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There is a deep-rooted, bodily ache that comes with loss that can never be fully described in words. Aymeric was no stranger to loss and grief; as a knight in his youth many of his comrades, bunk mates and close friends had all succumbed to the Dravanians in all manner of ways, all of them horrific and honourless in spite of what the Heavens Ward might have said. He grieved for every single one of the men and women of his regiment that was lost and it never got easier.
No, he was no stranger to grief.
But there was something different this time. Perhaps it was the Vault that made him feel as though he had been wrenched the wrong way when he thought of it, and he thought of it often, the holiest building in all of Ishgard and the one place blood should never be spilled. Or mayhap the enemy, the Heavens Ward and the Archbishop himself, who had until a matter of days ago had been the city’s greatest protectors. The suddenness of it had certainly played a part; he had been pleading with the Archbishop one moment and staring at his retreating back in defeat when both Z’kila and Haurchefant took off after him, looking for all the world like they were fully intent on leaping for the airship and clinging on as it took flight if that’s what it took.
Mayhap it had been Haurchefant’s warning cry or the glare of the manifested spear or the wide-eyed, slack-jawed shock on Z’kila’s face when he realised what had happened.
It didn’t matter really what had caused this unshakeable feeling of being unanchored, Aymeric supposed, of feeling adrift and apart from reality as things went on all around him as though nothing had changed at all. He was managing, just about, to keep the Temple Knights in some kind of order while the very foundations of Ishgardian society crumbled and the Warrior of Light away pursuing the villain behind its history of lies.
Aymeric sat at the Seat of the Lord Commander with a mountain of papers to one side and single sheet before him, though it had taken several unsuccessful attempts to read it. The narrow script seemed to deliberately defy understanding and his own mind refused to digest anything he managed to glean. The quill in his hand was beginning to look crushed beyond salvaging beneath the tightness of his grip.
At his side he sensed Handeloup shift as he leant closer, temporarily taking Lucia’s place at his side. ‘My Lord..?’
As always he asked nothing but invited everything in that simple address. How he was feeling. If he wanted for anything. Whether he needed a break. He took a breath to answer — and say what exactly he wasn’t certain. With lies uncovered and an entire history, culture and values in question, his nation stood upon a precipice, and worse still no direction could be taken; not until it came to light whether Z’kila succeeded or failed in the endeavour to take the first step in righting the wrongs of an antiquity of which he wasn’t even a part. In the meantime all Aymeric could do was keep the nation aloft, hovering above the abyss until such a time that Ishgard would either fall or take flight. He had to keep the people’s panic to a minimum, the nation fed, the Knights under control and encourage everyone to continue on as normal. But how with a clear conscience could one tell the people, high- and lowborn alike, that all was under control when he himself spent his nights pacing instead of resting and his fingernails chewed down to the quick.
The door interrupted any attempt to reply to Handeloup by opening to permit one of his knights.
‘My Lord, the Enterprise has been sighted!’
It took a moment for the information to force its way through the unrelenting fog in Aymeric’s mind, but then he was on his feet and striding out of the room without so much as a by your leave. Keeping pace, Handeloup flanked him all the way up to the Pillars and the airship landing. A dark and heavy cloud hung over Ishgard and the snow was holding, it seemed, for now but nevertheless it looked as though the city was frozen in time as citizens spotted the approach of the airship and pointed it out to others, whatever task they had set out to do forgotten as all eyes turned on the sky. Every one of them had an inkling of who was on that airship though none (Aymeric prayed) knew where he’d been or why.
They had returned, he thought with all the excitement, anticipation and dread he couldn’t show on his face. Had they found success? Many of the knights, both on duty and off, were gathering to watch the airship’s arrival. Out of the corner of his eye he spotted Estinien, gleaming red in the late-afternoon cloud-covered daylight, perched atop a roof’s crest. Aymeric knew he spent hours every night scrubbing away at his armour but the crimson stain refused to lift.
