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“Wow, Sanson,” Tahla exclaimed, looking up from his report with wide eyes. “And I thought I was thorough with my reports. I don’t know how you manage to get so much detail packed into these.”
Sanson sat at his desk, writing out a list of supplies he needed for his next mission. “It’s nothing special,” he said with a smile. “I’ve just had a lot of practice taking notes. If I don’t write it down, I’ll forget it.”
Tahla laughed as she gathered up the rest of the documents she came for. “I can’t imagine you forgetting things,” she said. “You’re far too detail oriented for that.”
He bid her farewell as she left, smiling until she had shut his office door. It was nice that she — and indeed most of the Twin Adder for that matter — thought that of him, though it was far from reality. He sighed as he looked back down at his list, frowning as he wracked his brain to try and remember what else he needed.
*****
Sanson hadn’t always been forgetful. He’d had an excellent memory growing up, recalling information he had read in books at lightning speed. He could vividly remember places he had been and people he had talked to. He hadn’t appreciated what a gift it was until he couldn’t do it anymore.
He had an accident during his very first mission with the Twin Adder. He couldn’t recall the accident itself – when he tried to remember, there was nothing, just a blank spot in his memory where the incident should be. One moment he had been preparing to participate in a raid on a poacher’s den in the North Shroud. The next, he was waking up in the Conjurer’s Guild with a splitting headache.
According to the conjurer attending him, he had been engaged in a tussle with a poacher when he had slipped backwards off a small cliff and fallen some 10 fulms down, hitting his head on the rocks below. Quick action from an Adder chirurgeon had spared him from more severe injury but he was still left with a nasty concussion.
At first, Sanson had just been embarrassed that he had slipped, especially when Ywain stopped by to scold him for sloppy footwork. But then he began to realize that despite the other concussion symptoms going away, his short-term memory was still spotty at best. Things from before his fall were easy to recall. But memories from after the concussion became a struggle.
He could remember big picture things fairly well – his main mission objectives, his goals of ranking up within the company, his dream of making Gridania a better place. It was the fine details that he could no longer hold on to, information slipping through his hands like sand. He would get confused about what day and time it was, ask the same questions over and over, forget where he had placed things. When he started to get lost on patrols because he couldn’t remember which path led where, he had returned to the Conjurer’s Guild seeking help.
Brother E-Sumi-Yan himself had looked him over, his white magic seeping through Sanson’s skin and warming him as it sought out any injury that might need tending to.
“I don’t see anything physically wrong with you,” he had said gently. “Head wounds are tricky though, I’m afraid. Sometimes, the effects of them linger for a long time. Sometimes, they never go away.”
Sanson had stared at him for a moment, willing his brain to process the words he had just heard. “So,” he said slowly, “Am I just going to be stuck like this?”
E-Sumi had given him a sympathetic look and said, “There’s always a chance the memory retention will return eventually. But it’s been several moons since your injury. I think rather than hope the memory returns, we start figuring out ways for you to live with it.”
Sanson had returned to his small apartment to mull his options over. He had the gist of it – his short-term memory was shot. As he had sat at his desk rubbing his temples, he had pondered over his predicament, trying to decide what he should do. Already, the finer details Brother E-Sumi-Yan had explained to him were slipping through the cracks, disappearing no matter how hard he tried to hold on to them. In the back of Sanson’s mind, a panic was threatening to take over, a creeping fear that he didn’t want to acknowledge. How was he supposed to fulfill his duty when he could only remember things half the time?
Glancing down, his eyes had landed on an old journal. You can’t forget things if you just write them down, he had thought suddenly, grabbing the journal and a nearby pen. Flipping to the first empty page, he had jotted down everything he could remember still from his conversation with E-Sumi, feeling the anxiety abate as his hand flew across the paper. When he was finished, he had sat back and read what he had written, feeling more in control than he had in moons.
It wasn’t quite the same as remembering outright, but it helped. When he reread what he had written, he could almost recall that it had happened. He knew with a certainty that the things on the page had occurred, even if he was incapable of drawing them forth from his memory on his own.
Sanson began to carry his journal with him everywhere and take notes on anything and everything that was said. He took comfort in making lists and writing out the exact details of a battle strategy. He would sketch out the paths in the Shroud as he encountered them, ensuring he included landmarks to help him find his way back. He wrote down everything he didn’t want to forget, from small forest creatures he encountered to the way the setting sun lit the forest in shades of golden yellow.
He kept the severity of his memory loss a secret, not wanting to give the Adders any reason to deny him promotions. Instead, he developed a diligent routine of note taking that he would review every evening, doing everything he could to make sure nothing slipped past his notice.
*****
While patrolling through the South Shroud one day, he wandered off the path to investigate a noise and found himself lost, unable to recall which direction he had come from. Annoyed with himself for forgetting to mark his path, he drifted through the trees for a time, before the sound of gentle harp music caught his attention. He followed the music to a large, hollow log where he found an elderly Elezen man by a fire.
The music he was playing was beautiful and as Sanson stood there listening, he could feel it seeping into his soul, lighting a fire in his heart. The elderly Elezen man looked up at him with a kind smile and said, “Can I help you lad?”
“What are you playing?” Sanson blurted out, and then blushed at being so straightforward.
The Elezen man laughed. “Why, just some old battle songs, like the bards of old used to play.”
Sanson could feel an excitement building within him. He had read about the old bards of the Twelveswood before he had fallen and could still remember most of what he had read. How their songs had empowered their comrades to perform greater feats than was thought possible. The art had long since died out but now here he was, standing before a real bard.
Pulling his journal and pen out, he sat down on the ground across from the man and said, “I’m Sanson Smyth, I’m a captain with the Twin Adder. Will you tell me more please?”
The man laughed heartily at that and said, “My name is Jehantel. And of course I’ll tell you more.”
