Chapter Text
Coerthas is a dead place.
It tries, of course. It cannot help it. But there is no changing its fate. Even on those rare snowless days, the cold is inescapable. The kind of cold that chills from the inside out, until flesh turns to stone, to ice, to nothing.
It suits him.
Those few creatures that call this wretched land home have grown accustomed to it, these past five years. Only the hardiest roam the valleys: the giantkin covered in pelts, the beastkin who blend into the snowy terrain, the dragons who warm themselves from the inside out. The rest retreat to the caves that dot these mountains, waiting for a traveler who thinks to get a safe night's rest. In these places, bones are as plentiful as rocks.
Witchdrop is no different. Travelers do not mistake it for a safe haven, but the voidsent that litter its caves do not want for sustenance. Even when heretics are in short supply, there is always a green knight to miss a step.
Tradition dictates that such places are the purview of the dragoons. For all their talk, the Templars have no desire to retrieve the bodies of those they offer up to the Fury. The dragoons have no such distaste. Witchdrop, that gaping maw, that pit of voidsent, is little more than a training ground.
Many would-be dragoons perish there. There are tales aplenty of knights fresh from the Holy See, eager to write their name in dragon blood, who never make it past the howling voidsent. Better to learn terror in the face of a demon than a dragon, it is said. Survive one to survive the other.
None of this matters to the Warrior of Light.
Blood dots the snow as he withdraws his lance from the unlucky vodoriga that had harried him. He tips his head to the side, listening. Nothing answers. For now, Witchdrop is silent.
A pity.
It is always harder to leave Witchdrop than to enter. Multiple paths exist, narrow stretches of snow and ice that offer no purchase. The fall is not what kills heretics. Escaping is far more deadly.
This, too, is training. A dragoon must be light on their feet, able to leap untold heights and land with their spear through a dragon's skull. A dragoon who cannot climb from the depths of Witchdrop might as well remain there.
The first time, he'd slipped. Nearly cracked his own skull open on the ground below. Had to fight off a vodoriga he'd missed. But he'd made it out. And he's made it out every time since.
More's the pity.
The shadows have grown long when he emerges. Only way to tell the time when the sky is white with fog. Some days even that doesn't help.
Snow crunches under his greaves. Doesn't stick to his armor past a few unruly flakes. A dragoon's mail is warded against the cold. Supposedly.
Torchlight gleams in the distance. Camp Dragonhead stands silent vigil against the coming night, as it always has. The dragons have not attacked in weeks, but they stand ever ready, as their forebears did, and theirs before, and on and on.
A thousand years of war. It hasn't amounted to much.
The guards take little notice of him, nor he of they. The Warrior of Light is a unremarkable sight. Has been since he fled here. From Ul'dah. From the feast. From a crime he hadn't committed.
From himself.
The courtyard is always a flurry of activity. In the stalls, a Roegadyn tries to calm a spooked chocobo. Under an awning, a traveling merchant argues with the quartermaster. Near the great hall, the Azure Dragoon leads his protégés in their drills.
"Good form, good form, keep it up! Gaspard, keep your lance steady! Eminne, watch your flank!"
The Warrior of Light pays them no mind. A warm meal occupies his thoughts. Tataru will have seen about restocking their victuals, Alphinaud the firewood. Ishgardian hospitality being what it is, they are oft left to fend for themselves.
Not that Haurchefant doesn't try.
"Cálei! You've returned! Splendid, you're just in time for the evening meal. Come, join us!"
The Warrior of Light does not turn. Had he his way, the Warrior would disregard him entirely. He does not begrudge Haurchefant his kindness, but it is exhausting on the best of days.
He shakes his head. "I must retire. Thank you."
"Oh, but—"
At least Haurchefant doesn't follow him in.
———
He finds little joy in cooking, these days. A means to an end, nothing more.
They are all welcome in the great hall; Haurchefant never misses an opportunity to offer. But they stand out, the three of them. The Warrior of Light, a lancer in dragoon's armor, a mockery of their legacy. Alphinaud, a boy who no longer craves the ear of monarchs and merchants alike. And Tataru, the sole Lalafell in attendance, adrift most days and underfoot the rest.
