Archive of Our Own

There were many things people didn’t know about Francel de Haillenarte. That he’d played the piano since he was five. That it was Laniaitte who started calling him by his middle name when he was small because she’d wanted a little sister and insisting his name was “Fran,” was about as close as she’d ever get. That he was the one that smashed that incredibly expensive crystal vase his mother had inherited (he’d blamed it on the cat at the time).

That he’d loved Haurchefant Greystone with every fibre of his being.  

Everyone he’d try to explain this to had never understood why. Francel was never neglected, by any stretch of the imagination. He’d been fortunate enough to be born into a family who already had what they needed; the son and heir, the prodigy, the dutiful daughter, and his status as the baby of the family had never backfired on him. According to his mother’s stories, the lack of another daughter hadn’t dampened his family’s enthusiasm any despite Laniaitte's howls of protest - “You were such a sweet baby, Francel, with this mop of bright gold hair and the most darling blue eyes, Steph would carry you around like a doll – “

(that’s about as far as she always got before Francel begged her to stop talking lest he died of sheer embarrassment)

His siblings never succumbed to the petty rivalries that most noble brothers and sisters had, indelible rifts appearing as accusations of favouritism ran rife within noble families. His brothers and sister always made time for him and seemed to genuinely enjoy his company, whether it had been Chlodebaimt giving him piggyback rides when he was too tired to walk, or Aurvael teaching him to read because he wanted someone to exclaim over the weekly serials with. His classmates would recall horror stories of older brothers pulling their hair and breaking their toys, but never his. Some older sisters seemed to be allergic to their baby brothers, calling them names and generally acting like they didn’t exist, but Laniaitte was always the first to hug him when he was upset and sternly tell him that Francel was her “favourite little brother.”

And yet –

Francel is the youngest of five, and the four that preceded him were, in a word, brilliant. Stephanivien is the brightest of all of them, his mind so much quicker than Francel’s can ever hope to be. Chlodebaimt could charm the birds out of the sky and had earned himself a high ranking military position before his growth spurt was barely over. Aurvael has ever been his father’s right hand man, handling the number crunching with barely a thought, calculating ridiculous equations in his head quicker than blinking; Laniaitte has been dedicated to earning her knighthood since she was a little girl, fiery and fearless and deadly with a sword.

Francel is none of those things. He’s never been quite sharp enough to grasp the exact workings of the manufactory, and any sort of extreme physical exercise would leave him dizzy and winded for several bells afterwards. He’s never had the guts to swing a sword, much less run headlong into danger, screaming curses at the Dravanian Horde. Turning complicated equations into something mechanical yet breathing, like a tiny bird with aether flooding its veins so it can fly, is more akin to magick than anything he’s ever seen. It’s hard to not feel a little less than when you’re discussing aetherical converters at the dinner table and all you can do is nod along. There were always things to go to, awards to collect, Lanni’s swordplay competitions, Steph making mammets over the course of an afternoon and declaring war on all the other children in the street as their puppets fight to the death.

There’s never anything like that for Francel. But he has Haurchefant.

An aunt said it once at some family gathering or another, peering through her glasses at him, confusion obvious in her voice.

‘But there are so many nice children you go to school with, Francel. Why not make friends with them? The youngest Fortemps boy is around your age.’

And yes, that’s true. But Emmanellain is loud and boisterous and always insists on getting his own way; Artoirel is quieter but also stern like an adult and he terrifies Francel more than a little bit. Asking him to befriend Carvallain Durendaire is akin to winning the Dragonsong War single handedly. He could play with his sister, but he’d be relegated to the princess in the tower while she tackles the dragon to the ground (Chlodebaimt) who gets far too into character and the nanny will inevitably tell them to stop making such a racket, nice little boys and girls shouldn’t roar like dragons. Aurvael and Stephanivien will inevitably be knee deep in complicated books and machinist parts, and there’s only so many diagrams you can bluff your way through when you’re six.

With the Haillenartes, Francel always feels like he’s trailing behind, the littlest soldier on a march he can just about keep up with. Everything is watered down for him, explained to him with the smugness of someone who got there first. His friends are hand me downs, his toys discarded by someone else, following the coat tails of someone else’s talent because he has none to call his own. He can’t speak more than one language, can’t sing, and will never gain a knighthood. But when he found the twelve year old Haurchefant in that gazebo, the boy became his friend and his friend alone.

As a result, Francel saw a lot of things that other people would have much rather keep behind closed doors. It’s easier to be sneaky when you’re small and quiet, and Haurchefant is delighted when Francel shows him his favourite spots – the tree in the back garden where if you angle it just right, you’re completely invisible; the nook in the hallway that lets you see into the drawing room while everyone else is completely unaware; the dusty room in the attic (which years later he realised was nothing more mysterious than a spare bedroom turned storeroom) that he was certain nobody else had the key to. This one is particularly good because there’s treasures, dusty old rings with stones as big as ball bearings, toys that are so old and funny looking that he’s never seen anything like them before, books that are far too complicated for him to understand but the pictures of far off lands are enough to keep him mesmerised for hours.

Haurchefant too, is delighted, spinning in a giddy circle as he takes everything in.

‘A place to hide, all your own,’ he marvels. ‘Do you live up here, when your mother yells at you to get out of her sight?’

Francel cocks his head at him. ‘Maman doesn’t say that,’ he says tentatively, not wanting to say the wrong thing because this is his friend and he doesn’t want to mess it up. ‘She shouts, sometimes. Mostly ‘cause El and Steph do silly things like fire their pellet guns inside and knock stuff over.’ Privately, Francel had thought the whole thing looked great fun, but even at six he was already wise enough not to share that opinion out loud. ‘But then she says she’s sorry for shouting and says it’s not nice. Does… does your maman make you live in the attic?’

Haurchefant shrugs. ‘Not in the attic, but my room. I have to stay there for a few bells, a few days sometimes. ‘Twould be nice to have somewhere she couldn’t find me. No,’ he adds, and for a moment his voice dips low and something flickers across his face. ‘No, my maman would never do that.’

Then his face clears, like the sun coming out after a rainstorm, and he beams at Francel, ghosts quite forgotten. ‘Now! You must show me these magickal objects, Francel. We have goals to accomplish and knights will need weapons!’

‘Where are we going?’ Francel asks dutifully.

‘We’ll decide that when we have our arsenal, Knight Francel.’ His friend prods him towards the ancient collection of jewellery they’ve tipped out on to the floor, and he gets to work. Haurchefant dutifully goes along with whatever Francel tells him, that this necklace is warded so the dragons can’t harm them and that ear clasp is a special one built by ice sprites during the last Calamity. He never gets bossy or tries to tell Francel that doesn’t make sense and that isn’t how protective charms work, and immediately takes charge when Francel says there’s a voidsent in the wine cellar.

