Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

G,

Jehantel advised me to talk to you, to tell you what I have words for, and worry about the rest when it comes to me. I'll admit such spontaneity does not come naturally. I need to know all the information, all the angles, before I trust in a decision. Please understand that I am trying my best to follow his advice.

I thought Halone's Blessing the culprit for my lack of clarity recently. I believed it a deliberate manipulation, hence the many false accusations I threw at you in anger and bewilderment. Knowing now the scope of Halone's Blessing, I'm appalled at myself and need to apologize. I'm sorry, Guydelot. To doubt the entirety of our friendship due to a hasty conclusion was unconscionable. You are owed more trust than that, as you said. I was overwhelmed in the moment but it does not excuse my continued doubt and silence.

With a clearer mind, I see now the benefits I reaped from Halone's Blessing — less frequent headaches, a quickly healed black eye — and I have felt the loss of it. My sleep has returned to absolute shite, an effect so gradual since our return from Ishgard that I didn't notice the change. Truly remarkable, what you've discovered, but I will contain my talk of it for later.

However, it cannot be something used idly or without knowledge. I still retain anger at that aspect; I insist that it only be used deliberately, like battlesong. We can discuss this further but if there was trust broken between us, it lies here, and is where amends need to be made.

Where I need to apologize further is yes, I have unfairly doubted your conviction. It is a residual reaction, even though I know you better. You haven't shown any sign of lacking it. I will be more conscious going forward — I owe you that.

This leads to my most grievous admission: I have thought of the bardsong unit as my work, my goal, even though we have done all of it together. It is as much yours as it is mine — I could not have accomplished any of this without you. You are so integral, in fact, that I claimed more of your time and attention than I was due, and assumed it was mine to take. Again, I will be more conscious of what I ask of you.

That is, I think, all the words I have for now. Thank you for the additional time to clear my mind.

S

Sanson, godsdamn it, I gave you my time and attention because it was mine to give. You've demanded remarkably little of me. If you need to adjust your thinking, then yes, remember the work is ours . But outside that, every moment you claimed was more than willing — I enjoy your company, you dolt. That was why the accusations of false friendship stung so deep, and why I lashed back so hard. You hit upon a deeply held insecurity of never being enough, never living up to the standards of those around me. I've tried to do both for you, no less than what you deserve in a friend and partner.

I appreciate the apologies for everything else. I will not entertain one for the crime of spending time with you. One might as well apologize for enjoying warm sunshine or a perfect breeze, for Twelve's sake.

Whatever amends I need to make to regain your trust are my highest priority. I recall words about obstacles and taproots — I endeavor to keep growing my roots toward yours.

When is it appropriate to suggest the conversation move from letters to in person? I'd like to begin my amends by helping restore your sleep.

G

G,

Are you the sunshine in this metaphor, or am I? Suffice to say, I concede the point to you. You have done more than enough to deserve forgiveness. A decent night's sleep wouldn't go amiss, either.

If I'm not allowed to denigrate my presence, then I won't hear it from you, either. You've been more than enough as a friend and a partner; I can say with confidence I've never had a better one. I'm sorry I made you feel like anything less.

Find me at my office when you can. We can discuss where to go from here.

S

Sanson dropped the note in the post with a pounding heart. How to say that someone is the closest friend one's ever had, without giving away the desire to become closer? Would Guydelot immediately read it on his face once in his office? Sanson tried to picture it, only to get halfway hard in the aetheryte plaza from a fantasy of sweeping everything off his desk in order to enthusiastically spread Guydelot out upon it. Twelve save him, the things he would do to the man given the chance. He felt foolish from how thrilled he was at the thought of seeing Guydelot. Not even as a teenager had he been filled with such anticipation. Perhaps this feeling was why some couples tended to argue as a pretense to falling into bed.

He had slept better the previous night than the dozen prior. It might have been just the thought of hearing Guydelot sing; it might have been the thorough imagining of how they might exhaust themselves. It was still early, and to ease some of the restlessness that crawled along his limbs, Sanson went to the training yard before his office. A lance felt good in his hands against the striking dummy, the workout vigorous enough that several newer Adders' conversations ceased around him. When he paused to wipe the sweat from his brow, the chatter returned slowly. He might be making a spectacle of himself, but he didn't care. He needed to reach some level of stability before settling in his office.

After a quick trip to the officers' showers, he was there, the floor secretary promising a fresh thermos of coffee would be forthcoming. Sanson felt like he might get some real work done. Looking at the piles on his desk, he grimaced. A week of angry haze and then another of heartfelt letters meant he had plenty waiting for him.

It was nearly a bell later that there was a knock on the door. The secretary had yet to bring the coffee, so Sanson called out, "Come in!" without much thought. Instead of the young sergeant, in breezed Guydelot, coffee service in hand, like not a day had gone by.

"Mornin', chief," he said with a knowing grin as he set it down.

Sanson stood so fast his head spun. Or maybe that was the grin. "Guydelot!"

Guydelot leaned a hip against the corner of the desk as Sanson rounded it. "Miss me?"

"Shut up," Sanson grumbled, hand on his elbow already.

It was heady, how easy it was to draw Guydelot forward and slide arms around his ribs. He came so willingly , even as he laughed, "You did."

"Shut up, of course I did," Sanson said into his collarbone, "Did you not read my letters?"

"I did," he said softly, breath ruffling the hair at Sanson's temple. His arms around his shoulders didn't ease, so Sanson held on. "You braided your hair."

"Yes?"

"I like it."

Sanson had to let go before the skip in his heartbeat gave him away. Luckily, he spied the corner of a familiar envelope in Guydelot's pocket. He pulled it out as he stepped back, then held it up with a grin of his own. "I put this in the mail hardly three bells ago." Guydelot's cheeks went pink. Sanson smacked the envelope into his chest. "Miss me?"

"Yes," and for a moment, Guydelot pressed Sanson's hand to his chest before taking the envelope back. "Of course I did."

Now Sanson blushed, turning to pour himself coffee. "Did you steal this from the Sergeant's hands?"

"Practically," Guydelot settled into the armchair by the desk. "I think the poor man squeaked when I took it. I may have traumatized him with my last exit."

"Hm," Sanson leaned on the desk in front of him. "Speaking of."

They looked at each other, neither sure where to begin.

"I'm sorry, Sanson," Guydelot blurted. "For all of it. For needing to apologize like this, again . You'd think I would have learned my lesson."

"No," Sanson said firmly, kicking his knee. "We're not doing that, remember?"

"I know, but I had to say it aloud."

