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Bellyachin'	By : WonderMint Category: Final Fantasy XIV > Yaoi - Male/Male Views: 2106 -:- 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
- 8
- 9
- 10
A/N: Now that you have read Chapter 8, you can appreciate this amazingly sexy fanart by Fadeddreams. Drop what you are doing right now and go see!
Inktober #8 by Fadeddreamss
https://instagram.com/p/80L-lCqvpU/
This chapter is rated H, for Haurchefant. Sorry, no sex today. Enjoy your tea.

After the terrified Miqo'te had fled down the hall, Alphinaud had reacted automatically, not unlike his ill-advised foray into the storm. He had told Aymeric to run, his voice quiet but otherwise normal, neither a whisper nor a shout, no panic or agitation to be heard. His hand was still outstretched, fingers poised just in front of the barely-open door where his partner could see it without being seen himself. He had thought to signal for safety, but safety had long-since fled the building.
“Wait,” returned a quiet voice from the shadow. Alphinaud refused to look as his coat was pressed into his grip, then his gloved palm was enveloped in Aymeric's larger hands. They gave him a reassuring squeeze, long and unnecessary, as reckless or moreso than the kiss he'd stolen outside the gate. All the same, some tiny place inside of him surged with warmth, somehow needing to know that the other man was resolute. “Now go,” the knight finished, a commanding whisper, and he did.
He didn't care. He cared about Aymeric, of course, so much that it hurt him physically, a great wound in his chest like a river-carved canyon. He cared about the consequences too, the mere thought of his lover being in harm's way making him seize up inside, freeze cold and dark. But he didn't care about the risk anymore. It was worth it, he was worth it. He was worth whatever it took to protect him. It was worth it to hear the other man agree, to see the razor-thin smile on his lips, the brightness of his eyes. Damn the consequences, damn them to the seven hells.
He wondered, ice swirling in his veins, how thoroughly he would be willing to damn himself.
His mind was resolute, unsullied by doubt as he walked calmly after the girl. He knew the layout of the building. That was the only exit, which meant that with the exception of anyone occupying the private rooms, the only way anyone would enter was the way she had gone, and he could intercept and delay them if necessary. He felt rather than heard Aymeric retreat the other direction down the hall, likely to lock himself in his room until any commotion died down, removing himself from the scene of the crime until an opportunity presented itself to leave. Alphinaud took care not to look back until he was gone, making certain that no doors had opened to see his passing. All was quiet.
When he reached the corner of the hall, it was clear to see that she had gone. So he followed the faded carpet outside, where he could find no sign of her. No fingers pointed in his direction either, and the place seemed to be operating much as normal. Schooling his expression from the grim blankness it had become, he put on his coat and went for a walk outside the gate, needing to remove himself completely from the scene in order to analyze it.
A few hours later he returned to the camp, his head becalmed somewhat. He had thought it over repeatedly, and had come to the conclusion that it was all rather odd. He had no idea what had spooked her so thoroughly. It was likely clear what he had been up to, but he could see no reason for her to be so afrighted by it, even granted the odd religious zeal of the people here. She wasn't even an Elezen, likely born some other place and here only for the coin. Regardless, it seemed that there wasn't much he could do about it. Without knowing why she reacted as she did, there was no real way for him to anticipate her actions, and thus no way to counter them. The only thing he was sure of was that the knight had not been seen by her, and it was unlikely that he had been seen by anyone else. With no-one knowing that they had been in the closet together, the repercussions, whatever they might be, would likely fall only upon Alphinaud. That was a compromise he would accept happily.
Which meant that the only thing he could do now was to gather information. There was no camp-wide manhunt for him, everything seemed as normal. Almost moreso, as if the volume of daily life had amplified now that he strained to hear it. He found Tataru in the Intercessory, sorting out her Triad cards, a pile of completed reports abandoned on the desk.
She had greeted him normally, only inquiring where he had been and whether anything was wrong. He must have looked a fright, at least to her. She had spent so much time at his side of late that he knew she was quite aware that something was wrong. As she had ever since he'd returned from the dead, though, she only looked at him in that curious, appraising way. Damn the intuition of women.