The Enterprise slowed as it approached, turning port-side to the platform as the engine groaned and wound down. Aymeric strode on, too eager for news to stay back behind the crowd of knights and highborn citizens as he should have. He spotted the roegadyn in Ironworks uniform at the helm, the lalafell in identical dress lingering by the gangplank to help tether the airship. Beyond them was the white hair of Garlond himself, along with the equally striking Master Alphinaud. And there was Lucia, of course, a shining beacon in her armour. Z’kila took a little more effort to find, so dark was his hair and choice of coat, but he was there too, standing with arms folded and face blank while the ship was brought in.
Aymeric couldn’t prevent the frown that creased his brows as he looked upon Z’kila in the moments between spotting him and the airship being tethered to the landing. He had always been a stoic man, certainly, but there was something about the blankness of his expression that indicated an eerie emptiness. Like he wasn't simply maintaining a mask of neutrality anymore; there was nothing left to express.
Alphinaud and Master Garlond were the first to disembark and Aymeric greeted them with all the somber cordiality their expressions called for; he could see without asking that they had been unsuccessful. He swallowed back his dismay and looked toward Z'kila to offer the same greetings and gratitude.
He found Z'kila's gaze already on him as he lingered on the gangplank, still with the worryingly blank expression on his face. Aymeric realised he was swaying mere moments before his strength gave out.
Aymeric lurched forward, as did both Alphinaud and Cid when they heard the thud of his knees hitting the wood, but it was an armoured knight that caught him by the elbow before he could slip over the edge into the abyss. Aymeric, Alphinaud and Cid gathered around him, their bodies serving to create a barrier between Z’kila and the onlooking crowd, which had gone deathly silent since his fall. The knight looked at Aymeric with wide, pale eyes with one hand still gripping Z’kila’s arm, an unspoken question within that was no less urgent for it.
‘What is it, Z’kila? Are you hurt?’ Alphinaud asked, voice hushed and panicked as he started patting his shoulders, sides, arms, anything he could reach with the glimmer of white magicks alighting his hands. The aether flickered and spread across Z’kila’s coat and skin, delving into the few scratches and bruises it could find.
‘I thought he was being quiet after–’ Cid stopped himself and glanced sideways at the knight still holding onto Z’kila– ‘after we lost the key.’
Alphinaud’s healing energies sparked and dissipated, nothing left to heal. Aymeric crouched at Z’kila’s side and gingerly rested a hand on his trembling shoulder. There was no injury as far as he could see; not physically, at least. Z’kila stared down at the wood underneath him, eyes wide and empty, one arm held awkwardly aloft by the knight but he made no complaint or motion to free himself. It was like the shell had come back and left the spirit behind somewhere.
‘Come on, on your feet,’ Aymeric murmured, urging him with a light squeeze to his shoulder. For a single tense moment Z’kila did nothing, as though he hadn’t heard, but then he gathered his feet underneath him. Every movement was slow and jerking. Aymeric, Cid, Alphinaud and the knight, who finally released him, hovered awkwardly around him like hunters might a freshly captured chocobo. Blessedly Lucia and Handeloup were already dispersing the crowd with loud assurances that the Warrior of Light was perfectly well but needed rest. The man in question seemed oblivious to it all but nevertheless Aymeric was desperate to get him out of the public eye. Well was the last thing he was.
‘I would ask your leave to trust his care to my private manor,’ Aymeric said to Alphinaud and Garlond, careful to keep his voice low. Z’kila was physically unharmed and thus the infirmary was not the place for him; besides it afforded little privacy. Alphinaud looked up and blinked, a crease between his brows.
‘I believe that would be the best place for him,’ Garlond said before the young man could protest. Alphinaud turned a puzzled and unhappy gaze on him instead.