His eyes said otherwise, Sanson thought — anxious and insecure, like the night he admitted to thinking he was holding Sanson back. He leaned forward to grasp his shoulder. "I mean it."

Guydelot nodded, then gave a crooked smile. "I've wondered what you would think of Halone's Blessing for moons, to be honest. But I had to have a grasp on how it worked, first. I wanted to have some answers for your inevitable questions."

"I have many," Sanson said. "But I don't want to get into that, yet. I know from what little Jehantel told me, I'll be fascinated."

"That's something I've been thinking about," Guydelot said carefully. "I want to continue working on it on my own."

"What do you mean?" Sanson was surprised.

"I mean, I don't want to pull you into it, yet." He took a breath. "I don't want to pull your attention away from the bardsong unit, for one. Two, you're so bloody brilliant, I'll feel overshadowed."

Sanson bit his tongue to respond thoughtfully. "I don't mean to make you feel that way."

"I know. But it's a bard technique, and not ready for the field. Your research ability would be useful, but Sylviel is more than capable. Any records will be in Ishgard, and he has access. Most of it is composing."

"You're saying I'm not needed?"

"Yet. Sanson, look," Guydelot leaned forward, "I need to know I can do this. Not just Halone's Blessing, all of it. I've spent a long time not caring — about the Quiver, or what I can contribute to it, or my own capabilities. Becoming a bard was the first time I felt any of that again. Joining the bardsong unit is enough, but what if I could help shape a brand-new type of bardsong? And I want it to be ready for you, so it can flourish once you have it."

Sanson gazed at Guydelot, who was earnest and intense. They were only a few fulms apart, so he could see the plea in his eyes.

His first instinct was to get his hands deep into it, of course. Learn this new technique from the inside out, even if he couldn't wield it. It was both an intriguing challenge and a tempting obsession. Sanson had to reel his mind back from it already — he almost couldn't, part of him balking that he was asked to.

But he could tell Guydelot was watching for it. It was about the Ballad until it didn't serve you anymore. The comment still stung, and Guydelot had admitted it was true. He wanted to scoff at that, too, that he was only serving his own ends, when Guydelot was so impulsive himself.

He had to remind himself that this wasn't Guydelot running off to Falcon's Nest without him. He was asking Sanson to take a step back, and for good reason. Sanson couldn't deny him the opportunity — hadn't he told Dylise he wouldn't let the Quiver continue to neglect Guydelot?

"I understand," he said, and watched relief light in Guydelot's expression. "But you have to let me help if you need it."

"I will. But I've got Jehantel and Alamenain and Sylviel. Between the four of us, we're at least as capable as you."

Sanson kicked his knee again. "More so. You're absolutely able to do this, Guydelot. I know you are."

"Thank you." Guydelot grinned, playful. Sanson wanted to crawl into his lap. He settled for tapping his boot against Guydelot's. "That went better than I thought it would."

"Like I said, I'm not without fault here." Sanson took a breath. "If I hadn't doubted you, you wouldn't have reason to think it wouldn't. I don't mean to make it about the unit, about whatever my focus is."

"I know. It's how your mind works. Like mine runs away on me." Guydelot's smile was warm and a little chagrined. "This is what I mean by foiling each other. Your focus and persistence set you apart."

"And you will heedlessly do what is right, regardless of what others think."

Sanson couldn't help himself; he reached out to touch a fingertip to Guydelot's earring, causing it to gently swing amongst his hair. Guydelot's eyes went wide, like he'd forgotten he was wearing it.

"I know that much about you," Sanson withdrew his hand reluctantly.

"What do we do about it?" Guydelot asked, voice lowered almost to a whisper. Gods, Sanson had missed it.

He chewed his lip, trying to keep his mind in the conversation. He realized he was watching Guydelot's mouth, which didn't help matters. He looked away.

"Be patient with each other," Sanson said. "Be as honest as we can be."

"Be honest," Guydelot echoed.

"It's a start," he dared a glance at Guydelot's face. He was watching Sanson with a curious gleam; it made Sanson falter a bit. "Isn't it?"

"Yes," Guydelot said. "I'm surprised you don't already have a list."

Sanson spread his hands with a laugh. "As am I."

"Is this the spontaneity Jehantel talked you into?"

"I suppose so," Sanson boosted up to sit on the desk in front of him. "For some measure of spontaneity."

Guydelot touched his earring now. "I approve."

"Of course you do," Sanson said with a grin. "It's what I'm like when I'm drunk."

"I could see more of that," Guydelot said, sending a jolt down Sanson's spine. "As I've said before."

They were nearly level, eye to eye, but Sanson was looking at his mouth again. Damn it. Reluctantly, he said, "There's still the matter of you using Halone's Blessing on me without my consent."

Guydelot's face sobered. "Aye, that was my worst decision. I didn't know for certain if it was having any effect until the black eye. I should have told you then. I wanted something of my own to show you, first. Then Sylviel suggested it might ease emotion, before jumping straight to healing — but it didn't seem to work. I never meant to keep it from you forever."

This was skating toward territory Sanson didn't know how to handle. Guydelot was sure to ask what Sanson had been trying to say when the argument began. But this had to be discussed.

"Do not use it if anyone isn't aware of what you're doing," Sanson insisted. "It's aether , Guydelot. You cannot tune it like a harp."

"I don't know if it is, though," Guydelot said. "When Alamenain sings, yes. But Jehantel and I? It's like battlesong —"

"It enhances, yes. Jehantel explained it. I know."

"That's not what I'm saying. Conjurers call on nature, and it responds with the Elementals' gifts. Song calls on the soul, doesn't it? And the soul responds in harmony. Even without magicks, or aether. We feel it. I know you do, right here?" Guydelot thumped his own chest with a fist. "When I sing for you?"

Sanson could feel everything about Guydelot deep in his chest, lately. "Of course."

"What if Halone's Blessing calls upon that? I only feel it when I'm singing for someone who needs it. When one doesn't, it's just a pretty song. I hoped to ease your headaches, your shoulder — I had no intent of helping you sleep. But it did! Because that's what you needed."

"Guydelot —"

"Nature can't give what it doesn't have. Neither can the soul. Music just opens the path."

Sanson frowned. "Even so. It's unfair to expose someone to an untested technique without knowledge."

Guydelot sighed. "Chief, I need to test it somehow —"

"I'm not negotiating this, Guydelot," Sanson said sharply. "I swear I'm not trying to argue, but as an officer of the Twin Adder, I cannot condone it. Don't use it as part of the bardsong unit, and don't use it without prior knowledge."

