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Dragon's Prayer	By : WonderMint Category: Final Fantasy XIV > Threesomes/Moresomes Views: 1893 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: Final Fantasy FFXIV: ARR is owned by Square Enix and based on the creation of Hironobu Sakaguchi. May they ever walk in the light of the crystal. I own no right to the characters and settings herein and seek no profit therefrom.

Chapter List
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Alphinaud's retreat had been neither graceful nor timely. He should have left earlier. He should not have touched Aymeric so intimately, nor showed his grief. And he should certainly not have lied to the man who trusted him for his care, now that his homeland was no longer home and his faith was no longer a comfort.
But he had been desperate, and so he had compounded his errors all with a single goal. To keep Aymeric safe, as long as he could manage.
He was no fool. He knew that merely binding his arms was no proof against suicide, though it certainly helped. His claws were not merely long and curved and wicked, they were sharp. Y'shtola had already cut her hands merely by holding them as she had wrapped his wrists in bandages. Had he the awareness to use them as weapons, he would not have needed to steal Alphinaud's dagger in the wain. He could have slit his throat and loosed his blood before any had known he was planning it.
The young politician's steps slowed against stone, pausing in the hall outside the door to the room he called his own. It was not quite true, never quite true. Like the adventurers he commanded, Alphinaud was a wanderer. But the Sands and the Stones were the closest things he had to home. He felt safe here. Usually.
Just now, he felt chill to the bone with fear.
He pushed open the door, revealing his tiny cell. A low hearth, which he did not always bother to light or stoke, a bed, a bureau, a chair and a desk. An assortment of lamps and candles. A short, wide window, set high in the wall above his bed, to let in the warm scent of the Strait of Merlthor. He hadn't need for more. The privacy was enough. A personal space, maintained only sparsely by the one or two serving staff that remained under Urianger's command. When he resided here, they were not permitted to enter at all unless he explicitly bade them.
It was one of the few places in which he felt comfortable enough to do what he then did. He closed the door, tossed his boots into a corner, and climbed atop the bed. And then, rolling to face the wall, he gathered his knees into his chest, and he wept.
He had hardly known Ser Aymeric.
So it wasn't as though he wept because he cared for the man. Though, in a way, he most certainly did. He respected him, respected his strength and wit and loyalty. He resented the way he could never seem to get the better of the older man, so calm and confident, so sure of himself. But there was honor in defeat by a man such as he. It meant only that Alphinaud must strive to learn and grow, and perhaps one day he too could stride into a room and reduce his opponent's words to dust.
Aymeric was not a friend. But he was a comrade, in a way. He was a man who worked for goals similar to his own, and who was well willing to compromise to benefit the both of them. Alphinaud felt it keenly. The Ishgardian was not yet a friend. But he could have been, given time.
But he did not have time, anymore. Because if Aymeric were truly willing to sign his own death warrant, they would need to bind him hand, foot, and tooth in order to keep him alive against his own will. It would be cruel. It would break his spirit further. And it would mean surrendering any chance they had to keep him sane.
And that was the worst part of it all. Because it seemed that, though he was broken and achingly aggrieved, he was not mad. Alphinaud did not understand it fully, but there was no far-away look in his eyes, no dance to an inaudible drum. He did not suffer from a malady of the spirit, no depression or delusions or compulsions. It was all utterly logical. A rational response to a set of circumstances that many a man would consider reasonable, should he have held the same set of beliefs and assumptions.
His transformation was inarguable. And his faith, while just foreign enough to the younger man to disorient him whenever the topic arose, was no less plausible than Alphinaud's own. They believed in the same gods, after all. The only difference was that Alphinaud payed the most deference to Thaliak, Nophica, and when he was feeling especially fanciful, Menphina. The men of Isghard behaved as though Halone was the only power in the heavens, but it seemed to him only a matter of degree. He had met sailors who would not crew unless their fellows payed obeisance to Llymlaen alone, and Ul'dahns often behaved as if Nald and Thal were the only arbiters of worth.
Whatever Aymeric believed regarding his Goddess's will, he could be no more mistaken than the gambler who gave a tenth of his winnings to Nymeia by tossing them into the street.
Perhaps Alphinaud could have understood it... could have regretted his death and moved on, if only he had not been given the power to intervene. He had been worried when the other man had gone missing, but abstractly so. It was just another fell event, like the return of Shiva or the roar of the dread wyrm or the Ivy's unthinkable treachery. He had feared that Ser Aymeric had died. But if he had found out that it had been true, he would not have wept such tears. He would have devoted to his memory a moment of grim silence, and moved on. Like he always did, like he had when he had learned of Moenbryda's sacrifice, or of Krile's injury. He would not have done as he did now, weeping like a child until his gloves were slick and damp from wiping clean his nose, like he had when his grandfather had given his life and all of Eorzea had burned and quaked as if mourning his passing.
