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Bellyachin'	By : WonderMint Category: Final Fantasy XIV > Yaoi - Male/Male Views: 2107 -:- 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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A/N: As I feared, I had to break this chapter up due to length. Bear with me; the next one is partway done, and it's where the fun stuff starts.

Alphinaud rubbed at his eyes with displeasure. He had suspected the wine might affect him in the morning, but he had not anticipated being awoken mere hours later. Camp Dragonhead was naturally a quiet place unless an armed unit was moving through, and Tataru only disturbed him in his room if an urgent matter required attention. The anxiety he felt was irrational, he knew, just his dreams giving him strange ideas. But he hastily assembled himself, splashing cold water on his face both for the cleansing and shocking effects, and stepped out the door.
A gaggle of serving women scurried down the hall, carrying piles of thick blankets in any way they could hold onto them. Some dragged on the stone floor, but the maids payed them no heed in their rush. One, in fact, a short mousy-haired Miqo'te, rushed into him headlong as he tried to shrink into the wall, blankets flying in several directions. The other girls payed her no mind and were around the corner and away within moments.
"Terribly sorry, Milord, beg yer pardon!" Ordinarily he would feel the need to reassure her there was no offense, but no sooner had she executed a mere half curtsy than she was already ducking to retrieve the blankets, dropping one several times as she tried to fit three under one arm.
He grabbed it from her and helped pick up the remainder. "What's happened? Where are these bound in such a hurry?" He had never seen serving staff abandon their polite demeanor without cause.
The maiden made an agonized face of indecision, gritting her teeth openly, and reddening in embarrassment. The, she seemed to make a decision, rising to her full height and sticking her tail straight up. "Beggin' Milord's pardon, but these blankets are sore needed! A fell storm's fallen, and there's soldiers freezin' in the courtyard!" With the hand freed by the blankets Alphinaud now held, she actually pushed him bodily down the hall with her until he began to move with appropriate haste on his own.
It did not take long, even if the report made little sense. If it was soldiers who needed assistance, Ser Aymeric might be in danger himself. The adrenaline already in his system kicked in, and he rushed ahead of her into the frigid mid-morning air.
He was momentarily blinded by the whiteness of the light that filtered over the sanctum's walls. He blinked a few times to adjust, struck by the knife-like chill in the moist air as it filtered into his lungs, burning his nose even on the exhale. That this could be a mere early-summer storm defied all sense.
In the time it took him to adjust, the maid burst out of the door behind him. “This-a-way, Milord, no time!” She shoved at him again until he was following meekly behind her, looking about in astonishment. It was clear that the only reason the courtyard was so still lay in the magical wards set about the walls of the camp. They flickered purple and blue on occasion as gusts howled against them, the burnt odor of aether and electricity contributing to the deadening of his sense of smell.
There were far fewer men and women filtering through the gate this time, and their condition seemed all the worse. They huddled their arms to their chest, shaking, some of them. Others were frighteningly still as they took shelter against a wall. The ones near the door huddled in blankets already, some in groups of two to share the heat, others leaning into their cavalry chocobos, which cooed plaintively. The maid picked her way around the camp, dropping off blankets to those who had none or seemed to require a second, then took the bundles from him and distributed them as well. She offered words of encouragement, pointing toward the hall where Lord Haurchefant entertained visitors and entreating them to seek shelter.
Alphinaud's eyes continued to scan the camp, looking for the shock of deep blue that would signal that his friend was safe. He spied Tataru exiting another building with a few other servants, wheeling around a great steaming cook-pot and dispensing cups to all they could reach. It was in Tataru's nature to help any she could, and he was cheered to remember that he could rely upon her.
Now, though, there was only one person he cared to find. He turned to the man nearest him, a knight of lower rank attempting to calm his chocobo. “Has your Commander returned yet? Where is he?”
The knight returned him a pained look, gripping the blanket wrapped tightly about his shoulders. “I have not seen him since he sounded retreat at the gates of Natalan. When the storm fell... I have never seen such a thing. It is fell witchcraft, mark my words!”
“He is still out there?” Alphinaud seized the man by the shoulders, “are you certain?”
The man would not meet his eyes, tracing them instead to the gate. Shouts sounded and loud clanks of metal as the portcullis slid closed, sealing the magical barrier against the strange storm. “He did not return. Many did not return.”
The white-haired youth froze then, fingers seizing on the man's blanket-wrapped armor. It seemed everything was still. No thoughts played through his mind, no sounds entered his ears, no sight registered from his blankly staring eyes. He did not even draw breath, the burning in his lungs subsiding for a moment as the air warmed from his body heat.
