thefeywood | why don't you figure my heart out?

The Knights Dragoon had set out after Syojatar as soon as they'd received enough information to act. Yet, the intel was, as ever, imperfect - they'd ended up having to track the destruction once already on the field, finding the town already overwhelmed. A few Fortemps knights that had been deployed closer to the area had made it there before them by chance, enabling a small number of residents to escape. In the end, it was not nearly enough.

Though the dragoons' arrival saved the lives of the knights and bought the residents time, it was not within any of their capabilities to save all of the villagers from the insidious nature of Syojatar's poison, nor from her minions. The infectious air had withered the once vibrant plant life of the region, and done much worse to still living men. To children.

The pools of caustic acid and wounded earth was not identical to the flames that had consumed Ferndale, but at heart, they were all but the same. Despite how much time he'd spent cultivating his own stoicism on the battlefield, he hadn't been able to keep it from cracking his defenses.

Now that the dream is over, the nuances of the flawed dream logic is passing, leaving him only with the most vivid images and concepts.

"I... saw what I had prayed to never lay eyes on again," he says. "Yet all my training, all the power I have gained... it was for naught. My fate is the same." His words leave him sounding broken in a way he never has before. "My dreams will not let me forget. They... mock me. They will remind me of this pain until the day I die."

There is a part of Aymeric that questions whether or not it is too soon to try to walk through these thoughts with Estinien, yet they are here, aren't they? He does not want to force him to relieve the trauma of his experiences, but he also cannot deny the fact that there is something to be said of putting them to words rather than to let them run rampant through the mind.

And it is increasingly clear that it is not just the most recent battle that plagues him. Aymeric is a quiet and thoughtful listener as always, accepting each word and holding it close until he can appreciate the full weight and gravity that comes with it.

"You hold close the losses, both yours and that of others," he says on an exhale. "'Tis too much for a mortal man to bear alone."

Though incredibly weary, both of mind and of body, Estinien is at least more lucid now - capable of making decisions about what he does and doesn't want to talk about. If this had been two years ago, or even only one, the answer would have been clear. Yet, with all he knows of Aymeric, and with how far they've come...

He shifts in bed so that he is resting on his back more than his shoulder. His hair is still plastered across his face and forehead with sweat, and overall, he imagines he must look like death. He feels like it as well.

"Tis not the first I've had of these dreams," he says. "They have haunted me since I was young... since the day I lost everything I had been. Each new horror... only adds details to the canvas it paints."

He stares upwards at the ceiling.

"And yet, this experience has cut more deeply than any since. I... I could see it, even as I was awake. Even as I fought." He shakes his head. "I felt as if I'd been driven mad."

He waits for the moment that Estinien pulls back into himself, but it does not come. Aymeric would not blame him for it if he did, of course, no matter how much he wants to share this burden. They are both private people in different respects, though Aymeric has been known to being much more open between the two of them, he knows that his patience is rewarded when it comes to his friend's trust.

And he is rewarded once again. As Estinien shifts it is not to pull away, but instead to find something a little more comfortable as she shares some of his deepest hurts. Aymeric knows this is a precious, if painful moment.

He watches Estinien's face as he recounts, eyes cast upwards as they are. Aymeric settles in a little more himself, propping his arm on the edge of the bed so that he can more easily rest his weight against it.

"'See it'...do you mean...?" He has his theories, but Estinien's thoughts on the matter are more important.

He furrows his brow, not immediately sure how to describe it. It's not something he's ever discussed before - not with Alberic, and not with anybody else. Any hints of his experiences were only through small comments that he had made by mistake, or from simply observing his reactions. To try to clearly articulate it to someone is an entirely new sensation.

"In my mind's eye, yet... more visceral still," he explains, feeling tenser even as he tries to envision it. Another shudder goes through his body. While he had been perspiring while asleep, he now feels so cold. "On... the bodies... I saw their... their faces." It sounds increasingly hard for him to even speak the words, like the sorrow steals his very breath. "His face..."

He trails off there, going silent for a few moments.

"I felt as if I was small again, without mine armor or my lance."

Their faces. He means faces not of the actual bodies he was viewing, doesn't he? His face strikes harder than most. Aymeric keeps moving his thumb slowly back and forth across those knuckles, now familiar--rough, and a few with broken skin still healing over.

"...You see your home in these villages--in Sweetbrier." His grip tightens a little. "Your family."

Oh, Estinien...

For not the first time in their relationship, Estinien is relieved to find that Aymeric understands him without having to spell it out explicitly. It's easier than having to find the words himself, even as the feeling of being known sends a shiver through him. He's never told anyone. Not even Halone.

