A Knight, His Maiden, and The Truth
Why, how, in which of the seven hells had they awoken? What rendered the strongest woman he'd ever met powerless before a few soft-bellied brats?
Haurchefant issues new orders to the hero who always does as she is told.
That fantastic adventurer has left me.
Though he'd bid her farewell with a warm smile, in truth he felt slightly devastated. She blew into his camp on errant winds, delighted each of his senses with her beauty, loyalty, resilience, and impressed him with her raw strength. She hardly spoke. Unlike other visitors, he struggled to get a story out of her. But what seemed at first like stoicism revealed itself as shyness. So submissive, she needed permission even to speak. How fascinating. By the time he'd discovered the soft huff of her laughter, her natural smile, she was gone.
He sighed over the missive that he had read twice already but had yet to comprehend. That fantastic adventurer has left me. Halone, guide her, give her strength! So she returns hale and whole to my side. Liborette...
Haurchefant leaned back and drummed his fingers on his desk. For the first time in a long time, he truly envied the sellsword life. Someone like her would never be trapped behind a desk. But then, someone like her would not have a steady stream of interesting visitors arriving right on her doorstep. But then, no other visitor was as splendid as she...
Sigh.
His chair scraped across the stone floor as he stood. There was nothing so pressing in his paperwork that he couldn't pause to stretch his legs. Perhaps he'd sprint from one end of camp to the other, or butt in on his new knights' training. Either way, a bit of biting wind would clear his mind. Exiting his dreary office, the bright sun setting over pure white snow nearly blinded him. He squinted out at the trees, the mountains, the world beyond their billowing Ishgardian banners, and worried for her.
Liborette. Trudging through the cold to slay dragons. After just one battle by her side, he yearned for more, though he'd not envy any conquest of Stone Vigil. With every attempt to drive out the Dravanian Horde, House Durendaire lost half its knights. Meanwhile Liborette aimed to conquer it alone. Fury, guide her. By now, she and her tag-alongs should have made it to Whitebrim Front. So why did he hear her voice?
"Please..." she said.
"Louder," said a man.
"Come on, you're wasting time," said another, half laughing.
"Be quiet and let her say it!"
"Please," said Liborette, with a blankness he did not recognise. "Do to me worse than the whole Steps of Nald."
"Haha!"
Three young men crowded her in an alley. Haurchefant recognised them as the party of merchants from the capitol, due in Camp Dragonhead this evening. Bound for Ul'dah, peddling furs or metals or some such. Admittedly, he had not committed their letter to memory. His attention had been better spent tracing Liborette's silhouette in fire light, the curve of her neck when she bent back to meet his eyes.
Her head hung now. The first leaned in and whispered to her. Another said something like, "so she does take it literally," until he was cut off by Haurchefant's beloved adventurer shouting— passionless, hoarse—
"I need Ishgardian cock!"
"Shh— not so loud!"
"Stupid bitch."
"I said it was a waste. Just turn around."
So Liborette turned.
"And strip your clothes. Hey, do you suppose she'd get entirely naked, even in this weather?"
"Aye, if you told her so. But," he yanked Liborette's hands away from the buttons on her coat and twisted them behind her back. "We haven't told her so. Dumb whore. Here, grab her shorts."
She stood still while both of them palmed between her legs.
"Get back!" As commander of this camp, Haurchefant was used to roaring orders, but he'd nearly forgotten this rise of bile in his throat.
Three pairs of eyes bulged in his direction.
He reached for his sword. "If you value your lives, step away at once!"
They tripped over their own feet, scattering arcs of snow overhead, as they fled. These feelings he remembered well: the triumphant rush of intimidation; the itch in his heels to give chase; a thirst for justice, for blood. But he was not a dog on a hunt. He was a knight and there was a maiden in need.
Liborette stayed facing the wall, though her hands had fallen slack at her sides. He approached gently, unsure what to say but certain he would figure it out once he opened his mouth. He began with, "fear not, my friend. They have gone."
"..."
"You are unharmed, yes?"
She nodded.
"Liborette. I pray thee look my way."