And he had, playing him songs and telling him stories about times when the bard’s song had turned the tide of battle in favor of their allies. Sanson’s hand could scarcely keep up, flying across the journal pages as he tried to note everything Jehantel said. At the bottom of a page, he wrote Bard Unit? and circled it twice, a note for future him that this was an idea he really wanted to explore.
As it started to get late, Sanson sheepishly asked Jehantel for how to get back to Quarrymill and the bard graciously showed him the way. As they walked back towards the path, Sanson jotted down directions and landmarks, ensuring that he would be able to find his way back to Jehantel’s camp.
“Can I come back soon and hear more about the power of song?” he asked once Quarrymill was in sight.
“Of course you can,” Jehantel said warmly. “I’d be delighted to teach you.”
Sanson thanked him again and hurried off with a smile. He had no talent with verse even before he had hit his head, so he had no hopes of learning an instrument. But if he could learn more about the power of a bard’s song, maybe he could convince the Adders to fill their ranks with bards.
*****
The embarrassment of having to be saved from a treant was trumped only by the frustration of not being able to remember the name of the archer who had saved him. He recognized this man’s face – this annoying Elezen man who smirked like he was the Matron’s gift to the forest and swaggered about like he didn’t have a care in the world.
He knew it was in his journal, under the list he had written up of potential archers for a bard unit. But he refused to pull it out and look at it, even as his brain itched at him to take a peek, to just refresh his memory real quick–
“I’m Guydelot of the Gold Bulls,” he heard the man say and then suddenly he remembered. Guydelot Thildonnet. He had written TROUBLEMAKER next to his name. Anger coursed through him. If the God’s Quiver had sent him, then they wanted him to fail. He’d never find the Ballad of Oblivion and prove the worth of a song like this.
Behind him, he could hear Jehantel praising Guydelot’s ability with song to the Warrior of Light and it made him see red.
“Ability, aye, but naught else,” he snapped, turning to glare at their newcomer. If Guydelot’s reputation was bad enough that even he could remember it…
Guydelot returned his glare, stepping forward like he was ready to fight. Definitely a troublemaker.
“I know about you, Guydelot the Spent,” he seethed. “Your reputation as a troublemaker precedes you. You treat authority with contempt, shirk duty at every turn, and make a general nuisance of yourself. That they sent the likes of you means that they want me to fail!”
They snapped back and forth at each other for a few more moments before Sanson sighed and bid the Warrior of Light to meet him back at the Quiver’s Hold. As he stomped off, he sensed Guydelot following behind him but refused to turn back and acknowledge him. They reached a spot where the road forked and he hesitated, trying to remember which direction to go.
Guydelot marched past him, heading towards the left and after a moment’s hesitation, he followed him.
*****
They didn’t stop arguing with each other once they reached Ishgard. Guydelot spent most of his time at the pub, flirting and drinking and doing nothing at all to investigate the Ballad as far as Sanson was concerned. Every night when he finally returned to their shared room, Sanson would badger him for information, pen posed and ready to jot down notes, only to be disappointed when Guydelot had nothing to share.
Guydelot was frustratingly obtuse with his information and Sanson was sure he was doing it just to spite him. “You know,” he said one evening after Sanson had nagged at him for coming back with nothing new. “Maybe if you didn’t spend so much time with your nose in that book, you would realize that I’m working just as hard to find information as you are. I just have my own method, is all.”
Sanson huffed, scratching his pen even louder against the paper. He hadn’t told him the reason he wrote everything down. He didn’t want to. He had his system and it worked for him. He didn’t owe anyone a reason for why he had to do things a certain way.
He didn’t love fighting with Guydelot though, so he decided to try and extend an olive branch to him. “Have you already eaten?” he asked as he carefully made a list of places he wanted to check the next day.
“How many times are you going to ask me that?” Guydelot asked, voice incredulous. “For the hundredth time, yes, I already ate.”
Sanson paused in his list making and looked across the room at him in confusion. “What?”
Guydelot glared at him in annoyance. “You’ve asked me that same question three times in the last fifteen minutes.”
“Oh,” Sanson said, feeling embarrassed. He turned back to his journal and said, “My apologies. I must not have heard you.”
“Again, maybe if you looked at something other than your damn notes for a change,” he muttered, plucking angrily at his harp strings. Sanson pressed the feather end of his pen against his lip for a moment and then etched Guydelot ate already at the top of the page. Then he continued making his list.
*****
In Falcon’s Nest, their bickering continued. Guydelot had run off to fight a knight for having a better voice than him, or something equally absurd, and had left Sanson fretting alone in Ishgard. Thankfully, the Warrior of Light chose then to make a reappearance, and together they had journeyed to the Coerthas Western Highlands to find him.
When they found Guydelot and learned he had actually come to deliver a letter to the knight from his sweetheart, Sanson felt silly. He worried that maybe he had remembered wrong but when he checked his notes back at the settlement, he had written Guydelot is fighting a knight, sweetheart said he had a better voice than him, Western Highlands. He wouldn’t have written that if it wasn’t what was said to him.
While they waited for the Warrior of Light to return, Sanson pulled his pen out and quickly wrote down everything they had learned. Guydelot was ignoring him, strumming a new song as loudly as he could behind him. Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, he wrote in his journal Guydelot – actually nice??? The exchange with the knight was beginning to slip from his mind, so he quickly wrote Guydelot risked his life just to deliver a letter to the knight, and tell him that his sweetheart was expecting. He’s more thoughtful than I realized.
He jotted down the rest of the information they had learned, about a knight who sang a song that sent souls to the heavens. Putting his journal away, he turned on Guydelot to remind him that they were part of a fellowship and needed to work together. Guydelot responded by singing a song about him having no soul. Sanson debated chucking his journal at his head but then thought better of it. Maybe he wasn’t actually that nice after all.
