Chapter Text
The plaza outside the Congregation of Our Knights Most Heavenly is silent, save for the crunch of snow beneath a single pair of feet, aimlessly circling around Saint Valeroyant's broken form.
It's well into nightfall, and Moro'a does not hear Ishgard's citizens, but he feels their restlessness and tension; in the wake of a revelation that shook their history's foundations, and with the threat of Nidhogg and his horde on the horizon, like the distant thundering of an oncoming storm, they wait with breaths held and hackles raised.
His own feelings are more complicated. Grief, anger, emptiness, a storm all of its own. As for the rest, he hasn't faced them long enough to untangle them and find out. Blanketing them is the numbness, filling his head with a thick fog by day; it's hard enough to focus when running errands or speaking to so and so with the Scions, let alone try to process everything that's going on in his head, but it at least keeps them at bay.
By night however, the fog dissipates, and he's left at the mercy of his emotions. Sleep doesn't come easily, so he takes to wandering the city most nights. Walking around in the cold is mildly better than ruminating in bed.
Besides, there's little that will push things forward till he and Alphinaud journey to Anyx Trine with Ser Lucia, to parley with the Dravanians. The day after tomorrow, she'd said at last, during the previous morning's discussions; they would leave Foundation at dawn. Moro'a had already finished his preparations for the journey, and so he wanders, in a vain attempt to delay the inevitable.
He stops walking as he hears a large, heavy door swing open, coming from the Congregation. He can see a lone figure emerging from the corner of his eye: Ser Lucia, perhaps, or the remaining Temple Knight on guard duty closing up for the night.
“Moro'a?” Aymeric's voice cuts through the falling snow like a bell's peal, and Moro'a looks up. The surprised expression on the Lord Commander's face must mirror his own.
“Aymeric,” he says in turn. “I did not expect to see you here so late.”
“I could say the same.” Aymeric strides forward to meet him. “What brings you to the Congregation?”
Moro'a shrugs; he's ill prepared to provide a justifiable answer, but tries anyway. “I've prepared for tomorrow's journey. Naught left to do but wait till morning.”
Aymeric's expression turns quizzical. “Surely some sleep would be well deserved then,” he points out, before gesturing towards the black sky overhead. “'Tis nearly midnight, after all.” Moro'a doesn't answer.
“Would you care for a pot of tea? At my place.” Moro'a blinks at the unexpected offer. Did Aymeric want to discuss something about Ishgardian affairs with him in private? It's sudden, but not entirely improbable, he supposes. And being out for another few bells means less spent tossing and turning.
“Uhm...sure,” he accepts, hand going to the back of his head. Aymeric smiles. “This way, then,” he says, gesturing towards the stairs leading up to the Pillars.
He follows Aymeric to his manor, which turns out to be a close distance from the Astrologicum. They're greeted by a single manservant, an elder, gentlemanly elezen who bows low in greeting. “Please have a seat, my friend,” Aymeric says, gesturing over to a small, elegant table by the hearth. “The tea will not take long to prepare.”
Moro'a does, examining the living room from his vantage point – he hadn't thought much about what the Lord Commander's home would look like, but now that he's here, it's decidedly less lavish than what he'd expected someone of Aymeric's station to have. The furnishings are all doubtlessly well-crafted, but devoid of gilded excess; the only overt sign of luxury is the marble mantelpiece surrounding the crackling hearth, which has been delicately carved with depictions of the Fury and her devoted followers.
“You said your foster parents are viscounts?” Moro'a asks.
Aymeric nods. “Aye, they were. I assumed my father's title shortly after their passing.” Before Moro'a can inquire further, he adds, “No need to feel sorry for me. They succumbed to illness six years ago, and enough time has passed since.”
Though Moro'a refrains from commenting, he feels a twinge of emotion, somewhere between empathy and apology. So Aymeric's without his parents too, birth ones or otherwise.
The manservant from before emerges from the kitchen, carrying a tray with a pot and two large teacups to the table, before pouring out the piping hot tea. Moro'a accepts one of the cups with a nod of thanks, taking a cautious sip; there's a hint of sweetness mixed into the brew, which he recognises as birch syrup. He finds the taste to his liking.
