeon. They are deep beneath the city now, and the stagnant air around them is just as frigid as if they were out on the street, stifling any desire for idle conversation with its bone-deep chill. 

Though the thick stone of the cliffside into which the chambers are built shields them from the dueling ice and wind aether that swirl in the abyss and occasionally mount an assault on the lowest levels of the Brume, Haurchefant still feels the hairs on the back of his neck rising as they go ever deeper. They have broken the power of the illusions over their minds, but the magicks still linger, tugging ever more insistently at Haurchefant’s every thought, and he knows he must not fall into complacency just yet.

At last, the hallway they are following opens into a circular room in which no exits are apparent. ‘Tis as cold now as the furthest reaches of the Western Highlands, though the remains of fire magicks are still scattered across the floor and piles of ash that may once have been tomes spill upon the stone. Haurchefant looks around, searching for another path forward, but naught but blank stone and scorched shelving meet his gaze.

“This may be the final archive,” Aymeric says. 

He opens his mouth to say more, but then, as one, all of their eyes fall upon the other occupant of the chamber. At the far wall, between two shelves, is wedged the small figure of an Elezen girl hunched over herself, her face shrouded by long, stringy tangles of dark hair. She wears what may once have been Scholasticate’s robe, but the rich black dye has long since faded to a murky, uneven gray, further discolored by worn patches and stains. Along with her dusk-hued skin, she nearly disappears into the shadows between the stones. 

Aymeric steps closer to the girl, but his footsteps do not rouse her. She is utterly still, and what can be seen of her limbs starkly shows that she is little more than skin and bones. 

Estinien sighs. “It seems there is naught but death to be found here after all.” 

No sooner have the words passed his lips than the figure moves. Trembling, the girl curls further into herself, drawing her knees to her chest before stilling once more. 

“She lives?” Haurchefant says in disbelief. ‘Tis true that a few trickles of water run from between the stones here and there, but he wishes not to think about how the girl could have possibly sustained herself since the war’s end. 

“Then she must be the one who created the illusions,” Estinien says. “To perform such a feat with naught but willpower – her abilities surely rival those of the Archons.” 

All of the fight has gone out of his tone, and Haurchefant cannot help but agree – he knows full well that appearances can be deceiving, but looking upon the shivering, starving figure, he cannot summon any anger towards her. 

Being correct in his assessment of the nature of their supposed adversary is little comfort in the face of reality. The evil that lingers in the Vault does not issue from this girl, but was imbued in these chambers decades, perhaps even centuries past – whenever the abominable idea for such an order as that of the expurgatory was first conceived. This girl, seemingly the last of her comrades, bears all of those years of pain upon her narrow shoulders.

Slowly, Aymeric approaches her. He gets down on one knee, heedless of the grime and muck upon the floor, and speaks in his most gentle tone of voice, the one he reserves for orphanage visits or for placating his dear housecat. “Peace, my lady. I am Aymeric of the Temple Knights, and we have come to liberate you from this place.” 

The girl's shoulders slowly turn. From beneath lank black hair, one red, wild eye darts over the three of them. “Knights? No… please, spare me…” she gasps, in a voice hoarse from disuse. 

“We will not harm you, lady,” Haurchefant says. “Pray tell us, though, what you speak of. Have other knights come to these chambers?” 

The curtain of hair shifts as the girl nods, so slight a movement as to nearly be imperceptible. “White knights… ‘you are no longer needed,’ they said… then the books burned and…” She begins to shiver, hunching over to make her frame impossibly smaller. “So much blood…” 

“She speaks of the Heaven's Ward,” Haurchefant realizes. “Then what Aymeric mentioned, the conclusion of the initial investigation, was true – the Archbishop did indeed seek to eliminate his order of expurgators.”  

Estinien scowls. “Thordan must have wanted to assure that no one would ever be able to learn the truth of history while his primal reigned – not even his own church.” 

