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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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A/N: It has recently come to my attention that Aymeric is 32 in canon, and I am having some major issues right now. I think it's less of an issue in this story than in Bellyachin' (oddly, but that's Stockholm Syndrome for you), but it's still something of a problem. If it helps you to imagine, like I did, that Aymeric is in the 25-27 range as his naiveté suggests, then please do so.

Once more, Hikari is #notmyWarriorofLight, and isn't here to steal the show.

Redolent Rose will definitely steal the show. And embroider it with gold accents before putting it on and strutting down Emerald Avenue with his hat-upon-a-hat.

Alphinaud was a man of many skills.

Some, like Arcanima, were cultivated with practice as well as raw talent. Others, such as looking the Admiral herself directly in the eye, seemed to come to him perfectly naturally. So it was with no reluctance that he sat once again in the plush chair in the far corner of Aymeric's room, and gathered the blanket into his lap. He wedged his pillow against the wall and leaned into it, curling slowly and by fits into the crumpled position that his body favored most when he he slept upright. The chair was cushioned, a pillow rested beneath his cheek, and a blanket kept his legs warm, and so for him it was nearly as good as a fine feather bed.

So it was something of a surprise that he didn't fall immediately into slumber. Instead, his mind wandered. Not lazily, the soft slip of thoughts that could not tell themselves from dreams, but with a manic focus. They flitted and hovered, circling with purpose around a single subject. Ser Aymeric. Try as he might, he could not sleep, because he could not stop wondering about the broken knight, or the beautiful vision he had presented when he had stretched innocently before his eyes.

He had deliberately avoided thinking on it until the other man was sound asleep. But he had run out of excuses, because ordering his mind to still and having it obey were entirely different things. Having nothing else with which to occupy himself, and no observers, he was free to think any thoughts that felt the need to assert themselves. And to his shame, they were many and varied, nearly all of which involved a lithe, toned chest or a pair of hawkish eyes the color of winter's chill.

If he hadn't known better, Alphinaud might have thought he was beginning to be smitten with the older man.

It was not as shocking a thought as all that. Alphinaud had spent the majority of his Scholasticate years chasing girls, the chief inconvenience of puberty being the sudden inexplicable desire for companionship coupled with the singular difficulty of achieving it. Desperation and inexperience did not make for an attractive mate, and he had been more awkward than most. Prideful and bookish in equal measure, self-assured and hasty to speak. It was small wonder that he had met with little success. That he had gotten as far as he had may have spoken more of his looks than his demeanor.

That being said, this wouldn't be the first time he had found himself attracted to a male. It had happened before that he might dedicate a passing glance or a flight of fancy to a man who caught his eye, by grace or skill or looks alone. But there had never been any reason to act upon such thoughts, nor any reason to feel threatened by them.

This was the first time it had seemed to truly matter. And the first it had made him afraid.

He had already admired the knight. It was an admiration coupled with irritation, nearly jealousy. It was easy to confuse his skill at negotiation with his raw magnetism, and he was awed by both. Awed and resentful, at times, because Alphinaud was not accustomed to being bested, much less batted aside like a golem ignoring the buzzing of an insistent fly.

Now, though, the Lord Commander was not his opponent. He was his charge, to nurture and protect. He was vulnerable, physically and emotionally, so much that the younger Elezen was sick to think of it. Any attraction Alphinaud might feel for him was not merely inappropriate, it was dangerous.

It mattered little that he was attracted to a man. It may have helped, in fact, because there would needs be no tittering about the 'virtue' or 'innocence' of a young maiden, as if a girl might combust should a man lay his eyes upon her for too long. No, it was dangerous because he needed the ex-knight to focus on his recovery. He needed Aymeric's implicit trust. He did not want him worried that he would give the younger man ideas if he moved the wrong way, or to think that his caretaker's motives were suspect. He most certainly didn't want to suggest anything that the Ishgardian might not truly want, not when his own feelings were in turmoil and he was so desperate for comfort that he had accepted Alphinaud's overly-familiar touch without question.

If anything, of course, it was likely because he cared so much that he had been so affected. Alphinaud had hardly slept since the rescue, and he'd spent every moment since then in fear for the man's life. It was only now that he felt any relief, any chance that Aymeric might emerge, someday, whole of spirit and possessed of a love of life.

Perhaps, in that singular moment, he had been so filled with hope that his affection for his friend had simply run amok. Perhaps his cares were like stray sheep, and the fences of his mind too worn from worry. Perhaps he was mistaking a perfectly natural attraction to the quite different need to act upon it. He could stand to be in the same room as Minfilia, after all, or Y'shtola, or even Thancred, at his most clever and least patronizing. There was no reason to think that he could not be trusted with a man who could clearly best him in any contest of strength, will, or wit, even half-starved and broken as he was.