When he had found Aymeric, he had felt relieved that his comrade was safe. Then he had let down his guard, thinking that the other man had asked for death because he would not deliver it himself, and bound himself inextricably to the Lord Commander's fate. Whatever happened, now, would weigh on his conscience, because he had already failed once to keep him safe. Had it not been for Hikari and his mage friend, Aymeric would have been dead, and his blood on Alphinaud's hands, both figuratively and literally enough that he suspected he would always carry nightmares from the mere imagining.
He was glad then that he had had no appetite since he and two of Hikari's people had borne the man hence. Because if he had, the turning of his stomach would have been most inconvenient.
Thankfully, it seemed his eyes had only so many tears to give. It did not take long for the fit of his grief to subside into mere trembling and hiccoughing, as though the muscles in his chest no longer knew the right way to breathe. He pushed himself upright all the same, put aside his gloves and immersed his fingers in the cool clear water of the basin. He could not wash away his sins, not unless he could find some way to save the man from his own faith. But he could wash away his tears, and in so doing, give himself the courage to carry on, even if he yet held little hope.
By the time Y'shtola called upon him, he was feeling much more like himself. But that didn't stop her from taking in the redness of his eyes and giving him a look of tender concern, in her quiet, knowing way. He scowled and let her show herself in, waving vaguely toward the chair by the desk as he sat on the edge of his bed.
Aymeric's comment had been well-intentioned, but it rankled all the same. Because like the knight himself, Y'shtola carried a grace and maturity that he only tried to emulate. She was a friend. But on occasion he had cause to wonder if he might have preferred that she see him as more.
“Who is with him now?” he asked, pushing everything out of his mind save concern for their charge. They had agreed that he not be left alone, but with only four Scions on hand for the moment, one of whom no-one in their right mind would want to disturb, it would be a difficult task.
The Miqo'te woman had turned the chair around to face him and sat primly upon it, hands folded in her lap. “Thancred watches over him. I am not certain they will get on well, but he will try, at least. He seems a touch offended by the whole idea, I'm afraid, but I've made him swear to speak not a word about Thal in the commander's presence.”
Alphinaud allowed himself to bask in the idiocy of the situation for a moment, dropping his face into the palm of his hand and luxuriating in the warmth against his puffy eyelids. If only all of their problems could be so trivial. “I had not thought of that, I must admit,” he said, and his mouth quirked sideways into half a wry grin quite without his permission. “I rather thought Thancred would be fine so long as we relieved him of guard duty before the setting of the sun.”
In a flash Y'shtola's calm facade cracked completely, letting through a nasty glare before it faded to a frown of mild distaste. “He is a man of faith as well as virtue,” she finally returned with a helpless shrug. Miraculously, Alphinaud had the good grace not to laugh. “We must needs make do for now. Yda and Papalymo have not yet finished their business in the Shroud.”
Yda would have no problem watching over the knight-turned-dragon. Perhaps Papalymo could put him to sleep once the pugilist's yapping had driven him mad enough to resume begging for death. Alphinaud let himself chuckle a moment at the macabre thought, and he felt cleansed somehow for it, like turning his face toward the rain.
The conjurer shared a small smile with him, as though thinking the same thing. But she did not allow the thought to divert her overlong. “Someone must needs stay with him during the night,” she said carefully. It was a fact both of them knew well, and it could prompt only one conclusion. But she allowed Alphinaud to reach it himself, merely placing the problem before him for his impartial consideration.
He could think of no reason to hesitate. “It is my responsibility. I will see no-one else burdened by it.” It was the logical conclusion. Obviously the female scions were out of consideration as a matter of propriety, and he could not possibly have asked such an inconvenience of Thancred, Papalymo, and most especially not Urianger. He was already putting all of them out a great deal by requesting they stay nearby and take it in turns to watch the man. Alphinaud was already losing sleep over the issue. He would not take anyone else's hard-earned rest in the process.
The Miqo'te woman pursed her lips in a slight frown, regarding him seriously for a moment as though she had not expected the answer, though there was none other that he could have given. “He is not your responsibility, Alphinaud. Should he take his life, no-one will be at fault but himself. All you can do is argue for your position. It is up to him to make the choice, and you cannot choose for him, nor blame yourself should he fail to be convinced by plain reason.”