They clatter down the stairs, shrieking like Garuda herself is possessing them, and Haurchefant dutifully lashes out at every shadow with a broom he’d pilfered from somewhere. By some miracle, nothing gets broken, and when his mother turns up to investigate she finds two dusty, giggling children lobbing wine corks at each other and screeching when they think they’ve spotted the voidsent. Francel at least expects to be in a little trouble, but his mother laughs, shaking her head.

‘What am I going to do with you?’ she asks fondly. ‘I was hoping Halone had given me one nice quiet child.’ She smooths Francel’s hair, taps him on the nose. ‘Now, is the voidsent quite dealt with, or will you not be having dinner? I suppose we’ll have to give your pudding away – ‘

‘Nooo – ‘

‘And what about you? Will you have dinner with us, my love?’

Haurchefant starts from where he’s been awkwardly staring at the floor, huddled in the corner to try and make himself small. He meets her gaze, scanning her face as if looking for a trick.

‘I do not wish to intrude,’ he says stiffly, all of his usual cheer gone. ‘Dinner is a family affair and – ‘

‘Oh, don’t be silly,’ Ottoline says, and holds out her hand to him. ‘Come, there’s plenty extra. Another child in the house won’t make any difference, and anyone who’s so kind to my baby is more than welcome at my table.’

‘Maman, don’t say that!’ Francel whines, tugging at her sleeve. ‘I’m six!’

‘So you are, but you’ll still be my baby when you’re an old man of a century.’

‘Mamannnn – ‘

Haurchefant has uncoiled from his corner, cautiously reaching out to take Ottoline’s hand, and she gives it a squeeze before wrapping an arm around his shoulders.

‘Come on!’ she says cheerfully, steering both boys up the stairs and back into the main house. ‘You can tell me of your knightly adventures. Why is there a voidsent in my cellar?’

It takes a while before Francel works out what, exactly, the expression on Haurchefant’s face had been. People talk and they don’t bother to keep their voices down around children who would rather not be seen or heard. He quickly gleans that his friend doesn’t share both parents with Artoirel and Emmanellain, his crashing waterfall of silverblue hair infinitely brighter than the sooty black of the other two, his eyes teal rather than dark. In fact, he looks rather like Edmont, and that appears to be the problem.

It doesn’t take long before he hears the word “bastard,” whispered, spat from painted lips with all the poison they can muster. He’s fairly sure it’s a bad word, but why that one in particular is so often directed at Haurchefant, he can’t work out. As with anything that’s beyond a six year old’s comprehension, he turns to the person who seems to know everything – his biggest brother.

At fourteen, Stephanivien spends most of his time in private lessons, and more often than not skipping those to go and work in the manufactory on whatever he’s tinkering with. Their father encourages it, says “creativity shouldn’t be stifled,” or something like that. His brother often stays out as late as he can get away with at his workbench. It’s all too easy for Francel to get permission to fetch him – it’s close to lunchtime anyway, and Maman likes everyone to eat together. As expected, Steph is tucked away in a corner, hacking away at some little contraption with a screwdriver. Francel sidles in next to him, beaming as the eldest Haillenarte unfurls an arm to hug him close.

‘What’s that?’ he asks, and his brother passes it over. It’s a little toy train, albeit in several pieces, and there’s faint glimmers of crystal buried within the mechanisms. ‘Are those to make the train go by itself?’

‘Yes! I wanted to make it run on aether, but Father said to master crystals as a power source first. If this one works, mayhap I can make an entire set, or a – ‘

‘Maman says to come home for lunch,’ Francel interrupts, because he knows all too well how long his brother will talk for once he gets excited. ‘Can you show me the trains after? I won’t break it. Promise.’

They take the long way round, Francel deliberately weaving his way through the streets until they’re away from the bustling crowds and listening ears. If Stephanivien notices, he doesn’t say anything, content to amble at his own pace until –

‘Steph?’

‘Mmm?’

‘People keep saying something about Haurchefant, and – and it sounds like… like a bad something. Why?’

His brother slows his steps, finally making eye contact with Francel, who’s determined not to blink first. You don’t grow up with four older siblings and give in at the first sign of resistance, because that’s exactly how you lose the last chocolate in the box.

‘Mayhap… mayhap that’s talk you shouldn’t listen to, little brother. It won’t do any good. You just keep being his friend, if it makes you happy.’

‘But when I am his friend, all the grownups look mad and say I should play with Emmanellain instead, why can’t I play with both of them?’ Stephanivien chews his lip, glances down, gears ticking away in that brain of his that Francel can just see the flicker of but not scrutinise for himself. ‘Did – did Haurchefant do something bad? Is that why his maman shouts at him?’

‘Francel – no, it’s not like that. Not quite.’ His brother sighs, glances around to make sure they’re truly alone. ‘The other families and nobles take offence because his maman and papa weren’t married. Countess Fortemps isn’t his maman, just Artoirel’s and Emmanellain’s.’

Francel blinks at him because truly, is that it? Marriage is about as foreign a concept as outer space, when you’re six. Holding hands and wearing rings, lots of little ceremonies that grown-ups seem to care about an awful lot about, stiff clothes and a cake that you’re not allowed to touch, for some reason?

‘So that’s why they say he’s bastard?’ he says carefully, tripping over the unfamiliar word and wanting nothing more to stamp on it until it turns to dust if it makes his new friend sad.

‘Yes. It means you’re not a trueborn child. That your parents weren’t married when you were born. When adults get married, they marry one person and have babies with them, and Count Fortemps had Artoirel and Emmanellain with Countess Fortemps, but Haurchefant with someone else. Do you understand?’

‘But… why’s that matter?’

‘I don’t know, little brother,’ Stephanivien says wearily, shoving his hands into his pockets and starting to walk again. ‘It just does and that’s why they say some very cruel things about your friend. I would hazard a guess that it’s why the countess shouts at him. Her husband did something bad, but instead of being angry at him, she’s angry at the product of his misconduct.’

‘Oh. That’s mean.’ Francel trots after him, somehow more confused than he had been a few minutes ago. Weddings and babies and anger, blaming a child for being born. It all seems rather silly.

‘That it is, so don’t go around repeating it, all right? It’s not a nice word.’

‘Like how Papa says not to call people foolish or slow-minded?’

‘Exactly. Haurchefant is your friend, and you have to look after him. Friends take care of each other.’

‘Even though he’s bigger than me?’ Francel points out. ‘He’s nearly as big as you.’

‘Even big people need someone to look out for them. If you send out a knight alone, he is vulnerable to attack, is he not?’ Stephanivien’s voice is picking back up with his usual enthusiasm, all waving arms and exuberant hand gestures. ‘He needs a squad to defend his weak points, to watch his back lest someone sneak up on him, to keep him safe. If they’re exploring somewhere dangerous, adventurers take at least four people.’

‘… so I need two more friends?’ Francel asks, a little perturbed. He really doesn’t want to have to play with Emmanellain.