Aymeric turned his attention away, back to Z’kila. Whatever argument would ensue did not need to be heard. He gave Z’kila’s shoulder what he hoped was a reassuring squeeze and urged him to walk on. Z’kila gave no resistance, stumbling forward with a jerking gait that would better suit a puppet on fraying strings. Aymeric kept contact with him lest he collapsed again, resolutely ignoring the curious stares of the knights on duty: the only male miqo'te Ishgard had seen in years, Z'kila garnered attention at the best of times. He allowed himself the quickest of glances up to the rooftops but Estinien had already vanished.
Never before had he been so grateful that Borel Manor sat close to Ishgard’s airship landing; the thought of leading the poor shell of Z’kila all the way down to Foundation alone was enough to induce a sickening churn in his gut. With Handeloup still working to disperse the crowd and Lucia ushering Masters Alphinaud and Garlond down towards the Congregation, the short walk was just about bearable. For Z’kila too, it seemed, though it was hard to tell if there was anything of the man to feel overwhelmed at that moment.
Even so it was a relief to get him inside. The simple act of locking the door behind them felt like he was putting up a magic shield against the world.
‘My Lord?’ Jeimmoux called, popping his head around the kitchen door. He was wearing fine silk gloves, a silver spoon in one hand and an old cloth in the other. ‘I’m so dreadfully sorry, I wasn’t expecting you back this early. If you would allow me just a moment-’
‘That’s quite all right, Jeimmoux,’ Aymeric assured him. ‘Some tea for the both of us in the drawing room when you have a moment, if you please.’
His manservant turned his attention to Aymeric’s guest, visibly taken aback by Z’kila’s stillness and thousand-malm stare, the powdering of snow across his shoulders melting into crystalline droplets. ‘...Very good, ser,’ he said after a moment, blessedly not asking any questions as he returned to the kitchen. Aymeric rested a hand gingerly on Z’kila’s back between his shoulders, taking care to move slowly and visibly should he decide he’d rather not be touched. Z’kila made no indication he even noticed the contact, but walked forward when urged.
Borel Manor's drawing room was modest in size but didn't want for comfort or luxury. The armchairs and sofas had recently been recovered, the mahogany end tables and cabinets polished daily along with the silver candelabras; but now Aymeric found comfort in its privacy rather than its luxury. One wide window looked out onto the street but the room went deep enough to cast one end in shadow, and this, Aymeric reasoned, would be where Z'kila felt most at home. He gently nudged him to sit in one of two armchairs at this end of the room while he took the other, separated only by a small square table. From here they could look out at the Pillars without fear of anyone spotting them.
The wait for Jeimmoux was silent and tense. Z'kila's fingers curled tightly around the edge of the overstuffed cushion beneath him. His eyes, Aymeric noted while trying to watch him without being obvious about it, began to move and take in his surroundings for the first time since stepping off the airship. He couldn't be entirely sure whether he was starting to come back to himself or if this was an automatic response to a new environment. He hoped for the former.
A light knock and Aymeric bade his manservant enter. Though he had no doubt prepared the tea in a hurry Jeimmoux had missed nothing; the teapot was immaculate, the cups upturned on the silver tray complete with a small covered dish of white sugar and a jug of yak milk. To his due he did not stare at Z’kila again as he set the tray on the table between the armchairs. Z’kila didn’t react to his presence.
When he made to pour the tea himself Aymeric stayed him with an outstretched hand. ‘Allow me. If you could inform the others that we do not wish to be disturbed..?’
Jeimmoux glanced again at the guest and, needing no further explanation, said, ‘Of course, ser.’
Once the door clicked closed behind him they were alone again with only the shadows for company. As Aymeric prepared and poured the tea into cups, adding a splash of milk and a cube of sugar as he guessed at the miqo'te's preference, he noticed Z'kila had turned his gaze to the window, watching the snow falling heavier now. Most civilians had returned to their homes, only the knights guarding the city braving the streets with their heads bowed and shoulders hunched against the gusting wind. Aymeric couldn't tell if Z'kila was really watching them or whether those wide, steely eyes were seeing something else entirely.