Alphinaud knew her words to be true. And yet he could not believe them. He leaned backwards on his hands and looked to the ceiling of the darkened room, growing darker as the light from the window turned more orange and pink.
He knew that he was setting himself up for great pain and disappointment, by allowing himself to feel responsible for Aymeric's life. But he was afraid that if he didn't, if he didn't do everything in his power, he might be condemning the man to certain death. And he didn't want that to happen. He cared too much. It was stupid, but he cared enough about the other man's life to wound himself in the process of protecting it.
“I know,” he said at last, speaking more to the evening air than her. “Yet still I must do what I can.”
The Warrior of Light was always binding his life to the fate of others, always casting himself into the unknown to protect the innocent and the good. Aymeric was these things and more. He was, perhaps, the only hope the alliance had of opening Ishgard and forging Eorzea into a shadow of its former strength and resolve.
But just now that didn't matter. Just now, Alphinaud cared not for the consequences. He wanted to protect Aymeric as a friend. Was that what Hikari felt, when he fought alongside his comrades and risked his life for the fortunes of the myriad people he met along the path of his glorious adventure? Did he weigh each life in the balance according to the consequences of failure, or did he fight because each life was worthy on its own, each friend worth a dragon's weight in gold merely for the spark of companionship and joy?
No, there was no wrong in it. And he found, in his resolve, a sort of peace. Y'shtola found it as well, blinking slowly at him from her chair, rapping her dainty fist against her cheek as she took in his determination. Finally she shed a small smile, shrugging at him as she had shrugged over Thancred's misadventures, as if to comment on both their foolishness at once.
“I suppose,” she said at last, sucking in a breath over her teeth, “that you are interested to know what happened. I did persuade him to tell me, though it took some cajoling.”
“Yes, of course,” he returned immediately, sitting forward as though he could grasp at hope if he merely leapt off the bed suddenly enough. “Is there any way of reversing it?”
She held up one finger before her, stilling him immediately, reminding him once again that he lacked her discipline. “I do not know. I have heard reports that the heretics are able to transform into 'dragons' by partaking of a dragon's blood. Ordinarily it results in an aevis or another lesser creature, as he himself witnessed before they forced it upon him. Even they were surprised at the result, it seems. They said something about his blood being 'pure,' though he would not tell me what they meant by it.” She twitched her mouth to the side in annoyance, crinkling her lips into a wriggling frown. Alphinaud imagined her irritated merely by the thought knowledge that had escaped her grasp.
The words tickled a memory in Alphinaud's mind. Of a time when the knight was tall and proud, a wall against which the young diplomat might hurl words as trifling pebbles, until Aymeric himself would show him the door to the solution to his troubles.
“He is not of noble birth,” he said at last. “He told me so himself. He won his station with merit, though it is unusual among his kin.”
Y'shtola looked away from him, letting her eyes glaze dull as she peered into another realm of thought, positioned somewhere beyond the shadows in the corner behind the bureau. “It would be premature to conclude that nobility is all that is meant by purity of blood. He could be a 'pureblood' mongrel, or a bearer of some plague, or the descendant of a dragon halfbreed of yore. Recall that Saint Shiva was said to have lain with a dragon herself. He could be her very heir.” She shrugged at the thought, dismissing the dust accumulating in the corner with a wave of her hand and a flash of unevenly-bitten fingernails. “A sound conclusion cannot be drawn without recourse to more information. He may yet know more, but he will not speak of it. He is too poor of spirit. I can only heal his body, Alphinaud.” And her attention was once again on him, her sky-bright eyes seeming to bore into his own resolve, impressing upon him some hidden meaning.
“Then I will see what yet I can draw from him,” the young Elezen replied, choosing to ignore her secret messages altogether.

Alphinaud had been hopeful the last time he had seen Aymeric, before he had disappeared. For all his pretending to the contrary, for all his sharp words and recriminations, the young diplomat had thought he was finally seeing the way forward. His threat to withhold the cooperation of the alliance in the defense of the city had been mere bluster, and truly, he oughtn't have bothered. As ever, the Lord Commander had delivered unto him the only true way of accomplishing his aim. By seeing to the defense of Ishgard itself, they would no longer be able to ignore his entreaties for peace and cooperation.