He reassured the Lalafel that he was only hungry, having missed lunch in favor of a walk to clear his head—the truth, or a tiny fraction thereof. Fortunately it was supper-time by then, the day nearly concluded. Subtly he questioned her about the goings on around the camp, letting her chatter overtake the silence in his heart. Nothing noteworthy seemed to have happened, no gossip from her friends in the kitchens. He consented to sit with her and eat in the common room, though he could not refrain from taking a position in the far corner, the better to watch the door. Tataru watched him pick at his food with obvious concern, occasionally reminding him that he had claimed to be hungry, and hen-pecking about his general health.
At length Lord Haurchefant entered the room, scanning the crowd until his clear blue eyes rested on Alphinaud. That did not bode well. His stomach sank even further as the lord approached him with a casual air, settling down across the table, resting his elbows on the surface and giving him a meaningful look. Considering. Almost as if he were sizing the younger man up, trying to come up with some new opinion, though they had known each-other for some time.
“The raven has flown, unattended. Be at ease.” His voice had a quiet gravity that did not match his easy posture, or the usual, slightly unhinged demeanor of the strange man. Alphinaud blinked up at him, too stunned at first to be properly relieved.
When Aymeric had tasked Tataru with delivering a message, it had been phrased neutrally, plausibly. This was not plausible. This was coded in such a way as to make it completely obvious that it was encrypted, just begging the listener to decipher its meaning. That meant that Haurchefant had encoded it himself, and thus that he knew enough of what was happening to have liberty with his phrasing. Alphinaud was unable to stop his head from dropping into his hand, his last refuge from insanity. “Thank you, Lord Haurchefant,” he muttered through his palm, more to prevent him from saying anything further than in appreciation. Perhaps he could be at ease—later.
“You should invest more trust in your friends,” the enigmatic lord replied. “You have more allies than you are wont to admit.” When Alphinaud peeked through his fingers he was looking pointedly at Tataru, and a shift of his glance verified that she was looking up at him, lips quirked in irritation, eyebrows lifted just so.
He sighed wearily, defeated, but unable to give in just yet. “Yes, of course. It has ever been thus. Both of you. Thank you.” But he could say no more, not a word, those few short sentences being far too much to choke out of his constricted throat.
The blue-haired man narrowed his eyes and let the corners of his mouth wander upwards a fraction, a tiny conspiratorial smile, as if to confirm that he knew at least enough to be dangerous. But that was the last of the damage he would do. “I shall call on you anon.” He rose to leave, moving around the hall to greet various guests before sitting down to dinner himself, leaving Alphinaud alone with Tataru and his uneaten meal.
He waited.
“And the raven would be...” there it was. Tataru said it in such a way as to leave no doubt that she already knew the answer.
“Yes. I will not speak of this here.” Neither his tone nor his gaze left any room for argument. The hurt reflected in her lavender eyes made him wonder if he had changed that much over the course of the day, or if he had simply never before showed such steel to her. Guiltily, he looked away again, poking a cut of poultry with his fork. “You deserve answers, but I cannot give them as yet,” he added with a touch of softness.

Back in his room, following the heels of the setting sun, he took a moment to collect himself. While he had calmed considerably during his walk, he only seemed to feel now the incredible strain of the day, panic and fatigue making his blood feel strange, tired, acid in his veins. What he needed was the comforting embrace of his lover, but it was far better that he was long gone. He would make do with his feather mattress and memories prized at too great a cost.
He leaned his weary shoulders against the wood and bolted the door. The cool surface was different than the door he had leaned against hours previous, the wood polished and lacquered smooth and providing a cooling diffusion of the tension that coiled there. He slipped off his gloves absently, bringing up his abused hand, tracing the mark with detached bemusement. His teeth had found the spot where his wrist joined with the fleshy pad at the base of his thumb, easily concealed. There was an angry bruised crescent visible from each side, neat, deliberate.
It hurt still, a dull red throb which worried against the sweat-worn fabric the entire day, calling his thoughts to places he would rather have been. He was trying to be careful, muffling, not biting, but at the end, the delightful shattering of his will had made restraint quite impossible. It was not too deep, breaking the skin only in a few small places, only enough to taste and feel with the intensity of a hot iron. Now that he had done it he was not so averse to the pain, and idly he wished he could let it heal on its own, hidden beneath his pure white glove and singing songs of sin. It was not worth the risk, of course. Bites were a peculiar sort of wound, and he could not afford a scar. Not worth the potential questions.