Resolved, then, not to worry about the inclinations of his fancy, his thoughts finally did land to graze upon the soft ground. The chair finally embraced him as a friend, and he settled into an easy sleep.

He was awoken some time later by the sound of struggle, and immediately he opened his eyes to search for the disturbance.

The lamp had been shuttered to glow only dimly. Alphinaud preferred to sleep in total darkness, but he had been afraid Aymeric might have difficulty sleeping, and it seemed that it was the case. He was currently thrashing and pulling at his chains, in small, sudden movements. The younger man found his feet immediately, stumbling to his bedside and crawling onto it to better see the knight sheltered beneath his angular black wing.

His eyes were shut, not in terror or deliberate action but relaxed and mired in sleep. He merely twitched and whimpered softly, and too late Alphinaud realized that his confinement might negatively impact his dreams.

He knew not what the other man had suffered, but he knew enough to prefer Aymeric not suffer through it again. So he lost no time in placing his hands on the man's back, carefully avoiding his wing, shaking as gently as he could manage and whispering soothingly. “Aymeric, 'tis alright, you are only dreaming. Wake up,” he urged.

What he got for his troubles was a wing to the face, but fortunately only his pride suffered for it. His hands were thrown clear of the prone man and he sat back in a huff, rubbing the sting of impact from his nose. He rather suspected that had the blow been intentional, he would have been thrown from the bed entirely and perhaps bloodied as well. As it was, only his balance had saved him from topping backward over the edge.

Aymeric flailed backwards to peer over his shoulder in confusion, but relaxed when he beheld Alphinaud. “Mine apologies, did I strike you? I was...” his eyes seemed to unfocus in the dim lantern-light, his brow furrowing with trouble.

“You were dreaming, I know,” the younger man rushed to reply. “You are quite safe now. None will harm you here.”

“And yet, mine demons follow close upon mine heels,” complained the knight blearily, wilting into his pillow once more. He wrapped his wing once again around his shoulder, still facing the wall, and he curled his legs closer beneath the blanket as if he wished to crawl into the arms of his mother instead.

Alphinaud hesitated, then.

If it had been him, he would likely have wanted to be left alone, to suffer in silence but without the shrill judgment of observing eyes. But Aymeric's suffering would not diminish with time, would not seem brighter with the dawn. He had been captured, likely tortured, and now not even his body seemed a safe refuge. When he had bowed his head to rest his mind had returned to his tormentors, and when he had awoken, he was once again confronted with the reality from which he could not wake. Alphinaud could not, in good conscience, simply return to sleep.

So instead he clambered upon the edge of the bed, and settled against the wall above Aymeric's pillow. He moved lightly, hardly disturbing the blankets like a hare upon the snow. The prone knight turned to look at him warily, eying him from over his bone-sharp shoulder. Making neither comment nor question, but asking with his gaze nonetheless.

“If you wish to speak, I would listen,” offered Alphinaud gently once he'd arranged himself. He let his gangly legs stretch atop the covers with one knee bent, covered to the ankles in his soft blue pyjamas. There was still some distance between them, a blanket and a sheet, rustling wings and the air of casual companionship. At least, that's how he hoped it would be interpreted.

The other man made a low sound of acknowledgement, somewhere between a growl and a grunt. He stopped craning his neck to look, instead surrendering to the need to curl his body further until his forehead nudged against the stone wall. Then he closed his eyes, seeming to relax into the silence between them. A gesture of acceptance. Like a wolf, the greatest sign of trust he could give seemed to be to ignore Alphinaud entirely. Rather than be offended, the younger man let a smile creep along the edge of his lip as he reclined against the cool stone. If silence was what Aymeric needed, he had no difficulty providing it. He had long ago learnt to be at peace within the palace of his own mind.

At length the knight's breaths drew long and deep, the ropes wound tight within his torso relaxing one-by-one. Finally he snorted a puff of air through his nose, and rolled half onto his back to regard the boy looming above him.

“I do not know what I might say,” he said, quietly enough that he barely disturbed the silence of the room. Even his voice, then, was willowy and frail, though it was ordinarily as broad and strong as ancient oak.

Alphinaud let his shoulders twitch into a light-hearted shrug. “Anything you wish. Anything you feel might help. Or nothing at all, if you prefer. I am here regardless.” He hesitated only a moment before letting his fingers brush the knight's shoulder. It was only a brief touch, a cameo portrait of silken skin and quiet strength. But the shadows in Aymeric's eyes seemed to retreat a little just the same, the ghosts of his pain haunting him that much less.