*****
Their search brought them to Tailfeather, where Guydelot and Sanson took up rooms while waiting for more information. While they waited for the scholar’s expedition to return, they volunteered their services to help the locals, which is how Sanson found himself lost deep within the Chocobo Forest.
He frowned, gazing up at the trees towering above him. He had no idea where he was or how to get back to Tailfeather. He was usually careful when he was in an unfamiliar area, but he had been distracted, storming off in a huff after yet another argument with Guydelot. He was meant to check chocobo traps near the settlement but he had been walking for a while before he realized he should have long since come across them.
Sanson sighed, opening his journal and scanning the most recent entries. He knew it was useless though – he hadn’t written anything down. He’d been too focused on his frustration with Guydelot to make any notes of his surroundings, fuming as he walked even though the exact things they had argued about had already slipped from his mind. All he could remember was Guydelot’s irritated voice saying Bastard’s got eyes for naught but his bloody tome over and over again.
He snapped his ‘bloody tome’ shut, moving under the shade of one of the large trees. He knew from unfortunate experience that when he found himself lost, it was usually better to stay put until someone happened by. He sat against one of the giant tree trunks, scanning the area for any potential threats that may be lurking. Seeing nothing, he opened his journal again, scanning over the notes he had so far.
He’d filled several pages with notes on songs, observations about the power melody could have on its listener. There was a page dedicated to the sorrow Celaine’s requiem had filled him with, and an apology letter no one would ever see beside it that he had written to her. He hummed a tune he had heard Guydelot playing the night before as he pulled a pen out. He tapped it against his lip for a moment as he pictured the bard, face lit up by the campfire’s golden glow as he had sung a song about love and loss. Despite himself, Sanson had been unable to turn away. Setting the pen to paper, he wrote Guydelot truly is exceptionally talented. The more time I spend with him, the more I see that he’s wasted with the God’s Quiver. I could never tell him this, but his is a song that deserves to be remembered in the annals of history.
Sanson looked up, checking again for any threats. Seeing nothing, he wrote I want us to finally see eye to eye. They sent us on this mission together, wanting us to fail. But I think, if we can cast aside our differences, we can prove them wrong.
He set the journal to the side and sat with his arms crossed over his knees, ears straining to catch any sound that might be rescue. He wasn’t sure how long it had been since he left. Would Guydelot even bother to come looking for him? Or would he just be relieved to be rid of Sanson the Stiff nagging at him for a while?
I should try to be more patient with him, Sanson thought, eyelids drooping. It was chilly and he had forgotten to eat before he left. Maybe he is trying, in his own way.
He awoke slowly some time later, the gentle sound of music filling the area around him. He was leaning against something solid and warm. He sat up and shook the drowsiness from his head, trying to re-orient himself.
“Sleeping beauty awakens,” a voice mused next to him. Turning, he realized with a start that it was Guydelot he had been sleeping against, gently playing a soft lullaby on his harp. He felt heat rising in his cheeks. How long had he sat there while Sanson had dozed? Guydelot glanced at him from the corner of his eyes, a small smirk on his face.
“I got lost,” he blurted out and then mentally kicked himself for admitting it so quickly.
“I figured as much,” Guydelot said, a soft yet teasing tone to his voice, “Lucky for you, I’m a good hunter. It didn’t take me long to track you down.”
“Well,” Sanson said hesitantly. “Thank you. For finding me that is.”
“I just didn’t want to have to explain to the brass hats that you got eaten by a bear,” Guydelot replied nonchalantly. Sanson flushed again.
“I wouldn’t have been eaten by anything, I had my lance,” he snapped.
Guydelot rolled his eyes at him and said, “Oh yes, that’s why I walked right up without you noticing. You were out here napping and yet I’m the lazy one?”
Sanson glared at him before standing up, brushing dirt off his pants “Let’s just get back to camp before it gets late,” he muttered.
He started to head off when he heard Guydelot clear his throat behind him. Whipping around, he saw Guydelot holding his journal up in the air. “You forgot this,” he said with a smirk. Sanson stomped back and yanked it from him. He turned to leave again when Guydelot said, “I thought you didn’t know the way back?”
He huffed and turned to watch with arms crossed as Guydelot slowly rose, stretching his arms above his head. He still had that infuriating smirk on his face as he strode past him, leaving Sanson with no choice but to follow him back to camp.
*****
Their arguing finally came to a head following Sylviel’s rescue and Guydelot stormed off, leaving Sanson feeling unanchored. He hadn’t realized how much he had come to rely on the bard over the course of their travels and he felt his absence acutely. They were a fellowship, they were meant to find the Ballad of Oblivion together. How was he supposed to find this song without him?
After the events in the Western Highlands, his opinion of Guydelot had changed. Reading back through the journal entries he had made along the way, he could spot when his notes on the bard had begun to sound…complimentary. Guydelot was exceptionally talented, even his rookie ear could hear that. Sanson was sure he was destined to become a bard who would be remembered for ages to come. But he lacked discipline and motivation and Sanson had only meant to push him to realize his full potential when he said that their organizations wanted them to fail, not push him further away.
He flipped through his journal one evening, rereading the accounts of their journey so far, everything they had seen together, everything they had learned about song. He had wanted to refresh everything in his mind but instead he was just reminded of how terribly lonely he felt. He hadn’t realized how much Guydelot’s presence meant to him until he was gone. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine that he was still there, playing some new melody he had thought of, long fingers plucking at the strings as he worked to get the song just right.
With a sigh, he opened to the newest blank page in the book and wrote I want to tell Guydelot how sorry I am. I didn’t mean to hurt him. He paused, trying to gather his thoughts. He may not always remember specific details of specific events but he could remember how those events made him feel. Reflecting back on his journey with Guydelot thusfar, he felt an overwhelming certainty coursing through him. I need him, he wrote, To make my dreams come true, I need Guydelot by my side. No other bard will do. It has to be him.