He would do something for it in the morning. In the meantime he settled for rinsing it in the basin, the cold water stinging and setting his nerves to chattering in a most pleasing way. Sharp now, not dull, and he closed his eyes to listen until the shock ebbed away. Then he stirred himself to movement, wandering wearily to his pillow and the promise of hours free from worry, at least in the conscious realm.
That was odd.
There was a folded scrap of paper sitting on his pillow. It was crumpled in some spots and large droplets of ink were visible, bleeding through the other side. The only person he would have expected to leave him a message would be Aymeric, and he had delivered his message through other means, having had much more sense than to come here and commit his crimes to writing.
With trepidation, he snatched it up and moved to the fire to see it better. The script was large, spidery, with blots of ink in odd places as if the writer had frequently paused mid-way, having forgotten quite how to shape the letters. It said, simply, “YOR SEKRIT IZ SAEF.”
That was it. The last thread. The only person that could have left this was the poor maid, who no doubt knew the living arrangements well, being responsible for their upkeep.
He remembered back to the morning's panic, the ice that had frozen his heart and hardened his resolve. He had not been sure—still was not sure—but for a long, sick moment, he had considered killing the maid, if it could have meant preventing Aymeric's secret from escaping. The blood on his hands, the life of an innocent young woman... had seemed pale in comparison to the chance of losing his knight to a cruel execution.
How he had fallen. No, he was sure of it now, he was not capable of it, not then and not ever. But the mere thought... the mere thought. He sank to the floor, leaning against his chair and hugging his knees.
He wanted to weep, but all he could feel just then was numbness.
He was awoken too soon from a fitful sleep, hard-won and hardly restful. A knock at the door, insistent. Alphinaud lay sleepily in the warm bed, more inclined to listen to his body, the drowsing comfort preferable to mental acuity irrespective of whom it offended.
The knock sounded again a minute later, persistent but not angry. A muffled voice could be heard from the corridor, just loud enough to carry.
“Alphinaud, you can't hide from me forever. I can take this door off its hinges and the only person who shall be put out by it is you.”
Blast. Haurchefant had carried through on his visit, and entirely too soon. Alphinaud stirred himself to motion a little too violently and ended up rolling onto the floor, the impact of cold stone shocking him awake immediately. He pushed his body to movement despite its protests, blood not quite catching up with his brain. He threw open the door to greet the insufferably cheerful lord, blinking away the purple and black spots that danced around the periphery of his vision. Phantoms of misery soon to come.
He looked as if he had never been more pleased in his life. “Alphinaud, my gracious, you look...” wide eyes took in his rumpled appearance with delight, and he was slapped in the face with self-consciousness as he fully registered that he had answered the door in his sleeping clothes. Yes, he was decent. Technically. He certainly was not put together. He was clothed only in a pair of loose drawstring pants and a rumpled shirt, slightly too small to fully cover his stomach as he hadn't bothered to replace it for a few years. The matched set was pale blue, making him look even more childlike, and his hair was likely ruffled as a chocobo's tail. Without thinking he reached down to grab his pants where they had ridden a little too low over one hip, realizing only too late that it brought attention to his embarrassment.
“You are positively adorable!”
No, he was not blushing, not even a little. But he was not enjoying the sensation of being made to feel as if he were still six years old, being cooed over by every maiden and matron who passed. This must be how Lalafel often felt, he realized. Well at least he was not the only person on the receiving end of such disrespect. Too sluggish and too sleepy to hide his discomfort, he turned his back to the door in the rudest invitation he could manage. He padded on bare feet toward the fire to put the kettle on, needing some activity to distract him.
“I'm fairly certain we have some mutual acquaintances that could wipe that smirk off your face if I asked,” he groused. He didn't have the martial prowess to defend his own honor, so he compromised with a low blow. Behind him he heard the door thud closed and the bolt swing shut. This was not in itself strange, especially given the secretive nature of their business, but it filled him with strange foreboding nonetheless. Against his will he imagined that his only escape route had been cut off.
“Hmm, yes, but there's only one whom I fear I might provoke, and it's worth more than just my life were I to displease him.” He could hear Haurchefant grin, the coeurl who'd caught the chocobo. He turned with a scowl to see him rooting around the cupboard for the cups and tea, a task which Alphinaud had wanted for himself, hoping it would keep him from having to look at the other man for at least half a minute. This at least was still avoidance, though, and it seemed to take the whimsical man longer than strictly necessary. He had pulled half the cabinet's contents out onto the floor, arranging bowls, napkins, cutlery, and a salt shaker in neat little stacks.