He hoped that looking into her eyes would reassure him of something. Perhaps he'd find in her quiet countenance the explanation for all of this. Why a girl who hunted wolves and wavekin, ogres and crocodiles... A girl who vaulted over dragons to slice off their heads, who, sprayed with black blood, smiled at him. Who laughed when he lifted her by the waist for a victory twirl around the battlefield, who laughed harder when he nearly twirled them over the edge of Witch's Drop.
Gods above, she was sweet. Trusting. Apparently quite ticklish. Such childlike vulnerability laid in alluring contrast to her might in battle, her mastery with swords. He realised then that Liborette was both big and small— half his size, yet his superior in most every way. So perfectly she folded into his chest as they rode back to camp on his chocobo, and he got drunk on the smell of sweat in her hair.
Goodbyes sobered him. He'd felt warm, worried, and optimistic, nostalgic for the day before. Her darling, deep, brown eyes... The tender look that said, no one has ever touched me this way, when he washed away all the dragon blood, cradled her cheek, and valiantly resisted his urge to kiss her.
Liborette looked into his eyes. She stood a fulm before him but felt a malm away.
He could have screamed. Why, how, in which of the seven hells had they awoken? What rendered the strongest woman he'd ever met powerless before a few soft-bellied brats?
"My lord!" His knight jogged up from behind. "Three strangers have just run from the camp, heading south!"
"Have we men to spare in pursuit?"
"Ah, no, ser. Though the evening patrol may catch sight of them on their return."
"Stay alert. Should they be foolish enough to show their faces again, bring them directly to me."
"Yes, ser! What manner of criminal are... Oh."
He noticed Liborette staring at her feet, fiddling with a loose thread on her sleeve.
Haurchefant clapped him on the shoulder, smiled, and hoped he'd been reassuring. "Trust, the details shall come. For now, inform the guards on duty that their lord commands extra vigilance. Save your questions til my return."
"Yes, ser!" He bowed and marched off, and Haurchefant spared a moment for pure gratitude. Other encampments could scorn him all they wanted. House Fortemps and their men— his men!— ran an excellent garrison. Full glad he was to have their respect and cooperation. And their discretion, so he and his fantastic adventurer were fully alone when he lifted her off her feet and into his arms.
"It is over now. Shhh. I am here to protect you."
He hugged her to his chest, smoothed over the crest of her head, and rubbed across her upper back. She seemed smaller than ever. Colder, too. Her shaky breath shivered across his neck.
"Let us go somewhere warm." He carried her into the private dwelling above his office. Hurried as he felt, he took the stairs slowly, careful not to jostle her. As he fiddled with the door, it amazed him all over again that she was light enough to carry in one arm. "I shan't leave you alone. All shall be well, just... rest for now. Rest in me."
Inside, the first task was fire. He set Liborette on the wolf pelt beside the hearth. He blathered on as he swept out the ashes and set up the kindling.
"No one will bother us here. These are mine own quarters— the warmest in all of Coerthas, I'd wager. You shall feel it, too, once the fire gets going. See these logs? On holidays, my more spirited knights have taken to splitting them with their bare hands! Or attempting to. Mayhaps one day you will wander back through our camp to see the fun for yourself.
"... I have thought about it, actually. And, with certainty, this room seems warmer to me due to its familiarity. The better part of an era, now, I have rested my head upon that there pillow, night after night. I arrived just after Dalamud fell. Our former commander, gods rest his soul, perished in the chaos. It is quite the exciting tale, truth be told, but a long and grisly one, too. Let us focus our attentions on something lighter for now, no?
"Such as the gaiety in my heart since I took up occupation here. At my previous station... Well, our capitol remains closed to foreigners— you might not set foot there in your lifetime. Perhaps that is for the best. Beautiful city as it is, I find it all too often draped with a certain ugliness. The people of this nation can be too proud, too cruel, and too casually so. It..."
Eyes half shut, she watched as the first embers took.
"It is no fault of yours, Liborette, how they treated you. ... I promise, it is some deficiency of theirs that motivated them..."
All those years ago, when he, too, sat staring at nothing, what had he wanted to hear?
"It was wrong. No one has the right to accost you that way."
She shrugged.
"Whatever do you mean? Has— has this happened before?"
A simple nod set his whole body aflame.