The warrior closed his eyes again, less deliberately. Seeming less to block out the world and more to open one within. Only his mouth betrayed the thoughts beyond, the blank line of his lips stretching tight and thin.

“I care little for the pain,” he said at last. “I was prepared to suffer. I would have done so gladly. But this... I could not have imagined that it were possible to damage mine soul. I tried to remain unsullied. I tried to suffocate. I tried to die. But in the end I was helpless to resist, no matter how pure mine devotion.” His brows creased to sorrow, eloquent and beautiful even upside-down as Alphinaud viewed him. “It is the helplessness that haunts me now, I think. That no matter how thoroughly I rejected the taint, yet still I was overtaken by damnation.”

The younger man slid his legs back to hug his knees close, leaning forward to watch over his charge. Alphinaud could not himself come close to imagining such a situation. He was under no illusion that he would be capable of resisting torture of any kind. He was not a warrior, and though he believed in his ideals and loved his friends, he was not foolish enough to believe he could endure any and all suffering for their sake. He knew there would come a point, sooner or later, where he would be forced to give. And knowing that, it was likely to come far sooner.

Yet, in yielding to torture, there was some manner of control. It was true that one's choices were never good, and that even after electing to speak, there was no guarantee of kind treatment. But there was still a choice to be made, a spark of defiance in one's heart or the embrace of compliance, of meek defeat.

Aymeric had had no choice but to bear his suffering, and to become that which he hated. And not even his Goddess had saved him.

He sat sentinel for some minutes, watching the other man's face relax and his sorrow melt into something less concrete. Pale blue eyes flickered over him in turn, their usual intensity tempered by vulnerability and soft light.

Alphinaud hadn't the means to do it, the knowledge or the strength, but he needed to protect his knight-turned-dragon. His heart blazed with the desire to shelter that wounded, unprotected spirit from even the tiniest hurt. He wanted to be shield and spear until Aymeric was strong enough to stand on his own, and lift his sword again.

It could not be that his soul was lost for the actions of another. Gods did not work in such a way. Faith was not a prize that could be stolen. Virtue was a thing that shone brightly from within. And Aymeric, noble Ser Aymeric, could not be corrupted. The very idea filled him with indignation, burning his lungs like a fading breath and threatening to choke him on his outrage.

It seemed as if the knight had spoken as much as he'd wanted to. So, though he knew he should not have, Alphinaud took up the echoing space as his own. “I cannot believe your soul is changed,” he said, trying to bleed the crossness from his words and leaving only a faint edge of bitterness. He directed his gaze away from the weakened man at his feet to glare instead at the shadows in the darkened room that dared to resist the light. “You yourself would claim to prize the spirit over the body's vessel. Is the design on the amphora of more import than the oil within?”

Aymeric responded with a deep hum of contemplation, a little ragged and mournful at the edge where it trailed off to join the trembling quiet of the room. When it had gone, the silence itself seemed to vibrate with his thoughts. “Perhaps not for matters profane,” he said at length. “But for oil dedicated to sacred purpose, no mark may mar the vessel. No imperfection is to be permitted, from within or without. We draw the sign of the Fury upon it that anointments come not from mortal hands, but from the Goddess herself. Form and symbol are no accident. I have dedicated mine body and mine life to the service of Halone. Now that I bear the mark of evil, the unfit vessel must be shattered that a new one might be found for service.”

The speech was delivered calmly, though with a strain of sorrow woven through it like a ribbon in a maiden's hair. One could nearly have believed the knight merely to be expounding on a matter of theology, rather than the question of his own life's worth. Alphinaud would needs admit to being a touch awed at the ease with which he parried the analogy, eyes closed to the dim lamplight and already mourning a life not yet over. It was with a little difficulty that the younger man rallied his own sense once more, closing his own eyes against the lithe body laid beside him and the urge to nestle against it to comfort them both.

It was perhaps best to redirect. He had no authority over the other man's theology, nor did he wish to. He objected only to the conclusion, to any claim that his worth had been stolen against his will. “Then your body has been profaned,” he replied, though he didn't agree in the slightest. “I suppose now you are nearly as bad as we heathens who live beyond the Gates of Judgment. How terribly dreadful.”

It was a risky gambit. He opened one eye to search the other man's face for a reaction, as though a single eyelid could protect him from the consequences of his daring.

