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Those We Could Save

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Those with the Echo – and by extension, those who carried Hydaelyn’s “blessing,” for She was greedy for any who awakened – they had a particular feeling to their souls, a song of their own that was broadcast to those who could listen.

The soul-melody pulsed, and called, and drew him in its wake to Ishgard.

Stationed on one of the highest roofs – he thought it was a temple to one of their false gods, but didn’t care to find out for certain - he closed his eyes and allowed his inner senses to swell, casting over the frozen city until the details of the aether-landscape appeared to him.

There, a ribbon of aether with a hue like no other. It criss-crossed over the streets, back and forth, faded and fresh lines overlapping. She had clearly been here for some time; barely a brick had escaped her touch.

He scowled down at the city, lip curling. He could practically smell the stench of Hydaelyn, feel her controlling touch on the soul of this Warrior. He almost, almost, felt pity for this Aurore.

His distraction had lost him the “sight” of the aether trails. He took a breath, refocused his attention, and cast his mind back to searching the cobbles-

It was gone. All the trails of that particular soul, vanished. As though she had never set foot here, as though she had never lived, never existed. Yet there was no shift in aether to suggest that something had happened to her. She was just…gone.

Was it possible that she had learned to conceal herself? Most souls here were still too fragmented to regain that skill, but there were always exceptions. For her to stand out among these mortals she may well have that scrap of power.

He clicked his tongue in frustration. There was no alternative but to walk the streets and search by more mundane methods. His shoulders itched at the thought of spending time among these fragments, these parodies of people.

Glamoured in plain, hooded robes, he chose a deserted alleyway to teleport into.

***

Aurore couldn’t quite remember how they’d come to this, after their argument this morning.

She did remember storming out to the sparring grounds, out of words and out of options; she could no longer stand the look in his eyes, and her own guilt drove her out of the house before she could let something slip of her own plans.

She remembered pouring all her anger into her lance, and allowing the demands of the fight to bring back a semblance of calm.

By the time the final bout had ended - her blade at Estinien’s neck and his at her belly - she could see her grin mirrored in his face, and her blood was singing to the same rhythm as his pulse.

And now –

“Gods, Haurchefant, y-you…”

Haurchefant had lavished her with care when she came home, cleaning and dressing the cuts, gently examining each of her bruises and murmuring praise into her skin – how strong she was, how defiant, how he loved the fire in her – and now he was curled between her legs, using his mouth and tongue and fingers to – oh, she was surely losing her mind. He was driving her mad with each movement.

Every time a moan escaped her, or a gasp, or Twelve-knew what else she was babbling, he simply hummed in response, and he still wasn’t stopping.

It took everything she had to keep her hands resting gently on his scalp, combing his hair with her fingers, and not to drag him up and plead for him to just take her, already, please -

Another spasm claimed her. Unthinking, she gripped his hair and yanked, and he just growled and nuzzled further into her.

When he tired of taking her apart and finally, finally, crawled up on top of her to kiss her cheek – when he plunged into her with a hungry noise she sobbed with relief, relishing the feeling of being caged by his arms, completely surrounded by him while he chased his own pleasure.

Later, she rose and dressed, thinking to run to the market before the sun went down.

She turned back to see Haurchefant slumped between the pillows, sated and sleepy and warm, and he waggled his fingers in a cheerful goodbye.

It occurred to her that, while it wasn’t the first time they had buried a quarrel like this, he hadn’t made any mention of the argument at all.

***

Even furnished with her name, searching for Aurore Kromer was proving difficult without a description of her to match. After the sixth merchant admitted to knowing nothing, Emet-Selch forced out some brittle farewell, already turning to the next stall –

She was there. She was there. Despite her fragmented soul, underneath the taint of Hydaelyn and another corruption he didn’t recognise – beneath all that, was a light that he knew all too well.

“Azem?”

He had not meant to speak aloud. A drop in the wind, a lull in the chatter of the others in the market; she had heard him.

She was strolling closer. He tried to swallow around a dry throat, tried to breathe around the catch in his lungs. He stared at her shoulder, her brow, her chin – anything to avoid meeting her eyes.

“Hello, were you speaking to me?”

She stood before him, tall for a Hyur, close enough to see within his hood and of a height to notice his third eye. It drew her gaze for a time, before she remembered herself and looked to him once more.

“Ser? Is aught amiss? Are you unwell?”

He wanted to run away. He wanted to enfold her in his arms. He wanted to scream at her; rage at her for leaving him and beg for her forgiveness all at once.