What a sorry lot they are.
Yet they have found a rhythm, the three of them. The Warrior cooks, Tataru assists, Alphinaud cleans. What little conversation occurs is without import.
"Witchdrop again?"
A nod.
"One would think the voidsent spent after dealing with you for a fortnight."
A shrug. He's not the one summoning them.
"Perhaps they're a response to the lives lost there. Y'shtola would—"
Tataru flinches. Alphinaud bows his head. "Never mind."
There's not much use in talking.
———
The nights find him up on the ramparts.
He had offered to join the guards' rotation, but Haurchefant would not hear of it. Instead the Warrior wanders among them, avoiding once-curious eyes. A few have tried to initiate conversation. None have succeeded, and none still try.
The Azure Dragoon is different.
The title suits Naoh'a. The Warrior knows little of his history and less of his path to the dragoons, but it matters not. He had seen enough of Naoh'a's skill in Mor Dhona to know his position is earned.
Unlike him.
Naoh'a regards him for a time, pale eyes fixed on his form. It no longer makes the Warrior irritable. Naoh'a prefers to measure his words, weighing each until the scale balances.
"How many?" Naoh'a asks, presently.
Shrug. "Didn't count."
"You could have joined the drills today."
Another shrug. The nights in Coerthas are often clearer than the days. The fog leaves with the sun, and in their place a shawl of stars envelops the land. Some nights the moon even deigns to show its face.
Naoh'a sighs. "You could be a dragoon, if you tried. You have the skill."
"You said I was sloppy."
"You are. Your form needs work."
"A soul crystal won't change that." The Warrior allows him a glance. "I would think three Azure Dragoons enough."
"We need all the help we can get."
"The answer is no."
Naoh'a grunts. He doesn't understand. The Warrior doesn't expect him to. The burden of leadership rests heavy on Naoh'a's shoulders, but is one he can carry. One he's suited to, if the Warrior is honest. Naoh'a doesn't have much in the way of personality, but he makes up for it with surprising tenacity. Ishgard is lucky to have his allegiance.
Which is precisely why the Warrior of Light cannot take on the mantle alongside him. He is Eorzea's savior, not Ishgard's. He will not turn away from a land in need, but he will not be beholden to them.
At length, Naoh'a sighs. Pushes himself off the wall, flipping his visor back down over his eyes. He still dons the carbonweave mail Cid had made for them, and stands out against the Ishgardians.
As if being a Miqo'te dragoon didn't do that enough.
"I'll expect you at drills in the morning."
The Warrior nods, but does not look away from the stars. Naoh'a departs with another sigh, leaving him to his thoughts.
———
Most days find Alphinaud in the Falling Snows.
The lordling fills his day with what chores his small frame can accommodate, but there is only so much firewood he can chop before tiring. Instead Haurchefant employs him as a secretary of sorts: reading and cataloguing incoming mail, penning responses, and so forth.
On those few days the Warrior is not occupied with training, he joins Alphinaud there. Neither much enjoys the stares that fill the great hall. The intercessory is smaller, kinder, without the weight of their failures bearing down upon them.
What tension had existed between them is long past. The Warrior of Light cannot muster any ill will for this child, wise beyond his years and yet little more than a foolish boy. Alphinaud, in return, asks nothing of him. The Warrior of Light is no longer his errand boy.
They might have survived the feast, but they have been lain low all the same.
———
There is a simplicity to life in Camp Dragonhead. Though it stands on the frontier of Ishgardian territory, it is less a key position in the war and more a bastion against all Ishgard's foes. The Ixal know better than to wage an assault against the camp, but that does not stop them from striking down any scouts who dare to venture near Natalan.
So it is with the dragons. There is little structure to the dragonkin that call the central highlands home. At times they rally enough for coordinated strikes, but the rest of the time, the dragons are little more than beasts interested in protecting their territory.
If he lets himself think about it, he doesn't have any quarrel with dragonkin. This inherited war is hardly his. But the Warrior of Light must serve. If this is to be his duty, then he will do as he must.