And then, abruptly, the See had fallen as silent as the evening snow. It had taken days for Lucia to contrive to send him a message, harried from within as well as without. For not only had dragons and heretics taken residence on their very stoop, but without Aymeric's support, even her own status as First Commander had come into question. Her message had been terse and vaguely worded, but Alphinaud had a nose for politics, and this stunk of a coup. He had been advised to coordinate with the lords Haurchefant and Drillemont whenever he could, and wished the Fury's protection. And just like that, his hope of protecting a multitude of innocents from dragonfire and retrieving the alliance's long-lost brother in a blaze of glory had all but disappeared.
Alphinaud had hoped defeating Shiva once again might drive a wedge into the door. But he could no longer spare his words on gates closed tight against him. He had a more important task, greater than halting an invasion from Garlemald or stilling Leviathan's tail from sweeping clean the whole of Vylbrand. He held the life of a man within his palm, trembling and weak like a bird not yet fledged. And while restoring him to health could certainly aid their cause, he cared not a whit for it. Y'shtola could warn him with her dagger-pointed glares all she willed, but Alphinaud would help Aymeric because he cared. To call up his maps and charts and speak of politics would be sheer prevarication, and he counted himself above such lies.
At least, in the quiet of his own heart.
Alphinaud had partaken of another short nap, sleeping fitfully once again but feeling secure, at least, in his own resolve. Then he had descended to the kitchen, wanting nothing more than the crisp hammerbeak broth that Urianger had labored over. It was no great work of culinary art, simple to the point of blandness and carrying not a particle of meat nor meal. But Alphinaud had eaten little in the last day, and worry had made his stomach pitch and roil like Leviathan's tempest unleashed. The soup was inoffensive and nourishing, and so he carried a tray of broth and bread to the door of Aymeric's makeshift prison, mindful to thank the reserved scholar at his next opportunity.
He had half-expected to find Thancred deep in argument with the knight, or at least in a fell temper. But all that greeted him when he opened the door to the half-dragon's chamber was an easy silence. The Hyur looked up and smiled at him immediately, slouching comfortably in a chair he'd dragged near the bed, the better to watch his charge. Aymeric, for his part, seemed to be asleep, turned toward the wall with a wing draped over his side and relaxed in a way that immediately eased a tension deep within Alphinaud's heart.
“He's been asleep the whole time,” Thancred whispered with an abashed grin, as if he'd been watching over a baby in swaddling. But the young Elezen smiled as well, nodding to him and indicating he'd take over the duty of babysitter, leaving the Archon to do... whatever it was that he got up to, when the sun was no longer watching.
As soon as the Hyur had left, closing the door so gently even the click of the latch could hardly be heard, Aymeric let out a long, frustrated groan. “I thought he would never leave,” he grumbled, and began the process of wriggling about to face his visitor. When at last he beheld Alphinaud, who was covering his mouth and trying not to laugh, he let his face break into a guilty grin.
“What did he do to offend you? I shall have to speak to him if he was proselytizing,” said the younger man, not entirely sure he was serious. The chair at least had been well-placed, allowing him to set his tray upon the nightstand and sit beside it, feeling very much relieved.
Aymeric attempted to wave his hand dismissively, but succeeded only in rattling his chains and glaring at them as though they'd insulted his mother. “Naught, he was perfectly politic. It was the small-talk that broke mine spirit. When he asked if I was courting any ladies at home, I just... it was all I could do to yawn and ask for silence and rest.”
Alphinaud decided that it was alright, just this once, to laugh. A quick rolling ring like a bell, letting his teeth play in the lamplight, allowing the other man to view his inner thoughts rather than the careful mask of politician and chess-master he so often needed to pretend to.
And he realized that it was actually nice, to know that Aymeric was no longer of any use to him. Because now he no longer had to put on airs, and just perhaps, they could know each-other's hearts without pretense.
Assuming, of course, that Aymeric found it worthwhile to keep on living.
The final thought dampened his spirits, but the soft expression on the other man's face remained. So he pressed his luck a little, because he wanted all the joy he could get, at that moment.
“And, have you?” he asked lightly.
The other man snorted in mock-anger, struggling once again with his chains as he crawled closer to the head of the bed. The chain was so short that he might not have even been able to sit up comfortably, so he merely curled himself around his pillow, throwing his wings backward to stretch and curling his tail forward around his leg. He still moved a little haltingly, fluttering his wings vainly and twitching his tail as he tried to figure out what constituted comfort, now that he had two more limbs and a tail as long as a Silvertear cobra.
“No,” the ex-knight said through a distracted frown. “And I should think it neither of your concern, unless you intend to court me yourselves.”
Alphinaud allowed himself another guilty laugh, short and low and lighter than air. “One never knows with Thancred,” he said, calling forth Y'shtola's shrug as the most eloquent expression he could have used to describe him.
