Alright, going to actually smack some of my writing down. Been replaying HW with some friends and noted after that very first cutscene talking with Edmont Haurchefant is standing in the foyer with his arms, a bit unusually, crossed and an unhappy look on his face. So I wanted to play with what might have happened after the WOL left to go on their tour of Ishgard. I'll put everything but the title under read more.
Unspoken Words
Haurchefant kept his arms firmly crossed, the light flush to his cheeks increasing with his steadily rising discomfort as the Warrior of Light and their entourage filtered back out the front foyer, Alphinaud blithely—nay, that was not the right word, for Haurchefant knew a hard earned attempt at levity in the face of bleak despair when he saw it—Alphinaud with intense deliberateness chattered on with Tataru and their mutual private hero about wanting to see what sweet treats the Jeweled Crozier might have on offer during their tour, and then the door shut.
Full glad he was that his thick war gloves and the chain haubergeon he wore as part of his knight’s uniform hid the way his fingers attempted to dig into his arms at the uncomfortable silence that fell over the manor in their guests absence.
As suddenly as it fell over the Fortemps family and staff left in the visitor’s sitting room, it was broken with a scoff that sung through the air as surely as the slap of a bowstring being released, and Artoirel, with a scathing look at Haurchefant, stepped forward.
“This is what you would stake our reputation on? A wandering vagabond of a hero, a brat of a noble child, and one of those scheming short creatures that scurries about the deserts of Ul’Dah chasing after coin the way a rat chases after refuse? Really, Greystone?” He said, the disdain clear in his voice as he attempted to look down his nose at his half-brother. They were the same towering height which diminished the effect, as did the fact that dear old Artie had employed the tactic a bit too often in their youth. The words burned a line of dangerous fury through the silver haired elezen none the less. Artoirel was nearly as skilled at getting under his skin as anyone he knew. Though perhaps that should not be surprising, he had made a study of it since childhood, after all.
He tilted his own head up, jaw set solidly, the flush in his face showing his unhappiness, he knew. He was still proud of himself for keeping his voice steady and calm regardless. “Yes.” He said simply. “I would.” He locked eyes with the other Elezen, their shared shade of blue clashing for several long seconds until a gloved hand suddenly came between them.
Their father, Edmont, shot a stern look between the two of them.
“I would not have you forget that I supported this endeavor as well, Artoirel.” he said, the words chastising as Artoirel grimaced and stepped back, bowing his head to show his deference. “Let no more words be spoken on what should or should not have been done between any of us. Such things will only lead to folly.”
His father looked to him, obviously expecting the same familial show Artoirel had given. Ever he wanted Haurchefant to walk that line between son and servant, as if he could somehow have both at once out of his bastard child.
But Haurchefant had already done quite enough of that sort of behavior in front of his friends to keep them from feeling the tense awkwardness of his scandalized position in House Fortemps. He did not bow, changing his locked gaze instead to stay firmly planted on the Count’s slowly saddening eyes.
“Couldn’t agree more, my Lord.” He said curtly instead, slamming down that wall firmly in Edmont’s face and pretending he didn’t see the flinch deep inside the man’s eyes before he quickly broke off eye contact, stepping back, the cane he used to stave off the pain of his war wound tapping distinctly on the floor with the movement.
A small snicker, which should have been quiet enough, were it not for the fact near all the staff had quietly moved out of the room and left the room so quiet a dropped pin would have been heard, came to them, and all three heads shot towards Emmanelain and the pageboy Edmont had been forced to make a constant companion to keep his daft half brother from wandering directly off the side of the pillars while thinking about the next skirt he wanted to chase.
Emm had been leaning over to whisper something to Honoroit, and the young lad had the poor misfortune of being unable to stifle his reaction to whatever stupid repartee had been graced to his ears.
If only his younger half brother were more reliable about his fits of gracious open-heartedness. Honoroit was one shining example of it, Emm having made friends with him while he was indentured in the barest veneer of something above outright slavery and taught him to read, write, and do sums with nary an expectation of anything in return. It was why the Count had taken an interest and bought the boy’s contract from the merchant who owned it, and it was why no matter how foolishly Emm behaved, Honoroit would be there to back him up. The half-nervous guilt on his face now, however, told Haurchefant that whatever had been said had likely been unkind, and more of the closed-hearted side of the man.
“If you have aught to say, noble gentlemen speak openly and fully about their minds, not behind couched whispers and bawdy jokes.” Edmont admonished, and Emmanelain shrank further back as if Honoroit could take the lecture that would no doubt be coming his way soon in his stead.
“Yes father.” Emmanelain muttered quietly, suitably abashed at the disappointed stare the Count was leveling at him, if only the lessons would stay with him for more than a day or so.
Artoirel shook his head, the nobles equivalent of rolling ones eyes, Haurchefant had found, and walked off with a flick of his hair, long and shiny with care put into it. In a way Haurchefant envied him that. As a commander who often only had unheated, half frozen water to dunk his head into for cleaning, and nearly always regardless of whether the water was tepid or just above freezing would be plunging out into the horrendous cold of Coerthas, long hair was a luxury that made every poor man’s bath a misery. He had tried it once and within a week chopped it all off with a hunting blade after catching ill from how long it took the damnable thing to dry while he was running around checking after their supplies with his second.
