Days before.
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"A wise man hears the words spoken through silence," he had said once. "Never forget that." At the time, Hroch was still young and impatient and eager to question his roughly aging father. There was a severity to the elder Greyarm that had only hardened as he seemingly greyed three years to every one of Hroch's. It was said among those who knew that he had been a strapping young man once with a proud brow and an easy smile. Hroch Greyarm knew he would never quite understand what had changed him but he would catch glimpses of it now and then, hear it in the quiet that often spanned between father and son.
They had spoken little since the caravan left for Thanalan with the two of them taking up escort duty. With him in dusty linens and Aylard in his creaky mail they had seemed just uninspiring enough to be little more than mercenaries a sun's breadth away from starvation. There were nights when it wasn't very far from the truth at all; for even if the country as a whole was in the iron grip of the Empire there were still those who refused to kneel and for that they suffered. "We walk as ghosts," his father told him once. "Strangers in our home, unseen. Never forget that. We are ghosts."
Hroch had been spared the turmoil of their motherland's fall but never did they escape its echoes. Though his father was a kindly man there was no doubt that he mourned his country, burned his heart for the shackles that bound he and his countrymen under Imperial rule. It was not until his seventh name day that he understood the nature of the lives his parents led.
"We honor her in remembering, that the spirit shall never die," his father told him once. The lines were deep on his face that night, the first night he had taken his young and hot-blooded son to meet with his colleagues, the men and women who mourned his mother in the secret places they gathered. "Never forget that."
Camp Tranquil had been hours past and though the sun still hung high as they breached into the open wasteland of Thanalan, a call for rest did not murmur its way down the length of the caravan. Hroch watched his father as they walked, mindful not to stare for very long for even in his age he was still sharp as the sword he kept at his side. More and more had he been favoring his knees, scowling when he thought no one was looking. He'll regret it later, he thought, And maybe this time he'll learn his lesson.... Or he'll just take it out on me.
Aylard seemed to catch note of the grin that cracked his son's lips. His own expression softened even if the steel in his eyes did not. "Something funny, boy?"
"Oh, I dunno, da." Hroch swung his arms as he walked, a habit his mother once teased him for so many years ago and one which he stubbornly clung to ever since her death. "Did'ya see that sandy-haired lass up a wagon? With eyes as big as the moon?"
"Aye, I did," Aylard said in that measured way of his. "Though I think it's her father you should be looking out for."
"He'd like me," said Hroch and he nodded with nothing short of utter conviction.
"Like you on that sword he's nursing," Aylard deadpanned. "A father's wrath is a terrible thing, m'boy." He paused to sigh and squint ahead along the line. The scrublands stretched out in every direction, pocked and broken here and there by the wind-cut faces of earth and stone. While they were still far from Ul'dah and the Sagolii beyond, they were not lacking for sun nor heat. His voice dropped low enough to be barely heard over the rumble of the wagon train. "Best keep your focus about you. One mistake..."
The younger Greyarm knit his hands behind his head and sighed at his father. "I know, I know, da. Just she's mighty pretty is all. A man can dream, can't he?"
To his surprise, Aylard allowed himself a chuckle. A heavy gauntleted hand clapped down on Hroch's shoulder and gave a firm squeeze. "Aye. So you have been listening. Good, good... A man can always dream." The two of them stared ahead to the rest of the caravan and the cloudless blue skies. Somewhere out there, Aylard's contacts were waiting and despite the confidence with which he spoke of their plan, Hroch could not help but feel an unease deep in his gut. Yet seeing even the brief crack in his father's increasingly solemn demeanor eased his worry, even if only just a little.
"A man can always dream, and some of those dreams may even be worth bleeding for," intoned Hroch Greyarm, who did his best to be a good and dutiful son. "Never forget that."
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"A wise man hears the words spoken through silence," he had said once. "Never forget that." At the time, Hroch was still young and impatient and eager to question his roughly aging father. There was a severity to the elder Greyarm that had only hardened as he seemingly greyed three years to every one of Hroch's. It was said among those who knew that he had been a strapping young man once with a proud brow and an easy smile. Hroch Greyarm knew he would never quite understand what had changed him but he would catch glimpses of it now and then, hear it in the quiet that often spanned between father and son.
They had spoken little since the caravan left for Thanalan with the two of them taking up escort duty. With him in dusty linens and Aylard in his creaky mail they had seemed just uninspiring enough to be little more than mercenaries a sun's breadth away from starvation. There were nights when it wasn't very far from the truth at all; for even if the country as a whole was in the iron grip of the Empire there were still those who refused to kneel and for that they suffered. "We walk as ghosts," his father told him once. "Strangers in our home, unseen. Never forget that. We are ghosts."
Hroch had been spared the turmoil of their motherland's fall but never did they escape its echoes. Though his father was a kindly man there was no doubt that he mourned his country, burned his heart for the shackles that bound he and his countrymen under Imperial rule. It was not until his seventh name day that he understood the nature of the lives his parents led.
"We honor her in remembering, that the spirit shall never die," his father told him once. The lines were deep on his face that night, the first night he had taken his young and hot-blooded son to meet with his colleagues, the men and women who mourned his mother in the secret places they gathered. "Never forget that."
Camp Tranquil had been hours past and though the sun still hung high as they breached into the open wasteland of Thanalan, a call for rest did not murmur its way down the length of the caravan. Hroch watched his father as they walked, mindful not to stare for very long for even in his age he was still sharp as the sword he kept at his side. More and more had he been favoring his knees, scowling when he thought no one was looking. He'll regret it later, he thought, And maybe this time he'll learn his lesson.... Or he'll just take it out on me.
Aylard seemed to catch note of the grin that cracked his son's lips. His own expression softened even if the steel in his eyes did not. "Something funny, boy?"
"Oh, I dunno, da." Hroch swung his arms as he walked, a habit his mother once teased him for so many years ago and one which he stubbornly clung to ever since her death. "Did'ya see that sandy-haired lass up a wagon? With eyes as big as the moon?"
"Aye, I did," Aylard said in that measured way of his. "Though I think it's her father you should be looking out for."
"He'd like me," said Hroch and he nodded with nothing short of utter conviction.
"Like you on that sword he's nursing," Aylard deadpanned. "A father's wrath is a terrible thing, m'boy." He paused to sigh and squint ahead along the line. The scrublands stretched out in every direction, pocked and broken here and there by the wind-cut faces of earth and stone. While they were still far from Ul'dah and the Sagolii beyond, they were not lacking for sun nor heat. His voice dropped low enough to be barely heard over the rumble of the wagon train. "Best keep your focus about you. One mistake..."
The younger Greyarm knit his hands behind his head and sighed at his father. "I know, I know, da. Just she's mighty pretty is all. A man can dream, can't he?"
To his surprise, Aylard allowed himself a chuckle. A heavy gauntleted hand clapped down on Hroch's shoulder and gave a firm squeeze. "Aye. So you have been listening. Good, good... A man can always dream." The two of them stared ahead to the rest of the caravan and the cloudless blue skies. Somewhere out there, Aylard's contacts were waiting and despite the confidence with which he spoke of their plan, Hroch could not help but feel an unease deep in his gut. Yet seeing even the brief crack in his father's increasingly solemn demeanor eased his worry, even if only just a little.
"A man can always dream, and some of those dreams may even be worth bleeding for," intoned Hroch Greyarm, who did his best to be a good and dutiful son. "Never forget that."
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