Febuwhump Day 10: Difficulty Breathing
Fandom: Final Fantasy XIV
Characters/Ship: Sanson Smyth/Guydelot Thildonnet
Triggers/Content warnings: n/a
Part One, Part Two
There isn't any sense in it, Sanson fumes, frowning at the half-complete report as though it were personally responsible for his frustration. No sense at all. Why would he just-
Three days! Three entire days!
Going out of his way to vanish rather than suffer being assigned any duties regarding the Ala Mhigan delegation was something Sanson would have expected from Guydelot when they first met - but it seems wildly irresponsible of him now, and uncharacteristically cruel to Sanson in the bargain. The Order seems determined to burden him with the bulk of the delegation's security, running him ragged ensuring their route from Gyr Abania is fully guarded, their rooms in the city itself are fully secure, their escorts properly vetted and trusted...
What a time for Guydelot, his trusted lieutenant, to make himself so thoroughly scarce!
And it isn't enough for him to simply hide during the day; no, their bed has been conspicuously empty every night, with Sanson left to wonder what he's done to offer offense this time. He tries to recall if Guydelot had been moody or ill-tempered before he'd set out for his usual evening stroll three days ago...
No, he'd been smiling, Sanson recalls; smiling and teasing about the amount of work Sanson was burying himself in - he'd been on his way to a lengthy meeting about the Ala Mhigan delegation, he remembers, and lamented privately that he couldn't accompany his bard for the evening. Nor did he know when he would be getting home.
He'd been surprised to find the house dark when he did finally return home - no Guydelot to be found. Nor had he returned when the morning came, an unwelcome sunrise greeting Sanson after a long, sleepless night.
Why?
Belatedly, reluctantly, Sanson's mind winds itself down a darker path.
What if...
What if something had happened to Guydelot?
But that's preposterous, he thinks, shaking his head. Guydelot always went armed; he knows the Shroud too well to risk being caught without his bow and harp. And a bard of his skill - why, they've not yet faced a threat his bard couldn't handle, and usually more deftly than Sanson himself. If his silver tongue couldn't get him out of a tight spot, then surely his skill at arms could. Sanson's entire approach to their work in the field has come to rely heavily on the knowledge that Guydelot can take care of himself.
So why, then, does he feel a sudden brush of foreboding?
He stares at the report before him, unseeing. Has Guydelot been a touch jumpy of late? Sanson had been too preoccupied to ask about it, presuming if something was troubling the bard, surely he'd say something. Surely.
Or... Matron save him; what if Guydelot had said something, and Sanson had been too busy thinking about work to hear it?
His throat feels tight; his chest aches.
Guydelot...
He stands, pushing himself sharply out of his chair; he needs to move, needs to think. He settles for pacing, back and forth across the narrow confines of his office. Perhaps... perhaps he ought to send word to Jehantel - if Guydelot had set out on some journey to escape from drudgery, he'd have surely left word with Jehantel! But then, he'd have surely left a note, too...
Perhaps that's it; perhaps Guydelot has left him a note, and he's simply overlooked it.
No, but Guydelot knows him too well; he'd know precisely where to leave it-
Sanson plucks his journal from its place on his desk, anxiously flipping through the pages, desperate to find some clue tucked between the pages. His breathing comes hard now, as though every breath must be hard-won, a battle for every second.
No note tumbles out of the pages, and he finds no message scribbled by his lover in the margins. Nothing. Guydelot left no note.
He sets the journal down, dejected, his heart slamming against his ribs.
You're being paranoid, Sanson scolds himself, resting his hands on the desk, on either side of his journal. Jumping at shadows! Like as not he'll walk in this very moment, ready to tease you for fretting over nothing.
He waits, holding his breath.
One heartbeat. Two.
The door remains stubbornly, horribly closed.
He breaths out a shuddering, painful sigh. Fear crowds in, shoving practicality and reason aside.
Guydelot, he thinks, beginning to fear the worst. Guydelot, where are you?