Then, he heard the whistle of the war chocobo, nuzzling its rider for comfort.
He didn't think. He didn't speak. He just moved.
In an instant the reins of the poor bird were in his hands, and then he was upon it, and then they were running. There was a shout behind him but the words did not register, mere noise on the wind. Ser Aymeric was out there. More shouts sounded as he directed the large chocobo through the courtyard, navigating around some people and over others. Ser Aymeric was in the storm. A shrill voice screamed out at him, one he knew well, but he could not bring himself to listen. Ser Aymeric was without shelter, possibly freezing to death. The chocobo's great claws pounded up the stairway that led to the Aetherite. Ser Aymeric needed him. It didn't matter that he had no plan.
The great bird bore him inexorably toward the top of the Eastern wall, shimmering with magical energy and sparkling with ice and snow beyond. At the last moment, he pulled his hood over his head, adjusting the goggles over his eyes. He prayed that the barrier would allow him to pass.
He prayed, without words, only an image in his mind, of the man whom he would not allow to die.
The aetherial barrier crackled and stung him as he passed through, but pass he did. The bird leaped mightily to the ground, its flexible legs cushioning them both from harm. It was jarring and the bird barked with displeasure, but they were fine. Immediately, snows swirled before his vision, blinding him utterly.
Tataru Taru was a practical woman. When they had arrived at Camp Dragonhead, she had secured for them both cold-weather attire. She often wore her fur-lined parka about the camp, always warm and cozy no matter how far she was from a roaring fire. Alphinaud had left his unopened in his room, habit and stubbornness dictating that he move from warm room to cold winds as if nothing had changed. He had grown accustomed to feeling the chill air against his sides, even in the coldest night.
Now he regretted it. The air in the courtyard had been cold indeed, but the winds driving against him now had him chill to the bone in mere moments. If he did not find shelter himself, and soon, he would die.
The gate behind him had closed. He was certain they would open it again to admit him, but he refused himself the option of retreat. Instead, he kicked his heels into the bird's withers and drove onward, hoping the sporadic winds would allow them to see just enough to get by.
They did not.
They had traveled for some yalms, roughly Eastward of the wall. He had tried to bear South along the path to Natalan, but his reckoning was wild. When the bird's claw slipped sickeningly beneath him, he knew why. Together, he and the stolen chocobo tumbled over the edge of the chasm known only as the Witchdrop.
Time stood still as they fell. He didn't even bother to scream, just gasped uselessly with burning lungs. For a space, he was weightless, moving through air that seemed empty of wind, snow, or feeling.
Alphinaud's first thought had been regret that he could not reach Aymeric. Then, belatedly, he thought of the chocobo he had driven to a futile death.
Then time ticked forward. All too soon the bird struck ground, knocking the wind out of his lungs as he slammed against the saddle. He rolled sideways and hit the ground, feeling rock and snow and ice and cold. And feeling. He lay still for a moment, shoulder throbbing and chest aching.
A low whistle sounded in his ear. A beak nudged his cheek cautiously. He lived. They both lived.
A few moments more and he forced his lungs to draw breath. He spasmed and coughed, feeling utterly wretched but beautifully alive.
He sat up, eyes opening again to see the white-painted sky over him. Winds still blew sharp shards of ice over the edge of the walls above him, but by comparison the air was blessedly still here. Casting his gaze back to his surroundings, he immediately understood why they yet lived. A long winding ledge ran from the mouth of the chasm all the way to its floor, and it was upon it that he had landed. The drop itself extended far below him, every bit as deadly as ever. He had been lucky. The bird stood beside him miserably, but despite its hung head and close-held wings, it stood steady and strong.
He placed a gentle hand on the bird's head. “I'm sorry, friend.” It sounded a low note in appreciation, nuzzling his hand.
Then he saw it. It was difficult to see in the depths of the cavern, but a twinkle of polished metal caught his eye on the ledge a few yalms down. Heart pounding, he approached it slowly, taking care with the planting of his feet. The chocobo followed a few paces behind him, misguidedly following his abuser.
Blood pounded in his ears. Finally he reached the spot, knelt carefully, and brushed aside the snow.
It revealed a familiar silver and blue greatsword.
Heedless of aught else, he rushed down the path, slipping and eventually sliding down in some portions, knees and shins bruising. He was here, he must be. The cliffs offered shelter from the cold and wind, and it might well be that he was still alive. He reached the bottom, where the snows fell the thinnest. A wide patch of rock was visible where something had dragged the snows aside. He followed, heart in his throat, to find a cavern tucked into the back of the cave. And there in its mouth, was the man he sought.
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Bellyachin'