He sighed again, flipping to the page where he had jotted the directions to the local inn. His notes said Guydelot had only been gone for five days, but it somehow felt much longer.
*****
Sanson turned all of his pockets inside out, emptied his entire bag onto the ground, and spent several minutes digging through the cloud mallow he had fallen asleep by but it was no use. His journal was gone. He stood in the middle of his scattered belongings, eyes roving across the mess, desperately searching for the book.
How could he have lost his journal? He had certainly been known to misplace and lose things in the past but he never misplaced his journal. He was always so careful to make sure he put it back in the same place, checking repeatedly to ensure he hadn’t forgotten it. So where could it have gone?
“Is something wrong, kupo?” Mogta asked, floating down towards him.
“Have you seen my journal?” he asked, voice edging towards frantic as he shoved his belongings around, as if it would suddenly appear before him. “I can’t find it.”
“Oh,” the moogle said, raising its small paw towards its face like it was thinking, “No I haven’t, kupo. Is it bad that it’s gone?”
“Kind of,” Sanson said weakly. “I can’t remember everything we’ve done if I don’t have it.”
“Oh, you don’t need the journal to remember, kupo!” Mogta said cheerfully, twirling in the air. “Just close your eyes and the memory will be right there for you to enjoy!”
Sanson let out a hysterical laugh at that. For a moment, he felt like he was going to cry, but he just smiled weakly at the moogle. He doesn’t know , he reminded himself as he slowly returned his things to his bag. He doesn’t understand that I literally can’t remember.
“Um, well if it makes you feel better,” Mogta said, pom drooping when he realized Sanson hadn’t been cheered by his words of encouragement. “Your friend has just arrived back here!”
“Guydelot?” Sanson asked, whipping around to look at the moogle with wide eyes.
“No, no, the other friend! The Warrior of Light!”
“Oh,” Sanson said, looking down again. While he was always happy to see the Warrior of Light, they weren’t the one he was aching to see again. It was time that he accepted that Guydelot wasn’t coming back. He had filled pages and pages of his journal with vivid descriptions of all the things he had seen on his way up the mountain, things he thought Guydelot might like. He had hoped to share them with Guydelot when he came back. But he had now lost both Guydelot and the journal. Even if they somehow found the Ballad of Oblivion, he was beginning to question if this was all even worth it.
Standing up again, Sanson offered Mogta a shaky smile and said, “Well, I suppose we better not keep the fabled Warrior of Light waiting.”
*****
When Guydelot appeared in the Sea of Clouds, playing a healing harmony to negate the Siren’s murderous screech, Sanson was sure he was dreaming. Or that he was dead, killed by the very Siren that he had unwittingly unleashed.
But no, it was Guydelot, smiling as he gently teased him for trying so hard to impress people. Guydelot, who had once again come to his rescue. Guydelot, whose sincere desire to aid his comrades, to aid him, gave them the power to defeat the Siren and write their own Ballad of Oblivion. Sanson was sure he would never forget this moment, even if he never had a chance to write it down.
He still chewed Guydelot out for making them worry so much, though the bard didn’t seem perturbed by it. He also demanded his journal be returned, but Guydelot refused to do that too.
“We composed our own Ballad of Oblivion,” Guydelot had said, beaming at him. “That’s all you need to write.”
The sentiment distracted Sanson from the journal issue for a moment but once they had said farewell to the Warrior of Light and were on the airship back to Gridania, he remembered again.
“I really do need my journal back, Guydelot,” Sanson said. “Please.”
“What if I don’t want to give it back,” Guydelot teased, “I like reading all the nice things you said about me.”
Sanson blushed fiercely, running a hand down his face, “I’m being serious, Guydelot. I need it so I can remember everything that happened.”
“I already told you, you can write in your report–”
“It’s not about my report!” Sanson snapped, feeling embarrassed even though he had no reason to. He looked up and caught Guydelot studying him, a thoughtful look in his eyes.
“Why don’t you explain it to me then,” he said gently. “If we’re going to work together, we can’t have secrets between us.”
Sanson looked down. “It’s silly really,” he said in a small voice.
“I’m sure it’s not,” Guydelot replied.
Sanson sighed and crossed his arms. “When I first joined the Twin Adder,” he started, “I had an accident during a mission. It was stupid. I slipped and fell and hit my head. Hard.” He glanced up and saw Guydelot watching him closely. He nodded for him to continue.
“Because of that head injury,” Sanson said, staring at the clouds they were passing, “I have…a hard time remembering things. Big details are fine but it’s little things. It’s like they slide right off my brain, no matter how hard I’m trying to hold on to them.”
He half expects Guydelot to laugh at that but he doesn’t. Instead, he’s standing with his arms crossed, looking thoughtful. “So you started keeping a journal,” he said slowly. “To help you remember things.”
Sanson nodded at him. “When I say I need it to remember things, it’s not just because I’m overly studious. I really can’t remember,” he fiddled with a loose string at the end of his jacket. “Like I said, I remember big things – we went to Ishgard, we went to Tailfeather, we fought some Gnath. I don’t have amnesia. But it’s fine details. What was said, the names of people I’ve met and places I’ve been. I can’t remember those without help. That’s why I always write everything down, as soon as I can. I don’t want to forget.”
He finally turned back to face Guydelot, who was looking at him sadly.
“I don’t want pity,” Sanson said quickly, “I don’t need it. I’ve worked hard to achieve what I have and I won’t have people treat me like I’m incompetent just because of this.”
Guydelot’s face broke into a smile at that. “I would never dream of treating you that way, Chief.”
The tension between them broke and Sanson returned his smile, feeling lighter now that he had finally told him the truth.