Stephanivien laughs, takes his hand, pulls him along towards home.

‘I dare say I can be roped in as your third – perhaps Chlode for your fourth? Then when we do go out adventuring, we’ll all be safe, hmm?’

After that, Haurchefant starts appearing at their door more often, and Francel begins to notice things. If his brothers stay out too late, one of the servants will be dispatched to round them up, and Aurvael gets the scolding of his life when he gets distracted by the booksellers and doesn’t return home until well after dark. Haurchefant stays out as long as he pleases, often vanishing into Ishgard’s streets after seeing Francel safely home, with no adults pulling him into a frantic hug and demanding to know where he’s been after a frenzied search. His clothes are a peculiar mishmash of colours that don’t really match, and the styles are from several seasons, if not years back. His trueborn brothers go to the same school Francel does, but when he asks after Haurchefant, all he gets is some vague excuse about tutors and preferring to learn at home.

Ottoline too, takes notice, and starts passing on clothes her children have outgrown, gently scolding the wayward boy if she sees him out after the sun goes down. When there are parties and galas and all manner of events happening at the Haillenarte household, she always makes a point to include all three of the boys in her invites, and loudly asks after Haurchefant if he doesn’t appear. Francel’s papa is delighted to have another child around who actually enjoys fighting, and is constantly quizzing him on training drills and sword techniques, and had he heard the valiant tale of Ser Isarmoix, who went up against three dragons at once and barely lived to tell the tale? Normally Francel would be jealous, because Papa only tells him stories, but the look of wonder on his friend’s face makes that envy fade.   

Time ticks on and Francel gets older. Their adventures don’t mature any – quite the opposite. They always hold that childish curiosity and glee at doing something they shouldn’t, except it isn’t sneaking freshly baked cakes out from the kitchen, it’s giggling over Haurchefant’s scandalous collection of heretical gil dreadfuls and lurid enchiridions sent from a friend in Limsa. They place tiny bets on the chocobo races with Francel’s pocket money and spend their spoils on candied fruits, Haurchefant teaching him how to throw them in the air and catch them on your tongue, as well as an introduction to the five second rule.

Chlode and a group of friends form an acting troupe that perform whenever his brother can snatch himself out of the jaws of war for a moment, and Francel has come to expect a pair of tickets left on his pillow for every performance. He attempts to copy his eldest brother’s eyeliner when the pair of them are ten and sixteen, and Stephanivien spends an afternoon teaching them how to draw wings on their eyes sharp as blades, and how to clean it off your face when you sneeze halfway through. Aurvael, ever the serious one, demands to know what they think of this week’s serials, and never, ever once dismisses either of the younger boy’s opinions despite Haurchefant’s lack of schooling. Laniaitte, so determined to prove herself before she’s even grown, challenging them both to fight with practice swords pilfered from the barracks, unless they were too afraid.

(Francel is smart enough to bow out. Haurchefant winds up black and blue, and his sister grazes every limb imaginable, but there’s admiration in her eyes when she hauls him up and haughtily demands another round).

The incident with the kidnappers and taking an arrow for Francel certainly hadn’t made the Haillenartes love him any less. In an instant he’d gone from childhood playmate to full blown hero – at the time, Francel remembered his mother joking that they should hang Haurchefant’s portrait with the rest of the descendants up in the east wing. He might as well have been the fifth son, if you ignored the lack of family resemblance, blending right in with the laughter and the teasing, the source of so much affection it warms Francel’s heart for years to come.

And yet –

They’re no longer boys but not quite men, yet to hit their growth spurts but undeniably drifting away from childhood. Francel has inherited his mother’s face; wide eyes, high cheekbones, all too easily drifting into a gentle smile. Haurchefant looks more like Edmont with every passing day, face shifting into the Fortemps stern features, the sharply pointed aquiline nose. It’s one of the rare occasions that they dare venture into Fortemps manor that Francel clocks the founder’s portrait, always staring down with a kind smile. He can see the resemblance to Edmont here and there, but he would have thought he was looking at a portrait of his dearest friend had he not known better.

He hears the shouting from across the square almost every day now. The slamming of doors, the smack of a hand against a table, sometimes even the crashing of china as it splinters against the wall. Haurchefant appears at their door more and more, eyes red and bright smile dim. They spend more time sitting in silence while Haurchefant’s outer shell mends, Francel looping a comforting arm through his in an attempt to patch it back together. There’s never bruises, because that would mean someone had to say something, condemn the lady of a noble house that was only really doing what was expected in her situation. Arguments can be waved away as misunderstandings; furniture can’t tell on you if you slap it; fathers can turn a blind eye so long as it’s not them in the line of fire.

Because that’s it, isn’t it? No one ever says anything, because to be nobility is to follow rules that were made up centuries back, all walking on tiptoe and whispering under your breath about consorting with the maid for Fury knows how long and how she’d tossed her whelp on to Edmont’s doorstep with nary a care in the world. Sometimes it is from the mouth of strangers, and sometimes it’s the countess herself, drunk on mirror apple wine in their drawing room as Ottoline listens with a patience Francel wishes she didn’t possess.

‘Just – you needn’t be so harsh on the boy, Marci,’ his maman pleads, her voice dredged with a tiredness that suggests they’ve had this conversation many a time. ‘Hate the betrayal but not the innocent child; Haurchefant has done naught wrong save be born betwixt this storm. Have you heard what happened with the Durendaire lad? There are far worse positions to be in.’

‘Such as? If another brat would run off and join a band of marauders, I can see no harm in it.’ The countess is comely, no doubt about that, a heart-shaped face with delicate features like those you see on exquisitely carved statues, but this pretty nose and rosebud lips are dripping with ice and frost that threaten to skewer anyone who goes near. ‘He left me, Ottoline. Left me for another woman’s bed and never will tell me why. Every time I see that bastard wretch’s face in my halls I can see naught but the whore who stole my husband from me.’

Her voice is shaking, fingers clamped around the stem of the wine glass so tightly Francel fancies he can hear it creak from all the way up here, in his little nook at the top of the stairs. He’s meant to be in bed and had snuck out for a glass of water, but instead finds himself staring, fascinated at the source of his beloved friend’s torment. In Haurchefant’s stories she’s a witch, a harpy, a terrifying figure that looms taller than Halone herself, wielding just as deadly a spear, but right now she’s as mortal as the rest of them, tall and willowy and with an expression that could cleave a foe in two.

‘He’s a child,’ Ottoline says sharply. ‘Not even a man grown and he didn’t hesitate to save Francel’s life; I have no doubt he’d do the same for Emmanellain.’

‘’Tis a pity the arrow only struck his shield arm. We could have had an acceptable mourning period and moved on from this farce.’ She pours another glass of wine, the firelight glinting off the necklace at her throat, as blood red as her words. ‘I pray you never find yourself in this situation, Ottoline. I can never escape it, even now. The jibes, the titters, the judgement in their eyes. Even when I walk down the street with my sons, all anyone can think of is how they are overshadowed by something that shouldn’t exist. Artoirel has had a stain against his name since he was but two summers old because of that five-gil whore and her child.’