"Aye," he chokes, clearly putting great effort into holding himself together. "I see them in many things... they follow me everywhere I go... but in Sweetbrier... it was if they had risen, only to be slain before me again. The wyrm perished by my hand... but I am not sated." An agony rarely spoken is clear in his voice. "I cannot be my family's saviour... and so I will become the Dravanian's own nightmare."

"I swear it..." His voice is shaking. "I will kill them all."

Edited 2020-11-14 02:17 (UTC)

He sees that shiver and assumes it's the fever--or the fever dream that still hangs over him. Aymeric can feel his own hand becoming too warm and clammy, but he refuses to let go. As long as Estinien allows this closeness, Aymeric is determined to provide all the physical comfort he can through it.

But what can he really say? No words can undo what has been done--to all innocents involved, Estinien being the paramount for the moment. The faces that haunt him are everywhere, as he says, and Aymeric fears that no matter how much of the horde falls to his lance, it will never be enough because he cannot bring back what he hast yet lost.

He can see the cycle more clearly now. What began as a quest for vengeance--understandably so--may never truly end. Because he cannot be his family's savior.

Aymeric's throat feels tight, his brows turning slightly upward as they pinch in sympathy.

"...My heart aches for you, my friend. You of all people deserve some peace."

He shakes his head, giving Estinien's hand another squeeze as he tries to gently encourage his friend down from that ledge.

"I know it may not feel like enough, that it cannot undo all the wrongs that have been wrought, but do not forget that on that day you were someone's savior."

Aymeric's assertion actually gives him pause - yes, he supposes he must have been. There were survivors, after all, and there wouldn't have been without the Dragoon's intervention. He hadn't seen much of the aftermath, given that he has collapsed not long after dealing the killing blow to Syojatar. One of the other dragoons that had still been conscious at that point informed him that they had seen him stumble off the dragon's corpse, his lance still embedded deep in her head.

With the deed done, there had been nothing left but to succumb. For all he knew at the time, that would be the end of him.

Yet, it is hard to think of the survivors without a flicker of sorrow, because they would never be the ones that laid at the center of his heart. Aymeric is correct - no amount of success, no number of dragons falling beneath his lance, will ever change the past. He chases a freedom from pain that may never come. That he would feel some pang of satisfaction, some ounce of peace at the death of Nidhogg is all that has kept him going some days.

He finally tilts his head to look at Aymeric more directly, though his gaze is still distant and lost. His fingers tighten around Aymeric's.

"I have spoken of this to no one," he says. "I had thought... I never would."

When Estinien finally catches his gaze, he will find it saddened, but accepting, lighting a little at the edges when he meets those stormy blues.

"Your secrets are safe with me, Estinien. They always shall be."

He places his second hand back on top his, joining both together with Estinien's caught in between.

"As are all your troubles and woes. I would not offer to fight your battles for you even if I could as I know it is your desire--nay, your need to fight them. But the burden you carry need not be yours alone."

Whatever he can do--offer a place to sleep, to lend an ear, a moment's distraction--he will do it. Estinien likely knows he would readily pick up his blade and follow Estinien into battle just as readily.

"You say that you should be stronger, yet a moment of weakness does not beget your strength. If anything, how you come back from it is a true testament to one's strength. And you, my friend...are the strongest person I know. Not because of your skills with a lance, but because of how wholly you pursue your justice. You will achieve all that you set out to do, of that I have little doubt..."

For once, Estinien's eyes linger on Aymeric's as he speaks, not turning away despite the intensity of it all. In the past he might have argued or withdrawn in response to such a sentimental promise, but now...

He believes it. He believes it, and more importantly, he can feel some measure of comfort, however slight. The insatiable void in his heart can quiet for just a moment, the feel of Aymeric's hands around his. The shaking in him gradually begins to quell, even as the chill remains and the heat of a fever lights his forehead.

"I trust in your words, Aymeric," he says softly. "But... I fear that the Holy See may not be so gentle. The Azure Dragoon must be unbreakable - steady enough to weather the storm of Nidhogg's rage. I fear... that were they to know, I would never be allowed the power I need. No matter how many wyrms I slay, nor battles I survive."

Ishgard as a culture is not all that patient with those that are feeble of mind. For Estinien to admit to seeing visions of the past, caught in surreal realities when confronted with a dragon's carnage... it would doom him.

No, Ishgard is oft unkind to those it deems weak or unworthy. Though a different battlefield all together, Aymeric too must not show weakness to those who are so eager to find it in anything that he does, that small opening to prove him unfit as a person, let alone as a knight. Yet Estinien is not just trying to prove his worth to the Holy See, he is trying to prove it to himself.

A much more trying judge, to be sure.

