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“There ‘e is!”
“Get the little bastard!”
Honoroit didn’t slow down. He knew this area of the Pillars far better than his likely—assailants? Kidnappers?—did, and he was sure he could lose them. But his head was spinning, and there were so many places to hide it was hard to even pick a direction. He just needed a moment. Just a moment to stop, to rest, to think—
It had all happened so fast, that was the trouble. He’d been walking the Crozier a few paces ahead of Emmanellain, browsing the stalls while his beloved lord insisting on carrying all their purchases. Once, years ago, it had been nearly the other way around (nearly, because Emmanellain had never let him carry anything heavy), but as he’d grown that distance had shrunk accordingly. They’d walked side by side while Honoroit went through his growth spurt, feeling ill at ease in the fine new clothes Emmanellain insisted he have. “You need the practice,” his lord had said, not unkindly. “One day, when you are Honoroit Banlardois the famous scholar, you won’t want to be stumbling along behind me like a newborn dhalmel!” He’d always ruffled Honoroit’s hair when he said that, and Honoroit had blushed every time.
Honoroit was taller than him now. If he walked far ahead of Emmanellain, the man couldn’t see him blush unless he squinted at the backs of his ears. And he’d gotten used to the clothing—the doublets of silk or fine heavy wool, the fur-trimmed cloaks, the feather-bedecked hats on his head and the Fortemps rubies dangling from his ears. It did make Emmanellain happy to see he had the best.
He’d been feeling quite spoiled, as a matter of fact, thinking of nothing more pressing than whether to stop at that nice stall run by that Thavnairian couple for a mug of chai, when two men had melted out of the crowd on either side of him. They’d been standing far too close.
“I think you should come with us, little lordling,” the one on the left had said, and set a hand on his knife.
He could have yelled for help. Maybe he would have, if he’d been thinking. But street rat instincts had snapped back into place as though ten years of safety and good food had never happened—no one will help you—and he’d bolted.
They’d called him a lord. That was definitely Emmanellain’s fault. He might not know precisely why they wanted the second son of House Fortemps, but...well, this wasn’t the first case of mistaken identity. Usually, it was funny. Usually, it was a quick misunderstanding hastily smoothed over, while he blushed and Emmanellain chuckled. It had never been violent.
(Oh, there had been words occasionally, but Emmanellain for all his softness and gentleness was very good at icy noble hauteur when the situation demanded, even when the situation was just someone being over-familiar with his valet.)
He hadn’t brought his linkpearl; it was supposed to be a leisurely trip out, and presuming they didn’t get lost—always a possibility when Emmanellain was involved, the man was terrible with directions—they would never be far from an aetheryte. But he’d gotten turned around in his mad flight, and he couldn’t feel so much as a ripple of aether nearby. He barreled down dark alleys, leapt over crates, dodged passing porters. His lungs screamed for rest and air.
And the men were still behind him, their boots heavy on the cobblestones. He had no idea where Emmanellain was. Fury, please let him be safe.
There was an open space ahead of him, a makeshift yard in between houses. He’d be exposed, but there was a chance he could make up for lost ground in a sprint. He bolted forward.
Aether surged, and something struck him from behind. At first, he felt nothing—but then lightning crackled around his limbs, taking his legs out from under him, and he fell so fast he didn’t even have time to catch himself. It hurt. The lightning stung, but the impact of the cold ground was what knocked the wind out of him. He tried to move, to struggle to his feet, but his limbs wouldn’t obey him.
One of his pursuers spoke a word.
Blackness.
Sleep.
&&
Blackness, again.
This time, his eyes were open. For a moment he worried he’d been struck blind—there were spells for that, or drugs—but then he realized the darkness had a rough sort of texture to it, and if he let his eyes adjust he could make out faint shapes. Someone had put a bag over his head. He’d been bound hand and foot, not tight enough to start cutting off circulation but too tight for comfort.
Shit, Honoroit thought, and then, because swearing even in the privacy of his own head was making him feel better, Fuck.