Her eyes flicked up to his forehead again, back to him. Her brows crimped, briefly.

“You’re pale as a sheet. Should I fetch a chirugeon?”

A dragoon, the Exarch had said, but he could feel the healer’s heart in her as well, could feel his own heart aching in proximity.

“No, no, I am well-“

He scarcely heard his own words, fumbling to master himself before he was lost to memories. He would not, he would not break down in the street, and he had to say something to her, anything -

“What is your name?”

“Aurore Kromer de Fortemps, ser. Are…are you a deserter?” She was staring at his forehead again.

His lips quirked in irony. It had not been he who ran from the Convocation’s will, no, but he had surely deserted his people. Every step he took since, every failure, every delay to the Rejoining, it was surely all an equal betrayal to those who were sacrificed.

“Something like that.”

“Where have you come from?” She took a step back, her friendly curiosity evaporating.

“Garlemald. Is it not obvious?”

“Don’t toy with me, Garlean. Why are you here? How did you pass the gatekeep?”

Something was wrong. He could see her fingers itching for a weapon, her feet shifting slightly into a battle stance. It was plain she didn’t recognise him – how could she, with her soul distorted as it was? He had to gain her trust somehow. And quickly.

“Speak, Garlean, unless you wish me to take you to the Lord-Commander directly. Were you sent ahead from the main force?”

As ever, he had no recourse but the truth.

“I was looking for you, on behalf of an acquaintance who is…otherwise occupied.”

“A poor excuse. Not one of my friends would send a Garlean bloodhound after me.”

“He didn’t ask me to. I volunteered.”

“Well, your timing is awful. Ishgard is due to fall under Imperial occupation in a matter of days. I was all but sure I was to be passed from one Garlean to another then, so, why now?”

Occupation? This had not been Elidibus’ plan; he had not breathed a word of it. What had changed so abruptly?

“I am not from the army,” he ground out. “No one from Garlemald knows I am here.”

He’d expected more disbelief, perhaps anger. He did not expect a rueful laugh, escaping despite her restraint, and a faint shake of her head.

“Gods, I am hopeless with interrogations. Come along, ser, whether you speak truth or not, you should make yourself known to the Lord-Commander.”

She gripped his wrist – her hands were so small, long fingers delicate, but he sensed their strength all the same – and in desperation he tugged back on his arm and looked her full in the eyes.

“I need to speak to you in private. Only you.”

She stilled utterly in shock, staring at him, her hand still on his arm but loosening its grip. Her lips formed something, words without sound that he could not decipher, before she wet them with a pointed tongue and tried again.

“Have we met before, ser?”

“Ah…not recently. You may call me Hades,” and if it was brazen intimacy to give his true name, at least she did not know it as such.

“I can’t explain,” she murmured, more to herself than to him, “but I believe it.” She seemed to shake herself, and returned to her usual bold tone – and already he was mapping out her voice, damn it. He couldn’t afford distractions –

“You will behave yourself, Ser Hades?”

“Uh,” he offered. He tried to ignore the lump in his throat at the sound of his name on her lips. Concentrate, you fool.

She took a step closer again, almost nose to nose with him, and abruptly hissed: “If you make trouble, I’ll kill you myself. This is my city.”

He managed to stammer out something like agreement, and it seemed to satisfy her for she was already turning away.

“Wait!”

She turned back towards him. He tried desperately not to think of the last time he had begged her to stay – don’t leave me don’t leave please – hells, he needed time alone to master himself, and badly.

“Where shall I find you?”

A wash of hesitation passed over her eyes, so swiftly hidden again that he might have imagined it.

“My home is…busy, right now. Do you have lodgings?”

“No. If you need me, say my name.”

She scowled at him, suspecting some jest, but before she could probe further he held up his hand, palm up, to show her the glyph that lit up there.

“Place your palm on mine – either one, it doesn’t matter – and wherever I am, I’ll hear it.”

He stood there, watching her come to a decision, before she slowly raised her hand. At the contact the glyph pulsed bright before disappearing altogether.

He felt a strong temptation to raise her hand to his lips, as he had seen local nobles do, but she was too quick for him, retrieving her hand as soon as possible.

It was probably for the best, he mused, watching her walk away. He had no business flirting with a doomed Warrior, no matter how her soul resonated. Some wounds could not be healed, and he was a fool to forget that for even a moment.

The glyph was mostly for show, would be entirely pointless under most circumstances, but here it had created a link between them that would withstand whatever was affecting the local aether.

As he followed her, unseen, to her home, his wrist and palm still burned where she had touched him.