Archive of Our Own

Let the humble scribes penning these lines preface them thus: there are no words to describe in full the loss our nation has suffered. Nevertheless, we must attempt it. Ser Zephirin the Just has been taken from us too early, and so we must hold on to his memory lest it takes flight as well, chasing his soul to the heavens, and we are left with nothing.

Ser Zephirin de Valhourdin was born in the city of Ishgard in the spring of the year 1550 of the Sixth Astral Era to Jeantroix Valhourdin, a Temple Knight, and his wife Maurinette, a seamstress—living proof that even humble soil may nourish seeds of greatness. He was the Valhourdins’ second son, fourth and last child in all. They counted themselves among those fortunate enough to send all four of the young ones to parochial school that they might learn their letters and numbers; all the children made for good pupils, but young Zephirin took so keenly to learning that it was surmised for some time that his future might lie with the Scholasticate or perhaps the priesthood. He was a gentle lad, playful but well-behaved, endlessly curious—Mistress Maurinette recalls fondly that there was nothing he loved better than to trail after his father or his elder brother, watching their training in awe or insisting on helping with their simpler duties.

It was a peaceful life, at least for a time. A scant few days before young Zephirin’s tenth nameday his father was wounded in a dragon attack, and for nearly a sennight did the Fury consider his fate before She permitted him to remain among the living. This frightening experience weighed heavy on young Zephirin’s shoulders, but he would not be broken by it—indeed, it only strengthened his determination to follow in his father’s footsteps. As soon as Ser Jeantroix was well again, Zephirin asked to be taught swordplay, and would not let the matter go until his father acquiesced—and so for the next two years the lad trained diligently, rain or shine, until he caught the eye of a Temple Knight Captain by the name of Ser Emeraint de Callameaux who then took him on as a squire.

Thus did Zephirin’s journey towards knighthood begin in earnest. Tirelessly would he carry his master’s shield and sword, keep his chocobo fit to ride at any moment, and accompany him wheresoever he might be needed, and if he did well, he would, years later, at the very precipice of adulthood, be dubbed a Temple Knight himself—or so the tale would go if this were any ordinary boy. Zephirin, even then, was anything but.

He approached his duties, thankless as they initially were, with the same resolve as guided him this far—they were necessary stepping stones to knighthood, and so he would face them head-on and prevail, as if they themselves were enemies to be defeated in battle. Thus did he clash with dirty chocobo claws, grapple with armour that needed shining, take the field against errands to be run—and all the while, like the wise commander he would eventually become, he bided his time until an opportunity arose. The chance he was waiting for came soon after his fifteenth nameday. He was at that point old enough to enter the Temple Knights’ grand tourney, and so he did—armed with a borrowed blade nigh as tall as he was himself, clad in squire’s mail—the youngest combatant seen in years, and certainly the youngest victor in living memory. The Fury Herself must have guided his sword that day, for he was the last one standing when the clamour of the melee free-for-all died down. Knight Captain Emeraint was so impressed he knighted the boy then and there, and so it was Ser Zephirin de Valhourdin who rose from his knees that day—the first day of an illustrious future.

Though still but half a child, he had already proven himself to be a man, and so his brothers and sisters in arms quickly started treating him as one, making no allowances for his youth. He held his own admirably on the battlefield, and his prowess with the greatsword was plain for all to see, but he truly shone when given an opportunity to lead—as it was one day when the commander of his unit was incapacitated in a vicious dragon attack and it fell to Ser Zephirin, seventeen years of age at the time and still a good two heads shorter than most of the men he served with, to rally his comrades’ spirits and mount a counteroffensive that ultimately saw them victorious. No lives were lost that day—a testament to Ser Zephirin’s sharp wits and keen instincts, for which he was rewarded not long afterwards with the command of his very own unit. He rose steadily through the ranks, winning accolades for his exemplary conduct both on and off the battlefield, and so it came as no surprise when at twenty seven years of age he was appointed Second Commander. It was an open secret that he was being considered for further promotion, one day perhaps even to the seat of Lord Commander; his superior at the time, First Commander Aymeric de Borel, was the other candidate for the position, but it caused no resentment nor strife between the two of them, indeed quite the opposite—the love they shared for Ishgard and her people, and their common goal of keeping them safe from harm, forged between them a bond as hard as steel. Ser Aymeric recalls that when the votes were cast and he emerged victorious, Ser Zephirin seemed proud and perhaps even a touch relieved; to quote the Lord Commander himself, “Zephirin had told me then that he was glad to see the title passed on to a man worthy of it, and I have held on to his words ever since. He was not a man given to empty flattery; I knew then, as I do now, that it must have been how he truly felt.”

For all of Ser Zephirin’s readiness to continue serving as Ser Aymeric’s second-in-command, a higher calling yet awaited him. Ser Vellguine de Bourbagne, himself unwilling to take over the seat of the Very Reverend Archimandrite of the Heavens’ Ward, was tasked by His Eminence the Archbishop with finding a suitable replacement, and chose none other than Ser Zephirin himself. The decision to anoint a man not yet counting himself amongst the twelve knights of the Heavens’ Ward was unusual, but not unheard of, and there were few men one could consider more worthy of the title than Ser Zephirin the Just. He accepted, naturally. Would this story have ended differently if he hadn’t? Would he still be here with us? One cannot help but wonder.

Ours is the privilege of looking backwards with full knowledge of what did happen, but also the burden of making sense of it all. Ser Aymeric and the Scions of the Seventh Dawn have been reassuring us that Ser Zephirin and all of his fellow knights were not in control of themselves—that they were tempered—and as such they cannot be held responsible for their actions. This is reassuring, for it proves we were not wrong to place our trust in these men, and yet it is not, for what good are these words to their families? What use are such consolations to those whose sons and brothers will never come home again? They were tricked, as were we all, by forces whose machinations span back generations, by minds filled with poison we can scarcely even begin to imagine; it is cold comfort, and yet we must accept it. There is no more that fate can offer us. The responsibility to heal, to move forward, to remember those we have lost as neither heroes nor villains but men of flesh and blood, who loved our nation and made their choices and died for them—that responsibility rests now on our shoulders alone.

As the knights of the Heavens’ Ward are not permitted to marry, Ser Zephirin has left behind no widow and no heirs—he is survived only by his mother and two sisters. Though deep in mourning, they report that they are well and are being looked after by family; they also wish to pass on the following message to those who have offered them words of comfort:

“We thank you for your kindness, for it is our light in these dark days. If you desire to honour Zephirin’s memory, we humbly ask for your generosity towards those he wished most ardently to protect: the weak and the unfortunate. His heart was ever with them, and we deeply believe it would bring his soul peace to see this work continued; should you require assistance in choosing an undertaking worthy of your support, we would be honoured to provide it. May the Fury bless you and keep you safe.”