'Tea, my friend?' he called gently, holding out the cup and saucer. He could have collapsed with relief when Z'kila responded; a jerking of his head towards his voice, a flick of his eyes away from the window. He looked at the cup and hesitated, ears threatening to pin back. It took visible effort for him to pry his fingers loose of the cushion in order to take the cup from the saucer held out to him. He set it in his lap with both hands curled around the hot ceramic. Aymeric doubted he would drink it; hadn't requested it for that purpose in the first place. It was simply comforting to have some warmth, he thought, after whatever ordeal he had faced in the Sea of Clouds.
Aymeric nursed his own cup of tea in silence. He tried not to watch his guest and failed spectacularly; Z'kila stared down into the dark brown liquid like he saw the entire cosmos mapped within.
'He wasn't there,' Z'kila said, and Aymeric's cup clinked against its saucer. The effort it took to speak was evident, an unfamiliar gruffness to his voice, that was nonetheless so unexpected that Aymeric jumped. He looked over at his friend and waited for him to continue, breath baited but relieved he was talking. '...When we landed. He wasn't there.'
Aymeric's chest seized. He didn't need to guess twice at whom he was referring; the ache of grief was still heavy in his own heart. But Z'kila had been given no chance to mourn before he was sent after the Archbishop and the ache must be all the sharper for it. Returning to Ishgard, a crowd gathering to meet them with expectations high, and for Haurchefant's face to not be among them must have completely broken him.
He should never have sent him on the chase so soon, Aymeric realised, guilt crashing over him faster than fog over the Brume. He'd had to watch a close friend die before his eyes, watch his family weep for him, and then hadn't even been allowed to stay for his funeral. Aymeric felt wretched as he watched the warrior's shoulders tremble, the tea rippling in his cup. It could have waited a matter of days, at least. With his head bowed he couldn't see his eyes behind the fringe of hair; just the glint of a single tear on his cheek.
What could he say? How could he make this easier? How could he apologise for such an unforgivable request?
'I'm sorry!' Z'kila said, gasping like he hadn't even been breathing. 'It's my fault, he died because of me. I thought I could catch them, I thought I was fast enough—I didn't even see Zephirin on the tower. Didn't think to look. Aymeric, I'm so sorry.'
Aymeric blinked at Z'kila, his mind shocked into blankness with his teacup halfway to his face. Of all the things the warrior could have said, such an apology had not been anywhere near the top of Aymeric's list of anticipations. He sat still, painfully still, with his shoulders bunched and tense and his eyes downcast, hidden.
No one blamed Z'kila for Haurchefant's death. Not even Count Fortemps. Not his half brothers. Not one person Aymeric had spoken to in the last few days, and unfortunately there had been many as his position demanded it, uttered so much as a word against the warrior. There had been a feisty maid at Haillenarte Manor that he'd overheard expressing how much, 'that Eorzean hero had better make the monster pay for what he's done.' No one knew the full story, of course, but they knew Haurchefant's death was caused by someone. Or something. How Aymeric wished he could turn back time and show Z'kila that.
'I don't expect forgiveness,' Z'kila added quietly, perhaps misinterpreting Aymeric's silence.
Aymeric returned his cup and saucer to the tray and crossed one leg over the other. 'My friend,' he began, still choosing his words, 'I suggest you cease blaming yourself before I make a command of it.'
'He was aiming for me,' Z'kila snapped, head jerking up to glare at Aymeric. His eyes were wet but the spark of life within was a hundred times better than the empty stare. 'Of course I blame myself!'
'...Z'kila,' Aymeric said carefully, 'Haurchefant knew what he was risking when he acted, and he did so willingly.'
'He shouldn't have had to!' Z'kila's hands jerked with the exclamation and the tea slopped over his knees. If it burned he didn't react to it. 'He wouldn't have died if I hadn't given chase.'
'You don't know that,' Aymeric argued gently. 'You granted Zephirin an opportunity, yes, but he would have made one for himself if you hadn't.' And who knew what could have happened then? What if that aetheric spear had found its mark? Quietly, he added, '...The fault is mine, not yours.’