The ground under him—no, the floor, it had the feeling of wood—was cold, and it shook steadily. A well-sprung chocobo carriage? That seemed likely; an airship would have had roaring engines or the vicious bite of the winds. He strained his ears to pick up any additional sounds that might tell him where he was or what was going on.
The creak of leather. Someone shifting their weight. A faint snck and a marked increase in the amount of light making it through his bag; his captor was having a smoke. He tried to swallow a cough.
It didn’t work.
“Oi! ‘Is lordship’s awake!”
“Well.” The tromp of boots close by, and the smell of a man who rather badly needed a bath. “Let’s get a better look at the pretty boy.”
Hands grabbed his shoulders, roughly hauling him upright. His shoulders protested, and he bit back a hiss of pain. This did work, until the bag was yanked off and his eyes were assailed by light. The bag had apparently been a lot thicker than he’d thought.
He was in a carriage after all, a nearly windowless one with only narrow glass panes at the top to let in light and air. There was no chance of him being able to see out of them. The upholstery had clearly seen better days, and there was a stain on the floor he really didn’t want to think about. Disappointingly, the men who’d kidnapped him were smart enough to wear masks. He catalogued what he could of them, though—the smoker was an Elezen, the man in need of soap was a Hyur, and both were fair-skinned with brownish hair. The Hyur’s hair was darker, and the Elezen had a nick taken out of one ear. The Hyur was the one holding him up and frowning. “Huh. You sure this is the right bloke?”
The Elezen snorted. “Look at him. No regular sod wears wool that fine. Aye, the boss’ll be pleased.”
Honoroit glowered up at him. “Your boss won’t be so pleased when my lord—”
The Hyur backhanded him casually, knocking his head back into the wall. Pain exploded in his mouth, and he knew he’d bitten his tongue. Nobody had struck him in years. Emmanellain, not to mention the Warrior, wouldn’t have stood for it. Fury rode hard on the heels of shock, and he ground his teeth as the Hyur drawled, “Your dear ol’ dad can’t do shite, and that brother of yours spends so much time in the Lords ‘e’s probably forgotten which end of a sword goes in the other bloke. Just sit there and look pretty, eh?”
Honoroit had never sat there and looked pretty a day in his life, and he damn well wasn’t going to start now. Around his swollen tongue, he demanded, “What do you want with me?”
His captors looked at each other. The Elezen snorted. “Boss talks a big game about the Parliament or some shite. Us, we just want the gil.”
Of course. Honoroit snorted. “Is that all? You might’ve just asked. My lord is very generous.”
The Elezen’s eyes narrowed. “Not enough. Now, here’s how it’s gonna go. You are going to lay there and shut up. You talk, you get the hood. You make trouble, we see how much your family pays for you on an installment plan.”
Dread curled low in Honoroit’s gut. The Hyur groaned. “Aww, c’mon, don’t start carvin’ him up here, we’ll never get the blood out.”
“When we pull this off, we’ll get enough gil for a dozen new carriages!”
He’d never been good at holding his tongue. “You mean if.”
The Hyur slapped him again. Honoroit hissed, resisting the urge to bite. He didn’t want to actually test that Elezen’s patience, and Emmanellain would be distraught if anything happened to him.
Fury. Emmanellain.
He felt suddenly sick. Emmanellain would be panicking right now—probably crying, definitely hyperventilating. Would he come for him? No, that was a stupid question. Of course his lord would come for him. But whether he would think to mobilize the House knights, if not the Temple Knights and the Warrior herself, was another question entirely. Honoroit wouldn’t put it past him to simply rush in alone like an idiot. A sweet idiot, but...an idiot. Gods, he realized dully, he’d be killed.
These men would think nothing of killing him if he inconvenienced them, and as far as they knew he was the man they actually wanted. But Emmanellain? Stubborn, foolish Emmanellain? He’d say something brave and stupid, and they’d gut him like a pig and ransom his corpse back to Lord Artoirel.