There was a strained space in the conversation then, when they had run out of levity and had to return to the situation at hand. Finally Alphinaud ventured forth. “Are you yet hungry?”
“I think,” said the knight speculatively, letting his eyes rest upon the soup bowl as if it were the subject of a philosophical treatise he was yet composing, “that I have never wanted anything more. What might I do to convince you to loose mine hands, and spare me a little dignity?”
The younger man paused in the act of drawing his chair closer to the bed. And he frowned, thinking of his options, playing each of them in his mind.
He could extract promises, certainly. And under ordinary circumstances, he would have trusted the Ishgardian, faithful, loyal, and true. But then he recalled the moment he had released him, and what had occurred before his eyes. A shock and a tremor seemed to grip him, mid-gesture, only half-sitting in the chair and supporting himself with an unsteady hand on the wooden arm-rest. It did not matter what the other man swore, he realized. The consequences of the gamble were yet too great.
From a theological perspective, Aymeric might even have been willing to break an oath sworn on the Enchiridion itself. Once a man was willing to risk damnation in order to do what was right... was there truly any obstacle that could be placed between he and his goal? When a man was that truly dedicated to what he conceived as good that not even the direct command of his goddess could steer him away, what argument, what consequence, would be great enough to sway his course?
Gritting his teeth and his eyelids both, he finished his relocation and reached for the spoon. It took two attempts to swallow his own memory just to be able to look the other man in the eye. And when he did, it was well evident that his captive understood just what he had been thinking.
“I have been most unkind to you, friend,” Aymeric whispered gravely, the brows above his hawkish eyes gone soft and full of care.
Alphinaud swallowed once again, feeling as if a sob had missed its chance to express itself earlier and only now wanted out. But he ducked his head to hide his eyes beneath his long unruly bangs, always so convenient for those times when he could not conceal his youth and weakness. “I cannot blame you,” he said carefully. “Dearly would I like to set you free. But you must needs trade me some trust, or there is naught that I may do.”
The other man merely nodded, understanding well enough that Alphinaud was grateful to be spared elaboration. Then he scowled at his chains, pulling to and fro, determining the precise range of their reach. He had the liberty of a fulm or so of motion before the chains stopped short. It was quite deliberate, but there were downsides to leaving his movement so curtailed.
“'Tis a blessing, at least, that the soup is well worth sacrificing mine pride,” said the knight, sitting up on his elbows just enough that he might not choke on his supper.
Ere the spoon had even reached the knight's lips, Alphinaud had decided that the situation would needs change, and soon. Aymeric would not look directly at him, focusing all his attention on the cooling broth. But he could not shake the creeping feeling that he was disrespecting, nay, mocking a noble man. Three spoonfuls was all he managed, and then the spoon was placed back into the bowl, and the bowl upon the tray on the stand beside the bed.
“I confess!” cried the knight, looking after the bowl in anguish in only half-jest. “Whatever crime you wish of me, I confess and repent.”
Alphinaud allowed himself a moment of respite, taking refuge in his hands and refusing to note that they trembled. “This will not serve us,” he said after a moment, scrubbing the feelings from his face and looking on his charge once again. “Is there aught that you can do to assure me that you will not harm yourself, just for a time?”
It was not merely for his own discomfort, he realized, flushing away a pang of guilt. The knight's own dignity was a part of the life he wished to preserve. To nurture his spirit, he would needs treat him with respect, even if in so doing there was an element of danger. He would needs give the man a little trust, that he might in turn invest it for both their profit.
Aymeric tore his eyes away from the broth to look at Alphinaud wonderingly, seriously, searching his face for answers. He did not answer immediately. He pursed his lips and looked within himself as well, as though putting his own trustworthiness on trial.
“I... should, by all rights, take advantage of any opportunity you give me, I admit,” he said hesitantly, looking back to Alphinaud cautiously, as though he might withdraw the offer. “But I have harmed you already. I have given you no cause to trust me. But I can swear an oath on mine love for the Goddess that if you loose mine hands, I shall make no move to escape, nor cause myself harm, nor make provision to do so at a later time. I shall obey you—for a short time—until you bind me again. You may trust me because there is no higher love that I may swear to than Hers, and because... it is one thing to harm myself, but quite another to harm mine friends. I swear upon mine fealty to Halone, and to thee.”