Guydelot took a deep breath. "Fine — as long as you keep the Adder out of it. I don't want any bureaucratic bullshite like we went through for the bardsong unit. I'm doing it for myself, and for Alamenain."

And leaving Sanson out of it entirely. It pinched something right near where the stubbornness lived. But he had to trust Guydelot to share it with him when the time was right.

"All right," Sanson conceded. "Until such time that you say so, I will disavow any knowledge of its existence when it comes to the Adder."

"Thank you," Guydelot said with a nod.

"You don't have your harp with you," Sanson noticed finally.

Guydelot raised his brows. "I didn't think you'd want me to play."

A perfectly reasonable assumption, but. "How else am I supposed to get some decent sleep?" Realizing how that sounded, Sanson felt his cheeks start to burn. "I mean, if you care to play. Really, it's been the worst part of it."

Guydelot's brows had only climbed higher, and a grin spread on his mouth. That damned mouth. "Tell you what, chief. If you're asking, I'll bring my lap harp over to yours later. That way you can get the full effect."

His stomach flipped. "I'm amenable."

"Good." The curious gleam was back, and Sanson braced himself for suggestive words or outright flirtation. "I've got a few songs from Alamenain that need a try, if you're willing."

Sanson nodded.

"Did you ever drink that mead? It might help as well."

"Oh." Sanson felt guilty. "I dropped it. In my kitchen. Didn't get to drink any."

"Good thing I've been holding onto a bottle as well. I'll bring it, too." Guydelot leaned forward on his elbows, eyes glowing through his lashes as he looked up. "We'll get you relaxed enough to sleep one way or another, don't worry."

Sanson opened his mouth, but no sound came out, thank the Twelve. Who knew what nonsense he'd end up saying to that . Guydelot stood, saying, "I've got to get back to the Quiver, unfortunately. I'll see you later?"

Sanson cleared his throat. "Yes. Later."

"Looking forward to it, Sanson." It was practically a purr in his lowered voice. "See you then."

Then Guydelot was gone with a half-laugh on his way out the door, taking what was left of Sanson's good sense with him. He was going to be haunted by the image of Guydelot looking up through his lashes all day.

Guydelot whistled his way out of the Nest. He wasn't due back to the Quiver yet — he'd lied to Mourechaux that he was needed on bard business. No use rushing.

When he'd gotten Sanson's first letter, he had been flooded with relief before he even read it. It meant he was no longer on a knife's edge, waiting for enough time to pass to tip him off it. Still, he had to take a minute before reading it. When he had, his heart was like to dissolve. Sanson's silence hadn't been because he had already written him off, but because he was uncertain how to proceed? And now he thought Guydelot might have decided to walk away? The man was simply unbelievable. He let some of his own desperation bleed out onto the page with his response.

He had meant to take their conversation at full seriousness. But then the secretary had been arranging the coffee service, and Sanson had said his name with such surprised delight when he entered with it, it all went out the window. Guydelot cast his mind back, beginning with the feeling of Sanson's arms around his middle. He'd been careful to let Sanson lead on touch since that disaster night in Falcon's Nest. But he'd touched Guydelot no less than four, maybe five times over the course of the half-bell in his office. The brush of his finger to the earring nearly made his heart stop. Gods, how he wanted those fingers on his jaw.

Guydelot had assumed Sanson had gathered he'd been hiding something, before their argument. Now, he wondered if that was where the conversation had been headed. Sanson's be as honest as we can be made him think it was not. He'd been speaking of honesty then, too, and said in his letters he'd been struggling with words for weeks. Something was churning in the man's mind, as far back as when Guydelot had fallen sick. But try as he might, Guydelot couldn't pinpoint what could have caused it — until today. Besides the touching, his blush and his eyes on Guydelot's mouth were a giveaway. The way he'd lost words when Guydelot suggestively mentioned helping him sleep cinched it. It wasn't the first time Guydelot had flirted, but it was the first time Sanson had fumbled with it. Well, well.  Maybe some of his lack of sleep had been Guydelot's fault before the argument.

Guydelot knew he was grinning ear-to-ear and walking with a swagger. Sanson with a crush was adorable . Now he only needed to hold tight to his patience — he was deeply curious what measures it would take for Sanson to come to him. How blatant could his flirtations get before Sanson called him out? What would finally grab his attention enough to compel him to act? Guydelot shivered at the thought of finding out.

When he strolled into the Quiver, Athelyna behind the desk called out to him. "Thildonnet! Your new gear came in."

"My what?" He crossed over to her as she reached under the counter, pulling out a cloth package.

"The gear Captain Smyth put in for you?" She slid it his way, then reached under the counter again. "New boots included. He was very specific about that."

Guydelot cracked up laughing as she pulled them out, too. New thighboots from Fen-Yll. Had Sanson done that on purpose?

As he opened the drawstring on the package, he said, "Sorry, sorry. He didn't tell me about this —"

The cloth folded back to reveal a coat, not standard issue in the slightest. When he glanced at Athelyna, she shrugged. "He insisted on the turquoise green, and paid the difference for it. Said it had to be quality — I didn't see a reason to argue." She raised an eyebrow at him. "Not something you see every day, an officer shelling out extra gil like that."

"He's very particular about this sort of thing. When did you say he ordered this?"

"About three weeks back. Said he wasn't happy about standard issue being inadequate in the rain."

When Guydelot had caught the cold — Sanson hadn't said a word about this. Well, Guydelot knew what he was wearing later. After he got home and shook the coat out fully, he was astonished at how Sanson knew his tastes. Not just the color; it wasn't plain, as Sanson's clothing tended to be. It had flourishes , on the arms and at the front. Yet it was practical; it had proper anchors for an archer's harness and was fitted to allow light armor underneath. When Guydelot slipped it on, the hem hit his calves. With the boots — which had matching flourishes — it was an impressive look. How in seven hells did Sanson manage to get the Quiver to pay for any of it?

Guydelot preened at his reflection in the mirror. With the earring, he was dressed in gifts from Sanson. Heat spread through his belly, surprising him. He did like to be showered in attention, and he was a show-off. But either of those things translating into this idea, that he would enjoy dressing to be shown off by a lover, was new. Of course, Sanson hadn't been thinking of it that way, and they weren't lovers. Guydelot touched the earring again. Matron help him if they ever did become lovers, he was going to be insufferable about it.

When Sanson opened his front door to Guydelot that evening, his eyes went wide. "Is that —"

"The gear you ordered and never told me about? Yes, yes it is." He leaned on the doorframe for a few seconds to let the full effect sink in. Sanson's eyes didn't get any smaller. "I quite like it."

"Good," Sanson beckoned him inside. "How's the fit?"