Blessedly, the knight merely laughed. It joyless and sharp, a mere dry quake like a sore cough. But it seemed an improvement still, and Aymeric's eyes seemed warmer for it, once he'd opened them again to gaze up at the boy who stood guard at his pillow.

“The answer to that is obvious. Even the rudest tallow is better than the finest olive oil gone rancid. But I find that I cannot agree with the sentiment.” He looked softly up at Alphinaud, rotating slightly closer and stretching out the wing that had been trapped beneath before relaxing to lie flat again, arms stretched out and shoulders loose as though they merely watched the stars. “'Tis an easy thing, without knowing you, for mine countrymen to judge you as a servant of sin. But though you walk a path profane, you work the will of the Goddess. Not for care of reward or judgment, but of the goodness of your heart. The mark upon your urn is one of worldly travail and base concerns. But it is because the oil within is as pure as the lamps that light the altar, symbolizing Halone's very love.”

The wry grin that the young diplomat had harbored at being likened to chicken grease faded into astonishment, then bloomed into a blush. He was finally forced to look away, hiding his face on the other side of his bunched-up knees. Such praise was uncharacteristic of the knight. Alphinaud was rather more used to being made to feel childish in his presence. But perhaps this was the regard in which the commander held him, but could never express for fear of tipping his hand. Or perhaps only now was he in such dire need that his defenses had shattered, and his truths had spilled out for all the world to see.

Regardless, he was flattered in the extreme. It took him a moment to swallow the burst of pride and embarrassment before he could once again look upon the knight. When he did, the other man's pale eyes were closed once more, relaxed, no longer creased with care or sorrow.

It seemed so obvious to Alphinaud that there was always a way forward. If only Aymeric could see it as well. “If the path is no less noble, then surely you might deign to walk it as well. You needn't throw yourself on the mercy of your clergy. You could serve all of Eorzea from here, or you could work to protect Ishgard from without. Surely the Fury counts the service of even the lowliest peasant who cannot recall the words of their prayers and hasn't the coin for alms. Surely a man such as you, knowledgeable, clever, and unshackled by tradition, could still have a place in her plan.”

Aymeric looked up again, regarding him almost slyly through half-lidded eyes. Thinking, it seemed, for a long stretch of breath, his dark lashes wavering at the boundary between life and dreams. “I cannot believe that what has transpired is according to Her plan,” he whispered at last. “But the path you offer is... tempting. Perhaps too tempting, for one such as me.”

A small smile of satisfaction graced Alphinaud's lips, and perhaps more than a little affection. “Good. Then I shall keep tempting you, as often as possible.”

It was a silly thing to say, but the knight smiled and snorted through his nose in vague amusement all the same. And then he relaxed once more, rolling onto his side and wiggling his wings until they lay freely behind his back like a thick hide blanket between them.

Alphinaud waited for a time, watching the bent claw at the pinion of the dragon's wing as it fluttered over Aymeric's shoulder in time with his breath. Not for the first time, the younger man restrained the urge to reach out and stroke it, tracing his fingers over the curved point of the claw and down the leading edge that curled protectively over his side. He wondered if the wings could sustain flight. It seemed impossible, especially given that the transformation was incomplete. The wings might be too small, or insufficiently grounded by muscle. Elezen backs were designed to move a pair of arms with strength and precision. The power required to lift an entire body into the air was an entirely different matter. It was foolish to hope.

And yet, as in all things, he did hope. It seemed to him that it would have been just, to allow the knight to take wing and soar through the heavens. A small gift in exchange for a life torn asunder and a faith kept but unrewarded.

As Aymeric seemed intent on sleeping, Alphinaud edged carefully from the bed once more, meeting cold stone with the balls of his feet and balancing for a moment on his toes to avoid the chill. But the knight murmured plaintively at him, not moving but merely muttering at the wall. “Pray, stay with me Alphinaud,” he said, his words slurred together from sleep.

“Of course,” the young diplomat answered, surprised but not displeased. He retrieved his pillow and blanket from the chair and returned to his seated position upon the bed. Sitting upright allowed him to pretend he was merely sleeping nearby, rather than nestled close in what could justly be called a compromising position. He set the pillow behind his shoulders and leaned into the wall, and slowly, by fits and degrees, sagged down to lie upon the bed. Curled like a cat beside the knight's head, where not a thing disturbed either of their slumber for the rest of the night.

Sleep worked a wondrous magic, washing away the previous day's troubles like a drawing upon the sand. The cycles of the tide obliterated all things, in time. The living, the bones of the dead, great joy and insufferable pain. Even Allag had fallen, its great Crystal Tower locked away by the bonds of time itself, like a miser who hoarded beauty that none might see it shine.