Aymeric exhales through his nose, gaze dropping to their hands for a moment. As much as he would like otherwise, Estinien does have a point. They must both play to standards and politics in their own ways. Estinien's lot seems so much more unfair.

"The Holy See will ever glean what it wants," he says, making no attempts to hide the its of ire that slip in. "Then I suppose it is a good thing that you are not the sort to rise to meet the expectations of others, but to shatter them entirely and make of them your own."

He smiles then, lightly, but genuine as he raises his eyes back to Estinien's face.

"But...mayhaps the Holy See can wait for one evening. You need not overburden yourself with seeking their approval right now. Is there something that I can get for you?"

Water? A towel for his forehead?

He supposes it's true that what he does this instant matters little to the Holy See, with them hidden from its judgment as they are. He escaped the Knights Hospitalier early enough to mostly keep this issue under wraps, and he isn't expected back onto the battlefield for some time.

He has time to rest while he learns to breathe again, and Aymeric is here with him. How strange, that his friend has become such a constant, for all that he did to avoid him at the start. Little could he have known.

Often, it feels like Aymeric is the one thing that holds him tethered to the earth.

He considers Aymeric's offer more earnestly than he often would. He's here, isn't he? He came here to heal. As prickly as he often has been about receiving care or help, this was the premise with which he arrived in the first place. It would be foolish to trouble Aymeric with excessive pride.

"Water," he says, nodding his head. He uses his other hand to push back damp bangs. "I feel I've lost all I had of it in my sleep." As for the towel, so poor is he at self care, he hasn't even thought of it.

He would not be surprised if Estinien were to say he did not need anything else, but he does not attempt to hide the way he lightens when his friend asks for something as simple as water. It may not seem like much, but after sharing pains and fears so close to his heart that he let Aymeric continue to offer some semblance of support? It's monumental.

Aymeric nods, giving Estinien's hand a squeeze before he pulls back. "Allow me just a moment."

With that, he leaves, making sure to close the door behind him.

Of course, that...does leave Estinien with someone else...

Ser Croquembouche de Borel has been watching the entire exchange and stares at Estinien from where he had apparently perched on the window.

Oh, gods.

While he feels somewhat lightened in comparison to how he woke up, that feeling wavers a little as he notices Bouche is staring at him. He hadn't even noticed that the cat was in the room, but it is to be expected. The little beast follows Aymeric everywhere he goes.

...Except right now, apparently. Estinien narrows his eyes at him, feeling strangely self-conscious about all of this. He attempts to glance away, pretending he is unaffected while waiting for Aymeric's return, but it doesn't last.

"Spare me your contempt," he grumbles, irrationally irritated by the situation.

Ser Croquembouche's tail stops twitching as soon as he's addressed. Does he understand what Estinien says? Only the cat will know. But apparently he takes it as something of an invitation because he jumps down from the window and starts trotting over...

Luckily for Estinien, that is when Aymeric returns to the room with a tray. On it is a pitcher of water, a couple slices of bread, bowl, and two towels. As if on cue Bouche turns and immediately goes to greet Aymeric with his tail in the air, ever the patient and attentive friend.

"Are you offering to play nursemaid?" He smiles down at the cat who tilts his head to the side.

Aymeric walks past his cat and sets down the tray onto the bedside table, while also taking a seat on the edge of the bed. He fills a glass with water, but takes pause.

"Do you need assistance sitting up? It might be easier that way."

Estinien watches Bouche suspiciously until the moment that Aymeric returns, almost relieved to see the cat become distracted with his owner. As long as it prevents him from trying to get up on the bed, they can probably remain at peace.

He realizes at the same time as Aymeric that he'll need to sit up to drink anything, but despite his newfound softness for accepting care from his friend, he doesn't want to need assistance for something so basic. He starts trying to push himself up, finding it surprisingly difficult - his muscles ache more than he'd expected, and any position besides horizontal still makes his head swim.

"I can manage..."

He does manage to wriggle his way into more of a sitting position, his exposed chest displaying more of those barely healed over wounds. They still seem inflamed, even after being treated by a chirurgeon. They follow the lines of where caustic attacks had seeped through the seams in his armor.

Aymeric watches as Estinien rights himself, wanting to help but respecting the other man's desire to do it himself. He can hardly blame him as Aymeric is really the same sort of patient in his own right, though some may find it hard to believe.

He does his best not to be too distracted by the wounds he has not yet had time to investigate, instead offering the glass now that Estinien is positioned to take it.

With that, he takes the pitcher once again and pours some water into the bowl. Then setting that aside, Aymeric places one of the small towels into the bowl, soaking it, wringing it out, then soaking it again until it is fully saturated. Once Estinien has had his fill of water, he offers to trade with the wash cloth, wearing a tentative smile.