Honoroit shuddered as the hood was shoved back over his head, leaving him in darkness once more. That could be my fate. Not that Artoirel would pay for his remains—even if he hadn’t been only Emmanellain’s valet, there’d never been any love lost between them—but he was on thin ice as it was.
“Awww,” said the Elezen sarcastically. “I think you made ‘im cry.”
He took a deep breath. Another. Started counting them, the way the Warrior had taught Emmanellain. So he might die. So be it. He was no knight, no warrior, but he was a son of Ishgard and a child of the Fury and these thugs had mentioned their leader wanted something to do with Parliament. No one who hired men like these could mean anything good for the tenuous future of Ishgard’s government, still fresh off an election in which Honoroit had been privileged to vote. If it took his death to keep his city safe, he thought he could hold his head high in the Fury’s halls.
The carriage rumbled away underneath him. He heard the faint jingle of harness and the Hyur humming a lewd tune to himself, but there was no sound of any crowds outside. It was getting colder.
Time slipped away. He shivered, hating himself for it. If he was to have any chance of escape, he’d have to keep his muscles from stiffening. But he didn’t have a choice, did he? There could be no escape if he froze to death; his captors clearly weren’t interested in providing a blanket.
Emmanellain was always worried he’d be cold. It had been nearly the first thing he’d said when they’d met—gods, was it ten years ago already? He’d been tiny and ragged, with holes in his shoes, barely able to see over the top of the too-heavy box he’d been carrying, when a rich voice had exclaimed, “ By the Fury, you must be freezing !” and dropped a scarf around his neck. He still had that scarf, somewhere.
It was no wonder he’d been in love since he knew what the word meant. He could hardly have avoided it if he’d wanted to.
My lord , he thought, and then because he had the privacy of his own thoughts he added, My love. You’ve always looked out for me. I hope you won’t think ill of me if I look out for you now.
The carriage stopped. Hands went under his armpits, hauling him to his feet. He staggered, hopping awkwardly with his ankles bound, until with a noise of disgust the other one grabbed his legs and he was suddenly, dizzyingly horizontal. He felt like an armload of lumber and was about as stiff after Fury-knew-how-long kneeling on the carriage floor.
Freezing wind buffeted him as soon as he left the carriage. His captors grunted, grumbling to each other about how heavy he was, but he ignored them. Cold wind, the creak of snow underfoot, the distant rumble of a feral gator somewhere far off…
Not in the city, then. Near Falcon’s Nest? There was no overland route. Skyfire Locks? They wouldn’t be that bold, would they? There were plenty of abandoned boltholes now that the war was long over, but surely there’d be guards. Patrols. Something.
He was dropped unceremoniously on cold stone, unable to stifle his cry at the impact. He lay there for a long moment, breathing hard through the pain.
Someone kicked him in the ribs. “This is the younger Fortemps?”
“Sure is, boss.”
The hood was yanked off roughly, taking a chunk of hair with it. He yelped, eyes watering, but managed to blink rapidly enough to clear his vision and take a look at the leader of the men who’d grabbed him.
An older Elezen man stood there in once-fine robes. He was so pale as to be almost colorless; even his eyes were a faded blue. But the look in them was sharp and cruel, and he was eyeing Honoroit as though he was a particularly disgusting insect. His frown steadily deepened. Finally, he snarled, “You idiots . Do you know who you have here?”
The two thugs shifted nervously. “Uh…”
“A servant. That misbegotten whelp that trails along behind the younger son like a lost puppy.” Cold fingers gripped Honoroit’s chin, forcing his face up. “Pathetic.”
The Hyuran thug frowned thoughtfully. “Want we should kill ‘im?”
“Hmm.”
Honoroit’s blood ran cold as the man studied him. This is it. I’ll never be able to tell him. And his mouth was so dry, he couldn’t even spit in his killer’s face.
“Not yet,” the old man said finally. “As you’ve so astutely noticed, he is dressed far more finely than a servant should be. The Fortemps clearly value him. Not enough to fill my coffers, but...enough.”