Avoidance only worked so long, though. Alphinaud was at least ready for him now, eased into his armchair and slightly more composed, clothing and hair smoothed out just a little and feeling slightly less like a vagrant. The lord finally appeared with a pair of earthenware mugs and a wooden box, sitting across from him in the other chair before the fire. Aymeric's chair, he thought before he could stop himself.
“You don't look like you slept well,” the lord said conversationally as he sorted tea leaves into the two cups, one long leaf at a time, according to some logic of his own. A glance toward the cupboard confirmed Alphinaud's suspicion, that little if any of its contents had been put away. It was probably for the better, as some of it would need to be washed now that it had sat upon the floor.
“No, I haven't. And neither does orange suit you,” he replied with as much venom as he could manage. The insult floundered uselessly, mild enough that he oughtn't have bothered.
Haurchefant didn't rise to the bait, just smiling congenially, eyes seeming to sparkle with an amount of mirth and energy that was positively indecent at this time of morning. Which was... a few bells past dawn, according to the Chronoscope.
Familiarity, that's what it was. In his sleepiness and ire he had abandoned his practiced formality for his much more natural biting sarcasm, which apparently indicated to the lord that they were now close friends. It was that or the other way around... the personal level of his meddling signaling to Alphinaud that it no longer mattered how rude he was to the other man. He doubted now he could chase him away no matter how much he might want to, if for no other reason that the entire camp was under his care. He had nowhere to hide until Ishgard received him.
The kettle whistled. The young diplomat tried not to lurch towards it, rising instead with dignity to retrieve it and pouring for them both. And he waited, both for the tea to brew and for Lord Haurchefant to get to whatever it was he wanted to say, resolved to give away as little as possible, investment of trust be damned.
“I need for you to tell me what happened yesterday,” was what the lord said at last, swirling his mug in circles and watching the leaves. No, watching him, eyes darting up from the darkening liquid to peer at him intently from beneath spikes of hair the color of the oncoming storm.
“What did he tell you?” Alphinaud parried, or stalled, more like. He didn't just need to know how much he knew, but how much Aymeric trusted him. How much he could trust him. He had no doubts he was loyal, but... this was no game.
The other man leaned back in his chair, mug abandoned on the table, tenting his fingertips together and casting his eyes toward the ceiling to give the subject serious thought.
“'Still your heathen tongue ere I cut it out and throw it to the crocodiles,' I believe. There may also have been a remark about my mother, I have a poor memory for invective.” To his credit, he managed a completely straight face for almost a minute before breaking into a disarming, lop-sided grin. Alphinaud couldn't help but laugh softly, imagining the irritation Haurchefant must have caused to drive his stoic lover to such words. Or perhaps that was what passed as friendship between them, when no-one else was around to see. A little of the tension drained from his body. He didn't feel quite as alone anymore.
The lord was smiling at him serenely still, sipping his tea experimentally. “What I know is this,” he continued after some thought. “I have never seen him so shaken...” a knot tightened in Alphinaud's stomach, the idea of the knight being frightened both ludicrous and terrifying. “But I have also never seen him smile in such a way. When he bade me inform you that he was safe, it was... it was like the clouds parted and sunshine poured forth. He is happy. He has never been happy, not like that.”
Alphinaud took a small, shaky breath, not having realized his lungs had emptied themselves some moments ago. He took a sip of his tea, reminded of another time, the scent of oranges and cinnamon and wine.
“I believe it's a fair conclusion that you are the cause of his joy,” Haurchefant continued. “I am glad of it. Most glad. And lest you think I am here to make light of your situation, I shall say it plainly: I will do anything within my power to safeguard that happiness. I will protect you both—my friends—at any cost.” The other man's eyes burned, cool blue but warm with conviction. A smile, small and grim, determined. “Now are you going to tell me what happened, or do you need a hug first?”
Alphinaud let his murderous gaze do the talking. The lord let his sideways grin return, and calmly picked a leaf out of his tea with long fingers. He put it in his mouth and closed his teeth around it, though he made a quick face at the bitterness. The little stem was still visible between his lips, dark as the brew and soggy, when he released it to regard the younger man calmly.