The words gave Z'kila pause, at least; the self-loathing morphed momentarily into bafflement. '...Don't be absurd,' he mumbled. 'How could it be?'
'If it weren't for my actions none of us would have been in the Vault in the first place,' Aymeric pointed out, taking a sip of his tea and pretending it didn't taste like ashes. He hoped to the Fury he looked more composed than he felt. 'After all, it was mine own arrogance that led me there, as though reason was a possible solution. If I hadn't gotten myself imprisoned then neither you nor Haurchefant would have needed to break me out.'
'I would have chased Thordan and his Ward anyway,' Z'kila argued, bristling.
Aymeric paused to smile, small and pointed, over the brim of his teacup. 'We can argue fault all day, my friend, when the only fact of the matter remains that Ser Zephirin killed Lord Haurchefant under my father's command. I went to the Archbishop of my own volition. Lucia orchestrated the infiltration. Estinien agreed to it and kept the Dragoons at bay. Haurchefant chose to run with you when you gave chase.' Z'kila scowled and took a breath to argue- 'No, my friend. Either you can blame all of us or none at all. But most crucially you cannot blame only yourself for we all played a part.'
Z'kila glared down at his cup. He was rocking slightly, the remainder of the tea sloshing in the cup. It was clear he didn't agree; not fully, at least. Aymeric hoped time would convince him.
They returned to silence for a while. Z'kila took tiny sips from his tea and cried silently while Aymeric poured himself another cup and pretended not to notice. His own thoughts turned sour while he carefully kept his head turned and his eyes averted lest Z'kila wished to dry his tears. Despite his attempts at reassurance and reasoning, in Aymeric's heart the fault of Haurchefant's death was his. It was his actions that led them to the Vault and to the airship landing which granted Ser Zephirin his opportunity. He alone had endangered Z'kila and sacrificed poor Haurchefant as a result of his own arrogance and impatience.
'Can I see him?' Z'kila asked, his hoarse voice pulling Aymeric from the plummeting spiral that was his mind. He glanced over to catch Z'kila scrubbing his cheeks dry. 'His tomb, I mean. Would that be okay?'
'...I'm afraid I don't have that kind of authority over the catacombs. You would have to make the request of Count Edmont directly.'
Z'kila hesitated, eyes still on his knees. 'Best not. Not so soon.'
Aymeric heard Z'kila's attempt to neutralise his voice, but he couldn't hide the way it dropped under the sheer weight of his grief. As wretched as Aymeric felt, he struggled to imagine how much worse it would be to not have the chance to say goodbye. '...I heard Artoirel and Emmanellain have planned a monument up on Providence Point for him. It was a favoured place for him, as I understand.'
For a long, painful moment Z'kila did not answer, did not give any indication of having heard him and Aymeric feared his return to a catatonic state. But then Z'kila looked up. 'Thank you. I will visit when I have the chance.' A frown took over his face and he stood abruptly, returning his teacup to the tray. 'You have my sincerest thanks for--today.'
'Are you leaving?' Aymeric asked, taken aback by the sudden shift in his demeanor.
'I have to be able to tell Haurchefant that all thirteen of those bastards are dead when I go and see him.'
He swept out of the room, his coat swishing, and paused on the threshold like he'd forgotten the way out until Jeimmoux materialised to walk him to the door. One side of Aymeric, the one most concerned with propriety, screamed at him to get up and see his guest out into the snow. The rest sat stunned by the turn of the afternoon's events, teacup halfway to his lips. Through the window he watched Z'kila stride away back towards the airship landing, the same determined scowl etched onto his face. It was something of an improvement, Aymeric supposed idly.
Jeimmoux reappeared in the drawing room, ready to whisk away the tea tray. 'Is everything all right, ser?' he asked neutrally while his gentle gaze burned with questions.
'You know, Jeimmoux,' Aymeric said, placing down his cup, 'I think it will be.’