Alphinaud believed that time would vanquish evil, as well as greatness. He believed that all wounds could heal, that no cause was truly lost. He believed that even when one's heart was sundered and broken beyond recognition, merely to walk along the beach and let the waves carry away the shards could become an act of triumph in itself.

He believed it because it was what he himself had done, since the day his grandfather had forged his body and soul into a shield to protect the very world with his love.

Seven-odd years later, the boy and his charge had slept rather later than expected. Waking so close to the knight had been jarring, but he was able to right himself before the other man stirred, hopping out of bed and smoothing his embarrassment as though they were feathers ruffled by sleep.

Aymeric seemed to have rested well, but his waking was still attended by sorrow. The other man found the light not long after, rattling his chains confusedly for a moment before buying his face in the pillow and unleashing a heart-rending groan of disappointment. “The price I pay for a few bells of forgetfulness, I suppose,” he groused, turning onto his stomach and beginning a series of languid stretches.

Alphinaud was forced to turn his back to avoid staring with the avidity of an entomologist in Cutter's Cry. He found that he was suddenly quite awake.

It was one thing to fancy the man, Alphinaud thought. But the scholar in him was simply fascinated, and he could not quite seem to leash both impulses at once. A part of his mind lingered on the roll of the knight's hips as he'd pulled his knees forward and arched his back. Another was diagramming the curve of the tail that protruded from his sagging trousers, following the curve of his spine and pushing aside the blanket as an undulation coursed down its length.

It occurred to him that, while he had not practiced his drawing in some time, he was in sore need of a sketchbook. For science, of course. The intricacy in the bones of the wings alone was breathtaking. He wanted to catalogue every single one.

Assuming, of course, the other man was comfortable enough to model for him. He had attempted to treat potential dates as specimens for study before, with results that were as predictable as they had been unpleasant. He was roused from his reverie merely to shake his head at himself, a reminder of his own lack of social graces, here in the presence of their very master.

He still had a charge to care for. As far as he was concerned, Aymeric's needs came first, Eorzea's second, and his own childish curiosity could take a walk off an airship's aft deck if it tried to interfere. The fact that his care for the foreign knight was outstripping his sense of duty hardly raised an alarm, by this point.

“Do you suppose you could find it in you to repeat your promise?” Alphinaud asked once he'd composed himself enough to look at the other man again. It was a near thing, too. Aymeric had wiggled free of the blankets but left his knee sprawled to the side, emphasizing his rear and the hidden cavern beneath his stomach though he was otherwise flat upon the bed. His wings had been tossed casually back, revealing his shoulders and arms held forward, bent and clasped together in permanent supplication.

His hair was a mess, the short curly strands haphazard without truly seeming tangled. He looked thoroughly rumpled, and though the younger man knew quite well it had been from sleep, the hazy cast of his the knight's eyes as he looked sleepily back at his caretaker was doing nothing to keep his imagination in check.

He regretted making the offer. It would have been better to summon whomever was awake at the moment, and make his morning preparations on his own. His body's reaction suggested it might be wise to remove himself from the situation as soon as he could manage it. But Aymeric yawned, baring his fangs at his pillow because he could not cover his mouth with his hands, and nodded. “Yes,” he murmured softly. “'Tis a new day, after all, and I'm like to sleep through it if I stay here.”

Alphinaud was forced to shrug at his own stupidity, and help the knight free.

It seemed that they had already seen the extent of Aymeric's transformation, save for a set of smaller claws protruding from his toes. There was a full-length mirror in the common bath, before which the Ishgardian stood transfixed once he had fully disrobed. Slowly, he lifted one clawed hand to place against the mirror, reaching out as if to touch his twin through glass that revealed the unflinching truth.

It seemed a deeply personal moment, one that made Alphinaud's heart stutter and claw at his throat in sympathy. There was no comfort he could possibly give. So he, too, stripped to nothing but his towel, and quietly went about his business. He would not interfere. He would be the ghost of companionship that asserted itself only when summoned, and until then, Aymeric could have all the time and quiet in the world in which to think.

It was foolish to think that he might come to terms with it, someday. It was even foolish to think that they might find a cure. But he supposed he was that sort of fool.

The scholar kept a wary eye in Aymeric's general direction, watching for sudden movements or tense posture. But he was careful not to look too closely, keeping his eyes from wandering where they dearly wished to roam. He kept his focus squarely on his own bathing, the task of becoming thoroughly clean in all its minute detail. Scrubbing every ilm of himself he could reach as he sat on a stool near the bath, then carefully unbraiding his hair and luxuriating in a bucket of warm water poured over his head.