Shite.
And then the man smiled, and it was terrible. “I wonder, little sparrow. Who will come to rescue you ?”
On that dramatic note, the man dropped him and stalked away, slipping through a door on the other side of the room. Honoroit caught a glimpse of dark furniture and flickering lamplight before the door closed, and the two thugs immediately set to arguing with each other. Apparently they hadn’t been given explicit orders. Honoroit ignored them, his mind buzzing. He wasn’t stupid enough to think he could fight his way out, even if he’d been armed. He’d never been a great warrior. But his greatest weapon had always been his words.
My coffers, the man had said. Not our .
Honoroit waited. He let himself be carried again, this time to an iron cage that smelled like it had once held a few dogs. He let them lock the door on him. He let the Elezen stand by the small window and glare into the snow, having lost the argument as to whether they really needed both of them to watch him.
Finally, he said, “Your superior seems not to think very highly of you. Has he given you any assurances that you would be paid, or does he think you’re too stupid to question?”
The Hyur bristled. “You callin’ us stupid?”
He made his eyes wide and innocent. “Of course, I’m not calling you stupid. But I fear your leader may not share my opinion. He seems rather fixated on his own wealth and prestige, does he not?”
The thugs shared a look. Finally, the Hyur snapped, “Don’t try anything funny, brat,” and—thanks be to Halone—both men stalked into the adjoining room together.
Honoroit wasted no time. He’d always been flexible, and though the ropes around his wrists were still tight they were also clearly older—and therefore more brittle—than anything he would’ve used to make sure whatever he was tying stayed put. After a great deal of undignified wriggling he managed to get himself upright, looking around the cage for anything that looked rough or sharp enough to start sawing with.
There—he’d been right about the cage having been made for very large hounds, because nobody who’d expected to hold anyone with thumbs would’ve put the hinges on the inside. He awkwardly made his way over, setting his wrists against the lower hinge. There wasn’t really any way to do this quietly, but it couldn’t be helped. At least the brewing argument would cover the sound.
And if it didn’t? He shuddered, scraping the rope against the metal. At least he’d have tried.
The argument was breaking out into what sounded like a full-blown fight. A crack of spellfire made him jump, almost losing track of the tiny spot where he thought the ropes were starting to fray. Hastily, he redoubled his efforts. The thugs had left their coats slung over chairs on the other side of the room; he could put them on, pick the lock on the door, and be out in moments. If he could just get the ropes off…!
Someone screamed, and the inner door flew open. He froze as the two thugs spilled out; the Hyur was bleeding, and the Elezen bore fresh, horrible burns. His hair was still smoking. Their leader followed them, a long staff in his hands. “You know,” he growled, “I’ve just realized I don’t need any of you anymore. I already have the hostage.”
“You bastard—”
Their leader’s staff flared bright, and Honoroit shut his eyes.
He wished he could shut his ears, too.
When silence finally descended, it was suffocating. All he could hear was his own harsh breathing and the hammering of his heart. He thought he might throw up.
The old man—the man who’d just incinerated his two lackeys like they were nothing—sounded terribly calm. “That settles that. Be a good boy, and I won’t have to add to the pile.”
“You wouldn’t,” Honoroit heard himself say. “You are surely too important to shovel the ashes yourself, my lord. And besides, whoever would pay for unidentifiable remains? Is it not for gil that you’re doing all this?”
The man ground his teeth audibly. “Gil is power, brat. What need have I to sit in the House of Lords when the Lords are in my pocket? I will be untouchable .”
“House Fortemps will not stand for this.”
“House Fortemps is weak—”
Rushing footsteps sounded outside. Not Spoken ones; Honoroit would recognize the cadence of racing chocobos anywhere.
Emmanellain’s voice rang out. He sounded ragged, half-choked—he’d definitely been crying. “Honoroit!”
Suddenly desperate—his captor was starting to focus on another spell—Honoroit called back, “In here!”