He does not need the light of the crystals to help those in need.
———
Haurchefant comes to his chambers, one night.
The Warrior has no need of a friend, but this does not seem to matter much to Haurchefant. He is rarely without a smile, a kind word, a helping hand. Even his social calls come with gifts: a warm drink, a freshly baked muffin, an offer of an ear.
It doesn't make sense. The Warrior has shown naught but disinterest, and yet Haurchefant persists. Even outright rejection is met with a nod and a gentle smile.
"As you wish, Cálei. I shall leave you to your rest. But should you find you have need of anything, I am at your disposal."
Gratitude, he decides. He had thought little of the service he had offered, when he first came to this desolate place, but the same cannot be said of Haurchefant. The man had been spared dishonor and death alike at the Warrior’s hands, and seems unlikely to forget it. The Warrior had not helped him in pursuit of later aid, but he cannot deny his own gratitude. It’s just...
Well. It's hard to trust much of anyone, after Ul'dah.
———
When the Warrior pays him any mind, Naoh'a is a harsh taskmaster.
Drills, morning and afternoon. Ventures out into the wilderness in between. Regular patrols around Camp Dragonhead. Escorts to Whitebrim and the Observatorium. Guard duty, occasionally.
Yet Naoh'a pales in comparison to the other Azure Dragoon. Hazel Atoel stands a full fulm above him even before the ears. Viera are rare in Coerthas, but Hazel pays little heed to the curious looks. To the Warrior she seems a displaced princess, ever stately even in carbonweave armor.
It's to Hazel that Cálei goes for instruction in the art of the lance, once he passes Naoh'a's muster for some form or another. Most days find Hazel at the Observatorium alongside Alberic, knee-deep in foodstuffs rather than viscera. The war effort requires no shortage of materiel, and with the Gates of Judgement yet closed, it falls to the dragoons to escort caravans from Gridania and Mor Dhona.
Often, that work falls to the Warrior, so that the Azure Dragoons might accomplish aught of substance. And when circumstance brings him to the Observatorium, he spars with Hazel.
That two Azure Dragoons would be found in a generation is already unprecedented; that a third would likewise hear the call beggars belief. Yet to fight Hazel is to understand. Naoh'a's lancework is steady, each thrust carrying all the weight he can muster. He swings his lance like his life depends on it, ever aware that a single missed jump could spell his doom.
Hazel isn't like that.
To watch her fight is to see grace made flesh. She twirls her lance as if it's no more difficult than adjusting her stance. In stillness, she seems a sculpture of roses. In motion, a hailstorm of blades.
Each time they spar, the Warrior tells himself he's ready. He knows how she holds her lance, the way she jumps, her tendency to favor one angle over another. It all falls away once she strikes. Time and again his lancework leaves him as he tries to make a shield of his spear. His strikes grow sloppy, reverting to the simple parries required of a sword rather than a precision instrument.
And each time, Hazel wins.
She's gracious about it. Offers suggestions, helps him to adjust his stance, shows him how to evade rather than take a blow head-on. Alberic is more critical, but there is a pride in his eyes when he addresses Hazel.
No, the Warrior thinks. There is no need for him to take up the dragoon's mantle. Ishgard has enough, in them.
———
The third Azure Dragoon — or the first, if one is particular — is the one he sees the least. One morning will find Estinien in Dragonhead's courtyard, overseeing the recruits; by afternoon, it is as if he had never appeared.
A wise course of action, if one's intent is to keep an ancient dragon from descending upon one's homeland. An irritating one, in Hazel's eyes.
"It's not as if Nidhogg comes this far south," she grumbles. "The least he could do is stay at the Observatorium."
———
The Warrior of Light does not dream.
He does not allow himself to. He fills his days with whatever is asked of him, working himself ragged, so that nothing awaits him in sleep.
It works. Most of the time. The nights it doesn't find him atop the ramparts, letting the chill sink into his very bones as he watches the aetheryte spin. He keeps his breathing steady. Regular.
He doesn't dream. He doesn't.