“If I’m ‘stiff’ or overly serious,” Sanson said softly, “It’s because I need to stay focused on the task at hand. Otherwise, I’m likely to forget what I’m doing. It’s why I sometimes end up asking you the same question over and over. I genuinely don’t remember I’ve asked. Sometimes, I get lost and can’t remember the path I’ve just taken if I haven’t written it down. I have to keep careful track of dates, or I’ll never know what day it is. That’s why I’m always scribbling away in in my ‘bloody tome.’”
“I’m sorry,” Guydelot said, reaching into his pocket to pull out Sanson’s journal. He stared at the cover of it for a moment, “All those times I was needling you about having your nose in your book, I had no idea…”
“You don’t have to apologize,” Sanson said. “You couldn’t have known when I never told you. Here I was lecturing you about how we’re a fellowship and need to work together, and I couldn’t even bring myself to tell you about this. I’m the one who should apologize.”
“Heh, don’t you dare,” Guydelot said, extending the journal to him. Sanson took it and held it to his chest for a moment, grateful to finally have it back. “I’ve treated you awfully and I’m ashamed of myself for it. Even not knowing about your brain being busted, I shouldn’t have been giving you flack anyways.”
“My brain is not busted–”
“Anyroad, I’m glad that you’ve told me,” Guydelot said. His expression turned softer for a moment and Sanson's stomach was suddenly full of butterflies, “Truly, thank you for trusting me with this.”
He leaned against the side of the airship, gazing out towards the clouds with his hair whipping in his face. Sanson studied his profile, taking in the high cheekbones, the bright eyes. The playful smile that was on his face. Sanson wondered if he would be able to commit every line of that face to memory if he could study it long enough.
Guydelot turned towards him and with his usual charm said, “Why don’t you read me some of those entries that you said you wanted to share with me.
Sanson flushed. “You already read them!” he huffed.
“Aye, I did,” he teased. “But I’d like to hear them from you.”
Sanson released a very exaggerated sigh but he smiled, opening the journal to the entry about the peak of Sohm Al and began to read.
*****
Guydelot never made another negative comment about Sanson’s journal again. He never questioned when Sanson needed to stop to take notes or got mad when Sanson wrote out a list of tasks for them to work through (though he would still complain about doing the tasks themselves). When Sanson asked him the same question more than once, he never let a hint of irritation seep into his voice, even though Sanson imagined it had to be annoying.
It was freeing, to have Guydelot know him so completely and accept him as he was. He didn’t treat Sanson any differently now that he knew about his memory loss and Sanson felt no shame or judgment from him whenever he did forget something. Under his lazy slacker facade, Guydelot was patient and kind.
Sanson gazed across his desk at the man in question. Guydelot had decided to shirk duty once again under the pretense of bringing Sanson lunch. At some point, he had noticed that Sanson had a tendency to forget to eat, so he had made it his personal duty to ensure his captain didn’t go without. Sanson suspected it was an excuse to get out of having to do work more than anything, but lunchtime was much more enjoyable with him around, so he let it slide. Currently, Guydelot had his feet up on the corner of Sanson’s desk, strumming out a new song on his harp.
“Don’t you have work to do?” Sanson asked with mock annoyance, glancing between his journal and the field report he was working on.
“I am working,” he replied, strumming away without looking at him. “I’m working on a new song, which is part of my job, since we’re a proper bard unit now.”
Sanson couldn’t help but grin at that. A proper bard unit. All their hard work had finally paid off. Turning to a fresh page in his journal, Sanson wrote Guydelot IS actually nice across the top. Guydelot spotted it and snorted at him, playing his harp louder. Sanson found he didn’t mind.
*****
If Sanson had thought Guydelot was annoying when they first journeyed to Ishgard, it was nothing compared to the nuisance Nourval made of himself. Despite repeatedly telling the man to stay out of the way, he kept catching him bothering every soldier he came across. It was driving Sanson mad. He had started a list in his journal of people he was going to have to apologize to once this was all done
“How many times do I have to tell you!” Sanson said one morning after he caught Nourval harassing a Serpent Lieutenant. “We have to stay out of everyone’s way, or they’re going to kick us out!”
Nourval seemed unbothered by his threat, scratching his chin while wearing a shite-eating grin. It was infuriating. “Aye, aye, you’ve told me no less than four times during this lecture alone,” Nourval said with a smirk.
“And he’ll tell you many more times if you keep acting up,” someone else said. With a start, he turned to see Guydelot striding over to join them. He threw his own snarky grin Nourval’s way as he said, “The Chief’s a firecracker, you’d do well to not keep setting him off.”
Nourval opened his mouth to reply but Guydelot had already turned away from him. Sanson felt just a touch of petty delight at how annoyed Nourval was getting brushed off like that.
“I just came to give you this,” Guydelot said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out Sanson’s journal. “You left it on the table this morning.”
“Did I?” Sanson said, taking it from him. He could have sworn he had grabbed it but all evidence seemed to say otherwise. “Thank you for bringing it to me.”
“Of course,” Guydelot said, smiling at him softly. Sanson’s heart fluttered and he could feel a blush creeping into his cheeks as he returned the smile. The moment passed and Guydelot raised his hand in farewell as he said, “I’ll be off at the pub. Try not to get in trouble while I’m gone.”
Nourval glared at Guydelot’s retreating back. “He spends all his time drinking and singing and yet he doesn’t get a lecture,” he said bitterly.
“That’s just how Guydelot is,” Sanson said fondly, opening his journal to add the Serpent Lieutenant’s name to his apology list. “He knows what he’s doing.”
As Nourval grumbled about how useless Guydelot had been, Sanson flipped through his journal, trying to find the page that his list was on. He grinned as he finally found it and then paused, noticing another message that had been added near the bottom. A note he hadn’t written.
The messy scrawl was undoubtedly Guydelot’s handwriting and it said Don’t trust Nourval. He’s up to something. I’m not sure what yet but I’m going to find out. Keep an eye on him. Sanson glanced at the man in question, who was staring across the castrum with barely concealed irritation on his face. Sanson trusted Guydelot’s words just as much as he trusted his own. If he said Nourval couldn’t be trusted, then he believed him completely.