‘I would take him in,’ Francel hears and he has to muffle a gasp of surprise. ‘Haurchefant has a kind soul, Marci, and mine own children adore him. All you need to do is say the word and I would gladly welcome him as another son.’

‘Ha. Do you really think my lord husband would surrender his bastard just like that? Nay, Ottoline, so long as he can convince himself he’s done the right thing, that boy will remain in my house. If I’d had my way, you could have taken him off my hands for a sack of chocobo shite.’

His maman sighs, puts down her own empty glass and gets to her feet, holding out a hand to the countess.

‘Come. I think you’ve had enough, and it’s getting late. I’ll escort you home.’

Francel doesn’t remember the rest of the conversation, only that he scurried back to his room as the adults prepared to leave, and that he cried himself to sleep. The only other part he does recall is that when Haurchefant arrives at breakfast time, cheerfully proclaiming that he was making himself scarce as the countess had a dreadful headache and was in a fouler mood than usual, he’d hugged the older boy as tightly as he could, as though he could make up for all those lost years.

Time hurtles forward and Francel doesn’t even get the chance to grow up before his world is tipped upside down. In his darkest moments, he wonders if Halone is punishing him for some unknown sin, and the night Dalamud falls, he voices this to Aurvael, who sombrely remarks that if that’s true, the entirety of Eorzea must have committed some unforgiveable crime. There’s an air of panic around the city, and a few hours before the moon rises, Francel goes looking for Haurchefant.

His friend is sat on the balustrade behind the Fortemps manor, swinging his feet and staring up at the sky. There’s another pair of elezen with him that Francel only vaguely recognises. One is leaning his elbows on the railing, and the other is perched on the pillar, hugging one leg to his chest and the other dangling precariously over the edge. Haurchefant and the one in blue seem to be arguing and Francel tenses for a second before recognising the tone as “fondly annoyed.”

‘… it would really be no trouble, my friend. Estinien will already be staying with me, one other person would make little difference.’

Haurchefant shrugs, and in the light of the sunset his smile is a little too vibrant, like he’s struggling to hold the pieces of the mask together.

‘I shall be fine. I’m sure I’ll find somewhere to hole up by the time everything kicks off, even if it is the barracks back at Dragonhead.’

The white-haired one snorts. ‘You really mean to face the end of the world alone in a soldier’s dormitory? Fear not, Aymeric’s bossiness tisn’t catching.’

‘This is a time to be spent with those you consider family, I cannot intrude on that.’

‘What makes you think I don’t consider you thus?’ Aymeric says, frustrated, throwing his hands into the air, and that’s when Francel decides he’s heard quite enough, thank you.

‘Haurchefant Greystone, you are not going back to Camp Dragonhead, for the love of Halone,’ Francel says, marching up to them with hands on hips and a glare that he already knew looks like his mother’s. ‘I had not presumed you a fool, but perhaps I was mistaken.’

‘Ah, Francel,’ Haurchefant says cheerfully, ignoring his friend’s bark of laughter. ‘Aymeric, I believe you have found a kindred spirit. This one fusses over me almost as much as you do.’

‘As he should,’ Aymeric remarks drily. ‘You hold far too little concern for your own welfare. Francel – de Haillenarte, I presume? I’ve served under Ser Chlodebaimt a few times these past years and you look quite a lot alike.’

Introductions make the round and Francel begins to match titles to names, gossip to faces. Aymeric de Borel is swiftly rising in the ranks despite his parentage, and he knows of Estinien Varlineau through his fearsome reputation and single mindedness of becoming Azure Dragoon. He seems cordial enough, though Aymeric does all the talking, and his tone is surprisingly gentle when he speaks to Haurchefant. Francel keeps waiting for the pin to drop, the hammer to fall, the backhanded compliments he’s so used to hearing around his friend, but they never materialise and Francel feels at ease. Not everywhere is so cruel, the world not always so unkind. Somewhere, perhaps, there is space for Haurchefant to be loved.

‘What brings you out here so late?’ his friend prods after the conversation dies away. ‘You shouldn’t be out, not with…’ He trails off and all four of them stare up at Dalamud, encroaching ever closer and casting a sickly red stain over everything it touches. ‘They say it is to fall tonight, if you believe the astrologians. Mayhap we truly will see the end of the world.’

‘To look for you,’ Francel says severely. ‘What on earth are you thinking, staying out there alone? Gods only know what’s going to happen; you could be hurt and no one would know until it was far too late.’

‘True, though maybe ‘twold give the countess something to smile about – ow – ‘ This is because Francel has elbowed him sharply in the ribs and this time Estinien actually laughs.

‘You are coming home with me. Right now, in fact. I am not letting you spend the Seventh Umbral Calamity in some pitiful knight’s barracks or in a home that hates you. Now, are you going to come with me agreeably, or will I have to enlist your comrades to drag you back there? I dare say between the three of us, we could manage it.’

Haurchefant happens to be particularly tall for an elezen, and Francel’s growth spurt hasn’t even begun, so to his chagrin he barely reaches his friend’s elbow. It doesn’t stop his glare from being any less fearsome, his hand held out pointedly and completely without shame. With four older siblings, you get used to bossing taller people around.

Haurchefant just gives him a gentle smile, eyes creasing in fond mirth, and he allows Francel to haul him back over the balcony without complaint. He squeezes the younger boy’s hand tight and doesn’t seem inclined to let go any time soon.

‘I suppose I have been convinced. Worry not, you shan’t have to kidnap me.’

‘Good, now let’s go. It won’t be long ‘til moonrise.’ He sneaks a glance up at the sky, how the shadows are encroaching over the city’s walls, the light of the sun rapidly being snuffed out. ‘Sers, you should retreat to safety too. I… don’t want to see first-hand what happens after dark.’

‘Aye, sound advice,’ Aymeric agrees. ‘Fury watch over you and your family. Thank you for taking care of Haurchefant, too.’ He dips into a small bow, and Estinien gives him a small nod and the faintest flicker of a smile, almost imperceptible in the gloaming. ‘Stay safe.’

Bahamut rips free from its shell not two hours later, and they can hear its screams all the way from Carteneau. The whole world turns white and for a minute Francel thinks this really is it, that his last moments will be Haurchefant holding his hand and his father yelling at them to get away from the windows as the entirety of Coerthas turns to ice, aetherytes exploding and sending jagged fragments of rock impaling themselves into the ground. When they finally dare venture outside, the temperature is well below freezing, and as he helps with the cleanup, he loses count of how many people he finds frozen to death in the streets.