He doesn't think about mismatched eyes over a kind smile. About inkstained fingers trailing through his hair. The arch of a tattooed neck. The sleepy rumble of his name on kiss-bruised lips.
The doors, closing, his hand outstretched—
He squeezes his eyes shut. Don't think about him. Don't.
He doesn't need to dream. His waking thoughts are prison enough.
———
Soul crystal or not, the Warrior's skill with the lance grows by the day. Perhaps it will never serve him as well as his blade and grimoire, but it suits for now.
Whether it will hold up against Nidhogg is another question entirely.
It isn't that he regrets abandoning his soul crystals. The title of paladin had ever rested uneasily on his shoulders, no matter the assurances he'd been given that it did not bind him to the sultanate. The same went for his fairy: its magic had served him well, but it had never felt truly his.
Mayhap Ishgardian disciplines will better suit. He knows the Observatorium is but a taste of Ishgardian astrology, and he's heard whispers in Skyfire Locks of their lord Hallienarte's strange machines. Better that than gaining the attention of a vengeful dragon.
And if all else fails, he could always find an axe.
———
Arm out, slash. Spin, strike. Breathe in. Drive lance through dragon's chest.
Or, if necessary, the nearest traning dummy.
"Better," Naoh'a calls. "Again."
Learning the lance is less about the weapon and more about his eye. The reach is the tricky part: what attacks serve a longsword are little but a detriment when performed with a lance. The only way to combat it is practice, day after day.
One hand back, one forward to guide. Thrust in, push lance upward. Withdraw, spin, strike flank.
He's better than he was, at least. The Warrior may not be capable of the gravity-defying jumps dragoons are known for, but he can down a small dragon without issue. The rest is practice.
Spin around. Strike for the base of the neck. Drive the lance in deep before withdrawing. Jump back, avoid the wings.
The Warrior has grown used to the stares. Here in Camp Dragonhead the mood is polite, but visiting knights offer little but scorn. Who is he to wear the noble armor of the dragoons? What trials has he undertaken to earn it?
He simply doesn't expect the Azure Dragoon to be the one asking.
"Whose armor is that?"
The Warrior glances back at him, frowning. He hadn't realized Estinien was among those watching him train.
Before he can answer, Naoh'a speaks up. "It's mine."
Estinien's helmet turns towards the other Azure Dragoon. "It wasn't yours to give."
"We are of like size, and Cálei was in need."
Estinien snorts. Glances back at the Warrior in his borrowed drachen mail. "He shall have need. Steel Vigil, on the morrow. I would test you."
"Estinien, you can't just—"
The Warrior raises his hand, silencing Naoh'a's protests. "I accept."
Satisfied, Estinien nods and heads into the great hall. Naoha pushes up his visor, scowling.
"I hate it when he does that." He grimaces at the Warrior. "He won't go easy on you. Don't try to win. You're not a match for him."
The Warrior of Light raises an eyebrow behind his helmet. "Really."
"You have skill," Naoh'a allows. "But he has the Eye of Nidhogg and far more experience. You won't defeat him. Just try not to get hurt." Naoh'a pauses. "Take the boy with you. You'll want a healer."
What a pleasant thought.
———
He realizes that Naoh'a wasn't exaggerating around the time Estinien pins him to the ground.
The match has barely even begun, and already Estinien has kicked his lance out of his hands. Two quick strikes from the butt of his spear and down the Warrior went.
Estinien snorts in distaste as he drives the base of his spear into the Warrior's sternum. "You're pathetic."
Gloved fingers scrabble against snow and rock as the Warrior reaches for his lance. His breath comes in short, pained gasps.
No. His lance is too far. Instead he grips Estinien's spear and pulls down, driving it further into his chest. The motion is enough to surprise Estinien, and the instant his grip falters, the Warrior knocks the spear off his chest. He rolls onto his own lance and rises, staying low to the ground in a crouch as he watches Estinien collect his own spear. From this angle he can see Estinien's eyes widen, briefly.
Then Estinien snorts. "Have it your way."
It's nothing like sparring with Hazel or Naoh'a. Both of them overcome the Warrior with skill, not strength: they outmaneuver him, dodging his clumsy strikes and taking advantage of every opening.