And then the door exploded inwards, and the next few minutes were rather difficult to follow. There was Emmanellain and Artoirel leading a small group of Fortemps knights, and spells being fired off, and quite a lot of blood and screaming. Honoroit curled in on himself in case any of the stray spells went off in his direction, wishing he could do the smart thing and cover his head. None of the screaming was Emmanellain’s.
Emmanellain, in fact, had wasted not a moment in rushing over to Honoroit’s cage, and was frantically tugging at the padlock before realizing he needed a key and lunging for the keyring on the table. His hands were shaking so badly he could barely unlock the door. “Honoroit—Fury, Honoroit, I’m so glad—you’re alright—you are alright, aren’t you?”
Every inch of Honoroit’s body was stiff and sore. If he moved too quickly, he might scream. But Emmanellain was gazing at him with tear-filled blue eyes, and his heart melted.
“I am now,” he murmured.
&&
It felt strange to be back at Fortemps Manor after the day he’d had. The manor was just so normal. The banners still snapped in the breeze, the fire still crackled in the hearth, and anyone passing by on the street might think it was an entirely ordinary day.
Of course, the illusion of normalcy shattered as soon as you got inside, particularly if you happened to be in Honoroit’s chambers. His return from what had turned out to be an abandoned lock near Snowcloak had taken place in a luxuriously sprung carriage; he’d spent the journey wrapped in furs and being aggressively fussed over by the House chirurgeon (who’d pronounced him bruised but fine) and Emmanellain (who’d been fully convinced every wince meant he was dying). Artoirel had not fussed, but the kindness with which he’d questioned Honoroit about his captivity had been remarkable. The chirurgeon had wound up shouting at Emmanellain for hovering, and he’d sat back—pouting—until they’d pulled up in front of the manor.
He was still pouting. It was devastatingly cute. “You’re sure you’re quite well, dear boy? Truly?”
Honoroit sighed and dropped back against the pillow. It felt like sinking into a cloud. Everything in his room that wasn’t his writing desk was cloudlike, honestly, and he was sure Emmanellain would’ve found a way to fix that if he hadn’t been quite clear that he needed a hard surface to work on. His lord had always been prone to spoiling him, but it had only gotten more obvious as he’d gotten older. Castoff clothes had turned into an entirely new wardrobe, and the little room he’d had just off Emmanellain’s had become a full suite with a sitting room and the bedroom they were now in, all tastefully upholstered in Fortemps red and black with prints from the Sea of Clouds on the walls. He tried not to think about his lord perched on the edge of the bed next to him.
Tried and failed. Emmanellain had changed out of his armor eventually, and he looked more vulnerable in his billowy shirt and loose trousers than Honoroit felt in his sleeping clothes. Honoroit’s fingers practically itched to push his lord’s hair out of his eyes. “I am. Truly. This is nothing.”
That was the wrong thing to say. Emmanellain’s eyes widened, hurt, as he grabbed Honoroit’s hand in both of his. His hands were warm and soft. “How can you say that? My—Honoroit, you were kidnapped! They could have killed you! Gods, when I lost sight of you—I’ve never been more afraid in my life!”
“How did you find me?”
His ears went red as he dropped his gaze to their joined hands. “...I called Father and Artoirel. I wanted to rush after you immediately, of course, but they insisted on gathering the troops. I’m so sorry I was late—”
Honoroit’s heart kicked up into his throat. “My lord,” he choked out, “they were after you.” He was bruised, with a black eye and a hastily-healed cracked rib, but he could take it. His mind shied away from the thought of Emmanellain hogtied in a dark filthy cage.
Emmanellain drew in a shuddering breath, squeezing his eyes shut as though the sight of Honoroit’s scraped wrists—the reminder that he’d been in such peril—was too much for him. “I wish they’d taken me instead,” he whispered.
Horror stole his voice. For a moment, all Honoroit could do was gape at him. “My lord,” he managed, his fingers going slack in Emmanellain’s grip.