The truth assembled itself over a year or more. 'Twas a patchwork of gossip, throwaway comments, and, quite rarely, some quiet articulation from the girl herself. With time, Liborette spoke to him more and more, but this long, sordid story was not one he would force her to tell.
So, many moons after that awful day, he gleaned a bit of context from Alphinaud. The boy was sat alone by a dwindling fire, finger trailing through a half-open tome. Rather than reading, he looked lost in thought. Haurchefant offered him a hot drink and a spot of company on their sleepless night. They laughed. They encouraged one another. Eventually, as usual, the conversation tended towards Liborette.
Haurchefant could not shut up about her if he tried, nor could he mask his deep love for her. Simply holding her name in his mouth made him beam! But the smile faded when he asked about that day. What happened, he wondered, after they all left for Whitebrim Front?
Alphinaud said that he led the party eastwards, down snowy yet well-travelled roads. A stiff wind rushed through the highlands. Thankfully the morning's snow had stopped. They'd spent a full moon freezing in Coerthas pursuing a task that, until a day or two prior, had seemed fruitless. Now the sky was clear and spirits were high. Just outside the Gates of Judgement, as he marveled at Foundation's distant silhouette, they crossed paths with a group of Ishgardian merchants.
Alphinaud admitted (with some guilt) he was annoyed by Liborette's stopping to talk with them. In those days he'd depended upon her reflexive obedience, but he was never her only master. A passerby need not even speak— just look a little harried and in need of succor— and their charitable little sellsword would drop everything to help.
The leader begged her for escort to Camp Dragonhead. Offered her a few coins, mayhap something from their wares upon their safe arrival. To Alphinaud's great aggravation, but not at all to his surprise, she instantly agreed. Of course, he would not want to make the same trip twice. The party pressed forward without her. She was ordered to catch up as quickly as she could.
He did not know two of the merchants recognised her. Haurchefant prayed he would never know where from.
As he came upon fragments of the truth, he often wondered, was she frightened? Did she know exactly what suffering laid ahead? Or did she trust that this time would be different? Liborette was beautifully optimistic, and sadly quite gullible. Somehow it was so precious, he hoped she'd never change. Beneath his admiration: pity, despair, and protectiveness raged within him, knowing her heart had been broken again and again by recurrent betrayal.
Alphinaud's story ended there. The brief epilogue was Liborette's unremarkable arrival the next day. He assumed she had been busy aiding yet more and more hapless passersby. After all, that was her way. He smiled, having arrived (finally) at genuine appreciation for quirks that once annoyed him. He'd all but forgotten about this particular instance of lateness until now.
"Why do you ask?" He fingered the corner of his book, still laid open in his lap. "What transpired when she returned to your camp?"
Ever observant, that boy. Haurchefant stood to stoke the fire. "Those merchants employed our Liborette under false pretences. There was an altercation. It rattled her, but ultimately all was well."
"Ah, well, I apologise for my failure to detect their malintent. I doubt I could have prevented her leaving, but a warning might have helped. As we have well observed," he sighed, "in those days, I was not the best judge of character."
How conveniently the conversation slid back to that. Better his troubles than hers. It was Haurchefant's story to uncover, but never his to share.
Most of it, by anyroad, was too sickening to say aloud. When the gossip came from people more directly involved, he wondered how they managed not to vomit mid-sentence. On its lonesome, the title "Pliant Harlot" set his stomach churning. To explain what it meant, how this modern Eorzean legend had spread, and why every story centered his most beloved adventurer— the hero whom everyone else called "Warrior of Light—"
It was difficult enough just listening. Feigning the right kind of interest. Mostly, Haurchefant found himself silently nodding along.
No one knows where she came from. One day she just appeared on the Steps of Nald. Ye have to wonder who ordered her to be there, hahaha. 'Cause that's her way, innit? Needs permission to breathe. If ye told her to hold it— and I bet some bastard has— she'd stand there til she went blue in the face. Probably til she passed out! Maybe even died. Haven't seen her 'round lately, so mayhap some whoreson told her to kill herself after all. I bet she would, the sorry lass. Everyone wondered if there was something she wouldn't do.