Haurchefant is already tinged with blue, his eyes the colour of glaciers, hair the colour of a pre-dawn sky. It’s all too easy to imagine him curling up to sleep in an isolated corner somewhere away from his stepmother’s scorn and never waking up again. Francel spends a lot of time in the days after the Calamity reuniting families. There’s lots of tears, lots of joyful shouting, lots of hugging your loved ones close as just one more person is spared that heartbreak.

Needless to say, no one comes looking for Haurchefant.

Francel stares at the space Dalamud had inhabited, recalls the moment Bahamut tore itself free, shrieking in rage and determined to punish its tormentors. He thinks of his best friend opening the Fortemps manor door to empty halls, and he thinks he understands the dreadwyrm’s ire, how the storm inside you can build and build until it becomes so great it makes landfall.

Not two months later, Svara’s horde descend upon the Steel Vigil and tear Chlodebaimt apart.

People are so quick to reassure him that his brother died a hero, making sure the rest of his men were lead to safety before turning to face dragon’s rage. What they all fail to think about is that a boy who had barely seen twenty one summers was cut down within seconds, his laughter extinguished and his strawberry blond hair turning Dalamud red as it soaks in the blood, promoted to officer and flung into danger because the Calamity had killed anyone older. The wyrms care not if this tiny creature with a sword was someone loved, someone wanted; they set upon him with fire and scales and teeth until, according to his squadmates, Chlode was barely recognisable, limbs scattered across the snow like discarded firewood. Neither of his parents would let Francel see him, and now he has to let his brother be sealed away without even the chance to say goodbye.

The cathedral echoes, loud and cavernous, with the sound of crying. Laniaitte has her arm wrapped around her mother like she’s propping the both of them up; Aurvael is dealing with the various aunts and uncles that have crowded round like moths to a flame whilst their father does the necessary pointless conversations with the rest of the nobles. Stephanivien is completely lost for words, all of his usual spark and energy completely snuffed out, and he sits slumped in a pew, head in his hands. Francel just stares straight ahead in a daze, unable to look away. The coffin is unyielding stone and a morbid part of him wants to reach out and touch, to find out exactly how cold the assortment of parts that used to be his brother are.

No one will look at him. No one will touch him, share their warmth to get rid of this freezing fog; they’re stuck in their own little bubbles, clustering together and giving thanks to the gods it’s not them. There’s an undulating wave of whispering in the background, a murmuring sea that rises on the cadence of its tides, rumours, judgement, staring, remarks on how gaudy the flowers are and how undignified it is that the father is crying so hard and what a terrible blow this is for the house and –

Someone calls his name from far back in the crowd, but Francel barely hears it over the sound of his heart thundering in his ears. His hands are shaking, vision starting to spot with black, and he thinks for a horrible moment that he’s going to be sick or start screaming, snatching the ugly glass vases from the windowsills and throw them at the gawkers because how dare they stare and murmur behind their shield of false sympathy, how dare they shut his brother away in the dark, how dare Chlode die like this and make his mother cry and leave them like this –

A pair of arms wrap around him, holds him tight, finally breaking the reverie. Francel comes back to himself, blinks slowly, and sees Haurchefant, amazingly warm and alive and watching him with worried eyes. His friend is saying something but he can’t quite make out what it is, the sounds muffled and distorted like they’re coming from far away. Then all at once they’re moving, Haurchefant shouldering past the seemingly infinite people in the crowd, steers Francel outside until they’re in the memorial gardens. A pathetic excuse for one since the Calamity because nothing grows out of frozen soil, but it’s far better than the stifling atmosphere inside.

Haurchefant puts a tentative hand on his shoulder lest he crack like the accursed ice that’s lain on the ground since this whole sodding star went to pieces. ‘Are you all right? Thought you might have needed a rescue.’

Francel nods but doubles over not a split second later, retching whatever he’d been able to eat that morning into the icy grass. His friend doesn’t say a word, just wraps him another, gentle hug when he’s done, caring not a whit for what people will undoubtedly say as they peer outside to see where they’ve gone. The dam breaks and the sobs pour out like fresh blood from a wound he’d thought he’d manage to cauterise, burning hot with exhaustion and rage, one simple act of kindness his complete undoing. 

It’s beyond words, this pain, just a wail that sounds like it’s coming from someone else, but it doesn’t deter Haurchefant one bit. He simply tucks Francel’s head under his chin and rubs his back, stands there for as long as Francel needs him. Later, he’ll learn that his friend waved off any nosy onlookers, giving Francel enough time to come back to himself and play the part of the son he’s supposed to be. Said onlookers also apparently included the countess, who undoubtedly gave him merry hell for it later on. Despite being dispatched back to Dragonhead, he still teleports back to the Haillenarte manor each night to check up on him, and Francel has never forgotten that.

It’s at one of these visits that he finally has a target for all the rage welling up inside him like dragonfire.

They sit in the parlour, the usually cheerful room quiet, and the flames dance on the walls to give it a cosy feel. The rest of his family have drifted off to separate parts of the house because each time they gather together they’re all too aware of the absence that looms like a spectre, tearing at their fragile psyches with something that feels an awful lot like dragon claws. Laniaitte has been back at Camp Cloudtop for several days now, and he’s seen hide nor hair of Stephanivien, undoubtedly sealed up in the workshop surrounded by machinery complicated enough to exorcise Chlode’s ghost.

Haurchefant, therefore, has taken it upon himself to fuss, bringing him pastries from the Crozier and coaxing his friend into eating them, plying him with cups of hot chocolate that are almost ridiculous with the amount of whipped cream and marshmallows he’s managed to stick on top.

‘’Tis more dessert than drink,’ Francel protests, albeit weakly. ‘I’m not sure what you expect me to do with this.’

Haurchefant hands him a spoon, fighting to keep a straight face and immediately loses the battle when Francel snorts with laughter. He dutifully begins tackling the monstrosity in front of him, and despite his misgivings, it’s actually rather good. They talk about nothing in particular, Haurchefant chattering on about anything and everything that comes to mind, as is his wont, and it feels so refreshingly normal Francel almost allows himself to relax. His gaze drifts to the window, the snowfall outside, and an unusual sight catches his attention. 

The countess is outside the Fortemps manor and she’s actually smiling which is enough to pique Francel’s curiosity. The object of her affection is a young boy, younger even than Francel, and she’s reaching over to smooth his hair as she protectively ushers him into the house. Emmanellain bounds after her, carrying all manner of parcels and bags, each marked as freshly purchased from the market by the tags dangling off them. Most peculiar indeed.

He says as much to Haurchefant, who doesn’t look in the least bit surprised.

‘Oh yes, Honoroit. It seems Emmanellain has become quite fond of him lately; it doesn’t surprise me he’s finally gotten his way.’

‘For what?’

‘To take him as a ward. I think the term “page,” would be more accurate, but judging from all the to-and-fro he’ll be quite well taken care of. I suppose he must have gotten bored with only Artoirel around; now he has a confidant.’