"Comfortable."

"Did you try it with your harness?" Sanson circled him, beginning to tug on the anchor points and arm straps. Guydelot felt a thrill and shoved it down before answering.

"Not yet."

Sanson made a small, displeased noise that spiked another thrill. "You'll need to, sooner rather than later, in case I need to send it back to Fen-Yll for adjustment." Sanson was back in front of him again, frowning.

To Guydelot's surprise, it wasn't the coat, but the collar of the shirt underneath that bothered him. Guydelot had dug out one of his nicest shirts, a white linen. However he'd arranged it, Sanson disapproved. He reached up to fold it properly, hands just under Guydelot's chin. He stared over Sanson's braided hair at the wall, willing his pulse to stay normal.

When Sanson stepped back, he looked pleased again. "Can't wear a collar like that and neglect to lay it correctly," he stated, then paused with a sheepish grin. "Apologies. I used to do uniform inspection quite often. Old habit."

"It's fine," Guydelot told him.

"And the boots?" Sanson dropped to one knee, reaching to test the straps there, too. Guydelot stood stock still as Sanson ran a hand down his calf, checking the give of the leather. "They fit well?"

Guydelot glanced down at Sanson's face, deep blue eyes through the lock of hair that wouldn't stay in the braid. He had to realize what position this was. Didn't he?

"Yes," Guydelot confirmed. "Just how I like."

"Good," Sanson rocked back to sit on his heels for a moment. He grinned up at Guydelot. "I owed you a pair of boots, anyway."

"Did you ever replace those?"

Sanson shrugged as he stood again. "I decided to order myself new gear, too. It hasn't come in yet."

He looked satisfied with his gear check, so Guydelot stooped to pick up the mead and his harp by the door. One in each hand, he quirked his eyebrows. "Where did you want to start?"

Both, it turned out. Guydelot arranged his harp on an end table while Sanson opened the bottle and retrieved wine glasses. He set a full glass down by Guydelot and settled on the sofa.

He was in a soft, worn tunic, sleeveless as usual, giving Guydelot an excellent view as he hooked an arm behind his head and balanced his glass on a knee. Not the bedclothes Guydelot remembered from Ishgard, but certainly loose and comfortable.

"I've never heard you play the full harp before," Sanson said as he watched Guydelot check its tuning.

"Your orchestrion, my harp," Guydelot said. "It's my most prized possession, and most expensive, to boot. It rarely leaves my apartments."

"I'm honored, then."

Guydelot couldn't help it; he winked at Sanson. "You're in for a spectacular performance, chief."

Sanson grinned back, flushing slightly. "On with it, then."

He played a few simpler songs as warm-up — he hadn't practiced much over the past few weeks. Once he was confident in his dexterity, he stretched out his hands and said, "This is the one of the first pieces I put in the sheet music journal you gave me."

It was the full arrangement of the choral piece, by far the one Guydelot was most proud of. As he started to sing, he noticed that Sanson was watching his hands, his eyes half-lidded and head tilted back. The song was originally a hymn to Halone, but this rather intimate performance of it brought a twist to the lyrics of supplication and fortitude. Guydelot felt it pour out of him, through fingertips on taut strings and the gravel he let into his voice, a call of devotion for an unknowable force, an offer to withstand the now for hope of a better later . Gods, it was all he could think of: a chance to be worshiped from head to toe with the intensity Sanson was giving his hands as he played.

The Blessing began to build, the warm tingle of it down Guydelot's neck and arms. It was far more powerful with the full harp's complex harmony. He could see its effect; Sanson's eyes were closed now, head tilted all the way back to rest on the wall. It exposed his whole throat like an offering, and Guydelot let his gaze linger.

He hadn't seen Sanson for nearly two weeks. With each exchange of letters, he grew more eager, first from the flush of relief and then from the high of saying sentiments he'd kept private for moons. And to have them returned? It was no wonder he ran to the Nest that morning as soon as he'd read the latest response.

Guydelot was no stranger to vulnerability. He had it with his mothers growing up, and in his friendship with Dylise. He hadn't expected it from Sanson, and not in the wake of an argument. That somehow neither of them became overly defensive felt like a turning point. It had not been a small mistake that Guydelot made. A week of cold silence hadn't been a kind thing, either, on Sanson's part. If he hadn't broken his silence as he did, with an ache so clear, Guydelot wouldn't have responded in kind. They could have easily spun off into old habits, but they didn't. They didn't, and so Guydelot knew that every word they both wrote was truth.

As he ended the song on a low, held note, he didn't hide his gaze when Sanson's eyes came open. He knew Sanson would see where he lingered: exposed throat, tipped up chin, muscular arm still hooked behind his neck. Sanson, in turn, was half-lidded and lazy again, an ease in his body that Guydelot had rarely seen.

"What does it feel like?" Guydelot asked, as the Blessing faded from his hands, resting on either side of the harp. He had been curious for a long time.

"Hm," Sanson sounded breathy. "Good. Warm and loose, like after a hot bath. Or..." He closed his eyes again and waved a hand through the air, but didn't finish the thought. Instead, Guydelot watched him sink a little deeper into the cushions.

Guydelot could think of several things that would make a man look as relaxed and satisfied as Sanson was. Shame that he couldn't get on his knees and do any of them.

He gave a small laugh as he strummed a brief scale. "You really needed the help, didn't you?"

Sanson shrugged, but the corner of his mouth turned up. "I did say it was the worst part."

Guydelot believed it; he never forgot Sanson saying he hadn't slept well since Carteneau.

"That's why I bought the orchestrion," Sanson said. "I used to listen to it at night, so I could fall asleep. I think I had forgotten what it felt like, to be well rested. Nothing else was right in the world, so it seemed insignificant for a long time."

Guydelot plucked a quiet ripple of chords, nothing fancy as he let his fingers roam the strings. "This must feel heavenly, then."

"It does. Even without the Blessing, it does."

Guydelot played a soft folksong next, familiar to every Gridanian. Sanson draped his arm over his eyes and was fully slumped into the sofa, after a few more songs; Guydelot felt his face stretch into a smile as he watched it happen. Then he plucked up his courage and began a song that was all his own, an attempt at a Blessing. More than that, it was an epilogue to Close to the Heavens . Guydelot knew it might be silly or naive of him, but he wanted to give the maiden back some joy. Her beloved returns home safe, she confesses — but his lyrics stopped there. Like the original, he didn't want to focus on requited love. There were enough ballads about it already.

