Work Text:
As the stories go, Haurchefant Greystone had fallen in the Vault—by the hand of the Archimandrite of the Heaven’s Ward himself—in a noble attempt to protect his comrades, safeguarding the very future of Ishgard in the same dying breath.
Yet what remains tragically unsung is how the Spear of Light had missed—the shield had broken, ‘tis true, but not the flesh; the wound not deep enough to claim the valiant knight’s life on this day.
Haurchefant had fallen, although he was quick to sit somewhat upright, the young Leveilleur rushing to his side—to try and mend the flesh, no doubt—afore a pitch black darkness entombed them all.
Suddenly screams echoed in the dark—Zephirin de Valhourdin barking orders to protect His Eminence, the Azure Dragoon commanding Lucia to stay behind with the Lord Commander, the Warrior of Light begging their dearest friend to come back to his senses.
For this darkness of The Sword of the Warrior of Light was born—a title given to a peerless knight versed in the Dark Arts named after the color of his hair, and dutiful shadow of Montblanc since they had rescued him from the Praetorium’s geols—Moss was his name, and he had seen Haurchefant fall.
Moss had seen the man he loved fall and believed him dead—and the world was engulfed in shadows.
Nary a soul knew about this grim truth; the very foundation of the so-called hard-won victories the saviors of the realm had brought—that Moss would at times lose himself to boundless, unfathomable darkness, nigh distinguishing friend from foe and leaving but a trail of corpses in its wake.
The poor soul would emerge with no memories of the deed, nor of the people who washed the blood off his hands.
The Warrior of Light was one such person; during their time together, the bard had devised a means to contain the darkness within—singing songs of faraway homes, untouched amidst the trees—hence reaching out to the child Moss once was before falling into the relentless clutches of war.
Yet as they called his name that day—the one given to him deep in the forests of Dalmasca—amidst the ongoing chaos of battle, no one answered.
And Haurchefant, bless his soul, would stand unflinching in the face of the storm—his shield arm reaching out to his beloved with but the purest, most hallowed devotion in the midday blue of his eyes.
‘Listen to my voice, mon chéri, I have you—’
Tender words were cut short, flesh torn asunder; a yet warm body—already growing cold—thrown upon the holiest of grounds. Alphinaud let out a soundless scream as blood splattered his and Montblanc’s faces, twisted in macabre horror.
Haurchefant had fallen, dark tendrils coiling ‘round the chasm in his breast, the young Leveilleur rushing to his side—to try and mend the flesh, no doubt—afore realizing it would be in vain.
None but Montblanc caught his last words, loving whispers fading into nothing—his lips drawn in a smile, as if Haurchefant had peacefully parted in his sleep.
As the shadows subsided—the others yet oblivious to what had come to pass—the bard quickly covered the body with their vest, dark blood bathed in the golden sun soon seeping through the rich embroidery. They glanced around, eyes chancing upon the battered form of Moss—unmoving in the Azure Dragoon’s arms, his drachen mail spattered in the blood of man and dragon both—and thought their heart would shatter once more.
‘He yet lives,’ Estinien’s voice was frayed. ‘but he’s lost an arm. Alphinaud!’
A swift glance to the boy and a nod were all it took to agree on concealing a most dire truth—for there could be no mistaking who had in fact brought the knight low—before turning to more pressing matters, unshed tears awaiting.
As the stories went, Haurchefant Greystone had fallen in the Vault—by the hand of the Archimandrite of the Heaven’s Ward himself—in a noble attempt to protect his comrades, safeguarding the very future of Ishgard in the same dying breath. For eons would the minstrels sing the praises of he who had died protecting his beloved—he who had died for love, fulfilling a knight’s true calling at long last—the untold truth anything but.