“So...was there something you wanted to discuss?” he asks, still a little confused over the sudden invitation.
Aymeric sips from his own cup with a graceful motion. “No such thing. I thought you might appreciate a moment of respite, is all,” he says; there's just an onze of hesitation in his otherwise smooth voice. “You seem more than a little weary these days. If I may suggest...more so than ever before.”
So that's the way of things. Moro'a's not done much to hide his weariness, that's for sure. Still, he feels embarrassed, only just meeting Aymeric's eyes. “A lot has happened,” he replies slowly.
Aymeric's gaze softens at that. “Of course,” he assures. “Even so, I wished to tell you: if there is aught I can do to lighten your burdens, you need but ask. Though I can't do what the Warrior of Light can, I can at the very least provide an ear to listen...you carry an unenviable weight upon your shoulders.”
Moro'a senses Aymeric's earnest honesty, and it stings as much as it warms him. He has yet to talk to anyone about said weight: about Haurchefant, the pressure of ending a thousand-year war atop being a one-time savior of Eorzea; the unshakeable sense that despite stopping Thordan, he stills feels as though he'd lost. And for a moment, he almost feels compelled to open up to Aymeric; to reveal the hurts dragging him down at every moment. But he resists; better still to press on ahead, ever forward, despite everything...or perhaps because of everything.
“And what of your own?” he asks back, unwilling to have the discussion focus on his troubles. “I thought you would already have your fair share of burdens by now.”
Aymeric frowns slightly, and Moro'a's unsure whether it's because of his avoidance or for bringing up his own challenges, but the elezen answers all the same. “I bear mine as any responsible leader should,” he says. “Lest you worry however, I am hardly alone; Lucia has, as ever, been my faithful second-in-command. Count Edmont and Lord Artoirel have also been highly supportive – they've readily accepted the truth of our forefathers' sins far quicker than one might expect.” He sighs then, betraying a modicum of stress as he closes his eyes. “But in a way, you have the right of it: the Archbishop is gone, and with him the old order. 'Tis not an easy reality for many Ishgardians to weather, and they want for answers.”
“Mmm...not easy to have the very foundation of your beliefs uprooted,” Moro'a agrees. He notes that Aymeric does not mention Estinien; he's sure that he is nigh concerned about his friend, but decides not to bring up the dragoon for now.
Moro'a drinks more of his tea, feeling it soothe his senses a little. “Do you feel...anything for him. Thordan, I mean,” he asks, shifting in his chair. “He was your birth father after all. And I the one who killed him.”
Aymeric chuckles, somewhat darkly. “Oh, you need not worry about any feelings of resentment or revenge over his death,” he says. “He was a danger to the whole realm, and would have wrecked untold havoc had he been allowed to carry out his plans uninterrupted. I'm grateful that you put a stop to him, even if it meant ending his life.”
Moro'a nods. He hadn't been that worried, truth be told. But it's reassuring all the same, proof that his victory counted for something.
“As his son, however...I confess that matters still feel unfinished between him and I,” the elezen admits, after a moment. He sets his cup down and clasps his hands, staring down at the table. “I'm not one to leave business unconcluded, and so it troubles me that I could never find closure with him.”
A rather vulnerable admission. Moro'a thinks of the Echo vision he'd seen after the Vault – Aymeric's tense argument with Thordan, moments before he was branded a traitor and locked up in gaol at his own father's command. That Aymeric was of his own flesh and blood had mattered naught to the corrupt king, and it makes Moro'a's blood boil in a way that few things do. Still, his anger is of no help to Aymeric now.
“I feel much the same about my mother,” he says instead, surprised to hear himself give that information away.
And judging from the look on his face, so is Aymeric. The elezen leans forward slightly. “You've never mentioned your parents before,” he remarks in an odd voice.