Emmanellain flinched, snapping his head up to meet Honoroit’s wide eyes. “Don’t look at me so!” His voice cracked. “I—Honoroit, you must know how important you are to me. I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to you—and I do not flatter myself, I know full well that between the pair of us your loss would be the bigger blow to the world.”
Honoroit couldn’t breathe. There was no air in his lungs. How dare you was the only thought filtering through his mind. How dare you discount yourself like that when I—when I love you, and you’ve saved me a thousand times, and your joy brings light to the world, and you call yourself expendable…
But while he stared uselessly, his lord was drawing away, clearly flustered. The blush had spread from his face all the way to his ears. “Forgive me, you’ve...you’ve had a day of it. Might I fetch you anything, dear boy?”
Honoroit lunged forward and kissed him. Hard.
For a heartstopping second, it was stiff and awkward—Emmanellain hadn’t quite been at the right angle—and his mouth was frozen under Honoroit’s lips. But just when reality and logic were starting to reassert themselves and Honoroit started to think he’d made a mistake, his lord made a small, helpless noise and tilted his head, and then they were kissing properly. Honoroit almost melted into it.
When he moaned, it spurred Emmanellain on; his hands flew into Honoroit’s hair, pulling him closer, and Honoroit went willingly. This—this was what he wanted. His arms wound up around Emmanellain’s waist, hauling him half on top of him, and that probably wasn’t doing his lord’s back any favors but the man was clearly not complaining. His lips were astonishingly soft, his mouth tasting like wine and the peppermints he crunched when he was nervous. More, Honoroit thought, and he would’ve said it if his tongue was not so thoroughly occupied.
Emmanellain’s fingers tightened in his hair, and he whined desperately. “Mmh…”
And then Emmanellain tore himself out of Honoroit’s embrace, scrambling off the bed and halfway across the room before Honoroit could stop him. Words fell out of him in a babbling rush as he made for the door; his eyes were wide as a spooked chocobo’s, and there was a horrible wobble to his lower lip.
“Oh, Fury—Honoroit, I’m so sorry, I don’t—I shouldn’t have done that. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’ll just—just go, shall I?”
His hand was on the doorknob. Honoroit saw red. Ignoring his aching muscles, he lunged off the bed and grabbed Emmanellain’s arm, probably too tightly—but he could apologize later.
“Don’t you dare,” he growled. He barely recognized his own voice.
“Honoroit?!”
He had to pause just to breathe. He needed composure for this, since Emmanellain clearly had none of his own. “I did not believe you cared so little for me as to flee without a word as to why., especially given your quite evident passions.”
Emmanellain made a choking sound, spluttering, “I think it’s fairly clear as to why, you are dearest in all the world to me, I can’t just…”
Dearest in all the world. Honoroit swallowed hard and stepped closer, gazing down into Emmanellain’s eyes. His heart felt like a dragonet trying to break out of its stubborn egg.
“My lord,” he murmured, and then in case Emmanellain didn’t get the hint he added, “My love.” Over Emmanellain’s gasp, he continued, “I have adored you for years, and there is no world in which your affections would be unwelcome.”
Emmanellain gaped at him. Honoroit had seen the same expression on stunned carp. It was much more appealing on his lord. “But—you—I don’t—what—”
Of his lord’s many fine qualities, “quick on the uptake” was not among them. Honoroit strongly considered kissing him again, but he did rather want the man to internalize his words. “You heard me.”
Emmanellain swallowed, throat bobbing. “Are you sure?”
He drew in a slow breath. “I have never been more sure of anything in my life.”
Emmanellain made a small, desperate sound, lashes fluttering. Slowly, as though he couldn’t believe he was doing this, he reached up and slid his free hand up into Honoroit’s hair, gently guiding him down. They were close enough to kiss again, but Honoroit held back, watching Emmanellain’s tongue dart out to wet his lips. Slowly, his grip loosened on Emmanellain’s arm. This time, he’d let his lord make the first move.
Emmanellain closed the distance between them. They didn’t need words after that.