“Peace,” Aymeric says to the girl in his gentlest tone of voice, which also serves to halt Estinien and Haurchefant's morbid conversation. “The white knights you speak of, the Heaven’s Ward, are no more. We come not on behalf of Archbishop Thordan, but bearing glad tidings – the war against dragonkind has ended, and Ishgard no longer fears her own history.”

Haurchefant steps forward to stand at Aymeric's side. “No longer must you live confined to these cells. You are free.” 

“Don't leave,” the girl groans, muffled by the way her face is pressed into her arms. She seems to have hardly heard Aymeric's words, and shakes her head wildly. “I can't… everyone else is gone, and…” Her words dissolve into hiccuping, wordless sobs. 

Haurchefant kneels. “We must return to Ishgard above, but you will not be left in this dungeon any longer. We have come to take you from this place, should you be willing,” he says. “Can you stand?” 

The girl’s legs protrude from her tattered robe like two misshapen twigs. They twitch and bend with what is clearly an enormous effort on her part, but she succeeds only in scrabbling with bare, blackened feet against the stone. 

Aymeric glances up. “Haurchefant, if you would?” 

Haurchefant is only too quick to oblige. He lifts her, slowly and carefully, his arms tensed in preparation should she attempt to strike out. She is slight and weighs nearly nothing, laying as limply in his arms as a cut stalk of flax.

“Rest now, lass,” Estinien says quietly. “Your suffering is over.” He speaks the words quietly, yet with conviction, and Haurchefant prays that they prove true. 

Somehow, the catacombs have lost some of their menacing air as they begin their return journey. The guttering crystal lamps illuminate neither an enclave of the Orthodoxy’s power nor a dungeon filled with demons, but a solemn monument to the tragedies wrought by men seeking power and control. 

The books will still need to be retrieved and the remains of the knights and expurgators given proper burial rites, but already Haurchefant carries the most important legacy of the ill-fated order in his arms. Step by step, breath by labored breath, the four of them ascend once more into the light.

Several moons later, Haurchefant reclines before the fire in the Borel Manor sitting room. Once again, Estinien is due to return to the city for Starlight after a lengthy period of travel, and this time Aymeric has insisted on being the one to fetch him (with a single blue carnation pinned to his lapel and ready to be bestowed somewhere on Estinien's person, much to Haurchefant's delight.) He savors a long draught of wine from the glass in his left hand, marveling as he always does at his lover's supremely good taste in vintage, and with his right turns another page of the book in his lap. ‘Tis one of the volumes salvaged from the archives beneath the Vault, a quite thorough inventory of Coerthan arms and armor from the era of Ratatoskr, and it is absolutely fascinating. 

Margaux is at the table, a tray of silver cutlery and trinkets for polishing piled high before her. At her side sits Joielle in her wheeled chair, drawing needle and thread through a Starlight garland of popped millioncorn and holly berries, a striped woolen blanket lying over her legs. Though she now weighs twice what she did when Haurchefant carried her from the Vault, she has never managed to fully recover her strength, and relies on the device for her daily activities. 

Her convalescence had been long and fraught, but blessedly there had been no further psychic incidents after the three of them had borne the former expurgator to the hospitalier at St. Vaindreau's Grace. Estinien had speculated that the weakness of her aether after her solitary confinement had made her more able to influence the power of akasa (or at least he claimed to have heard something to that effect from ‘the sorceress or the like’). 

Aymeric, benevolent soul that he is and no doubt harboring some sense of responsibility for her condition, had visited her at the hospitalier nearly every day. Eventually, when she had recovered her strength and her wits enough to hold a conversation, he had scarcely learned her name before offering her a permanent residence in one of the many vacant rooms of his manor.

Haurchefant had been with him at the time, and he can still recall how Aymeric knelt at her bedside, the very picture of Halone's boundless grace. “You need not earn your keep, nor will you be beholden to Borel Manor in any way,” he had said, rather emphatically. “As the current steward of our nation, ‘tis the very least I could possibly offer to make amends for the many years of happiness the Holy See has stolen from you.”