Sharp pain brought him back from his musings, and he realized he had been staring off after his half-brothers departure, and one of his fingers was likely bleeding inside his war glove, as he had unconsciously been gripping ever tighter, craving the feeling of his nails digging into the skin of his arms, which was of course, not possible in full armor. He had accidentally splintered his fingernails more than once in the attempt though, such as what had most likely just occurred.
He shifted his stance to make the tension in him reset, though he could not bring himself to keep his arms at his sides, where his hands might unconsciously curl into fists or otherwise move without his conscious say so.
Edmont finished admonishing Emmanelain, and the young man slunk away with Honoroit as always at his side, and with the staff still nowhere to be seen, that made it just the two of them, and was that not just utterly fantastic.
“I hope you understand just how much risk I am putting us all in by giving in to your pleas, Haurchefant.” He says, and though the words are ones he had already heard before, his heart stutters, and he feels the deep seated urge to look down.
He refuses the feeling, that too eager child in him that had once thought if he simply acted the way his father wanted, he might be able to make up for the inadequacies everyone kept telling him he had, from the color of his hair to the spark of defiance he had shown from the moment he could speak, instead continuing to watch as his father steps closer, until they were in conversation in truth.
“They will not disappoint.” He finds himself saying, and despite himself, his voice was softer, enunciating more as the noble he would never be than the soldier he had molded himself into. It always happened when he spent too long here, in the home that never had truly accepted him no matter how well he did at his lessons with the tutors Edmont had insisted on.
“Never have I known a group so steadfast and honorable, as I have told you. I would stake my life on their strength over and over, with nary a doubt they would come through each and every time.” He always felt so off-balance here. The present and the past colliding unpleasantly in his mind.
Things were much clearer in the camp he had helped build up with his own two hands, it was easier to separate the man who was commander from the boy who wished he could be true son to the High House he served.
Edmont sighs. “I pray your judgment is sound then, for I would not outlive any of my sons, much as the war seems to be doing it’s best to cause that eventuality.”
The ache in his heart was for multiple reasons. Firstly, because he knew Emmanelain had nearly been crushed during the attack on Ishgard. He had been slumming it with a pretty maid, because of course he had been, and a wyvern had slammed it’s tail into the building he and his prize of the day had hidden behind. The healers had done a splendid job mending his ankle, and Emmanelain was doing a splendid job at pretending nothing had happened, but Haurchefant knew his half-brother, and feared he would do something outrageous to try to show just how fine he was soon enough. Secondly, he ached because they were all in danger every damn day. He himself was on the border that frequently dealt with all manner of hostile creatures, dragons not even close to the least of them, and he knew that the Count knew he was not the type of commander to lead from the back, knew he had received enough reports of injury from Camp Dragonhead that had his name at the top in bold black ink reporting whatever bite, burn or claw wound had been treated in the aftermath of the fighting that he had ceased receiving private letters of admonishment and concern, letters he had lied and said he did not read to Edmont’s face once in a fit of anger. Then finally, there was the matter of Edmont calling him son.
Was he really? He had his eyes, his height, perhaps his nose, though it was hard to tell for how many times Haurchefant’s nose had been broken by his youthful spats, picking fights with men twice his size just to feel the burn of pain to help quell the anger that burned like a wildfire in his chest with every insult and indignity he was forced to bear for things beyond his control. He didn’t feel like he belonged in this house, being this man’s son, anymore than he felt as if he could waltz off out of their lives entirely to adventure in lands foreign and distant, leaving all of Ishgard to it’s sorry fate without him.
He didn’t let it show. If nothing else, the Countess had made him very, very good at that, other than his traitorous flushing, always giving him away, though with how hot he had already been running it was doubtful it did any more than the usual showing of just how much he hated being here, in this room.
“Have a little faith, if you would.” Haurchefant says, and is surprised by how gentle the words are. It was not for the man in front of him, but the warrior who had all but stolen his heart with their strength and bravery. It still startled Edmont, who leaned back enough that he had to readjust his cane as he blinked suddenly.
“They have already done things declared impossible by the masses at least twice over. Assisting our house will be something they do without hesitation, and your efforts will be rewarded ten-fold with them at your side.” Pain lanced through his finger again as his grip tightened on his elbows. He ignored it.
Edmont frowned, and opened his mouth as if he were going to say something, and something about the way his eyes looked just a little too fond, a little too misty, had Haurchefant speaking again suddenly to stop him.
“If you have no further use of me here, my Lord, I shall be returning to my post. The Dravanians are far more active now, and with the collar gone, our defense of the area surrounding the steps is even more important than ever.”
Edmont was waylaid by the formal title use once more, and Haurchefant really did not know why it always worked so well. It had been years since he had taken to using it to carefully draw a line between the two of them, but every time Edmont reacted as if it were the first time Haurchefant had treated him as an employer rather than family. He stood to attention and bowed, ignoring the stinging pain in his hand as he moved it inside the glove with the motion.
Edmont stood for a moment, conflict in his eyes, and please let this not be the day he found the courage to break through the propriety of command to try to speak with him anyway, Haurchefant would not be able to bear it.
“Of course. To your post then, Commander.” Edmont said, his voice distant as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was saying.
Haurchefant nodded as he stood back up, turned on his heel smartly, and walked out the door and into the freezing air of the pillars.