He supposed there wasn't a way to avoid it. He took a deep breath, experimenting with different combinations of words, weighting the possible innuendo and testing the embarrassment they would all inevitably cause.
Satisfied that it was the best he could do, he freed the sentence all at once. “I was seen leaving a broom closet by one of the maids. He was not observed, to my knowledge.”
“A broom closet,” the other man repeated speculatively, popping the leaf out of his mouth again, un-chewed. He twirled it quickly by the stem before discarding it on the table. Sharp eyes turned from the leaf to the younger man, looking him over, almost looking through him for a moment. Like a viper, an arm shot out to grip his wrist, tea-stained fingers cold against his skin. Too late he realized it was the hand with the bite mark, no longer very bruised but still visible, scabs beginning to form in places.
“Very nice,” he said in genuine appreciation, examining both sides but refraining from touching the wound. “You did that yourself? This is better than I thought,” he mused. He held a narrow smile, full of secrets, and Alphinaud didn't want to know a single one of them. “You had best heal it, of course. Though I seem to remember you wear gloves? Mayhap it isn't an issue. Oh... perhaps you want to keep it.” The edges of his lips curled further, as if they could roll up like a carpet.
Alphinaud snatched back his hand, cursing his sluggish reflexes, and rubbed his wrist as if to remove the other man's touch. “I'd appreciate it if you kept your speculation to yourself. I was tired yesterday.”
Haurchefant's eyes sparkled with momentary humor before he took another sip of tea, letting his eyes fall closed in pleasure. Then he plucked another tea leaf and regarded it coolly. “Yes, I'll bet you were. You should spend less time in broom cupboards if you dislike speculation into your romantic life, though. That's quite foolish.” He held it to his lips for a moment, considering it with eyes closed before drawing it into his mouth.
“That's what I said,” Alphinaud muttered into his cup, but it wasn't much of a defense.
“Ah, so it's his fault. I shall have to remind him of that. Precious. It's been so many years since I've seen him blush.” His speech had a muted quality to it as he spoke around the leaf, but he didn't bother removing it. Rather he seemed preoccupied by his thoughts, a sly smile creeping up the corners of his mouth and making Alphinaud feel rather unnerved.
There was a brief period during which the younger man made no remark, neither wanting to inquire further nor be left to the mercy of his imagination. He settled for taking a sip of his tea, fair distraction for his lips.
“Of course you realize it was I who taught him to kiss,” the lord said just then, pouncing on the moment and grinning like a wolf. Expressive eyes trained on him, not missing a single reaction as he coughed on the mouthful of tea and struggled not to breathe it instead of drink. It stuck in the back of his throat like bitter gravel, the only mercy that it had cooled to near body temperature on his tongue.
It was a moment before he could turn his attention back to the conversation, whereupon he quickly wished for another distraction. Jealousy flared before he could quite reign it in, irrational tendrils snaking around his consciousness like weeds. He breathed through his nose a few moments, ignoring the ragged burning of his lungs that signaled another cough demanded his attention.
“He said... no, he implied...” it sounded stupid, but in his defense he wasn't intending to say it at all. He lifted his hand to his face to pinch the bridge of his nose in irritation, rolling his eyes at his own emotions. “Alright, you clearly want to tell me about it. Have done with it.”
Haurchefant extracted the tea leaf from his mouth, but didn't let it go far, poking tiny holes in it with deft movements of his teeth. “Oh, he didn't mislead you. That's all it was, shy kisses in the dark. Wandering hands perhaps... years ago, when we were young and foolish. So foolish...” and at that he let his eyes drop closed and relaxed against the chair, turning his head to the side to lean against his hand as if needing the comfort of a touch, any touch, savoring the memory and even blushing a little bit. It even seemed his voice had dropped a note or two, and suddenly the images that flashed before Alphinaud's mind's eye had an entirely different tone. It was difficult to see the man before him in quite the same way.
“You loved him?” He hadn't planned on asking. He had in fact planned not to ask, but lately his tongue did inexplicable things.