It wasn't a proper Blessing yet, but Guydelot could tell he was close. He felt the smallest prickle down his neck, a jolt at the base of his spine as he reached the song's crescendo, a whisper of warmth as he brought it to a gentle end. Sanson's breathing was deep and even; Guydelot wouldn't be surprised if he was asleep. But he lifted his arm.

"Did you write that?"

Guydelot swallowed. "I did."

"It's beautiful."

"Thank you." Guydelot strummed so he didn't have to look at Sanson when he asked, "Did that one feel the same?"

Sanson made the same breathy hm sound as earlier. When Guydelot glanced up, his face was tipped toward the ceiling, his cheeks dusted pink. "Not exactly the same. But close."

Guydelot tried not to let his eyes wander down. Dear gods, could he turn Sanson on with a song ? A Blessing, especially as weak as this one was, couldn't amplify what wasn't already present. He racked his mind — he truly wanted to help Sanson get rest, and repair what he'd broken between them. As interesting as this possibility was, now was not the time to explore it.

"I have a few more, from Alamenain. If you want to hear them."

"Mhmm." Sanson closed his eyes again. Two songs later, he had slumped onto his side on the sofa, head pillowed on one arm. Guydelot was grateful he was already in comfortable clothes. It would be a tragedy to wake the man, he was so peaceful. The times they had shared rooms or tents on their journey, Sanson always slept fretfully. This was a sleep of deep need.

Guydelot packed up his harp, careful not to vibrate any strings, and pulled the blanket on the sofa over Sanson, who didn't stir. With a last look, Guydelot let himself out of Sanson's apartments. He did pause in the kitchen to grab the open bottle of mead, drinking what was left on the walk home.

When he got into bed himself, later that evening, his mind wandered back. If he had gotten down in front of Sanson, hands on his knees in a question, what would have happened? Would Sanson have widened his legs and taken one of Guydelot's hands, placed it on the laces of his trousers? That would be all Guydelot would need. The whole exchange could be wordless, Guydelot thought; they knew each other well enough now. Gods knew, he'd been wanting to for moons, ever since he saw Sanson in the Whilom river. A nod and fingers under his chin to encourage him forward; a hand in his hair to guide him to the rhythm and depth Sanson liked; letting his fingers dig into the muscles of Sanson's thighs as he swallowed. Sanson making those breathy, lazy noises until he cried out with relief on Guydelot's tongue.

He pictured Sanson's satisfied eyes and smug smile when he came from his own hands. Breath fast as he relaxed into his mattress, his confidence from that morning left him. What if the attraction between them was all in Guydelot's mind? What if the fumbled flirting, the blushes, the uptick in casual touch weren't signals Sanson couldn't help but show? Besides the rumors, Guydelot had no proof that Sanson even cared for sex.

He began to spiral before his heart had stopped pounding. Not for the first time, he wondered if the yearning would ever leave him. Perhaps he should take a casual lover, assure himself that, with libido satisfied, he didn't need to torment himself with these fantasies. But when he thought of his drinks with Cyrille, who he would have taken home without hesitation before, he felt the same clear answer. It wasn't what he wanted. Even if he never got what he did want.

And everyone but Sanson knew that Guydelot wanted him. His own mother had seen it, without ever having met the man. His mentor, their friends — it was obvious. He never wanted to leave Sanson's side. How much more time, more opportunity would Sanson need? Was Guydelot capable of giving it to him?

He didn't know.

When Sanson woke, it was still dark. It took him a few minutes to surface and remember why he was on his sofa, in the sitting room. Guydelot had been here, had sung him to sleep. And what sleep it was, Sanson still heavy and hazy with it. It wasn't the only leftover effect; Sanson shifted his hips as heat pooled across his hips.

Twelve preserve, Guydelot's voice was gorgeous. He'd missed it. And his hands. He'd never seen Guydelot play the full harp before. It was entrancing. He'd known he was staring, but he couldn't help it — which was why he put his arm over his eyes. It wouldn't do to get aroused watching his friend play the harp, when it was a goodwill gesture, nonetheless. To his embarrassment, it happened anyway, when Guydelot played the Blessing he'd written. The effect was subtler, softer, the warmth more liquid down his spine. He almost hadn't noticed. Then he'd spent the latter half of the song willing himself to stay calm.

Of course, Guydelot had to ask how it felt. What it felt like was the desire to beckon Guydelot next to him so he could see. To put his hand on Guydelot's leg and offer his neck to more than his eyes. And if Guydelot whispered, just this once or between friends or any other noncommittment, then Sanson would nod and pretend it was how he wanted it, too, as long as those fingers wrapped around him and those lips said his name. Dignity, self-preservation, honesty — none of it mattered. He'd throw it away for a clumsy, half-dressed stroking of each other that they'd act like hadn't happened the next day.

Sanson didn't know why he was so certain that was how it would have gone. Guydelot had called himself a coward in his letters, but Sanson was worse. Unable to stop himself from wanting, yet unable to resolve it any other way, he would take scraps. Never in his life had someone had that power over him.

The thought terrified him.

He roused himself off the sofa to stumble to his bedroom, where he stripped down and crawled into the cold bed. It served to cool what heat remained and allowed him to fall back asleep without indulging in any misguided self pleasure.

When he woke again, it was with a clearer mind and before his usual bell. It was fortuitous, in a sense, that he had had coffee and breakfast before there was a knock on his door. He opened it to a Twin Adder messenger.

"Good morning, Captain. All officers to report in by eighth bell," he was told, and shown a writ stamped by the office of Marshal Brookstone. Down the row of houses came knocks and similar orders.

"Thank you, Private," Sanson absently returned the salute as she moved off, reaching back to grab his boots. The pit of his stomach churned. Should he try to get a note to Guydelot? Whatever was afoot, the Quiver wouldn't be far behind the Twin Adder — he probably had his own call to answer. As much as Sanson didn't like it, he needed to sharpen his focus to his duty.

The briefing confirmed his fears. A faction of the Ala Mhigan Resistance was planning an assault on Baelsar's Wall in the East Shroud, an attempt to provoke the Alliance into outright war with the Empire.

Sanson could not have imagined worse, and yet, that was what they all received.

He wasn't at Amarissaix's Spire when it began, but he was quickly called to Hawthorne's Hut. He was to help direct logistics — as soon as they learned Alliance uniforms were being used maliciously, all soldiers entering the fray needed distinguishing. So he sent units toward the wall, pinning makeshift Alliance markers to their uniforms himself, and steeled himself to not seeing them returned whole.

It was nightmarish of a proportion unseen since the Calamity. He had no time to spare on the Quivermen uniforms coming and going around him. He focused on his own soldiers as he prayed to the Twelve that the Warrior of Light and his fellow Scions managed to halt the Griffin before too much damage was done.