I heard that on the first day she was a virgin, and by the next moon she had already— oh, it's so dirty. I'd hate to say it. These are just things I heard, you know? And never thought I'd repeat! Why are you asking? Are you looking for her? They say you'll know her when you see her. She's real eager like, but also, uh, kinda empty. Like she can't wait to do whatever you say, and wouldn't wanna do anything else. Isn't that creepy?!
Pliancy. That is the appeal. It is all in the name. Of course, the whole occupation requires obedience. Some conceal it more skillfully than others. The entire encounter they make a masquerade. They flirt. They titter. They make great shows of satisfaction. You understand. But the spell is broken when money changes hands. The customer remembers himself. He remembers this is not natural for her. That displeases him. Should it not? Of course, he would prefer the natural whore.
It was terrible! Bleeding terrible! Gods know why they did it all out in the open. Thought they'd get away with it, I reckon. But one look at the girl... Truth be told, I heard barely a word of their excuses. Something like, 'she don't mind it!' Tch! Well, I bleeding mind! Always wondered what came of her. The girl spoke not one word. Just limped alongside me, like a ghost. But she kept pace even with... With all that blood. Ugh. I left her in the nearest town. Only found out later she's supposed to be some famous something or other. I say it's those sadists who should be famous. Takes a real evil sort to... Ugh.
The truth is, that woman is more than a whore. I told her, shut up that bastard singing at the bar. Giving me the migraine of a lifetime, he was, when I only wanted to drink in peace. And I was already drunk, when we met. And only joking. But that woman jumped right up. She might have killed him if the whole house hadn't pulled her off. We both got thrown out, so I made her my little lackey. Killing all my quarries, she was, and damn fast at it, too. I'd have kept her on forever, but one day she just never come back. You suppose somebody else got her? What a shame. She was as good a fuck as they all say.
Principally, Liborette did not know what "fucking" was. She knew that sometimes people said and did, or requested she say and do, things that hurt her. They seemed much like battle injuries. Unpleasant but expected. Ultimately of little consequence because, by all accounts, she was exceptionally strong. She did not feel strong in those moments. She followed instructions until it was over. When lacking instructions, she laid still. Such was the guidance she received from the first man of many, who claimed that he only did this to girls that had never had any men at all.
"Lie back and think of Thavnair."
Unlike a real battle, which engaged her whole being— all her senses, every muscle— and so flooded her with aliveness it left no room for thought, these encounters ejected her spirit from her body. She landed in pure pondering. Often she floated just outside herself, asking the stars or the ceiling or the grass beneath her cheek, what is Thavnair? A person? A place? An object? She was under no order to understand it, to search for it, nor to like the pain on her periphery or even pretend to. Only to lie back and wonder.
That man laughed when he said it. He laughed while saying and doing many other mysterious things. Perchance it was a joke, but Liborette was no good with those. Thancred often teased her for her being so humourless. "Do you ever smile? Just try it," he said, and then, "oh, wow. Never mind."
He was one of few men who had seen her this way and not rushed to partake. He seemed nice. Nice enough to offer her a better job, one where she did battle of the real, blood-pumping variety, and even got paid in gil. Of course she had taken it. She took any job that needed taking. Wherever the Scions sent her, there was always someone with a job like this, too. It never stopped hurting. She hoped they would not send her to Thavnair.
On that first night, Haurchefant knew nothing. He had no facts, no timeline, had seen none of her scars. Only his intuition told him that Liborette's situation required direct intervention. Scaring away three-out-of-who-knows-how-many rapists, then stating what should be obvious— "they have wronged you—" would not be enough. Grief coiled around his heart. When he first touched her, first suggested he saw her as someone who could be touched, he did not want it like this. But it had to be, and so it was.
"Liborette," he began gently, "forgive me my forwardness. It is for thine own safety I make this request."
Her gaze drifted from the fire to his face as he sat beside her on the floor. He clasped their hands together and ran his thumbs over her knuckles, icy little knolls they were. Where were her gloves? She'd had some on when she left. If those bastards had taken them, that probably meant... He held her tighter and fixed her with a tutelary fury.
"Nay, this is an order! Do not allow anyone to touch you in that manner. In that location. The area between your legs, any woman's legs, we call 'vulva.' Understand?"