"You felt a little feverish, my friend."

Instinct begs Aymeric to dab Estinien's face down with the cool cloth, but he knows that may be overdoing it.

Estinien drinks with little delay, shotgunning most of the glass as soon as he has his hands on it. Sleeping left him parched, especially with how much sweating he's apparently been doing. Estinien is not one to balk at minor discomforts or uncleanliness, but being so drenched feels horrendous, especially as it's started to dry.

Which means that's he's honestly pretty grateful for the towel. He hadn't thought to ask for it, but he's glad that Aymeric was more foresight. He nods his head in appreciation, accepting the cloth in his hand and immediately rubbing down his face with it. He sinks down into the pillow he tried to prop up, already feeling tired from such a small exertion.

"An understatement," he says, exhaling wearily. "It is... freezing and boiling, all at once." He still shivers, but yet too much coverage feels overwhelmingly hot. For now, he just leaves the cloth resting over the top half of his face, apparently not having the energy to do anything else.

Small improvements, he thinks, towards a little bit of that comfort and respite that Estinien has sought in his stay. Aymeric refills the glass but leaves it at the edge of the beside table, lest Estinien decide he needs more.

The image of the dragoon just laying prone with his face-half covered with a damp towel is strangely endearing. The armor he wears goes beyond the Drachen armor that he earned with his promotion the year prior and Aymeric knows that he is privileged to see Estinien without on both levels.

"If you would like me to ready the hearth, you only need say as much." Well, it is cleaned and ready for use, Aymeric would need to add kindling and light the flame.

Ser Croquembouche rubs against Aymeric's ankles, who takes a moment to bend over the edge to pet his cat. It's quiet and contemplative moment and Aymeric does wonder if Estinien will fall back asleep soon. And what new images that may bring.

"...May I venture a question?"

There's still too much adrenaline in him for rest to come easily, in sharp contrast to his level of exhaustion. He feels more dazed than sleepy, finding it hard to concentrate even as his body is restless.

He leaves the towel on his face as Aymeric asks his question, still sunk into the pillows. He can't bring himself to sit up.

"Anything," he says breathily, and despite how worn out he sounds, he means it. He's come this far.

He debates whether or not he really should be asking, but Estinien has opened the doors to his past, however painful they are. It is in pat from Aymeric's own curiosity that his question stems, but also in the hopes that maybe lighter memories may outweigh the heavier ones.

"I know little of Ferndale. What was it like?"

If only the two didn't blend so seamlessly in his mind, every memory of peace only a reminder of what he'd lost. Yet, he told Aymeric he could ask anything, and so he endeavors to remember what he can.

"...Warm. In the summers." It feels like such an inane descriptor, but it's all that comes. "The mountains and valleys sheltered it from the worst of the winds." He falls silent for a few more moments, and then adds: "The valley was suited to agriculture, but the karakul were best fed in the hills."

Those things are easy to say - practical knowledge of the place's geography, more than anything else. It feels impossible to speak of the details, most days. Even harder to speak of the people that had lived within it.

"We didn't have many of them, but... twas enough for us."

'Us'. It's as close as he can get to speaking of them. To acknowledge that he'd once been part of something, of a family, that he was no longer.

"As the eldest, it fell to me to tend them."

Simple things, yes. Bits and pieces of what he may yet read about Ferndale in the history books when it is but a passage of a few lines of another small village that hath fallen to the horde. How many lives can be contained in a few sentences? To the people connected to those, a novel would not be enough

He does not expect a novel, though, Estinien not being a man prone to it, even about the things he holds dear. It is a sensitive subject in the best of times and Aymeric had only learned that Ferndale was the name of Estinien's village first outside of his friend's presence.

It's when Estinien begins to speak of the karakul that Aymeric feels it a little closer. His gaze falls on Estinien's hidden face, instead watching the way his lips move when he speaks.

A few karakul to tend to. A young Estinien, the eldest child and shepherd.

"Did you enjoy it?"

Estinien snorts softly, though there is a lightness to it. With his eyes shut and covered beneath the towel, it's all too easy to let his thoughts wander back to those days.

"As much as any child enjoys fulfilling an obligation," he says. After a pause, he goes on, with added tenderness: "Yet I suppose I took pride in it. Minding the karakul would pull me away from play, and I was sure to complain. Yet... it was a duty. It was mine." Seemingly gaining some momentum he keeps going. "I would..."

But then he stops. He was about to speak of how he would hold it over his little brother's head as a solemn right of passage, a task he was honored with rather than compelled to fulfill. That someday he would be so lucky as to be awarded such important work.

He never had been, had he? He never got the chance.

"I was with them, in the hills..." he says more distantly. "Twas only for that reason that I was spared."

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