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

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.

It is those memories that Aymeric hopes Estinien can still cherish--for all that Nidhogg's brood has taken from him, those moments prior to his involvement are still as they were. His family were not always plagued by this devastation.

Of course, it is easy enough for Aymeric to try and think in such terms. Though both of his adoptive parents were now passed, they were taken in the most blessed way possible--old age. They had been older than the typical child-rearing age when they took Aymeric in, what with his mother being unable to conceive. It made them ready and willing to adopt a child in need of a home, is seems, and he never once went without their love and care. As he grew he knew that they would be taken from him earlier than most men his age. He prepared for it. And they went peacefully.

He cannot truly ever know the loss that Estinien feels, nor will he ever pretend to. But that does not mean he won't hear his friend out every step of the way.

"Were he to see you now..." he starts, allowing Estinien some privacy as he stares pointedly at the headboard. "...The rising star of the Knights Dragoon."

It's impossible to imagine how his father would have reacted to where Estinien is now. It would have made for a convenient narrative if Estinien had always dreamed of being a knight, enthusing about the craft before he was ever formally taught, but he just... hadn't been. Being a knight was something for the high families of Ishgard. He was just a boy from a remote village, with karakul to mind and a little brother to watch.

He hadn't dreamed of much more. The destruction of his village had been no convenient event, spurring him on to a life of adventure. He could have been happy where he was.

Would his father have wanted this for him? He can't imagine so. Perhaps it would be preferable to his orphaned son winding up dead in a gutter. His father had never seemed that enthusiastic about involvement in the war.

"He would not recognize me," he says quietly. "And rightly so."

Oh...the wrong turn, isn't it? Aymeric bites his lower lip as he looks up towards the ceiling, glad that Estinien's face is still covered. Mayhaps a little too fond of the man he knows now, projecting it onto the people that Estinein knew before. Who would not be as pleased at all that he has accomplished? No one, in Aymeric's mind.

He pulls back from that point, but there is one thing he wants to say on the matter...

"I hope that he would see a good man. As I do."

That, he believes, would not change no matter the circumstances.

Aymeric clears his throat, indicating that he is dropping that particular topic. He is unsure if whether or not his questions are helping at all or if Estinien is merely humoring him, but he does assume Estinien would be forthright with his displeasure should he feel it.

"Then it was you, your mother, your father, and...a sibling or two?"

"Just one," he says softly. His stomach clenches, inspiring a feeling of sickness even beyond the poison. He loved his mother and father dearly, but his brother... he would always be the one he felt the deepest feeling of shame and despair regarding.

He had been so small, even as he lay dead, crushed beneath the rubble.

The well of words dries up there. His heart is starting to speed again, even as he tries to remain composed. He draws the towel off of his face, clenching it between his fingers. He tries to breathe.

"Forgive me," he says fraily. "I can speak of this no longer."

Aymeric shakes his head instantly. That was the line he toed close to but tried not to cross.

"Nay, forgive me, my friend. I had sought fonder memories in hopes that they may bring you solace when darker thoughts deigned to take you."

He looks away then, busying himself with giving the second towel the same treatment as the first, before gently placing it next to Estinien's hand, should he wish to switch them out for want of a refreshed coolness of the cloth.

Estinien can appreciate the sentiment, even as he feels it could never work that way for him. The darkness in the memories is unseparable. Memories of his family bring him no hope, no comfort. Only the howling void of loss.

To say this much to Aymeric and to have him listen so faithfully is its own success, though. That maybe his friend might understand the world he so often retreats to. That maybe he could imagine the things he sees in his sleep. It's not someone he would want with any other person - with most, this torment is something he would dread for others to know of.

Not so with Aymeric. He falls silent to gather his thoughts, clumsily switching out cloths.

"These memories are inextricably tied," he tries to explain. "When my family died..." He has to pause for breath. "...So too died the happiness I felt with them. Even in my memories, they have been stolen... there is naught left but ash."

There is no solace for him. If there was, he would not be where he is now.

Aymeric takes the first towel, setting it on the tray and simply leaving it there so that he can turn his full attentions back to Estinien. He is quiet, thoughtful for that moment. Aymeric looks down at his own hands.

"'Twould be foolish to believe that I can understand the magnitude of that loss," he says softly. "And I do not claim to. Even now that my parents are gone, their passing was..." How to put this. "It was time."

He shakes his head, looking back up to Estinien's face. The urge to reach out takes him again, but he refrains, instead interlocking his own fingers together.

"...I only hope that you are able to find such happiness again."

Estinien had indeed worried for Aymeric when it came his mother's time to pass - his own memories of his loss making it hard for him to imagine it as anything but a devastating event. Yet, Aymeric had handled it with such poise. It had been difficult to comprehend, in the moment.

It seems like Aymeric is aware of the differences, so Estinien doesn't have to try to articulate them himself. Yet, his wish for Estinien at the end somehow feels more damning than anything else he could have said.

He's not sure that he ever will. Not a happiness untainted by the hatred in his heart. Even the thought of it is something that strikes fear into him - to have happiness is to have something to lose. A feeling he's ruminated on may times since this friendship with Aymeric began developing.

If only he could express how Aymeric himself is the closest thing to happiness he has.

"To have, only to have it taken from me again," he says. "I feel as if true contentment would only prove to wound me more than any amount of suffering." He pulls down the cloth, wiping it over his face and leaving it bundled in his hand. He looks at Aymeric directly, some part of him hoping that his intent will speak through his eyes.

"I cannot bear it, Aymeric. Not again."

Happiness seems like such a simple thing to want either for oneself or someone else. Do not all people deserve some form of happiness? Yet that Estinien sees it...not out of reach, but as something that he should not have, should not try to have for fear of the alternative strikes a strong chord within him. Not one that Aymeric can resonate with, but a tone that he can hear nonetheless.

Aymeric looks back, sky blue meeting that stormy gray. His heart beats strong in his chest and he counts each round. Beats for want of love, for acknowledgment of pain.

If Aymeric had ever been under the impression that Estinien was a man without fear, he abandons those silly notions now. Truthfully, every had something, but Aymeric had not placed it as the fear of losing love. Of losing happiness. That he would choose without...

...no, it is not that--it is the fear of pain. Insurmountable pain.

"I cannot bear it, Aymeric. Not again."

Aymeric swallows.

"You will not have to, my friend." Despite the soft quality of his voice, it is said with no small amount of conviction. "Not alone. I will stand with you 'til the end. On that you have my word."

He knows that Aymeric means well, and that ultimately he begs him for assurances that are impossible to give. They are soldiers both, and even were they not, there is no guarantee of safety in this place. Estinien does not fear his own death, but to lose another that he held dear... that's the thought he can't stand.

Would that he could tell Aymeric his feelings without words. To show that he has allowed him in despite himself, but that the same old fear haunts their every interaction regardless. Much like every happy memory of his family, every moment of joy and comfort Aymeric brings him is haunted with the possibility of loss.

It's pathetic, isn't it? That he can't let go, that he carries the burden so completely after all these years that he's terrified of taking on anything more. Foolish. Weak.

He feels impossibly weary, even as Aymeric promises so much. Maybe he can still imagine... if only for a moment...

Estinien's gaze lingers on Aymeric, his looming doubts and smallest flickering hope seeming to show within his eyes. He has no more words left to speak. The adrenaline has left him, making it harder to keep going - though he still fears what is on the other side of sleep.

"I know not how I will rest this night," he breathes. "While these visions linger still."

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