By the time he'd washed his hair and rinsed away every sud, Aymeric was occupied in a similar set of tasks nearby, his back turned and shielded by a wall of wing. Were circumstances different, perhaps, the young diplomat might have offered to help wash them. Instead he gave the knight his space, and stepped into the deep tub, sighing as he sank to the edge of his chin in water just cool enough to bear.

A bath like this was a small price to pay for having to share it, Alphinaud thought, letting his eyes drift closed and merely listening to his companion's movements. Most families hadn't the space or the money for such a traditional luxury. But when so many adventurers had passed through every day, the Scions couldn't afford not to provide facilities to bathe. The bath was large enough for several to rest comfortably, kept warm at all hours by a bomb core beneath. If he ever managed to find a true home for himself, he wanted a bath like this. If he only allowed himself one ostentatious waste of gil, he thought, let it be a magicked tub and the water to drown his troubles in.

When Aymeric joined him a few minutes later, the warmth of his sigh suggested that he wholeheartedly agreed. The younger man opened his eyes to see the knight similarly relaxed, seated on the submerged bench along the rear wall and stretching his wings wide to droop below the surface. He, too, had closed out the world, his angular jaw tipped into the air as he rested his neck on the smooth rim, and his lips curved into a nearly imperceptible smile.

Alphinaud realized only then the mission that his heart had already set out upon. He would do whatever it took to see his friend smile, as often as he could manage it.

It was past noon already when they had finished their bathing and a light, inoffensive breakfast, and the older man had had his fill of pacing and light exercise. There was a strange sort of hurt at the breath of relief he sighed as the locks clicked closed. More than his sorrow, it spoke of wrongness, of reality twisted into things that should never, ever be.

Urianger had been more than willing to sit with the knight for a time. “Thou art welcome, always, to beseech mine aid,” the reclusive scholar had replied when Alphinaud had given the thanks he was due. “Not only for thine sake. A grieving spirit cannot be rebirthed when the heart hath ceased its fluttering. For one's soul to be nourished, one must attend, first, its mortal rest.” The gaunt Elezen lifted his hand briefly to the goggles that covered his eyes, which must surely have concealed a wellspring of grief.

Even when speaking, he gave the air of quiet, of dust and books that had not been disturbed for centuries. Urianger had been his grandfather's student, yes. But sometimes it seemed rather that he was merely a living manuscript, upon which was etched Louisoix's very wisdom. Alphinaud found it not a little disconcerting, were he to be perfectly honest. But his advice was sincere and hard-won, and the younger Elezen had merely bowed his head in thanks for his wisdom as well as his soup.

He had clearly been on to something when he had offered the broken knight a share of his dignity—had cared, in essence, for his mortal needs as well as those of his soul. And so it was in pursuit of a little more of it that he set off to toward Ul'dah on the back of a rented chocobo. Once there, he made his way toward the bustling market, casting his eyes about as he walked. Taking in every destitute refugee, wealthy patron, and ragamuffin adventurer with his keen analytical eyes. Looking for ideas and suggestions to the solution to his problem among the great variety of life gathered in the bustle of Pearl Lane, and finding... nothing.

Except Hikari. The warrior was rather hard to miss.

He had been standing among the stalls nearest the Quicksand, not shopping, merely staring off into space in deep contemplation. That in itself wouldn't have been that strange, nor the heavy furs and leather of the long-lost tribe of Warriors whose traditions he claimed to uphold. It was rather the hat he'd donned, a black shaggy thing that might merely have looked like a mop of unkempt hair save for the tall, ear-like protrusions on the top and the beady little eyes in the front. The adventurer looked like a Spriggan was attempting to eat his head.

It was some moments before Hikari had the presence of mind to notice Alphinaud standing a few yalms away, tilting his head in bemusement. But he finally did, delivering a careless wave of his hand and a gregarious grin. Beneath the Thanalan sun, his deep sapphire eyes had the audacity to sparkle. Alphinaud smiled back, if only because in the light of the adventurer's attention, it was sometimes impossible to do otherwise.

“Hey there,” said Hikari brightly. “I don't normally see you out here. Fancy some shopping?” Then, looking casually over his shoulder, he lowered his voice a touch and added, “how's our guest doing? Any better?”

The younger man had been attempting to assemble a snappy retort, but the thought of Aymeric knocked the wind out of him, physically, in a sudden huff. “I should like to think so,” he said instead, crossing his arms and attempting to look unruffled and uninterested. “That's why I've come. I'm looking for some... suitable clothing. Nothing ostentatious, but comfortable and... dignified,” he hesitated to add. “Nothing strange.” He failed not to glance upward to the Spriggan that teetered atop the adventurer's head, grinning blankly at nothing and everything at once.