At first, she had been reluctant to impose on the generosity of a man to whom she had caused such great pain, but when Aymeric spoke to Margaux and learned that she and Joielle were of an age, he had been able to convince her at last. Now, the two young ladies are nearly inseparable, going for walks and shopping trips together during the day and sharing stories during the long, cold winter nights, and this evening is no different. Joielle’s training as an expurgator, spending each day studying the tomes and records of Ishgard's past, has made her a veritable font of tales.

“Tell me another tale of Ser Berteline,” Margaux asks, rubbing her polishing cloth vigorously over a teaspoon. 

“Another? I should think you thoroughly sick and tired of her by now,” Joielle says. 

“I could never! To think, the second Azure Dragoon, a common woman who eschewed heirs and all of her noble suitors! Tell me again about the one she threw from a window,” Margaux begs, her eyes shining with excitement. 

“Alright then,” Joielle says. “As you know, Ser Berteline had lived as a common woman, but upon receiving the Eye of Nidhogg from her predecessor she was legally recognized as the heir of Prince Haldrath…”

Haurchefant watches the flickering flames in the fireplace as the girl spins her tale, her soft voice bringing the figure of the bold woman who lived a thousand years prior to life once more. He has heard it before, but each time it is retold, he finds that he appreciates the value of Joielle's historical knowledge all the more. The pang of regret that more of her fellow expurgators had not been saved is also present, but as he well knows, a single life saved can make all the difference in the world.

Just as Joielle reaches the climax of her story, in which Ser Berteline causes a spectacle – and eventually, an extended courtroom battle in the holy tribunal – by pushing a young cousin of the Fortemps branch family, who had attempted to place a hand on her waist, out of a sixth-story window, the distinctive creaking that heralds the opening of the stately doors of Borel Manor rings out. 

“They’re back!” exclaims Margaux, the spoon in her hand clattering onto the table’s surface as she leaps from her chair. A short time later, muffled voices rise up from the entryway – no doubt, Haurchefant surmises, the manor's new arrivals are once again engaged in spirited debate with its maidservant over her insistence that she be allowed to take their boots and coats as her grandfather taught her. ‘Twould of course be faster for them to simply acquiesce, but neither Aymeric nor Estinien can keep themselves from attempting to take care of the task on their own – and Haurchefant swears that Margaux enjoys the sport of the argument.

Eventually, though, the voices quiet and are replaced by approaching footsteps. Haurchefant looks to the doorway as they draw close, and is rewarded by the sight of Aymeric in his thickest overcoat and knit scarf, cheeks reddened by the frigid night. He is followed closely by Estinien, who wears the same worn traveling gear as he has for the past several years since the end of the war – but his impassive countenance is belied by the single carnation that is tucked alluringly behind one crooked ear. 

Haurchefant beams. ‘Tis ever so lovely when his flights of fancy are fulfilled.

“Pray forgive our lengthy absence,” Aymeric says, shaking snowflakes from his dark curls. “Estinien’s airship, for once, arrived on time, but we simply had to make a detour for these.” 

He looks at Estinien, who holds up an unassuming paper bag. He shakes it lightly, and from inside issues a clattering sound along with the sweet, earthy scent of freshly roasted dark chestnuts. 

Haurchefant can claim no talent in the art of prophecy, but he sees the next bells laid out clearly before him like a path of glowing crystals. They will eat the chestnuts and drink the Borel family storeroom’s most excellent wine, and Estinien will share the tales of his newest adventure. And soon it will be Starlight, then Heavensturn and a new year of trials and joys. 

The road to reach this perfect eve has been long and fraught, but the ordeals beneath the Vault have shown Haurchefant the futility of living with regret and longing for the past. They shall all forge ahead, and with every new dawn that rises to greet Ishgard, those dark days fall further and further behind on the river of time. 

Estinien opens the bag with a puff of steam, and draws out a handful of beautiful, round chestnuts. He places them in Joielle's hand with a smile.

Her eyes are wide, shining with awe, and warmth fills Haurchefant's breast. ‘Tis a sight he would never give up for all the false wishes in all the star.

~END~