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

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."

Yes, this is what he wants to hear. Bits and pieces of Estinien's past, the parts that are not fully sullied with bloodshed. Or so he hopes. When Estinien stops Aymeric fears for it and is unfortunately proven correct.

He cannot let this settle, let the guilt bring back images of what comes after.

Aymeric shifts on the bed, moving so that he can lean comfortably onto one arm as he regards his friend. A moment of due silence for what he had lost, but he does not want to give the darkness much time to settle.

"...Would your family ever come to trade in the markets in Ishgard?" Maybe a new angle.

Estinien falls silent for a little while after that question, the cloth over his face making it hard to tell in what mood he is doing so. It's almost like watching a machine that has stalled, having to be turned off and restarted to make any progress.

When he speaks again, the edges of stress are still there, but he's trying.

"Not... often, but..." He hesitates, trying to pull himself together. "Some from the village would visit the markets together, at key points in the year. My..." And that's where it hurts. Any relation to himself, anything personal, becomes so much harder.

"...My father would go with them, sharing a wagon and the other burdens of travel." Finally, he says it, focusing on the facts. "When they returned, it was one of the few times any of us would see wares from outside of the valley."

Edited 2020-11-15 05:23 (UTC)

There is little that Aymeric really knows about this way of life, only having heard passing bits of stories from the other knights at Congregation during meal times or out on missions, but Estinien's tale holds a particular import. A vested interest, perhaps.

Aymeric really is not sure if this is the right approach to Estinien's distress, but...he is inclined to try something. Estinien will surely need more rest ere long and he would rather that pleasant thoughts be at the forefront of his mind.

"When I was a child, I would occasionally see what I had thought were merchants from afar coming to share their wares in the Crozier. Of course, 'afar' meant something much different back then...but I do recall seeing karakul wool and hide." He wonders if they had come from Estinien's village? Maybe even his family's flock.

Another small thread to tie them together, he hopes.

"What sort of things would your father bring back?"

Estinien finds himself answering questions as if by some compulsion, continuing to speak despite having forgotten why it was important to do so. Aymeric is asking him, he supposes, and it is a presence in which he feels safe. He isn't afraid of him knowing.

So, he speaks, answering the best he can. He thinks little about why the questions are being asked.

"Aye, the wool... my... my mother would spin yarn or thread from it." He shifts uncomfortably but keeps speaking. "Or make other crafts... most of our clothes were made within the village. But... my father would bring back tools that could not be forged in town, or sometimes particularly nice clothing." His lips curve slightly as he recalls it. "Mostly for him and mother. He said... that he would buy some for me when I stopped growing so much."

For such a modest family, it wasn't feasible to purchase higher-end clothing they wouldn't get many years of usage out of. Especially when the children were so prone to tearing theirs.

"But sometimes he brought other things. Small things we would find novel, from far away places. Little toys or treats."

It was obviously something they looked forward to.

Though Aymeric is well-aware that his origins are a little uncouth, he was never left to want for basic necessities and everything after. Respect had to be earned, but clothes, food, even the tools with which to train the talents he now had were all due to the fact that his parents were happy to provide for him.

That Estinien's mother would spin yarn...he finds that charming. He does not say as much, not wanting the notion to sound patronizing. And hearing that when Estinine would 'stop growing', knowing that such a time never came for his parents? It seems that most things are somehow connected to the tragedy. Naive, perhaps, of Aymeric to think he can steer the conversation wholly elswehwere.

Yet as Estinien continues to make an effort, so shall Aymeric.

"It sounds as if these trips would be quite the talk of the town when they occurred."

It's the trap that he always falls into. To think of the good times inevitably leads to thinking of what was lost - the promises that would never be filled, the milestones never crossed. So much goes assumed, in day to day life, perhaps unreasonably given Coerthas's curse. Yet, how could the common man survive if they dwelt only upon their possible end?

Parents must hope they will live to see their children grow up. Siblings count on the idea that they would know each other as adults, someday in the future. Yet, none of these things turned out to be true, for Estinien's family.

Everything he'd come to know was gone, even beyond his family. The valley Ferndale rested in was the only world he knew, and it and all its people were gone. The townsfolk that his father aided in the fields. The kindly neighbours that would watch over them. The smalltown seamstress that would buy his mother's wool.

Gone.

And in that moment, all those fond memories were left to decay. Never again could he recall them without the taint of death and despair. He's not sure what exactly Aymeric wants to hear, but part of him hoped that he could finally share some part of him that wasn't shrouded in darkness.

"Aye. He'd said that... one day, when I was older, I'd be welcome to come with him." He pauses, the obvious implications of that bleeding over. "I long wondered of this place. But then..."

He falls silent completely. He turns his head away from Aymeric, the towels still clutched to his face. It's a mercy, in this case.

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