Anyone else might have been fooled by the smile on Haurchefant’s face, his deliberately casual tone, but he and Francel have been through hell and back, watched the world turn to ice and their families fall apart. As good a liar as Haurchefant is, he’s never quite good enough to fool Francel.

‘Mayhap she does have a heart after all,’ he muses, giving it one last shot to diffuse the situation. ‘That or someone’s put her under a spell.’

‘He’s quite the clever little thing, by all accounts.’ Haurchefant toys with his empty cup, won’t look him in the eye. ‘Does an excellent job at keeping Emmanellain out of trouble; Father thinks he’s wonderful, and the countess can’t stop singing his praises now he’s rescued my dear baby brother out of a scrape or two. Last I heard they were outfitting him in the Fortemps colours and having him eat at the table with them.’

His smile is shaky now, twitching at the edges, fingers tapping nervously against the ceramic. He stares out of the window at the home that should be his by birth right, at the lamps on in their rooms that denote the family inside. His eyes are glassy and anyone else might have written it off as a trick of the light, the slight undercurrent to his tone that is seasoned with bitterness just their imagination. It’s painfully obvious when he hauls the mask back up and glues his smile back on. It’s an old, old wound but one that’s never quite healed over properly.

‘And where did they find this boy?’ Francel asks, arching an eyebrow. ‘One of the branch houses, perchance?’

‘Not even that. A particularly nasty seller in the Crozier; Emmanellain apparently couldn’t stand the maltreatment, Brume child or not. He’s far too kind.’

The white hot rage in Francel flares up like he’s just thrown a log on the hearth and sparks are shooting outwards, threatening to consume all they touch. The storm is building inside him, the thunder cracking across the horizon and he dearly wants to let it explode.

‘Bullshite. Pathetic hypocrites who can’t see past their own prejudice but will undoubtedly ride the tail of benevolence so all can see it.’ Haurchefant looks up, blinks at him and his outburst. ‘Even if I were to tell them to their faces, I doubt they would understand. I’m so sorry, my friend.’

‘No need to concern yourself – ‘

‘Fucking hells, Haurchefant, I’ll do as I damn well please,’ Francel snaps. ‘’Tis not right, any of this. I hate it. Someone with so much love to give and yet they prefer to drink from a poisoned well. They disgust me, the lot of them. Yes, even Emmanellain. His ignorance may be born out of stupidity rather than malice but it does not dull the blade.’ He’s on his feet without even realising, striding over to Haurchefant and wrapping him in a fierce hug, like he can push all the emotion and sadness and affection into his friend’s brain by osmosis, by tangling their aether together so the best man he’s ever met never has to be alone again. ‘I hate that they treat you this way. I know we are not related by blood, but gods above I wish we were. I’d be glad to call you mine brother.’

Haurchefant gives a shaky sigh, face buried in Francel’s neck. ‘Oh, my dear Francel. I’d be lost without you, I’m certain.’

‘And I without you. You will always have a place here, regardless of what the countess or your sorry excuse for a father think.’ He tightens his grip around his friend, tries hard to keep his words steady and as sharp as Halone’s spear herself, because the last thing Haurchefant needs is for him to break down right now. ‘I love and treasure you. It cannot stop the bleeding, I know. But I do hope it is of some comfort.’

Haurchefant doesn’t say anything for a long time. His shoulders are shaking and he clings to Francel so tightly it almost hurts. But he won’t complain, for this is the absolute least his friend deserves.  

A few days after that, Francel puts in an application to train at Camp Dragonhead, much to his father’s shocked delight. Not only so he can learn to avenge Chlodebaimt, but also to follow Haurchefant. He returns home at the weekends and most times can be persuaded to bring his friend with him. The Haillenarte house is quieter than it used to be; much less laughter runs through its halls, but it’s never devoid of love. The Fortemps, for the most part, seem to be content with avoiding Haurchefant, but it’s Honoroit he can’t stop running into.

The boy is barely nine summers old, reed thin and has a cautious look in his eyes. The Brume accent still runs thick through his speech but is gradually fading with each passing day. The aggravating thing is that he’s polite and courteous and will always offer up a smile to Haurchefant, despite what he’s been undoubtedly told. Often Francel can look out from his bedroom window to see the two of them together, the younger elezen following his master around, ever patient, while Emmanellain teases and plays with him as a sibling would.

Haurchefant just looks away with a faint smile that’s so brittle it could shatter, every time he sees them, and the anger inside Francel only builds.

Needless to say, they stop returning to Ishgard at weekends.

It falls into a routine for a while, and they can almost pretend that the painful parts of this world aren’t there, forget that Chlodebaimt isn’t just going to appear from around a corner, that Haurchefant’s family haven’t written to him in months. Aymeric keeps them abreast of the situation in the city, lets them know when the countess’ health takes a turn for the worse, one bitter Coerthas winter. She dies barely a week later and without a word Estinien shows up to Haurchefant’s room at Dragonhead on the eve of the funeral with several bottles of pixie plum wine and a deliberately unreadable expression on his face.

‘If we’re to be drowning our sorrows, better this than Brume rotgut,’ he says with a snort, putting booted feet on the coffee table as he languidly stretches in front of the fire like a lazy cat. He ignores Aymeric’s squawk of outrage and instead fixes his gaze on Francel, his eyes the colour of the snow outside. ‘And what of you, little Haillenarte? Will you be joining us, or back to your barracks like a good soldier?’

Francel simply picks up the nearest bottle and pours himself a generous measure, tosses the cork at the older man.

‘I think it is customary to celebrate when one’s enemy is defeated, ser dragoon,’ he says sweetly. ‘Or are you perchance afraid little lord Haillenarte can outdrink his superiors?’

Aymeric chokes on his own glass and Haurchefant howls with laughter; Estinien looks entirely bewildered before his face breaks into a grin.

‘Oh, I like this one. I can see why you keep him around.’

Haurchefant slings an arm around Francel’s shoulder, squeezing him tight. ‘My darling Francel is a man of many talents, including the most exquisite backhanded insults.’

 ‘The man who does not swing a sword or fire a bow, but is instead skilled in the art of noble wordplay is a formidable opponent indeed,’ Aymeric muses, and his eyes glitter with amusement. ‘Perhaps you can teach dear Estinien a technique or two.’

‘And what do I get in return?’

‘Can teach you how to skewer a wyrm,’ Estinien offers. ‘Not much else, though.’

Francel returns the grin. ‘Where you obtained this excellent wine will do nicely, my friend.’

They get exceedingly, horribly drunk and manage to distract Haurchefant entirely from the funeral that he very much was not invited to. Honoroit will be there to comfort Emmanellain and Artoirel for this father, he knows, but there’s no space at that graveside for Haurchefant to air his complicated feelings. They will float to the surface, in time, and at least Francel can be sure his friend will have shoulders to cry on and training dummies to stab, should the need arise. They’ll be there, come what may, and that’s enough.

For a while, it is. And then all at once, it’s not.