“It would have been easy to love him. But...” the other man's expression was wistful, not quite mournful but with an air of sadness like morning mist on fresh grass. “I took the easy way out. We both did. We allowed ourselves to be governed by fear. We gave of ourselves what comfort we could spare, took what joy was offered, and left the rest.” The half-chewed leaf was set down on the table, saliva pooling around the edge and sealing it to the smooth-worn surface. A gesture of finality, a past that, whatever one thought of it, could not be taken back, and was useless to regret.
It occurred to Alphinaud that in sharing this admission, Haurchefant was not taunting him, but rather admitting a weakness. He had suspected that the man's tastes had run toward the peculiar, but this was a frank admission of guilt. There was no reason not to trust him, as he was guilty already of the very same sin.
The other man's gaze was different now, serious, lids half-concealing eyes still trapped in distant memory. Affectionate, as if Alphinaud were a ghost of his past, to whom he had been gifted a last goodbye. “We learned far more about ourselves than each other, of course. Such is the way of things. But your plight has suggested to me another lesson that I had missed.”
The younger man nodded, in a trance, unable to deny the lord anything while he looked at him like that. With such care and longing.
“Ser Aymeric is a man of strength and virtue. He will throw his life away in a heartbeat in service to a friend, though we might all call ourselves poorer for it. But he will not bow to any man that cannot do the same in return. You have already proven yourself a better man than I. Do not regret that you have captured his heart. Merely do all you can to keep it. And I will do all I can to support you both. The rest... is written in the Fury's will.”
The mention of the wroth goddess of Ishgard broke whatever hold the older man had over him, reminding him of the resentment and defiance he held toward the entire institution. No, he would not bow to the Fury's will. He would sooner bear a sword to the gates of the First Heaven and wage bloody war on the Twelve.
He scowled, retreating behind a mask of grim determination, but Haurchefant just grinned affectionately at him as if he were a petulant child. “You really are the cutest thing. No wonder he's so smitten.” Alphinaud tried to glare daggers at him, but as usual it made no difference. The lord fished his fingers into his cup again, pulling out another leaf and spilling some of his tea over the side to drip down his wrists. He darted out his tongue to lick a few drops off of it, causing it to melt and stick to his tongue like a piece of candy floss. It, too, disappeared into his mouth.
“So if you don't think he was seen, why all the fuss? Surely it hardly comes as a shock that unbelievers are capable of indiscretions. For all she knew it was some blushing maiden you were ravishing.”
The younger man considered for a moment, trying to ignore the sight of the dark leaf clinging to the other man's tongue. The sensual image he had painted mere minutes before left him off-balance, coloring the mad lord's movements with alternative interpretations, leading his thoughts to places he'd rather not go. “I thought perhaps you might have some insight into that,” he recalled. “The maid, she... well she reacted rather more strongly than I would have predicted. She screamed and ran away. I was half expecting to be arrested after such a display.”
The lord blinked owlishly at him before retrieving the leaf from his mouth, now fragmented into several pieces. Alphinaud resolved never to watch the man eat, if the mere act of drinking tea could be rendered simultaneously disgusting and provocative. He dropped the pieces on the table as if insulted by them and leaned back again, thinking. “Well I suppose she could just be righteous and innocent. Stranger things have happened.” He didn't seem terribly convinced by the suggestion. He tried again. “Perhaps she fears your retaliation?”
Ah. Of course. A numbing chill swept through him as he recalled the moments after the incident, how he had attempted to find her. To stop her from sounding an alarm. Even to silence her. His hand trembled and he found he no longer trusted himself to hold his half-full mug. He leaned forward to place it on the table, and stayed that way, suddenly far more comfortable leaning his elbows on his knees, his head bowed.
Gravity took his course, and this time, tears did flow. Just a few, and blessedly silent. He half expected the older man to carry through his threat of a hug, but he didn't move from his chair. Instead he sat down his own cup.
“I take it that you did consider it then?” the lord asked after a short silence, quiet with something like respect.
Alphinaud nodded, knocking loose another tear to slide down his chin. “I don't believe I could have hurt her. But I did consider it. If it could have saved him... but I needn't have worried so. She left me a note. My 'secret is safe,' it said. I don't believe I could have done it but... but she is innocent, a bystander, none of this is her fault...” he could feel his emotions getting out of hand, everything he had felt in the last few weeks amplifying and escaping his control. He would not show such weakness. With effort, he reigned himself in, blinking away the tears but not condescending to wipe them with his wrist like the child he no-doubt looked.