Looking back at the page, he noticed the message continued. Also, don’t forget to eat lunch. Sanson flushed, feeling very seen all of a sudden. He had forgotten to eat lunch, but he would do it later. He flipped to the next page and saw the note continued. I mean it, Sanson, Guydelot had written, You get cranky when you haven’t ate, so go do it right now. Sanson sighed in annoyance, snapping his journal shut. Nourval looked over at him in surprise.
“Let’s go get lunch,” Sanson said. “And then we can try asking around about your book.”
*****
Sanson slowly turned the pages of the journal, reading each line carefully, mulling each passage over in his head. It wasn’t his journal he was scrutinizing for once but another’s. A journal from another time, another place. Another war.
There was no denying the truth that was right in front of him. Nourval was right. His ancestor had been betrayed by the Ala Mhigans, poisoned at a banquet that was meant to symbolize peace a hundred years ago.
Beside him, his own journal lay open, the page divided into two columns. On one side, he had written the pros of turning the journal in; on the other, the cons. Sanson brushed the edge of his pen against his chin, staring at his notes for what felt like the hundredth time that night. If he turned the journal in, the Twin Adder were almost guaranteed to cover the killing up, an injustice in its own right. But if the contents were revealed, it would fuel anti-Ala Mhigan sentiments among the Gridanians who thought of the man as a hero. He didn’t think it was right to cover up the truth but he also didn’t think they should risk starting another war over a murder that had happened a hundred years ago.
Across the castrum, he could hear Guydelot playing calming music. He closed his eyes and focused in on it, letting it wash over him and calm his thoughts. While not as effective as writing, listening to music helped him focus. Though Guydelot had told him the decision was his alone to make, Sanson suspected that the song he was playing was meant to help him reach his decision.
Thank you, Guydelot, Sanson thought, his heart filling with warmth as he closed the book. He knew what he needed to do.
*****
Sanson’s head was pounding. He had not only walked right into Nourval’s trap, but he’d taken a blow to the head while struggling with Nourval’s men, one that had knocked him right out. When he had eventually regained consciousness, he had been bound and gagged, with a throbbing pain in his side where he suspected he’d been stabbed.
His captors seemed to be holding in one of the many abandoned temples that were scattered throughout Gyr Abania. He had no idea how long it had been since he was kidnapped, the passage of time impossible to decipher without his journal to anchor him. A man came by occasionally to ensure he ate and could use the bathroom, but otherwise he was left alone, the sound of Nourval and his men sometimes drifting to him from the other room.
He thought he might have another concussion and he was annoyed about it in those moments when he could focus enough to be annoyed. He spent most of his time laying on the ground, eyes closed, trying to hear what Nourval was saying. From what he had gathered, they planned to ransom him in exchange for the journal. The finer details were lost on him, but he could grasp that much, which meant he was a dead man. The Twin Adder would never risk peace to save the life of one foolish soldier who had been a pain in their side for ages.
Instead, he thought about Guydelot. He tried to imagine his face, the way he smirked when he was teasing and the soft smile when he would bring him lunch. The way he lifted his eyebrows when he thought something was unreasonable and how annoyed he got on Sanson’s behalf when he thought when he thought the Adders had treated him unfairly. How his fingers floated across the harp strings and the beautiful music he made. If Sanson closed his eyes, he could almost hear it over the pain in his head.
I’ll miss him the most when I’m dead, Sanson thought sluggishly, I hope he’ll lead the bard unit for me. We worked too hard for it to fall apart.
He heard footsteps approaching and slowly turned his head to see Nourval staring down at him. “Time to go,” he said, reaching down to pull him into a sitting position. He took Sanson’s gag off and, before Sanson could say anything, covered his mouth and nose with a rag that was covered in a floral-smelling liquid. Sanson tried to jerk away but Nourval just pressed it firmer against his face.
“Shhhh, you’re okay,” Nourval said softly. “Just a little sleeping potion for the trip back to The Black Shroud. Can’t have you trying to escape, can we?”
Already, Sanson’s eyelids were drifting closed, the potion taking effect. Why couldn’t he have done this to begin with instead of hitting me in the head? was the last thing he thought before he drifted off.
When he woke a while later, he had no idea where he was. He slowly blinked, the world feeling like it was coming to him from underwater. There were people fighting in front of him. The clashing of lances, the whistle of arrows flying through the air. And above it all, a song, one he would recognize anywhere. Guydelot sang and played his harp with a fury Sanson had never seen in him before. He watched his back as he and the Warrior of Light battled against Nourval, each step bringing them closer to him.
He came for me, Sanson thought, watching as his two friends stood guard in front of him, arrows pointed at Nourval. He’s saved me again. If he had his journal, it would be the kind of event that he would have underlined and circled twice. Important things he couldn’t forget. Not that he would ever forget this.
The Warrior of Light dropped down beside him and unbound him. “Are you alright?” they asked. Sanson nodded his head in reply, rubbing his sore wrists. He looked up and locked eyes with Guydelot, who was staring at him with relief etched across his face. Sanson felt overwhelmed. If anyone had ever been that happy to see him, he certainly couldn’t remember it.
“Sanson,” Guydelot said, relief dripping from his voice as he dropped to his knees before him. Before Sanson could react, the bard had thrown his arms around him and drawn him in close, burying his face in his shoulder. Sanson raised his shaky arms and wrapped them around Guydelot, feeling safe for the first time since this ordeal had begun.
“Thank the Twelve, you’re alive,” Guydelot said, his voice muffled against his shoulder. The raw fury he had heard early was gone, replaced by relief and just a hint of fear. Guydelot pulled back and cupped his face with one hand, examining him closely. He gently brushed his thumb just under a small cut at the edge of his hairline, the mark where he’d been struck when he was kidnapped. “Are you okay?” he asked.