“I rarely feel inclined to. It's scandalous for a Keeper to say this, but I wasn't very fond of my mother. We didn't see eye to eye on many things.” Moro'a sets his own cup down, staring into the ripples in the liquid. “I left Ilsabard when the Garleans came for my village eight years ago, so I've not seen my family since.”
“...And I did not know you were forced to leave your home under such dire circumstances.” Aymeric settles back an ilm, regarding Moro'a with a wry smile. “'Tis plain that there is much I still do not know about you.”
Moro'a shrugs. “I'm not one to dole out details of my life,” he admits. A stray thought occurs to him, and perhaps against his better judgment, he indulges it. “But it would seem our backgrounds are more similar than I'd thought. I didn't have foster parents, but I did have Moro.”
That piques Aymeric's interest further. “Moro?”
“She was my...I suppose you could call her my aunt, though we weren't related by blood,” Moro'a explains. “She was just as much of a parent to me; we were closer than I was to anyone else in the village.”
Aymeric tilts his head. “But that would mean your name isn't...” he stops himself. “Apologies. 'Twas inappropriate of me to ask so candidly.” Moro'a's eyes widen; he hadn't expected Aymeric to catch on to the nature of his name so quickly. He'd underestimated the Lord Commander's acuity, and though he feels like he's already said too much, he now cannot help but wonder what else Aymeric might know.
“Nay, it's alright,” he ventures. “Seems like you may have guessed it already, but Moro'a Kihshimo isn't my birth name. I took Moro's when I came to Eorzea.” He pauses, dwelling on the magnitude of what he'd revealed. “You're only the third person I've told,” he says, more to himself than to Aymeric. “Rubh was the first...and then...” he trails off.
Aymeric's voice is quiet and careful when he speaks. “Was Lord Haurchefant the second?”
It takes a while for Moro'a to find his voice. “...He was.”
Though he'd never openly discussed his and Haurchefant's relationship with anyone, he'd never pretended that no one was aware either. Still, speaking of it in the open changes things; there's a tension in the air, and Moro'a doesn't know what would happen, were it to snap. He senses Aymeric wanting to say more, that he's on the cusp of something, and where Moro'a would normally have stopped the man from going any further, he's suddenly unsure if he should. Perhaps it's because Aymeric's proven himself to be nothing but honest and noble in his intentions, despite what his role in Ishgardian politics might suggest. Perhaps they trust each other enough that he feels he can confide in the man.
Or perhaps all the grief and heaviness has just made him lonely, desperate for something more to hold onto.
“Anyroad, I would like to know more of your life before joining the Scions...if you would not mind sharing,” Aymeric says, switching to a polite tone of voice. The tension from before is gone in an instant; Moro'a's slightly disappointed, but more relieved than anything.
They talk well into the night, about what Moro'a did in Limsa Lominsa before joining the Scions, and of Aymeric's life prior to becoming Lord Commander of the Temple Knights. All in all, it's the most normal conversation he's had in weeks, and to Moro'a's surprise his mind's more at ease for it.
“There's a guest room here, if you'd rather not make the trek back to the manor at such an hour,” Aymeric offers, when the teapot is empty and they at last agree to retire for the night.
Moro'a considers the invitation, before shaking his head. “I should be heading back. Early start tomorrow, and I'm afraid you wouldn't like me in the morning, I get terribly moody,” he replies at length, though a small part of him regrets his choice. “It's a Keeper thing. But thank you, for inviting me here tonight.”
Aymeric seems ready with a counterargument, but at the last second forgoes whatever he'd meant to say for a bow. Not a formal one, but in the relaxed way a friend might. “Of course – any time, my friend. We have much to do in the coming days...with Halone's blessing, let us hope our efforts won't be for naught.”
Moro'a manages a small smile. “I hope so too.”
They say their goodbyes, and as Moro'a's stepping through the doors, Aymeric's fingers just barely brush against his arm. Moro'a jerks back from the unexpected contact, and the elezen pulls away instantly.
“Sorry. That was not...excuse me.” The door shuts before Moro'a can answer, but his keen ears still catch the faint sound of Aymeric sighing to himself from the other side. Though slightly taken aback, he waves it away as an accident; Aymeric had meant to reach for the door, certainly not him.