With Estinien it may as well be a brawl. Oh, he goes through the motions. He follows the stances, same as Hazel and Naoh'a both. But there's an elegance to his spearwork that outshines Hazel, as if his weapon is an extension of his own body. And he hits far harder than Naoh'a can, each strike leaving bruises at the least.
Estinien treats this like a duel, not a spar. And it's all the Warrior can do to keep up with him.
The Warrior gets no more than a glimpse of Estinien bending his legs before he leaps, so high he seems more bird than man. Dodging is far more than rolling out of the way: Estinien spins in midair, aiming with uncanny precision. The Warrior has no doubt that if he allowed one such strike to hit his skull, he would be dead.
He doubts Estinien would care.
It's exhilarating. A dragoon, a true dragoon, is deadlier than the dragons they hunt. Once, the Warrior had wondered how a person could slay something as mighty as a dragon. In Estinien, he understands.
It's not his speed, nor even his impossible leaps. It's something deeper. Simpler. Alberic has spoken of an inner dragon, but the Warrior had dismissed it as a metaphor until he’d seen the Azure Dragoons fight. To be a dragoon is to be a dragon.
And Estinien is the mightiest of them all.
He doesn't relent, even as the Warrior's strength flags. Again and again Estinien strikes, never giving the Warrior a chance to catch his breath, never letting up. He advances, bringing the Warrior closer to the edge of the cliff behind them.
It takes no more than a glance to tell he has no intention of stopping.
The Warrior doesn't need to look to know it is not a fall he could survive. Coerthas does not lack for unfriendly terrain, but the Sea of Clouds is universally agreed to be the deadliest. Nothing has ever returned from those icy depths. Nothing possibly could.
He glances up. Estinien's helmet may mask his expression to most, but in this the Warrior's lesser height is an advantage. It's Estinien's eyes he watches as the Azure Dragoon approaches, fingers coiling around his lance, ready to strike him down.
So he feints. The Warrior flings his lance to the left. Estinien's gaze follows it just long enough to ensure surprise. The Warrior barrels into him, sending them both onto the snow and stone.
To his surprise, Estinien is likewise willing to abandon his spear. In this, the Warrior realizes too late, Estinien is at the distinct advantage. There's less precision to Estinien's movements than his own, but the Azure Dragoon makes up for it with sheer bulk. The struggle lasts mere moments before he pins the Warrior to the ground.
It could have ended there. It should have ended there.
It doesn't. Because when the Warrior looks up, there's someone else behind Estinien's eyes. Something else. Hatred roils in his gaze, deeper than a mere brawl should spark.
Their eyes meet. Estinien's lips curl.
"You disgust me."
He barely moves his head fast enough to dodge the first punch — but the second connects, and the third. He can barely hear Alphinaud's cry of surprise over the ringing in his ears.
The Warrior doesn't think about it. Doesn't have time to. He can't block every one of Estinien's strikes. With a dragon, the only defense is to kill it first.
Armored fingers curl around Estinien's neck. He squeezes, squeezes, and Estinien struggles, but doesn't let up his own attack. Their eyes meet.
Estinien wants to die as much as he does.
Someone shoves Estinien bodily off him. Alberic. He'd forgotten he was here. Alphinaud kneels beside the Warrior, Carbuncle already pawing at his armor.
"By the gods, Cálei, are you all right? I thought he was going to kill you!"
The Warrior doesn't answer. Instead he looks to Estinien beyond. The Azure Dragoon bats Alberic away and retrieves his lance. He looks back to the Warrior, their eyes meeting—
And then he's gone.
"By the Fury, Estinien," Alberic mutters. He joins Alphinaud at the Warrior's side, helping him to sit up. "Had I known he was going to abandon all reason, I would not have allowed it to go this long. You are no match for him."
The Warrior mutters an assent. Allows them to help him up. Sticks close to the both of them as they head back to Camp Dragonhead. Nods absently to Haurchefant when he asks after the match. Ignores Naoh'a's baleful stare.
He does not attempt sleep, that night. He sits atop the ramparts and lets the snow blanket him.