Work Text:
The first, persistent, treacherous thought Artoirel de Fortemps has after meeting T'hane Tia — Warrior of Light, slayer of primals, alleged savior of Eorzea — is that the man is tiny.
He has, of course, worked with miqo'te before — not much, and not often, but he has had the experience; and he has heard about the hero of the realm — tall tales and baseless rumours, no doubt.
Master Tia has an unfamiliar-looking sword on his belt and holds himself with... polite curiosity, Artoirel thinks; he is by no means imposing. Master Tia is dressed for the weather, if barely — and there's no doubt that that is Haurchefant's doing.
He is, most of all, quiet — lets the young Alphinaud do the talking, nods in agreement to Father's request, seems, if anything, amused by Artoirel's own outburst — and still bows, to both Artoirel and Emmanellain, before retiring to one of the Manor's guest rooms.
Artoirel doesn't miss the — carefully masked, he does have to give the man some credit — annoyed tightening of the mouth at Emmanellain's antics; does not miss the lack of such at his own words.
***
Rumours, it turns out, are not entirely baseless.
T'hane Tia fights like a hurricane — or like a man possessed; Artoirel almost gets caught by a slice twice before he gets the hint and starts carefully keeping his distance, equally glad for the chance to observe and annoyed at this forced non-interference.
T'hane Tia fights like a man used to fighting alone.
It seems absurd to think so — even Ishgard, in all her isolation, has heard of the heroic Scions, especially when they announced themselves so loudly — but Artoirel is used to judging others' abilities, and he's good at it; T'hane Tia doesn't seem to expect help, much less rely on it — and subsequently doesn't concern himself with keeping any potential companions safe.
Artoirel is mildly insulted when he realises that the bird is never in danger of being caught by the blade.
The heretics are all dispatched swiftly — all by Master Tia's blade, which he wipes off with the snow before putting it back in its sheath — and the knight they set out to save is alive, and —
There are tracks in the snow.
There are tracks in the snow, and there's a snowstorm brewing on the horizon, and it would be so easy to come up with an excuse — it wouldn't be an excuse, even; surely Master Tia can see all that Artoirel can.
Surely he will agree with his assessment.
***
He does agree.
***
Regardless of his feelings on the matter, Artoirel does make haste — he and the group of knights he managed to gather on short notice get to the heretics' hideout barely more than two hours later — and it's... quiet; no heretics, scrambling to leave the place, no blood on the snow around the entrance.
No screams, of pain or anger.
T'hane Tia raises his head when their group gets close — ears, flattened just a moment ago, return to their usual relaxed state, and somehow Artoirel knows, with absolute certainty, that it took effort.
He expected to find the Warrior of Light dead. He — this comes as a cold and unwelcome realization — had hoped to find the Warrior of Light dead. It would be... easier, than coming to terms with master Tia being exactly as good a warrior as Haurchefant tried to make them believe.
Being, possibly, better.
***
They search the hideout one more time, and manage to return to Ishgard just after dark, leaving the soldiers at the outpost — Artoirel and Master Tia, of course, both coming back to the manor in uneasy quiet. Artoirel does not think the man blames him for anything at all, and that, for some reason, feels the worst.
Does he get sent to his death so often that it doesn't faze him anymore? Surely his allies know his worth, surely they won't want to waste it — and didn't they claim to be his friends?
By the time both of them get to the manor Artoirel is seething under the surface, and it takes an effort to keep a straight face; he must, though. It was wrong of him — not the decision, he would repeat that in a heartbeat, but the reasoning behind it — so why, why wasn't he challenged?
Artoirel inhales, exhales, and stops in the foyer.
He has an apology to make.