“Oh, of course. That's a fantastic idea, might help him feel a bit more... normal. But it's a tall order,” said Hikari seriously, bringing his hand to his mouth and running his thumb along his lips. “I don't think you'll find anything that fits our requirements here. We'll have to go bespoke.” He wiggled his fingers expressively on the final word, an eloquent expression that Alphinaud could not begin to divine the meaning of.

But it was certainly not good news, and his hopeful smile melted accordingly. He was counted as rich in some circles, but that didn't mean he had full access to his family's funds. What he had command of was largely invested in the Crystal Braves, and his sister's portion was inviolable. The rest was held in a trust for them both until they either married or reached the age of twenty-one. And while that was nearer than he sometimes felt, he shuddered to think of the terms that would go along with borrowing against it in a land ruled from the shadows by the Syndicate. He would go without food before pecking a morsel from their outstretched hands. He might, in fact, bite their fingers off instead.

“Hey, don't worry about it,” said the adventurer, turning up the heat on his grin to impossibly cheerful levels. He cocked his head subtly to the side, and the Spriggan's ears amplified the movement, springing to and fro with wild fervor. “I know some people. Meet me outside the Weaver's Guild in say, half an hour?”

In the unusual position of being offered a plan by the warrior he commanded, Alphinaud could only agree.

He left the adventurer to whatever deep thoughts he had been in the middle of pondering, opting instead to walk the length of the market and watch the customers as much as the products on display. Every new sort of outfit he found, he would imagine the wearer sprouting wings or a huge tail. The only clothes that seemed to work were the more scandalous outfits worn by women, which would have been a step down from nakedness, as far as Aymeric's dignity was concerned. Still, half a bell later he found himself waiting by the aetherite near the guild's entrance, swallowing his apprehension at the thought of attempting to talk his way into a contract with a craftsman whose services he could not afford, to make clothing for a client he could not describe.

“Ready to do this?” sounded a familiar voice, and Alphinaud turned from his perch against the wall to behold... a foppish dandy with an idiotic grin. Or more specifically, the Warrior of Light, wearing a ridiculously-tailored red suit. A long pair of tails ran down the back, and a tiny feathered top hat sat upon his head in place of the Spriggan from earlier.

And yet, this outfit seemed even more ridiculous than the last. “What in the name of Nymeia's wheel are you wearing?” asked Alphinaud, before he could check his tongue. Once he'd said it, there was hardly any point in apologizing, so he settled with half-heartedly hiding his grin behind his hand.

Hikari didn't take offense, his own grin sliding into sheepishness and back into joy like a wave breaking on the beach. “Got to look the part. It's important to dress how you want to be seen, you know, and this is no ordinary guild.” He gave Alphinaud a once-over with his canny eyes, amusement barely touching his features. “I have no idea what that look says about you. But I'm sure we'll manage.”

“And you dress how you want to be seen, do you? All the time? Or do you represent yourself honestly, and only lie now?” It wasn't crossness with which he sniped back at the warrior, but rather disorientation and pride. He was not accustomed to being lectured save aught but Y'shtola, at least in recent memory.

“Both, of course,” replied Hikari with a loopy smile. “If you don't believe I can kill with style as well as an axe, that just shows how little you know about me.” And then he reached up to knock his hat just slightly askance, and strolled gallantly down the steps.

Before he knew it, Alphinaud was face-to-face with Redolent Rose, legendary master of the Weaver's Guild and foremost name in taste in both the Sultanate and beyond.

Master Rose was a man of poise and dignity, despite or perhaps because of his heavy Roegedayn stature. He wore a similar tailcoat to Hikari's, in tasteful tones of muted blue. It should have looked strange on him but instead it seemed to magnify him, giving him even more gravity and commanding presence. He was gray in complexion, and the lines of his face seemed pinched and drawn into perpetual condescension. When he saw the adventurer, however, his full lips broke into a generous smile, and he rushed forward to clasp the adventurer's hand like an equal. “Ah, my young protégé, how lovely to see you! You are looking excellent, as ever. Keeping up your skills, are you? Turning heads on the Avenue?” His voice was rich and expressive, rising and dipping smoothly like chocolate poured over a bowl of truffles, sinking deep into every crevice.

“Of course,” said the warrior in the tailored suit. “You know me, I like to make a statement. And you're looking fantastic as usual. Glad to see Ul'dah's pampered rich haven't driven you to an early grave yet.”