Though he should not have, Alphinaud believed him. Because dearly did he want to, and because there was sincerity and grief in the other man's eyes. Technically his theology would have allowed deceit, if he had wanted to lie. But he did not believe Aymeric had it in him, to speak of a friend's pain merely to cause him more. In the end, though they did not know each-other overwell, it was because the knight had sworn upon their friendship that he yielded, more than his love for the goddess whom he served so slavishly that he welcomed even damnation if it were her will.
The key had been placed at the far end of the room, on a lower shelf of the table by the plush armchair in which he'd napped. Alphinaud retrieved it quickly, and then pushed back the smaller chair to kneel with one knee upon the bed.
He would preferred to have given Aymeric some space, but he himself had suggested the chains be kept short. He would needs get used to violating his privacy even in the act of granting him freedom.
The knight made an effort to move back and give him room, throwing his wings out against the wall as he rolled onto his back and exposed his chest. Alphinaud knew that he should not have looked down, but he did anyway, noting the unsteady breaths the other man took and the look on his face that was at once hopeful and threaded with fear. His skin had regained some color, at least. Save for the parts of him that were black as the night, he was as pale as a creature made of ice and snow when they had found him. Now, though he still looked a little wan and thin, his warrior's body having fed upon his very strength during his captivity, he did not seem as a man who might die at any moment. His body, at least, seemed intent on living.
Alphinaud gripped one of the manacles in his left hand, rotating it until he found the keyhole. He did not even attempt to still the tremor in his right as he brought forward the key. “Pray do not make me regret this,” he said softly, only realizing after he had said it aloud that the words were for himself, not his captive.
The key found the lock, and with a careful twist and a jiggle, the tumbler engaged and the iron slipped open. Aymeric removed his hand slowly, clasping and unclasping his fingers in a fist and making no movement to give the younger man cause for alarm. Then he stilled and waited, leaving no excuse save fear.
So the young diplomat put faith in his friend, trusted the word of a man who had betrayed him once already, and turned the key a second time.
The latch clicked, a dull, clumsy sound of machine parts crafted more to strength than precision. Time could have stopped at that moment, so loud was the hum of blood in Alphinaud's ears, so quiet the tension in the room. Suddenly he was not nearly so sure that he had made the right decision. He should at least have asked Y'shtola's presence. Now there was nothing to stop Aymeric save his own will. A will that he had already proven quite deadly.
But Aymeric only sighed, long and warm, drawing forth his other hand and clenching his claws rhythmically to work out the kinks and soreness and welcome back his blood. And then he sat up, slowly, keeping his hands securely anchored the bed behind him and rooting himself like a tree.
So it was that Alphinaud too sighed, slipping back into his chair and handing over the bowl of soup, once Aymeric had fixed him with soft eyes that seemed nearly to smile though his lips did not.
“What news from Ishgard?” the man-turned-dragon had asked quietly, once he had drunk a long drought directly from the bowl. Alphinaud handed him a slice of bread, which the knight nibbled at gingerly before dipping it into the broth and chewing with relish, closing his eyes to the sensations in his mouth as though even eating were a holy act.
Though his heart soared to see it, he could take no joy in delivering such ill news. “Silence,” he said, frowning pensively. “This is all we have received from the First Commander.” From his pocket he retrieved the note she had sent him, tersely-worded and laden with omens.
Aymeric scanned it quickly, for there was not much to read. But between the lines he found much that he did not like, his hawkish eyes narrowing to cool fury and his lips pulling back in a snarl. His teeth, like his fingers, had grown long and feral, his canines especially now elongated and coming to a cruel point. They were not the narrow needle-like teeth of a true predator, but neither were they the teeth of a man. As he grimaced in anger, then, Alphinaud could truly imagine him charging into the See and tearing his opponents limb from limb, defending Lucia's honor and possibly taking on the entire Inquisition in the process.
Alphinaud could try to soften the blow. “I can at least report that Hikari has slain Shiva once again. Lords Haurchefant and Drillemont are doing what they can to aid us. They have promised to send word if we are required to defend the city, as per your suggestion. But without cooperation from within, there is little that we can do but wait.”
The half-dragon let his ire wane, his tense wings slowly drooping once again around his shoulders. “It should be none of mine concern any longer,” he said dully. “But I cannot help but feel that it is mine own doing. Would that I could return and put things aright...” he trailed off into a croaking whisper, staring into his soup like a looking glass. “But mine blood... mine blood.”
Like so many times before, Alphinaud found that he had not words to challenge the Lord Commander and sway his course. He closed his eyes against the other man's anguish, unable to banish the image of his fine brows creased to sorrow and ruin.