It was not to be.

Hysteria began to form with the appearance of a primal, and only slightly calmed when the sphere of light coalesced to contain it. A knot of Carteneau veterans gathered, watching as the past repeated itself. Sanson stood among them, hand on another's shoulder, all of them five years scarred with the knowledge of what sacrifice had just been made.

When Etienne arrived with a contingent of Conjurers, Sanson paused in his duties long enough to pull his brother into a quick embrace before they turned back to their tasks. He couldn't help but think of his family. They knew that Gridania would call upon Sanson and Etienne in her defense, but it never made it easy to see them off.

It was past midnight when Sanson, boots still on, crawled into a cot. A familiar makeshift camp had formed around the Hut, a mark of a large-scale operation. Units arrived from Ul'dah and Limsa, caravans came and went at all bells, the flow of the Aetheryte between the Hut and Gridania became strictly regulated. Sanson slept like the dead for a few bells, knowing on waking that it was the last peace he was like to know for weeks.

Guydelot paced the perimeter of the aetheryte plaza, worried. The Gold Bulls had been assigned to shore up Gridania's defenses in wake of the Twin Adder being almost entirely deployed to the East Shroud. He was bound to stay within the city. Dylise's unit had been as well, a small comfort if not for the fact their loved ones were just as bound to the active field.

He'd received the briefest note from Sanson the day after the assault: Keep yourself safe for me. 

Guydelot had sent a brief one in return: As long as you promise to do the same.

Jehantel had more or less moved into an inn room to be able to support the Quiver. It helped Guydelot fret less. He maintained his diligence when on duty, knowing it was to protect not only his mentor, but also Sanson's family.

The primal had been contained in the sky above Baelsar's Wall for three days. The Adder had taken command of the entire plaza, Serpent Mages present around the clock. Traffic in and out of the East Shroud came every three bells, knots of people forming beforehand to receive their loved ones from the field. It was impossible to even approach the Adder's Nest without a uniform. The Wailing Barracks and Quiver's Hold were much the same.

Dylise joined him at a quarter to fourth in the afternoon, fresh off a patrol and showing it with every weary step. Duhxah's post was Amarissaix's Spire, and she hadn't left it in two weeks. Praise the Twelve, she was due to rotate out for two days, and at the same time Sanson would return to boot. When aetherial flashes began to signal arrivals, Guydelot and Dylise waited for their loved ones to appear.

Sanson arrived first, worn to the bone, his face grim. It only took a few seconds for his eyes to find Guydelot, and then he was striding over to throw his duffel at his feet and crush arms around Guydelot's ribs in an embrace. Guydelot wrapped his arms around Sanson's shoulders and held him tight.

When he pulled away, he turned to Dylise, to Guydelot's surprise.

"Dylise," he said. "I'm a complete fool, and you were right. Can you forgive me?"

Dylise's expression was a little wary at Sanson's words, but cleared at the ask. "I suppose. As long as you don't pull that again."

Sanson gave a quiet laugh. "I swear I won't."

Dylise glanced at Guydelot's puzzled face now, but before she could speak, someone shouted her name. She pivoted just in time to catch an ecstatic Duhxah, who jumped up to throw her legs around Dylise's waist.

Sanson stepped back so they could have their reunion. "She had a few choice words for me previously. I wouldn't call it an argument, but..." Sanson put his hand out in an equivocating gesture. "It was close enough."

Guydelot laughed softly. He should have predicted that would happen. "How long do you have in Gridania?"

"Twenty-four," Sanson said, and ran his hand over his face. "I need to see my family, Etienne is still at Hawthorne's Hut and —"

"Of course," Guydelot put his hand on Sanson's arm. "I won't keep you, I'm glad enough to see you for a moment or two."

Sanson smiled and stepped in closer. "I can come by yours in the morning? When do you report for duty next?"

"Not until noon. Please do."

Sanson put his hand over Guydelot's and gave a brief squeeze. "I'll see you then."

He picked up his duffel and with a nod to Dylise, set off toward Old Gridania. Guydelot watched him go for a few seconds.

Not long after, Guydelot made his way back to the Quiver. He'd left his harp and journal behind when he got off duty and went to the plaza — if he was to spend the evening alone, he'd need occupying. A letter to his mother, for certain. Maybe he'd see if Jehantel was available —

"Do you think there's any truth to it? About him and Captain Smyth?"

Guydelot paused outside the archway to the room where he'd stored his things. He recognized the voice — a pleasant Hyur woman from a different unit. Not known to be a gossip, or so he thought.

"Aye, I do." A different woman from the same unit. "Thildonnet left in a hurry to the plaza, last arrival time from the East Shroud. Can't imagine who else he'd be waiting for."

"I think it's sweet. And hopefully that Wailer will shut her mouth about Captain Smyth now. Not sure if it's even true."

"Really? You've seen how he is in command."

"Not that part. That she bedded him at all. Have you seen how he looks at Thildonnet? I can't imagine he'd care for her like that."

"Surprised he does for Thildonnet, if I'm honest. He's got such a mouth."

"Aye, but have you heard him sing? Beautiful voice. He can be quite charming when he wants."

"Well, I did see him cozy with Cyrille the other night. I hope he knows what he's got, with the Captain — plenty of others praying he'll turn their way, rumors or no. One misstep and someone'll shove him out of the way to get a chance."

At that, Guydelot turned on his heel and left the Quiver. He found himself outside the Canopy, overlooking Jadeite Flood. Where Sanson gave him the pendant he'd been wearing for weeks.

It was far from the worst gossip he'd heard about himself. Granted, he usually caught it secondhand, from Dylise or someone else looking to stir up trouble. He couldn't fault either woman — how many conversations had he had with Dylise, exactly like that? No, it wasn't the existence of the gossip that upset him; he wasn't surprised there were still rumors about the two of them. There was the Sanson the Stiff joke that spread. If anyone noted their embrace at the aetheryte, well, he certainly wouldn't fault them for jumping to conclusions. They weren't wrong, on his part. The one woman even said she thought they were sweet, which did something to Guydelot's insides.

But Sanson hadn't done anything to deserve the speculation, however complimentary it seemed. He was the private sort, as Guydelot had first suspected in Ishgard. What made his blood boil was that none of these gossipers knew Sanson. They didn't know how his brows creased when he was annoyed but also amused, or what he looked like with powdered sugar on his face. They didn't know the petty tone he used when he talked about his commanding officer. They didn't see how precise and nitpicky he was over the plants he kept in his apartments. They hadn't seen him wine-drunk and desperately trying to stay awake on his sofa, feet hanging off the arm. They didn't know how maddeningly imperfect the man was, yet they all thought there was a chance, a queue, as if he'd happily take anyone who batted their eyelashes because they liked the way he carried himself. And they thought Guydelot was one of them.