There was an empty space in the room, where Alphinaud was alone with his thoughts. Finally Haurchefant ventured to fill the silence. “My dear... if you had not considered it, I think I should question your devotion. What makes you a murderer is not whether you wish to protect those you love... it's how you choose to do so. You would not have harmed her. Of this I have no doubt.”
The younger man looked up finally, tears stilled and making his cheeks itch as they dried. He saw Haurchefant soften his expression to something like tenderness. Not pity, just empathy. It was surprisingly... tolerable.
“I wonder though, what she thinks your secret is, precisely,” he continued. “Have you considered speaking with the lass? I can have her reassigned somewhere if you think she could be a problem. Somewhere wagging tongues can do no harm. Do you remember what she looks like?”
For a moment Alphinaud was stunned that there could be such a simple solution. It was obvious now, though plenty of time had already elapsed for her to work mischief if that was her aim. Of course, it also depended on confiding in the eccentric lord, and that was something he had been determined not to do. He had known he was dependable though, from the first. He hadn't needed to hear his confession to know he would stand by them. Was he really so untrusting now, that even his most loyal allies were suspect? Or is it only men of Ishgard that he feared, blinded by their goddess? No. He had yet to confide in Tataru, he remembered with guilt. He had planned to confide in no-one at all.
He pushed away his shame and astonishment, trying to recall the maiden that was so brave as to think to order him about. “Short, brunette moon-keeper. I've seen her before. I don't think she means ill.”
“Ah, I know just the one,” the lord replied. He retrieved his tea and fished out another leaf, placing it carefully on his tongue before taking a sip and letting the tea wash over it.
“There's just one more order of business, then.” His speech took on the dulled quality once again, though it was still quite understandable, as if he spoke with a full mouth often. “With regard to your request for asylum. It appears I was only half correct. Your bravery during the Geomancer's storm was noted well within the Vault, but the situation has now been complicated by Aymeric's failure to apprehend the villain. Twice now he has eluded his grasp, and those who pretend to care about such things are implying it is more than accident.”
He stopped to frown, worrying the tea leaf against his upper lip with his tongue. Finally he retrieved it, tapping it against his cheek absently and making wet little noises as it stuck to his skin. “If he does not succeed on his next attempt, I fear that his political position will be imperiled. I have plans of my own should more open channels fall through, but, as your fortunes are... intertwined, of late, you might consider offering him your help.” He finished by giving the leaf a provocative little lick and watching him with narrowed eyes, apparently now fully aware of how distracting Alphinaud was finding it. He felt immediately relieved to find that the odd man was being irritating on purpose, as the abject obliviousness that served as the alternative was improbable to a degree that had been beginning to frighten him.
His assistance. That... did make a certain amount of sense. He tore his eyes away from the man in front of him to drink his own tea, making a face now that it had grown tepid. The Ishgardian way for these things seemed to be military in nature, but Alphinaud was used to commanding small mercenary forces with surgical strikes. He had dismantled far larger armies with far fewer soldiers, largely by virtue of the extraordinary strength of just a few warriors.
“I take it he would need to strike the final blow?” This was one place he was not at a disadvantage.
The mad lord grinned, pleased that he was keeping pace. “Of course. It might also be wise to include a few witnesses from among his lieutenants, just in case.”
Alphinaud nodded in agreement, and gulped the last of his tea just to make it go away. An assortment of broken leaves stared back at him from the bottom of his cup.
He could not divine his future, but that did not mean he was not the master of it.
“Then I shall take my leave of you. I trust we have an understanding.” The lord of Camp Dragonhead dropped his final tea leaf onto the pile on the table and stood to leave, sucking on the tips of his fingers. “What do you intend to do now?”
He had a battle to plan, a maid to interrogate, and a friend to whom to apologize. “I am going to bathe and break my fast,” was what he said instead, intending on letting his concerns go for just a little while. His worries didn't weigh quite as heavily on his shoulders, and there was a little spark of hope burning in his chest.
The sly grin the lord gave in return made him suddenly apprehensive that he would insist on joining him for his bath, but to his great relief he refrained. “An excellent plan. There is no reason to fret so.” He left with an informal wave and an easy grin, and Alphinaud marveled that he had escaped the exchange without the man even once attempting to hug him. He resolved to put more faith in his friends ever after.
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