Sanson gulped. “Maybe?” he said in a shaky voice. “I’m not quite sure yet. But I’m glad you’re here.”
Guydelot smiled, leaning forward to place a soft kiss to Sanson’s forehead, before standing to confront a defeated Nourval. Sanson took a few moments to gather himself, letting the song Guydelot was playing wash over him. A song of peace and hope. It made him feel brave and he stood to face his kidnapper one last time.
*****
If Sanson never had to return to the Conjurer’s Guild, it would be too soon. As it was, he was here once again, laying in a bed in their hospital ward counting the planks in the ceiling. After he had said farewell to the Warrior of Light, he had intended to go write his report while the details were still somewhat fresh in his memory. Instead, Guydelot had tracked him down and dragged him to the Conjurer’s Guild despite Sanson’s protests that he was fine.
“Better to be safe than sorry, Chief,” he had said, arm around his shoulders as he led him towards Nophica’s Altar. “Do it to put your poor bard’s heart at ease.”
Sanson had sighed and agreed to be seen. The good news was he hadn’t actually had another concussion, but the conjurers had decided they wanted him to stay a few nights to observe him. He had grumpily agreed while Guydelot beamed next to him, pleased with himself for whatever reason. Sanson had expected him to head off to the pub but he had stayed by Sanson’s bedside the whole night keeping him company, playing songs and sharing stories that would make the Seedseers blush if they heard him.
When Sanson had awoken that morning, Guydelot was still there, snoring in a chair next to him with his hands folded on his stomach. Sanson had felt a warmth spreading through his chest as he watched him, smiling softly. How far they had come since their journey for the Ballad of Oblivion. He closed his eyes again and dozed back off, feeling safe and content.
Later, he woke to find the chair empty and a note beside it in Guydelot’s untidy scrawl. Be back soon, it said, Had to go get something. Sanson wondered what he could possibly need as he laid back against the pillows, starting his count of the ceiling planks again. It was a mindless task that kept his mind focused on something, rooted in the present.
He had just reached plank number 414 when Guydelot came striding through the curtain that separated his bed from the rest in the ward. He looked awfully pleased with himself and Sanson watched him warily, unsure of what to expect.
“Good, you’re awake,” he started, taking the seat by Sanson’s bed again. “I went and got you something.”
“Oh?” Sanson asked, his curiosity piqued. Guydelot grinned even bigger and reached into his coat.
“Close your eyes and hold out your hand,” he commanded. Sanson sighed, feigning annoyance but smiling as he did what he was told. Something solid was placed in his hand and when he opened his eyes, he saw a brand-new leather-bound journal.
“Oh!” Sanson gasped, running his hand down the cover. “Guydelot, this is beautiful.” It truly was. The cover was a high-quality black leather that was soft to touch, and the parchment within had a nice weight to it. The journal even had a clasp to hold it shut when it was closed. On the back cover, he spotted small stitching that identified the book as being crafted by Fen-YII Fineries. No wonder Guydelot had looked so pleased with himself.
“I thought you would like it,” Guydelot said. Sanson turned to face him and was taken aback by the soft way the bard was watching him. “I figured you would need a new one, since the last one got ruined.”
Sanson flinched at that. He had heard about how Nourval had written his ransom note in his own blood. Certainly over the top, considering Sanson always had a pen on him.
“Thank you,” Sanson said, running his hand over the cover. “For the journal but also…for saving me. And staying here with me. You don’t have to.”
“I want to though,” Guydelot said, suddenly serious. He hesitated for a moment and then said, “I was worried sick about you. It drove me mad, not knowing where you were, especially after I found the other book. I kept thinking the worst. And I also kept thinking about how cruel it was, that they had taken your journal from you.”
Sanson reached over to gently take Guydelot’s hand in his, squeezing it softly. When Guydelot looked up at him, he gave him a warm smile. “You don’t have to worry about me anymore,” Sanson said. “You found me.”
Guydelot returned his smile and squeezed his hand back, “Aye, that I did.”
*****
Something had changed between them since Sanson’s kidnapping and subsequent rescue. There was a tension between them that had always simmered in the background but now Sanson found himself hyper aware of its presence. He could feel it in the stolen glances, the lingering fingers, the secret smiles.
He pondered the change one night before bed, unable to get the bard from his mind. Rereading through his notes, he found mentions of Guydelot sprinkled everywhere. What Guydelot had eaten for lunch that day, the kind of strings that Guydelot had mentioned liking, Guydelot’s criticisms of another bard’s songs.
Sanson slowly wrote Guydelot’s full name on a blank page, mulling his thoughts over as he crossed the t’s and dotted the i. After a moment, he wrote next to it I feel as if the axis of my universe is shifting. The world is no longer revolving around the sun, but rather around him. My goals are about more than just my own successes now. I don’t care if history doesn’t remember me. All I want is for Guydelot’s gift of song to be known the world over.
The next day, he was still thinking about it as he wandered through the East Shroud, trying to track Guydelot down. He often followed Guydelot out into the forest so he could listen to him play music in secret. He was usually quite good at following him but this time he had let himself get distracted, mulling over his notes from the previous night. Suddenly, he looked up and realized he was lost. Again.
Sighing in annoyance, Sanson looked around, hoping to spot a familiar landmark but seeing nothing but trees. Before his head injury, he had known these forests like the back of his hand. He never got lost. His terrible sense of direction was probably the most annoying consequence of his head injury.
Resigning himself to waiting, Sanson found a log to sit on and pulled out his notebook. Maybe he’d get lucky and a helpful moogle would float by to point him the right direction. He thought about Guydelot, wondered how deep into the woods he had gone, what songs he might be playing now. Sanson hummed a tune he knew Guydelot had been working on and decided to try sketching the tree in front of him to pass the time.