Then he remembered how he often felt, at times like these, and amusement crept along his face to steal a wry grin from his lips. “At times like this, we must put our faith in our friends. Hikari, Lucia, Lord Haurchefant, the Azure Dragoon... it is their turn to bear the burden of Ishgard's defense. Mayhap someday soon you may rejoin the fight. But you must care for yourself ere you can lend your strength once again, must you not?”
Miraculously, Aymeric looked up and returned his smile. Long and thin, wiry like a fox after a hard winter.
It was enough to make Alphinaud hope, to make joy explode in his chest like a festival rocket. It was entirely possible that for a moment, he forgot how to breathe.
The knight quickly recovered himself, however, ducking his eyes again and drinking down the rest of his soup. Then he set down the bowl and merely sat, looking at his hands and wallowing in the long silence of a room that seemed empty even when occupied. He traced the ridges on his fingers along knuckle and bone, lingering on the places where his fingertips turned black and scaly, then long and chitinous. He touched the soft pads of all ten fingers, each with the opposite hand. A long, captivated exploration as if he'd been two summers old and still hadn't sorted out how his body worked. And it was true. He was new again, young in his body, clumsy and inexperienced and as curious as a child.
If only he'd had the matching sense not to be ashamed of it, Alphinaud felt. If it weren't for the prejudice of his countrymen, of the long war over an obscure history and a byzantine theology, it would not have been so bad.
The exploration of his hands completed, he moved to his mouth. Slowly, halting at one point to catch Alphinaud's eye and flush under his open scrutiny, flexing his claws with palms out in a gesture of non-violence. Then he bared his teeth and twisted his lips into a sneer, merely to run the pad of his thumb along his canines and map their jagged points.
“Wings, tail, claws, teeth,” he said when he had completed the inventory, running his tongue along his lips nervously. “Is there anything I've missed? I don't suppose you have a looking-glass?”
Not precisely handy, though it could be arranged. But Alphinaud didn't precisely fancy the idea of something so easily fashioned into a weapon being brought into the room. “Mayhap we can find a hand mirror later. For now I can say... that's all I'm aware of. I did not see anything amiss until you were unbound. I didn't even notice the teeth until recently. With a cloak, you might pass, if you could learn to govern your tail.”
The wry smile returned to Aymeric's face as he snorted lightly in amusement tinged with derision. “Yes, I shall look much less suspicious that way. No-one has ever donned a cloak because they had something to hide. I am sure the Inquisitors will be mollified if only I tell them that I am cold.”
Somehow Alphinaud doubted that cold made much excuse for anyone, in the lands above Abalathia's Spine.
He wanted to push away all thoughts of the Inquisition, of responsibilities and a home that would spurn him. But Aymeric was smiling at him, and it was progress. “We will find a way,” he said gently, letting his grin bleed into an affectionate smile, warm and true. And then he opened his mouth once more, only at the last stopping himself from finishing his thought aloud.
He would do anything to see it done.
It was not a promise that he could make, in truth. Nor was it appropriate. They hardly knew each-other, after all. But he had felt it keenly enough that he had nearly charged off the cliff of his mind and tossed his words into the wind. Instead he clenched his fist and ducked his head to stare at it, as though he, too, found his hand utterly fascinating.
In reality, he was having difficulty finding a subject that could occupy his thoughts thoroughly enough to banish the blush tickling his cheeks.
But Aymeric did not call him on his foolishness, nor laugh at his naivety. He merely placed a hand on his shoulder and squeezed, a quick gesture of comfort without the lingering impropriety of Alphinaud's trembling touches from before.
Then the knight stood, pacing beyond the chair in which Alphinaud sat and turning half to face him. He reached his arms behind his head and began to stretch, carelessly, without regard to his company but merely enjoying his freedom. The movement seemed to sweep over his entire body, rolling over into his wings. They swept suddenly open behind him, snagging only momentarily on the furniture behind him as they passed, then unfurled to his side, long enough to sweep the sides of the room with the leading edge and threaten to knock over anything that was not nailed down. He held the motion for a moment, jaw clenched and eyes closed, neck outstretched as he tipped his head back in some manner of focus. His great wings trembled with the tension of the stretch, like leaves shaking in a gentle wind. And like that, Alphinaud became acutely aware of the near-nakedness of the man before him, of the hard plane of his chest and the lithe grace of his body. Just like that, he changed from a man of quiet nobility, to a creature of wild, captivating beauty.
Then he relaxed, and they slowly wilted again, the leathery skin stretched between his bones contracting and growing thick and wrinkly and inky-black. He let out a slow breath through his nose, and only after he dropped his arms and opened his narrow eyes to regard Alphinaud in turn did the younger man realize that he was staring, once again.