Later, alone in his borrowed room in Fortemps manor, Moro'a curls into the sheets as sleep eludes him, as he'd known it would.
The worst part about his troubled nights is the ache in his heart as he stares into the empty space next to him, ever-present but all the stronger now for his isolation. Somehow, he thought it would be easier now that King Thordan and the Heavens' Ward had been vanquished, when in fact it's made little difference.
Moro'a clutches his necklace tightly in one hand, the pointed ends of both crystals digging painfully into his palm. As he does each night, in spite of how much it hurts, he tries to remember what it'd felt like when he'd rested in the warmth of Haurchefant's arms. The soothing, protective way he'd embrace him from behind, murmuring sweet affections and scratching his ears in such a comforting way it would leave him purring. His fervent yet tender passion as they'd make love, then cuddle afterwards.
But the sheets are cold and bare; the reassuring presence he'd grown accustomed to so quickly is gone, like the contents of a beloved book ripped out and scattered into the wind.
Unbidden, the memory of Aymeric's fingers brushing against his shoulder surfaces; Moro'a recoils from it, from the confusion it leaves him with. He's supposed to be grieving over Haurchefant, not thinking of...whatever had transpired just now between him and his friend.
His flustered confusion would've amused his lover; he would've expressed as much in that jovial, honest way of his. Mayhaps even been a little jealous, in a teasing fashion. Moro'a sighs into the pillow, his throat tight.
“I miss you so much,” he whispers hoarsely.
And as it does each night, the storm underneath the surface surges as though in response to his pain. There's a bitter wish in him to let it take over; to let his tumultuous emotions supercede rational thought. But with an effort, Moro'a eventually pushes it away, and the storm reluctantly recedes as he exhausts himself into fitful slumber.
While “naught” doesn't quite describe it, there's an uncertainty at the end of their conversation with Vidofnir that leaves Moro'a with a lingering disappointment. But they've done what they could, and after parting ways with Lucia, he and Alphinaud head for the Dravanian Hinterlands to make good of the time they've gained.
The journey is uneventful, and Alphinaud's chatter gradually gives way to the steady galloping of chocobo feet, leaving Moro'a to mull over the strange end to his evening at the Borel manor once more, now that he's a fraction more lucid.
He doesn't doubt that he and Aymeric have gone from being trusted allies to good friends throughout the Scions' time in Ishgard. It does not, however, explain the emotions that have churned in his mind since that night. Nor does it explain how the Lord Commander acted, why he'd seemingly reached for him, only to pull back at the last second.
What if Aymeric does not merely see me as a friend?
He feels neither comfortable with nor repulsed by the idea. If anything, he doesn't know how to feel about it at all. And to say nothing of how he feels about the elezen, tangled as his feelings are. Aymeric is undeniably an attractive, charismatic man, and they have much in common, but Moro'a's heart had found Haurchefant's before anything could brew between them. And now Haurchefant was gone.
He turns away from his thoughts, trying to focus instead on his surroundings. As he'd found the first time they came to the Hinterlands, Sharlayan is beautiful, after a lonely fashion. In its abandoned and neglected state, the city has a ghostly resplendence, with its faded sophistry and lasting legacy of what were once smooth-tiled buildings and manicured gardenscapes.
They rendesvous with Y'shtola in Idyllshire, who is thankfully quite well, considering she'd spent several moons drifting in the Lifestream. But it doesn't take Moro'a long to become distracted again, and it's difficult to give their task his full attention; even the introduction of their new Sharlayan companion, a lovely lalafellin scholar named Krile, doesn't fully grasp his attention, a detail which fails to escape Y'shtola's notice.
“A word if you would, Moro'a,” she says to him, as they're en route to Matoya's cave. They're a good distance behind Alphinaud and Krile, out of earshot. “Your thoughts seem elsewhere – is something troubling you?”
Moro'a suppresses the urge to sigh. What hasn't lately? Beneath the weary emptiness, there's also layer of bitterness, he's discovered – though the bulk of his thoughts are currently weighted towards Aymeric.