A while later – his tree had begun to look quite detailed – he heard a voice in the distance shouting his name. Sanson paused, straining his ears to make sure he hadn’t misheard. The voice came again and now he knew for certain that it was Guydelot who was looking for him.
Standing, he shouted back, “Guydelooooot, I’m over here!”
A few minutes later, Guydelot emerged from behind a tree, panting slightly.
“There you are,” he said, trying to catch his breath. “I’ve been looking all over for you, I was worried you got lost.”
“I did,” Sanson said, then furrowed his brow. “But how did you realize it so quickly?”
Guydelot scowled and rubbed his head for a moment. “I know you follow me when I come out here to play music,” he said. “You try to be sneaky but frankly, you’re not very good at it.”
“Oh,” Sanson said, completely surprised. He had no idea that Guydelot had known.
“So, I always try to go slow and not go through an area that’s really dense,” Guydelot said, exasperated, “So I can keep an eye on you. Once I realized you weren’t following me anymore, I figured out what happened and came looking for you.”
“I see,” he said quietly, looking down at the ground, “I’m sorry to have caused problems for you. Again.”
“What? Sanson, you don’t have to apologize for nothing,” Guydelot said, striding forward and placing a hand on his shoulder, “I just get worried when I can’t find you, because I care about you. That’s all.”
Oh , Sanson thought, staring up into Guydelot’s relieved face, the pieces finally clicking into place. I think I finally get it now. What you’ve been trying to tell me all this time.
Sanson didn’t give himself a chance to think. He grabbed the front of Guydelot’s jacket and yanked him forward, rising up onto his toes to kiss him deeply. The kiss only lasted for a moment before Sanson pulled back, staring up into Guydelot’s stunned face. He smiled sheepishly at him, still holding his jacket.
“Sorry,” he started to say, cheeks reddening “I know that was a bit sudden––”
“Don’t you dare apologize for kissing me, Sanson Smyth,” Guydelot growled, surging forward to capture his lips once again. Sanson moaned softly into the kiss, reaching up to cup the back of Guydelot’s head with one hand and grasp his shoulder with the other. They kissed slowly, tongues sliding against each other as they turned their heads to deepen the kiss. Sanson wasn’t sure how long they spent wrapped in each other's arms like that. It could have been minutes, it could have been hours. For once, he didn’t care.
*****
Sanson might not be able to remember the finer details of most things, but he remembers the big events. Guydelot saving him from the treant, Guydelot finding him in the chocobo forest, Guydelot saving him from the siren, saving him from Nourval. Guydelot finding him in the Black Shroud and the way he had kissed him back. He wonders if he should be embarrassed that so much of their time together had involved Guydelot coming to his rescue but he found he didn’t actually mind that much. There was a comfort in knowing that he wasn’t alone, that when he stumbled or got lost, there was someone who cared enough to come find him.
When they fell into bed together for the first time, Sanson knew this would be one of those big moments he wouldn’t forget. He didn’t need to write details down. Guydelot did it for him, leaving love bites across his chest as he worked his way down his body. Sanson moaned, back arching as Guydelot slipped one, two, three fingers inside of him, the stretch more than enough to anchor this moment in his mind.
When Guydelot finally sank into him, Sanson ran his fingers down his back, leaving long red marks that would be visible the next day. He moaned again, head thrown back as Guydelot moved within him.
“Don’t stop,” he gasped, pressing an open mouth kiss into his shoulder. Guydelot obliged, lifting Sanson’s legs to slam deeper into him, making the bed shake. Sanson felt like he would remember every moment of this, like snapshots he could picture crystal-clear in his mind.
Sanson pushed lightly against Guydelot’s shoulder, rolling them over. He stared right into Guydelot’s eyes as he slowly lifted himself up and down, relishing in the feeling of him. He wanted to make sure he would feel it tomorrow. Guydelot stared reverently up at him, his hands on Sanson’s hips as he rode him.
“Gods, Chief,” he said. “I wish you could see how beautiful you look right now.” Sanson moaned, moving faster, reaching down to grasp his own cock. Guydelot thrust upwards, matching Sanson’s rhythm. His fingers on Sanson’s hips were tight enough to bruise. Sanson hoped they would, so he could see them the next day and remember.
Guydelot’s rhythm stuttered as he came with a groan. Sanson gasped, feeling the heat of him, and followed, spilling onto Guydelot’s chest.
Later, after they had cleaned up, Guydelot lay with his head on Sanson’s chest while Sanson ran his fingers through his hair. The bard was already dozing but Sanson was still awake, drinking in the way his eyelashes spread across his cheeks, how his ear twitched when he ran a finger along it. He may not be good at remembering the finer details, but he hoped he wouldn’t forget a single moment of this.
****
Garlemald was a cold and miserable place but Sanson found he didn’t mind the chill. They were here to help the people of Garlemald and the fact that the bard unit had been chosen to join the Ilsabard contingent was a greater honor than he could have ever dreamed of.
He was busy writing out a list of supplies he needed to gather when someone approached him from behind and slipped their arms around his waist. Sanson smiled as he felt someone’s chin rest against the top of his head.
“Whatcha writin’?” Guydelot asked in a sleepy drawl. Sanson smiled even bigger.
“A list of supplies for the refugees at the train station,” he said. “I don’t want to forget anything.”
“Hmmmm,” Guydelot said, looking down at Sanson’s notes. “That’s funny, ‘cause you forgot to write something really important down.”
Sanson stared down at his notes, wrinkling his eyebrows. What had he forgotten? Guydelot plucked the pen out of and at the top of the page wrote Guydelot loves me in his messy scrawl. Sanson’s heart felt fit to burst as Guydelot snuck a kiss onto his cheek.
“I would never forget that,” Sanson said, taking the pen back from him. “But if you’re going to write that part, we have to include the rest of it.” Underneath Guydelot’s message, Sanson wrote And I love him too.