Gods, it was such a privilege to know Sanson as he did. He bristled at the idea that anyone would think he'd squander it. Twelve help any misguided soul who thought to displace him, malicious or otherwise. He'd fought to be here and he'd fight harder still. He only hoped Sanson saw it for what it was, and not some sort of egotistical posturing.

There is no one who can take your place in this. Even if they try.

Guydelot hoped that it was true.

He was asleep when there was a knock on his door at half-seventh the next morning. Oh, he should have guessed. He pulled on a pair of trousers before opening the door, bleary, to Sanson with a pastry bag and a thermos.

"You're not going to drag me to the exercise yard, are you?" He asked through a yawn as he let Sanson in.

Sanson chuckled. "Not today. I've already been."

Guydelot eyed him as he flopped back onto his bed. "You've been up too long."

Sanson shrugged and opened a cupboard to look for mugs. "Couldn't sleep. Can't imagine I'll be able to for a while yet."

He said it far too casually. As Sanson pulled out two mugs and uncapped the thermos, Guydelot asked carefully, "Why can't you sleep?"

Sanson paused, weighing. He poured a mug and handed it to him. Guydelot took it, surprised. "It's tea. You don't care for coffee."

"Thank you." Guydelot sat up, cupping it in his palms. "You don't have to answer. Just — if I can help."

"I have nightmares about Carteneau." Sanson sat in the armchair with his own mug. "They come and go, but with that... thing above us. I can hardly fall asleep, and when I do, it's far from restful."

"Is there a plan of action? The Adder must have something."

"The Elder Seedseer held an Alliance Council yesterday, with Cid Garlond and the Scions. But nothing official's been announced."

They sat in silence for a moment. Guydelot stared into his mug as he said, "I'll sing for you as often as you need. You know that?"

There was another beat of quiet. Guydelot chanced a glance up. Sanson wasn't looking at him, but in that manner that bespoke comfort. "I do."

"Good." Guydelot leaned forward to snatch the pastry bag off Sanson. "Now. What manner of treats did you bring me?"

That earned him a laugh.

Bells later, when Guydelot needed to ready himself to report in, he said, "Before you go, I had a thought." He crossed to the armchair and lifted the bear pelt off the back. Sanson had absently pet it while he sat there. "Take this? It's heavy, but that might be a comfort. And the East Shroud does get cold at night." He bundled it up as small as he could. "Or throw it over a cot and pretend it's a featherbed. For the first few minutes, at least."

Sanson laughed and considered the bulky roll of it. "All right. I'll give it a try."

It made Guydelot feel a little better about sending Sanson off, at least. To his surprise, Sanson pulled him into another embrace before he left. Guydelot's heart thumped hard with fear and uncertainty.

"Be safe," he said, cheek to Sanson's hair. "Please."

Sanson nodded before pulling away, leaving without a backward glance. Guydelot felt the shuddering exhale Sanson let out against his chest for the rest of the day.

The battle between the primal and Omega was a sight Sanson would never forget. Much like when the cocoon of light formed, no one in the East Shroud did anything other than stare at the sky as it dissolved.

"Please Nophica, let this work," he whispered to himself. He had to have faith. If not in the Elder Seedseer, then the Scions.

The boom when Omega collided with the primal shook every structure for malms. The Spire wavered from it, and he took off at a run along with several others to check on the occupants. 

Duhxah, Dylise's beloved, was present at the base. A knot of Wailers formed as they fled from the upper tiers. Sanson caught her elbows and looked at her eyes. Shaken, but not panicked.

"Duhxah, are you all right?" He hoped she recognized his face.

She nodded. "Yes. You're Guydelot's...?"

"Yes," he said. "Can you help me clear the tower? Get the others to the Hut?"

She nodded again and took a deep breath.

"Good," he squeezed her arms before letting go and turning toward the crowd.

"Move away!" Sanson ushered them east. "Stay off until we can check its stability!"

Duhxah followed suit, pointing others away. Twelve bless her.

He made the choice to bolt to the upper platform and check for others. As he reached it, another boom ripped out, the boards creaking under his feet. Sanson stumbled, caught the railing as he went down to a knee, and spied a young Wailer crouched under a table.

"Come on!" He skidded over to him and took his arm. "We have to get everyone down!"

As the boy bolted for the stairway, Sanson took a final look, just in time to see one more skybound collision that rocked the Spire. The primal — a scaly, dragon-like monstrosity that struck far too close to Bahamut's likeness — pumped its wings hard and soared into the upper clouds, letting out a painful screech as it disappeared. Within a second, the hum of Omega followed it.

Sanson made it to the ground in one piece, ushering the few left in the area away as his knees went rubbery from the rush. 

"Is it over?" Someone asked as they hurried to join the crowd.

"Is everyone all right?" A commander shouted over the din. Sanson saw the Wailer sitting with his head between his knees and sympathized. "Does anyone need a conjurer?"

A conjurer. Sanson hurried toward their tent. Etienne had been able to spend more time in Gridania than Sanson had, but he'd returned to the East Shroud that morning. When Sanson ducked his head in, Etienne was soothing a patient with his calm voice. When he saw Sanson, he came over.

"It headed into Ala Mhigo, pursued by Omega," he told him in a low tone. "I think the danger has passed for now. Mostly shock out here."

"And how are you?" Etienne asked as Sanson sat on the bench by the tent entrance.

Sanson smiled up at him. He hoped it was a smile, anyway. "We had to evacuate the Spire in a hurry. But everyone's fine."

Sanson found Etienne later, sitting alone on the ridge that surrounded the east side of the camp. The conjurer looked worn —  everyone did, but Sanson knew his exhaustion better.

"Mind if I join?" He asked when Etienne heard him approach.

"Please," Etienne said with the ready smile that left an impression on near everyone who met him.

"Missing your girls?" Sanson said as he sat.

Etienne glanced at him, mouth twisted ruefully. "As always. And frightened that this will be the world I raise them in. Neverending war."

"Aye," Sanson said. "Even before the Garleans began an empire, there was the Autumn War." He looked toward Baelsar's Wall. "I hope the Alliance will change that."

"A free Ala Mhigo is like to join, as well," Etienne agreed. "I want my daughters to know more than Gridania."

