suitsahero | (no subject)

In some ways, nothing has changed at all.

Haurchefant gets up in the morning, puts on his armor, has breakfast, makes his way through the day as the commander of a garrison. There is paperwork to do and things to inspect and drills to both conduct and participate in. Most days there are no dragons to fight. Some days, there are, and then there are more duties, the ones he likes the least, seeing to the wounded and writing letters back to Foundation for the dead. But overall, one day here is very much like the others, a routine that he mostly sees as stability, rather than boredom, but it does always make him extra interested in anything that breaks that, that keeps things from becoming a monotony. It's part of the reason he's always been so welcoming to adventurers here.

There are... other reasons.

Not that he's really indulged much in any of those other reasons recently. He wouldn't necessarily say that he's suddenly saving himself for one adventurer in particular, exactly, but it's more that, ever since he offered to play host to the remaining Scions, it's not as though he's wanted for distractions. And Y'tajha's room is right across the hall from his own and he wouldn't want to offend her or make her feel uncomfortable. That's all. (That making Alphinaud, who actually shares a wall with him, uncomfortable doesn't even enter into his thoughts also doesn't enter into his thoughts.) He's just being... polite.

Whatever his denial about that may or may not be, he absolutely wouldn't deny that he enjoys having them here. Or that running into Y'tajha at various points in both of their days doesn't brighten his considerably. Today, it's at breakfast. He's gone for a brief morning tour of Camp Dragonhead, always preferring to let the cold wake him up before he eats and his stomping the snow off his boots at the door when he sees her sitting down with a few of the other soldiers for her own breakfast. He waves with a smile and comes to join them,

"I hope you were able to sleep well last night," he opens with as he gets seated, "the wind always howls a bit up in the tower." It's kind of pointless speech, really, it's not like she hasn't been here a while with time to get used to such things. But he just rather enjoys talking to her and the morning is young enough that he's still working on his wit.

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The look he gives her is so soft that it's maybe even a little ridiculous, but there's no one here to see it but them, so he doesn't particularly care. He is soft for her, moreso than he's even aware he's expressing, but any reluctance to simply state his feelings is entirely for her sake rather than his own-- he would wither away in silence before he'd allow her to think for one moment that he was anything less than sincere in all attentions for her, including those of a dear friend.

"Perhaps then we both can count ourselves lucky," he says with the same smile, "And doubly so, that such luck can be found in the midst of hardships." He also doesn't remove his hand from hers, though he does finally take another sip of his drink with the other.

"And," he adds, with a bit of a sheepish smile, "since I believe I brought you here to talk about how to avoid having rumors tear you to pieces, I think that easily is one of the first lessons: to know both who your allies are and where your strength lies. And your luck, as well."

It is difficult, to stop his thumb from tracing over her wrist like this, but he weathers it in the name of the conversation.

The look that he gives her, the smile, is enough to make something flutter in her chest, even if she's quick to push it down, to rationalize it as gratitude and relief both. "That we are both lucky? I think that's something I can drink to," she answers, her own free hand echoing his to pick up her cup, offering him a toast before she takes a draught.

As she places the cup back on the table, she listens to the rest of his words, expression serious, contemplative. (Although occasionally there's a shift of her mismatched eyes, a hint at her brief loss of focus whenever her gaze flits to the loose hold each of them has on the other's wrist.) And she finds, when he's done, that the words make perfect sense.

"For myself, at least, the connection between these is clear. My luck, several times over, has led me to allies who grant me strength." That's not to say that her friends are her only source of strength, but...

Just like that, the smile on her lips fades.

"I had not yet considered it in that way, but... it would explain why I have not felt terribly strong, lately. I am after all rather low on allies right now."

Which is why people like Haurchefant are all the more important. Right?

"Allies only grant you what strength you, yourself, are strong enough to accept. If your allies have made you strong, it is because you had that strength inside of yourself as well. It is not so simple, to do the things that you have done, to be who you have been to so many." There is a lot that Y'tajha hasn't fully explained in terms of what had happened to her, and he hasn't wanted to pry, but he can fill in a number of the blanks,

"It's harder to carry hope than scorn, I think. But I don't think it matters what hand fate deals you so much as what you do with it," he gives in to the urge to stroke his fingers against her skin, though it's meant more as a comforting gesture, "I do not think you will feel weak for long, in any case."

It's different, from what other people have said to her. There's no attempt to tell her to feel differently, just a reminder that she is strong, and that this, too, will pass.

The words are different. No one else has essentially given her permission to feel the way she does - they've only sought for her to be strong. (And in her darkest moments, in the middle of the night when she's awake from another nightmare, she can't help but wonder if their seeking her strength comes only from selfishness, so that they no longer have to be strong themselves.) Yet, here is Haurchefant, doing exactly that: allowing her to feel the weakness, while reminding her that she has that strength inside her.

If she were less emotionally compromised, she'd probably recognize the stroke of his fingers across her skin, but as it is, the suddenly blurriness in her eyes mortifies her, distracts her enough that for a moment it's all she knows. The hand not tied up in his reaches up to her face as she turns her head to the side, trying to swallow back the sudden wash of tears.

"I..." Her voice cracks, and Y'tajha shakes her head, wetting her lips and trying again. "Thank you. I truly needed to hear those words."

Oh there's no hope for it, is there? He just has to hope that it's not misinterpreted, that it's not entirely unwanted, because he can no more stop himself from setting his drink completely aside and pulling her into a hug at that than he can stop the sun from rising.

The move is decisive, born of emotion and impulse, but even so, if there's any indication that it's upsetting to her, any tension, any push away, he'll let her go immediately. If not, though, he'll draw her closer after a moment, close enough that she could rest her head on his chest if she's so inclined,

"I'll be here for you for as long as you do," he adds, "You are a magnificent person and certainly no less so for a few tears after what you've been through. I will not say I will carry them with happiness, for I could never be happy that you need shed them, but I will carry them with pride all the same."

Of the things Y'tajha is expecting in this moment, to be pulled into a sudden embrace is not high on the list— in fact, it is not truly on the list at all. And so, while he will sense no tension from her, there may be the slightest moment of hesitation as the Warrior of Light's eyes widen, as her heart skips a beat or two and her breath catches in her throat. It is all too easy however to allow herself to sink into his hold, her head falling with no prompting at all to rest against his chest, and as her eyes close, the tears slip from her cheeks; protected as her face is from his gaze, and comforted as she is by his hold, it feels safe to shed them. They have, after all, been building into a hard lump at the back of her throat for so long.

His words make her smile even through the saltwater in her eyes, and after a moment she allows her own arms to snake around his waist, not merely accepting the hug but returning it.

(And to hells if it's misinterpreted; she needs this right now.)

"Are you saying you are proud of me for crying, my lord?" A sniff, and then a soft, wet laugh. "Or that you are proud to have witnessed my tears?"