She nodded her head yes, though the look in her eyes said, just barely. Haurchefant wondered, not for the first time, where this girl had come from, who had raised her. Had her sex education somehow been even worse than his in Ishgard?
"Nothing is to touch your vulva besides your underclothes. And thine own hands, I suppose, assuming they are clean. Nothing else. No one else. Not a hand, a foot, an object, gods forbid a phallus! Nothing."
She looked at the ground, perhaps recalling with some shame the manner by which cruel men had defiled her. But her eyes snapped up again, reflecting the roaring flames before them, as he spoke his next words.
"Kill them instead."
She nodded. She nodded eagerly.
"When they approach you, refuse them. With your voice, Liborette, if you can. Tell them 'no.'"
"N-no!" she said, and he beamed.
"Yes! Just like that. And if they insist, if they reach for you, kill them."
"I will."
"Good! But what for?"
"Um—" she deflated a bit— "t-touching."
"Correct! They will die because they touched you...? Where?"
With Haurchefant still holding her hands, she could only vaguely gesture towards her lap. He let go to pat her head and draw her into a proper hug, rubbing her back again. 'Twas a delicate balance to strike between encouraging and overwhelming her.
"Aye, my friend, your vulva. It is nothing to be ashamed of. As I said, all women have them. And," he sighed, "you must have noticed the opposite appendage."
"The sticking-out thing?"
"Yes. That we call a phallus."
The sour face she pulled was so cute that, during a less serious discussion, he might have laughed and kissed her. "I... I rather dislike those."
"As do I, my friend. As do I. From this day forward, they shan't trouble you any longer." While trying his best to rise above the horror of the moment, a fine idea made him chuckle. "Heh, if you are feeling particularly poetic, you might chop it off ere the killing blow."
"Okay."
"That is the only business you should have between another's legs. Just as they are not permitted to touch you, you shall refuse to touch them. And if they insist?"
"They die."
"Very good, Liborette, truly, very good. Death is what they deserve. I pray thee show no mercy. Deal your most savage strike."
Do what I could only dream of.
"... Haurchefant?"
He relaxed his jaw, unaware it was clenched so tightly, and knelt forward to poke at the fire. The room had warmed up, but the sweat on the back of his neck felt cold. "My apologies. This rage lies not with you, for you have done nothing wrong. I only ask that, from now on, you protect yourself."
She grabbed a lump of chainmail rumpled at his waist, and tugged gently til he looked back at her. The colour had returned to her face. Oh, how sweet she looked in this rosy glow. He thought for one second, nay, I could not possibly say that, yet found himself blurting it out the next.
"If you would have me— should you ever crave an intimate touch— let it be mine. Mine alone."
She stared at him through long eyelashes.
"I promise to treat you gently, as a lady must needs be treated."
When Liborette nodded, he finally took a breath.
In the coming days, a squire from House Durendaire brought news from Stone Vigil. The awful dragon Isgebind, whose ice magicks had long held the region frozen in terror, laid dead at Liborette's feet. Huzzah!
Locals speculated that his surviving horde, as they fled, had maimed some travelers in the lower lands. Routine patrol found them dead by the roadside, their belongings strewn about. Even with the scene half buried by snow, the brutality of a beast scorned shone through. Two men were dismembered— while they yet lived, judging by the yalm-long bloodstains. Every fleshy part of them was pierced straight through, as if dragons had chewed them up and spit them out. Emphasis on spit. Certain sensitive parts of them stuck like spots of phlegm in the road.
It was odd, they all remarked. Why was only the third man devoured whole? Usually dragons would finish their meal.
Haurchefant said, "mayhap they had a foul taste."
They gave him curious but unsurprised looks. Their lord was always saying strange things and seeming a touch too cheerful.
Stranger still was the sunny look in his eye as he signed and sealed the death notice. "That dragon could have been in a hurry, you know. Even creatures mightier than most have places they prefer to be."
Author's Note:
Haurchefant is a girl to me. Not a trans headcanon, more like a genderswap while keeping canon pronouns because I love butch lesbians. In this piece, I decided not to mention it because we don't see the bobs and vagene. But in my heart I know Haurchefant's femaleness adds dimension to this story, so... I'm telling you now, at the end. Haurchefant is a girl! Bye.