Francel is many things, but even he cannot stop a spear of pure aether punching through Haurchefant’s chest.

The Warrior of Light, by all accounts, had become so incandescent with rage that it had taken Estinien to drag her from the Vault, firing on Zephirin until she’d spent every last bit of her aether into her screaming. Aymeric later confesses that it’s the only time he’s been afraid of Susa, this little Au Ra with her easy smiles and wreathed in flowers, her white dress drenched in Haurchefant’s blood and bruises left on Estinien’s skin where he’d refused to let go of her so she could tear Zephirin apart with her bare hands. Her and the dragoon go tearing out of the city without so much as a by your leave, and Francel hates himself for not volunteering to go with them. Useless with a sword, maybe, but to prove that someone cared.

Honoroit is running back and forth through the city making funeral arrangements, and it makes Francel want to hit something.

This void is worse than the Calamity, worse than Chlode, because at least there was someone to take charge of the situation, someone to look to. The best Francel can manage now is hiding in the manufactory late at night with Stephanivien, holed up in a dark corner where no one expects him to talk. Steph didn’t say anything when he showed up a couple of hours ago, and just carried on working like it was normal for your little brother to sit like a statue and stare at you from the shadows.

He’s cleaning a gun and the first coherent thought that Francel’s had in days pops into his head, that he knows who’s that is. It’s a tiny weapon, more of a pistol than the clunky firearms Skysteel usually produces, painted a deep purple with its ridges marked in gold. Said ridges are now stained a red muddy brown, desperate fingerprints wrapped around the burned barrel.

‘’Tis not his,’ Stephanivien says softly, reading Francel’s thoughts perfectly. ‘The Warrior’s hands are in tatters; Ser Aymeric had to prise the weapon out of her grip. It will clean.’

‘Why do you have it?’

‘Aethereal burnout, I think, but the prospectometer warns of something far more destructive and alas I think it may be right.’ His brother frowns down at the gun, goggles encasing his eyes. It’s making his eyeshadow smudge. ‘At the moment ‘tis not capable of firing anything, so Susa brought it to me before she left. You know she wields an axe, too? A huge beast made from solid crystal; bigger than even the tallest Auri. Hells of a thing.’

Francel closes his eyes, imagines holding a weapon bigger than himself, bigger than the Fortemps, bigger than Ishgard, cleaving in Zephirin’s face until there’s nothing left but a bloody crater that resembles his heart.

‘Mayhap I should learn to do the same,’ he rasps. The ice that lay on the ground the day of Chlodebaimt’s funeral has finally cracked and sent him tumbling down into the freezing abyss below, and he’s not entirely sure he wants to try and breach the surface.

‘Come. Up you get.’ Stephanivien is on his feet now, towering over him like he’s always done, a good half a fulm taller even after Francel’s growth spurt. ‘I need your assistance.’

‘With what?’

‘You’ll see, come on. Up, up!’ He shoves the goggles off, eyeliner absolutely all over the place, and holds out an expectant hand; it reminds him so much of Haurchefant it’s almost enough to make Francel smile. He obediently lets Steph haul him to his feet and trails after him to one of the testing rooms. It’s littered with the usual debris – bits of broken furniture, patched together training dummies, and heavily dented targets, and Steph goes rummaging off in the back while Francel waits. He raises an eyebrow as his brother dumps a rifle into his hands, grinning broadly.

‘And what do you expect me to do with this?’

‘This, brother mine, is a gauss rifle. Specifically modified to only fire these rounds, rapid speed. Very handy should you need to break something, and quickly. It should need a good, oh, half bell of testing at least. Indulge me?’

Breaking something sounds like quite the good idea, and the bullets ricochet out with more force than Francel could ever hope to muster with his feeble body. Several dusty pots on the shelves shatter like grenades and he’s a good enough shot that he can pick off a row of tins one after the other, the electricity of the gauss bullets crackling between them like lightning. The ancient armchairs that he’s pretty sure are pilfered from the attic explode in a hail of bullets and stuffing, the positively disgusting floral pattern tossed into the air, caught on the storm’s tendrils.

Stephanivien shouts encouragement, tells him to give the dummies a shot, stacks hats on top of a few of them and watches with pride as Francel skewers them to the wall. He then starts taking off limbs before aiming dead centre for the face, firing again and again until he can pretend they’re Zephirin, carrying out the revenge that Susa couldn’t, finally letting someone face consequences for hurting a Greystone. It’s a storm that’s finally been allowed to thunder, to howl and wreak havoc and destroy everything that has the misfortune to be in its away, the sky stained grim and green.

Francel doesn’t even realise he’s crying until his knees give out, slumping to the ground and letting the gun clatter aside. His hands hurt, his shoulder throbs with the recoil, and his ears are ringing something awful. His brother quietly nudges the weapon away, kicks away the debris, and comes to sit next to him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders.

‘Feel better?’ he asks gently, and Francel nods. There’s no space for the anger, not any more, just a soul sapping bitterness that’s as exhausting as it is painful. It’s an effort to speak, let alone breathe, and thankfully Stephanivien seems to realise that, silently holding Francel as he calms down. ‘I’m so sorry, little brother. Would that I could take this burden from you. I wish I could spare you the pain.’

‘It’s unfair,’ Francel chokes out. ‘Unfair and stupid and cruel – ‘tis no time, to die at twenty eight.’

‘I know.’

‘And now Edmont is acknowledging him as his son – a fine time when he can no longer be embarrassed by it! All he has to do is look sad, say a few words, and his role as grieving father is assured. He could never spare Haurchefant a kind word before this.’

‘Edmont is… a troubled man,’ Stephanivien says carefully, tiptoeing through the proverbial minefield. ‘I don’t doubt he did love Haurchefant, in his own way.’

‘Not enough,’ Francel says bitterly, remembering the hissed “son of a five gil whore,” and how at twelve, Haurchefant already knew he wasn’t wanted. ‘Whenever this farce of a funeral may be, I shall not be going. Edmont is bad enough but that boy will be there too – ‘

‘Which boy?’

Francel’s head snaps up, totally bewildered that Steph hasn’t noticed. He delves into a quick and dirty explanation, peppered with several choice words he’s picked up from Estinien, and now his thoughts are pouring out like a flash flood.

‘Apparently the countess would never say a bad word against him – ‘

‘Little brother – ‘

‘Emmanellain bought him a monogrammed cloak – ‘

‘Francel – ‘

‘– they have the nerve to treat this Brume rat like a full blooded son – ‘

‘Joacin Charlemend Francel de Haillenarte!’

Francel blinks up at him, thoroughly derailed. ‘What?’

‘You sound like the countess,’ Stephanivien says bluntly. ‘What has poor Honoroit done but be born into this storm?’

‘Have a life he doesn’t deserve,’ Francel says with a scowl, looking away. ‘Haurchefant should have been treated to a fraction of the kindness he has had.’