That surprised Sanson. Etienne, like himself and Ilene, had been born and raised Gridanian. "Oh?"

Etienne nodded. "What better way to sow peace, than for each generation to understand the world better than the last? You yourself have formed ties with Ishgard." At Sanson's raised brows, Etienne chuckled. "Come now, you told Ilene about your friends' bonding plan. You've traveled with the Warrior of Light! You've seen more of the world than most."

Sanson gave a weak laugh. "I suppose. I just want to keep others safe." He drew his knees up to wrap arms around them. He rested his chin and said, "More so than when I joined. But it's harder, now."

"Still not sleeping?" He asked quietly, and Sanson shook his head. Etienne hadn't been at Carteneau, but he had treated plenty of those who had. "What helps?"

The bear pelt, somewhat but mostly... "Guydelot," Sanson said without thinking. Etienne's brows quirked. He tried to backtrack. "I mean, his music." But by Etienne's face, it was a lost cause. "Ilene told you, then?"

"Just that you'd run into some difficulty in your relationship," Etienne stretched long legs out in front of himself, not looking at Sanson.

Sanson didn't want to go into details here, of all places. "We've made amends, thank the Matron."

They sat in silence for a few minutes, Sanson thinking over the conversation. He hadn't told anyone about Halone's Blessing, as per his agreement with Guydelot. That didn't stop questions from forming, though.

"Ilene said you showed an affinity for conjury when you were very young," Sanson said. "What was it like?"

Etienne glanced at him. "Are you worried about Elodie?"

Sanson nodded, but said, "And thinking about bardsong. Ilene mentioned once that you couldn't help using conjury at first. I realized I have no idea what that's like. My talents have always been very practical."

"It runs strong in my mother's line," Etienne said. "We've always produced mages, mostly conjurers. The guild has the entire family tree." He smiled to himself. "So when it became apparent my brother and I were playing with magicks, my mother brought us to Brother E-Sumi-Yan. I will do the same with Elodie."

"Why so young?" Sanson asked. "Is there a risk of harm?"

"Not for others, for ourselves. It's very easy to give too much, especially before learning how to lean on the Elementals. If not caught and controlled early on, it can be dangerous. My mother says that's why it runs in families. To ensure no child faces it alone."

Sanson thought of Alamenain and his yet-born child. "What if there is no one?"

"Rarely, someone refuses the Guild's teachings. It never ends well. The Guild has taken in orphans from it before."

The answer disturbed Sanson. Not just for Alamenain, but Guydelot as well. If it was easy to give too much, the bard would be one to do it.

"I wonder how the other disciplines teach it," Sanson said. "And if they are similar to conjury. You truly couldn't control it at first?"

Etienne shook his head. "Truly. The challenge is never in the creation of magicks, but in the harnessing. If I hold it back too long, my aether..." He hesitated. "It feels spoiled , if that illustrates it. It needs to flow, and it needs a purpose. The Elementals provide both."

The conversation followed Sanson for days. Song calls on the soul, Guydelot had said.  I only feel it when I'm singing for someone who needs it.

It took two more weeks to get Castrum Oriens in decent enough shape to call it a working post. The Garleans left behind piles and piles of documents — Sanson, while intrigued, was grateful he wasn't a scribe or researcher. They had their work cut out for them.

Around the time Serpent Marshal Brookstone arrived to oversee command, Sanson was back at the Nest, the world around him tinted by war and worry. Once or twice, out by Baelsar's Wall, he'd caught a glimpse of the Scions, the Warrior of Light among them, and he wondered how they fared. Though there were no few losses, the Scion Papalymo stood out among them.

Now it was the Alliance's job to bring Ala Mhigo to freedom, in his name.

Sanson had hardly begun to settle back into his office when Jehantel came to visit.

"Glad to see you hale and hearty, lad," he said as he sat down.

Sanson let out a sigh. "As one can be, I suppose." He stared off into the corner of the room. "Have you heard from our Scion friend, at all?"

Jehantel shook his head. "Unfortunately, I have not."

"I hope they are all well." Sanson gestured to his desk, cluttered with unsorted paper. "It's hard to return to this. I can't imagine what it's like for them, having just lost one of their own."

Jehantel looked thoughtful, the familiar melancholy in his eyes. "It feels impossible, as you and I both well know."

"Somehow we carry on anyway," Sanson said.

"If only to ease the way for those who come after us."

At that, Sanson took him in. His thin frame seemed heavy. "How fared you and your bards?"

"They were assigned out as Quivermen, nothing more. But I assisted the Bowlords as much as I could."

That worried Sanson — Jehantel had made clear his preference to stay apart from Quiver business except for bard training.

He saw it on Sanson's face and said, "Bowlord Lewin was grateful. I'm just not as spry as I used to be; I need some rest. That's all."

There was a brief knock on the open door, and the floor Sergeant peeked in. "Captain, sir? I have a missive from the office of Commander Heuloix."

"Thank you, Sergeant." He rose to take the parchment and then gestured for him to shut the door behind him.

"It's an inaugural mission for the bardsong unit," Sanson said as he skimmed it. "Of a nature demanding delicacy." Sanson felt himself smile. "I'll have to keep a close rein on Guydelot, then."

Jehantel chuckled. "Indeed. Where is our lad?"

"Camp Tranquil. None of the recruits are ready for a mission of this manner, but it should be more than the two of us. Shame we can't call upon our Warrior of Light."

"We might," Jehantel replied. "I can send a note before I return to the South Shroud. What makes it delicate?"

"It doesn't say." Sanson frowned. "I'm not fond of that. A lack of paper trail is not a good sign. I'll need to meet with Commander Heuloix for details." Sanson set down the paper and drummed his fingers. "You truly think the Warrior of Light will assist? It would be most welcome."

"He's as invested as I am."

Finally, something like excitement began to thrum under Sanson's skin. "It's a good opportunity to further the cause for bards, certainly. All right. See what you can do. I'll finish up here and go to the Quiver to send for Guydelot."

Samson brought Commander Heuloix's missive with him to the Quiver, but it wasn't needed. As soon as he told the secretary that he needed Guydelot recalled to Gridania, she switched on her linkshell then and there to relay it.

"He'll be teleporting back immediately and will be on to the Nest," she said.

"Excellent, thank you."

Sanson had a flash of memory as he stepped back out into the sunlight to see Jehantel and the Warrior of Light waiting for him. It settled in his stomach, a feeling that everything was about to change. He shook it off. Everything had already changed; that was the way of it. After a short conversation — once again reminding him of what they'd already accomplished — Sanson led them toward Commander Heuloix and the Nest, shoulders set for whatever was to come.