“I suppose,” he answers, knowing how vague it sounds. “But nothing in particular – much has happened in so short a time, that's all.”
Y'shtola doesn't seem convinced. “We do worry for you – Tataru and Alphinaud, in particular,” she continues. Moro'a grimaces, but the other miqo'te presses on unabated. “While I do not share their tact, neither do I share in their reservations. I know you are a private man, Moro'a, and would much rather leave your innermost thoughts undiscussed, as would I. But it wouldn't hurt to share some of them every now and then.”
“I know. I merely...need some time.” It's a pitiful response, but as the entrance to Matoya's cave comes into view, Y'shtola relents and lets the conversation end there.
Hours later, and after more than their fair share of travelling, searching and fighting, it's a considerable blessing when Thancred at last shows himself in Loth ast Vath, even if the appearance of the Warriors of Darkness marrs the occasion. Still, the relief Moro'a feels is palpable, as it had been with Y'shtola's miraculous return, and he files the Warriors' antagonism away as a problem for another day. Right now, it's just good to have Thancred back.
As they fill in the rogue on all that had transpired on their way back to Coerthas, Moro'a's spirits are an ilm higher. What's more, it genuinely feels good to see that rest of the Scions seem to feel the same way, particularly Alphinaud. Gods know how hard things have been for the young elezen.
Upon reaching Foundation, they immediately make for the Congregation to bring the promising news to Lucia. And then Moro'a feels as though the realm's collapsing beneath his feet when the knight utters those words. Would that the Lord Commander were here to hear them.
He catches the words knife and assassin, and something about buildings throughout the city bursting into flame, but all he can think of is rushing to the sick ward and making sure by his own two hands that Aymeric isn't going to die. He's two paces short of leaving when Y'shtola's voice cuts through his tumultuous thoughts like a scalpel.
“Moro'a.” He meets her gaze, which is as piercing as ever, seeing or otherwise. “Lucia has requested our aid in searching for the arsonists,” she says.
“But Aymeric –”
“Will make a full recovery, with the help of their chirurgeons. We have another task at hand.” Her words offer no leeway, but there's another note in her voice – concern. And as Moro'a turns back to the group, it's evident that the rest of the Scions feel the same way.
He recoils inwardly from their expressions. In spite of Y'shtola's earlier urging, the thought of them being privy to his hurts is anathema right now. With great effort, he draws in a deep breath, tail lashing from side to side. “Let us find them then,” he mutters, exiting the Congregation before anyone has a chance to reply.
They have to go into the Vault.
Moro'a's ears slink back, dread filling him as he looks upon the gate leading into the basilica, and all he wants is to deny the reality in front of him. He can't go in there. He has to. He can't.
But Aymeric will, and Aymeric is alive. And well enough to lead the charge into the Vault apparently, even though Moro'a hears the pain in his voice with each intake of breath. Artoirel is joining them too, and as impossibly reckless as this plan as, gods be damned to the seventh hell if he were to let anyone present fall to the True Brothers.
My arm will not falter; my shield will not break. Moro'a tries not to shudder over Artoirel's declaration, focusing instead on the promise he'd made to Count Edmont. Earlier, as they'd all prepared to leave the Congregation once more, the Count had caught Moro'a by the shoulder, the look in his eyes telling Moro'a all he needed to know well before he'd made his request known.
Keep them safe.
As though attuned to his most desperate desires, the first card he draws as they enter the Vault is the Bole. They run through the dark, marble-clad halls, taking down members of the True Brothers and freeing the hostages in stride. All the while, Moro'a keeps turning back to his comrades, Aymeric in particular, searching for the first signs of weakness or faltering. With every card he casts, Moro'a wills the fates to spare them.
But when the Brothers set the knights upon the hostages, Moro'a has no choice but to leave Aymeric to duel Ser Simeonard alone, even as a voice inside his head screams at him to stay. He and Artoirel rush to the hostages' aid, and as they're cutting down the last auditor, Moro'a hears a shout from above.
“By what sorcery do you yet stand!? Enough! All of you – attack!”