The rueful grin the Master Weaver returned suggested the early grave might be just around the corner. “Oh, not yet, not yet. I live to serve. Should I die in the service of my art, why, I think I should merely stitch myself back together as I wear out along the seams. And speaking of service, who might this be? Have I the honor of meeting a client?” He turned abruptly to Alphinaud and looked him over so discreetly he could nearly have missed it, a quick flick of the eyes and a subtle twitch of his bland smile the only sign of whatever complex appraisal he was performing. And yet, for a brief instant, the young diplomat felt as if his entire soul were on display. As if the Roegedayn's rapt attention were a spotlight shining out of the dark, lighting him up to see for malms around.

Before he could stammer an introduction, his adventurer answered for him. “Yes, in a manner of speaking,” he said cryptically. “Master, I would like to introduce Alphinaud Leveilleur, a dear friend of mine. Alphinaud, this is Guildmaster Redolent Rose. There is no designer in Eorzea more capable of creating what we need. He's a creative genius, and he's satisfied with nothing less than perfection. Everything he makes comes straight from his heart, so don't let him fool you into thinking he hasn't got one.” He snapped suddenly into a playful grin, lop-sided and sharp at the edges.

The weaver was halfway through a second discreet appraisal, perhaps recognizing the name though he gave little sign of it. But he flushed a pale shade of mauve when he heard the adventurer's effusive praise. Obviously the guildmaster needed no introduction, and he was derailed momentarily by the need to remove himself from the spotlight. “Nonsense,” he cooed, smoothing down the front of his suit and fussing with his cuff-links in turn. “You are generous to a fault, Hikari, most of all with your praise. I am merely a servant. A midwife of dreams, if you will. In such distinguished company, I am hardly as a star in the shadow of the greater moon,” he said, inclining his head respectfully toward the young Elezen.

Ah, so the guildmaster had recognized his name. It irked Alphinaud sometimes to be forced to rely upon it, but it had its advantages. It was sometimes easier to work oneself down from an over-high opinion than up from an underestimation. “I am not my grandfather, Guildmaster,” he said, adopting humility as a pose but keeping his head held high. “My own achievements hardly merit such praise. It is rather a great honor to meet the man who commands Eorzea's cultural revolutions. No corner of the land is ignorant of your reputation, nor lacking in praise for your art.”

The impish curl of the weaver's pursed lips told the young Elezen that he would not be on the receiving end of any more appraisals, no matter how discreet. “You flatter me, Master Leveilleur, but it will get you everywhere,” he said with a deep bow. “How may I be of service to my dear protégé and his distinguished friend?” He looked between them brightly, no longer so penetrating, but a trifle too hopeful. It occurred to Alphinaud that he might be thinking of them as the wrong sort of friends, and it was all he could do to keep his own smile bland and inoffensive, rather than curling like a clock-spring and rebounding to launch the gears of his dignity across the guild floor.

Hikari took up the charge once again, while the younger man struggled with his words and his composure. “Not for us, Master. For a... visiting diplomat, you might say. A challenge. Something unusual, and very hush-hush.” Hikari had curled his fist beneath his chin as if in thought, and there was a sparkle in his eyes, of mischief or anticipation or, Alphinaud might have thought at any other time, a thirst for blood. “He's tall, like an Elezen in build. But—while I can't give you specifics—we need to leave his back uncovered, and he has a large tail. We need something simple but elegant, which gives him a good range of movement and comfort. It also needs to be easy to get in and out of, even with his unusual features. He's used to fine craftsmanship, but values function over form. A nice shirt and trousers should do. And maybe a heavy cloak, for colder climates.”

“A visiting dignitary? Perhaps one of the fabled people of the Far East? What a fine opportunity to display our art and innovation,” mused the guildmaster, eyes already dancing to and fro as he visualized. “Yes, of course, you may count on my discretion. Sunsilk Tapestries would not be Eorzea's foremost supplier of fine raiment if we spoke about our esteemed clients to all and sundry!” He allowed himself a small chuckle, but his mind was clearly elsewhere, an elbow cradled in his hand as he gestured invisible diagrams in the air. “You have his measurements? For such a diverting challenge, I should like to begin work at once—with your assistance, of course, Hikari.”

The answer was no, but the adventurer nodded anyway. “I can have them to you by the end of the afternoon. I can also tell you he looks amazing in jet black and royal blue.” And then he winked, the cheeky thing, and the guildmaster's grin lit up like a Starlight tree, and Alphinaud was very glad then not to have to say anything at all.
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Dragon's Prayer