This time it was Aymeric who blushed, coughing quickly into his hand as he pulled his wings quickly to his side and paced nervously around the room. Like a coeurl, he lashed his tail anxiously to-and-fro as it slid behind him on the ground.
“I am sorry,” Alphinaud found the courage to mumble. “I should not stare. You have enough worries without me compounding them with my gracelessness.”
The other man paused the shuffle of his feet only momentarily, then took up his pacing again as he replied. “It is not offense. Merely shame. I must look an abomination. Mayhap it is better that I do not see myself.” He spoke to himself, in something between a grumble and a whisper, raspy and hard. “Mayhap I could not bear to see it.”
“No,” Alphinaud mumbled hurriedly, ducking his face beneath his bangs once again but blushing so thoroughly the glow must have been visible from across the room. Inwardly he thought of an hundred things he wanted to say, but he was just sensible enough not to voice them.
The way his heart had leapt into his throat made him ill-inclined to trust his tongue just now. Aymeric had always been handsome. Alphinaud had been well-aware of that fact, an objective truth like the whiteness of the snow or the idiocy of the Holy See. But now it nearly overwhelmed him in its savage force, the grace of the man before him, the fineness of his features and the noble line of his brow. His face was smooth and hairless even after a week of captivity, a trait of many Elezen beneath forty summers. Rather than making him seem feminine or immature, it added to the willowy grace and youthful vitality of the man, reminding Alphinaud of his height and the length of his pointed ears. His narrow eyes had become captivating, dangerous in the way they seemed to penetrate his thoughts, and he itched, he itched to put his fingers once more into the knight's wavy black hair. Aymeric had been handsome before. But now he was beautiful, and Alphinaud was shocked at the way his body reacted to the display, and more than a little frightened.
Instead he squeezed his eyes shut and composed his thoughts carefully, discarding the awe that had blazed so fully to life within his breast and leaving only the dry facts. When he schooled his tongue to speak, it was with great pride that he noted barely a tremor in his softened voice. “You are not unpleasant to the sight, my friend. Pray be at ease. I am merely fascinated, and too foolish to govern my gaze.”
When he looked up, he only briefly saw Aymeric look at him sidelong before his view was obscured by a wing. “Then I am horrified enough for the both of us,” he replied quietly. At least it seemed the other man believed that he was not.
Before long he seemed to tire of pacing and stretching, and crawled back onto the bed, on all fours, angling his wings upward with difficulty to keep from treading on them. It broke Alphinaud's heart to see him stretch up his hands again, placing them in reach of the shackles and closing his eyes in defeat. But he did what he must to protect the man, carefully placing the irons about his wrists and locking them shut, all while touching him as little as he could manage.
When the second tumbler had clicked closed, Aymeric sighed so forcefully it emerged as a grunt of relief, and his shoulders and wings sagged against the bed. It had not been his imagination. The man had been trembling beneath his grip, and it had not been fatigue or malnourishment.
Still, the knight raised his eyes from the pillow and regarded his captor, and their pale blue seemed to speak of the morning sun now, instead of the frost. His narrow smile was still weak, but it seemed hopeful. Aymeric was still far too broken to leave unsupervised. But the investment of trust had, by all indications, yielded dividends.
Alphinaud smiled back at him, and had to stop himself from lifting a hand to stroke him with affection that exceeded his sense. “My friend, do you mind terribly if I sleep here? I swear that I shall be better company than Thancred, especially at this hour,” he teased gently.
Aymeric snorted peaceably, perhaps understanding his joke, perhaps merely glad not to suffer the Hyur's company. “Do what you will. I shall be too busy sleeping to care.”
Together they labored to pull back the blanket beneath him, and the knight allowed Alphinaud to tuck it over his legs as he splayed his wings out comfortably at his side. Then he called for Y'shtola to stand watch, and went to his own chamber to prepare for bed.
She was leaning against the wall by the door when he returned to the room, clad in his night-things with his pillow in tow. “He seems more relaxed,” she whispered. “I saw him smile. I know not what you have done, but if you continue I may needs re-evaluate my characterization of your foolishness.”
“If he continues to improve, I shall care not whether you think me a dullard or the Emperor himself,” he murmured in reply. “Thank you... for everything.”
She gave him a strange sort of smile, not curvy but wide, and her eyes narrowed to the amused slits of a coeurl on the hunt. “I do it because I care,” she said simply, leaving him alone to decide upon whom her charity was bestowed.
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Dragon's Prayer