The tempest in Moro'a roars in his ears; he barely hears Artoirel yelling at him to aid Aymeric before he's halfway down the path. As he climbs the winding stairs, he tries not to think of the last time he'd ascended them.
He reaches the top, and there's Aymeric, fending off several of the archbishop's former servants and Simeonard himself with a resolute scowl. He's bleeding from a gash on his left side, and breathing hard; Simeonard fares worse with injuries of his own, but the rest of the men close in, swords and staves trained on the Lord Commander.
“Aymeric!” Moro'a rushes to his side, planisphere at the ready; a swift regenerative spell halts the bleeding from his side.
Artoirel returns as well; emboldened, the trio take down Simeonard and the remaining True Brothers with ease. But Moro'a doesn't have the time to tend to Aymeric's injuries; a priest has taken one of the refugees, a young girl named Maelie, fleeing the scene as his brothers fell.
“Where is he? Where is he?!” Aymeric is frantic, until something catches his attention, and he bolts towards the stairs that lead out to the outer portions of the Vault.
“Wait!” But Aymeric's already gone, and as Moro'a chases after him, the light of dawn floods into view, harsh and blindingly golden. But he blinks, and the glare is gone, replaced by clear blue.
“Moro'a? Are you alright?!” The urgency in Artoirel's voice forces him out of his reverie. “We must make haste!”
They catch up with Aymeric, but Maelie teeters at the edge, held only by the priest's singular hand.
Time seems to stand still as Moro'a can only watch, unable to intervene.
With a violent lurch, the priest sends her over; Aymeric shouts. Moro'a's own voice catches in his throat, and by the time his senses return to him, it's too late to cast Rescue.
But then, like a guardian sent from the heavens, a large dragon swoops down to catch the girl, seconds before she would've plunged to her death.
After apprehending the priest and the rest of the surviving True Brothers, they congregate with the Scions at the Last Vigil. The sight of Maelie safe and sound as Vidofnir regards the people before her is a welcome sight to behold; Moro'a releases a breath he didn't know he'd been holding with a shudder.
Vidofnir delivers her solemn message, then takes to the skies, her mighty wingbeats stirring the air into gales as she soars heavensward. Moro'a watches the Dravanian fade into the azure, his eyes eventually settling on Aymeric.
The mood of the crowd gathered around them is one of sheer awe, but Moro'a finds his focus trained solely on his friend. After everything, he's bewildered, furious, glad – so much could have gone wrong, and he's unsure if he wants to shake Aymeric, or pull the elezen into a hug. There it is again: that unfamiliar, familiar ache in his chest, that same confusion as he tries to make sense of his feelings.
Count Edmont appears, wearing a look of pure relief on his face as he approaches. He and Aymeric exchange several words, and Moro'a listens as they turn from hopeful to solemn: I would not see it built on the bones of our countrymen – nor on our own.
It's when the Count reveals the depth of his sentiments towards Aymeric that the realisation crashes into Moro'a, like Leviathan beating down upon a ship. I see much of Haurchefant in you.
Of course – it makes all too much sense for him to deny. The same passionate conviction, the care they exhibit for everyone around them. The willingness to follow their ideals, no matter the cost to themselves.
For what is a knight, if not to serve?
Count Edmont takes his leave then, followed closely by Artoirel, and Moro'a tentatively steps forward to join Aymeric at his side. The Count's words seem to have had a palpable effect on the Lord Commander; his eyes are closed, and he sags slightly to one side, as though bereft of the will to stand upright. Unable to stop himself, Moro'a places a hand on the elezen's back to steady him.
The look Aymeric gives him is softer than he's ever seen, and he can't turn away.
“Commander?” Lucia's voice breaks the spell, and Moro'a lets go, shuffling back to rejoin the Scions as she and Aymeric discuss their immediate next steps. He does his best to ignore the questioning look Thancred throws his way.
The Scions are in optimistic spirits, and he listens to their discussion as best as he can. But every so often, he finds himself glancing back towards the Lord Commander, questions burning through him like a dozen hot coals.