‘Be that as it may, does it make it any better to inflict the same maltreatment on another?’

‘… No,’ he admits. ‘No, it does not.’

‘It’s normal, to want someone to blame. Hells know I wanted someone to blame for Chlode.’ Stephanivien suddenly looks so very tired, swipes at the sweat on his brow and leaves a sooty smudge. ‘An all-too-human target that wasn’t an ancient wyvern would have been welcome, but what good would it have done?’

‘’Twould make me feel better.’

‘And has it?’ Stephanivien asks waspishly. ‘Truly, has it? To vent all of your ire on to a boy not fourteen summers old, an acceptable outlet for your rage because you cannot confront those actually responsible? Because that sounds much like Marcelline Fortemps, little brother, and I know you are not such a selfish individual as that.’

That hurts, and not in the same way that the ever howling grief does, but a sharp, spiking pain as though his brother had slapped him. Francel scrabbles for a response, but the honeyed words have slipped away from him and only their residue remains.

‘You’re right,’ he says, and slumps back against Steph, buries his head in his brother’s shoulder. ‘I should not be so cruel to the boy. He’s done nothing wrong. I just… do not know where else to put it.’

Steph’s other arm wraps around him, strokes his hair. ‘Speak of it, freely. Let yourself be angry, be sad. Destroy more of the workroom, if it helps, but don’t let her hatred poison you too. Mourn your loss but don’t stagnate. As trite as it sounds, you know Haurchefant would not want you to be so unkind. Much as Chlode would never want us to kill dragons in his stead, for all the good it would do.’

They stay sitting there like that for a long time, until Francel finds the strength to stand. His legs are shaky and he undoubtedly has no aether left, but he can stand.

Just about.

The funeral is as awful as he expects, and the wound in his chest is opened up afresh. Artoirel looks numb from the shock and Emmanellain looks devastated, barely holding himself together. Edmont’s voice shakes as he gives his speech, praises Haurchefant for his steadfast bravery, his sense of duty, his kindness. He still calls his son Greystone because he thankfully did have the sense not to legitimise his bastard son while he lay dead in the ground. Francel relaxes, just minutely, tucked away in the back of the cathedral. Laniaitte looks over at him, raises an eyebrow in a silent “All’s well?” and squeezes his hand warmly when he gives her a nod. Aurvael silently hands him a handkerchief in the middle of Aymeric’s speech as the tears start to well up, and Stephanivien wraps an arm round him, a reminder that he’s not alone.

(he likes to think he feels Chlodebaimt’s arm around his shoulder, too)

Several weeks later, he’s knee deep in ledgers and building supplies, arguing with the Durendaires that yes they need to let the Brume-folk move into the newly constructed houses first and it would be far more helpful to get that order of nails expedited than to quibble about this kind of thing, when he encounters a distraction. Honoroit is staring at the reconstruction effort with unabashed wonder, watching Aurvael as he and a few others string up the banners to announce the start of the Firmament project. Francel can hardly blame him; Ishgard hasn’t seen this level of opulence in centuries.

‘Ah – my lord.’ Honoroit starts a little as he catches Francel watching him. ‘My apologies for being in the way.’

‘Not at all.’ Francel gives him a smile. ‘It’s quite the sight, isn’t it? Soon the Brume will be no more, and a good riddance too. It’s a miracle half of it hasn’t collapsed yet.’

‘I have a few friends who still live there,’ the boy says, still a little cautious. ‘’Twould be nice for them not to have to worry about the cold any longer.’

‘Do you have but a moment? If you can recall their names, I’d be glad to check if they are on the relocation lists?’ Francel offers, and together they manage to track down Honoroit’s friends, one by one. He starts to relax a little in Francel’s presence, says how he’s known this one from childhood and that one is a daughter of the baker in the Crozier.

Eventually, Francel can put it off no longer.

‘I owe you an apology,’ he says, awkwardly twisting his hands together and forces himself to make eye contact, because Haillenartes make up for their mistakes and he’ll be damned if he’s anything like Edmont. ‘Quite a few, actually. When I had heard the Fortemps had taken you in, it made me very angry. Not because of you, but because of how they’d treated Haurchefant with such lack of care and kindness, and I’m afraid I took it out on you. I do not expect forgiveness, but I would like you to know that I am truly sorry. ‘Tis not your fault for society’s ills.’

‘I did think you misliked me, my lord,’ Honoroit says carefully. ‘Not that I knew why – even Lord Emmanellain could not explain it. I meant to offer my apologies but never had the chance - ’

‘None needed, at all. It is me that needs to apologise - you have done nothing wrong,’ Francel assures him. ‘Haurchefant… Haurchefant is very dear to me, and it hurt to see him mistreated.’

‘I understand. If someone I loved was being hurt in the same way, I cannot say my actions would be different.’ Francel stares at him, slightly taken aback, because this much maturity is generally not associated with fourteen year old boys. ‘Your apology is very much accepted.’

Francel gives him a genuine smile. ‘In that case, could we start again? I am Joacin Charlemend Francel de Haillenarte, but ‘tis only my lady mother who calls me that when she scolds me. Francel will do just fine.’

‘Honoroit Banlardois, if it pleases you.’ The boy shakes his hand without an ounce of fear. ‘I shall try and stop my lord Emmanellain from interfering with the reconstruction efforts overmuch.’

‘Much appreciated,’ Francel says with a laugh. ‘I’d rather Aurvael not have to chase him out with a broom.’

It doesn’t get easier, but it becomes liveable. He visits Chlode in the family tomb and Haurchefant’s monument at Dragonhead whenever he can. He leaves flowers for both of them, bright and colourful against the snow.

Edmont visits the Firmament, is suitably awed by the difference they’ve made in a few short moons, and Francel finds he’s not so angry anymore, is able to chat to Edmont and keep a civil conversation going. He’s truly surprised when the count hands him a small box, presses it into his hands.

‘I was given his things by Ser Aymeric, after the funeral,’ Edmont explains, leaning heavily on his cane and looking older than he should. ‘I gave his shield to Susa, but I thought you might want this. A nameday gift from his mother, or so he told me once. I never saw him without them.’

Francel opens the box, mystified. Inside are Haurchefant’s ear clasps, the dull metal polished bright. That does make him cry, but he smiles through it.

‘I will treasure them,’ he promises. ‘Much as I treasured Haurchefant.’

(Moons later, he happens to catch sight of the Warrior paying her respects at Haurchefant’s grave. Her fists are clenched and she’s swiping away tears like they’re biting gnats. She starts when Francel calls her name, boots crunching in the snow as she turns to meet him.

‘Care to accompany me back to Ishgard?’ he asks. ‘I have a mug of hot chocolate with your name on it, and some very embarrassing stories about our dear friend. Would you like to know how we defeated a voidsent with naught but a broom and wine corks?’

That makes her laugh, and they head for the city’s lights together).