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The man who enters and the creature that leaves are not the same.
The Azure Dragoon may be one of Ishgard’s most famed warriors, but the method of determining its host is the stuff of fireside tales. They’d all whispered amongst themselves, the nonsense pervading their every word when new recruits were deep in their cups and bored stupid. But even then, Estinien had listened. Of course he had. You didn’t take yourself into battle without knowing the terrain; you didn’t strike at an enemy without knowing its weak spots.
They say that it hurts. Burns worse than a dreadwyrm’s fire, cuts deeper than the claws that are longer than a greatsword’s blade. They say it corrupts, infects, turns even the most devoted of men into a mad beast because no mortal can expect to brush so close to something so primally wrong without becoming singed at the edges. Frayed. Broken.
Cursed. That you’ll never truly walk Halone’s Halls because you’re doomed to be the dog guarding the gate, twisted into something so utterly repulsive that any decent Halonic soul will cringe away from You. You’ll be celebrated as a holy man but flinched from by children, your armour gleaming bright but soon soaked in blood. Most likely yours. Dragoons don’t tend to live very long.
Everyone turns blue when they’re dead.
No one wants to get close to a dog that could tear your throat out when the last threads of sanity snap. But that suits Estinien fine, because the last shreds of his humanity burned when Ferndale did. That armour is as good as welded to his bones, the helmet more familiar to him than his own face. He doubts anyone would recognise him if he walked through the city in civilian clothes–
(‘Ah! There you are, my friend!’ Footsteps hurry to meet him, an arm raised in greeting as they peer up at his perch. ‘You have quite the knack for hiding.’
He shrugs, doesn’t bother offering an answer, and Haurchefant doesn’t push, just awkwardly hauls himself up to sit next to him on the wall. It’s sickeningly high up, the wind howling around their ears and compounding the cold premature-spring air into something solid. Haurchefant beams at him, squeezes Estinien’s half-frozen shoulder, and settles in against the icy stone next to him.
‘’Tis late,’ he ventures. ‘Were you perhaps going to stay here the entire eve?’
‘I wasn’t aware I was to be chaperoned,’ Estinien drawls and gives him a pointed look that slides off the other elezen’s demeanour like the children do over the frozen puddles in the Forum. ‘Go. Leave me be.’ The boy is only eighteen summers, eyes like a Coerthan lake and a smile that infects everyone he touches. Surely he has someone better waiting for him.
Haurchefant ignores him, instead reaches into his bag, pulls out a metal container and a hastily wrapped package, then delicately pours them both a cup of steaming tea. Estinien blinks at the absurdity of it; Haurchefant just grins.
‘Now, I know you seek out boltholes such as these to be ever so mysterious and brooding, but it may well spoil the image if you catch a chill.’
‘And why should that be a concern of yours?’
‘You missed the evening meal. I would be a poor friend indeed should I let you go hungry.’
He doesn’t mention the reports of yet another burned out village, or how Estinien had walked out of the barracks when they’d spoken of survivors and sending a unit to deliver burn salves, doesn’t offer any words of judgement that his fellow knights mutter under their breath. Instead they sit in a companionable silence until Haurchefant drops back down to the path below, offers him a hand. This time Estinien takes it, and all he can think of is how warm his friend’s hands are, how a part of him relaxes when Haurchefant throws an arm around his shoulders and steers him towards home– )
The doors to the Holy See are freezing.
He’s led down into depths of the building by an unsmiling guard who doesn’t look him in the face, the path winding deeper and deeper into the dark. One would think with such high stakes the ceremony would be some huge honour, some celebration, but instead there is only the sound of twin footsteps and a growing sense of unease. The days since the Calamity have grown dimmer and dimmer until the astrologians start to wonder if the snow will ever cease to fall or the sun will turn black for good.
They’re already dispatching soldiers far too young, out to the Vigils and the borders beyond to try and stop the wyrms from taking advantage of their weakness, exhausted boys with far too little food and morale stamped into the slush. Now it’s Estinien’s turn.
He hasn’t spoken about it to anyone; Alberic tried, a few weeks ago, stopping in to check on his foster son and to make sure the Calamity hadn’t claimed him. Neither of them are particularly good at talking, words strangling themselves before they’ve even left their throats. It matters not. Sometimes you don’t need words because Alberic knows well enough that he won’t be able to stop him-
(‘They’re performing the binding ceremony in a fortnight. I shall be there.’
‘Aye, I knew you would,’ Alberic says with a sigh, carefully watching him with that permanently sorrowful stare which only ever makes Estinien refuse to meet his eyes. ‘Are you sure this is what you want? ‘Tis a brutal trial- ‘
‘You think me too weak?’ He can’t stop the hurt bleeding through, the last vestige of the boy who burned wanting that approval, but Alberic is not his father, even if he can’t quite remember what his true sire looked like.
‘I did not say that; the life of a dragoon is a bitter one. Azure more so. If ‘tis the life you truly wish to lead, you must have no doubts, especially if the Eye chooses you.’
Estinien laughs bitterly. ‘It chose me a long time ago, whether I wished it or no.’
Alberic gently puts a hand on his arm, sufficient to stop him running off but not enough to be what Estinien truly wants; someone to hold him tight and tell him how proud they are, that they couldn’t imagine a better son and it’s okay to be scared.
‘Be certain, and prepare yourself, body and mind,’ is all he gets instead, before Alberic lets go. ‘I would never call you weak, but I am wary, boy–‘ )
They stop in a cavernous room that’s only lit by the fire in the grate, sending shadows dancing on the walls like cackling imps around a campfire. The guard melts away into the gloom without a word and Estinien crosses his arms, stares straight ahead. He’s not sure how long he waits before he realises there are more people being ushered inside, the shadows claiming them almost instantly.
He knows them. How couldn’t he? They’ve trained side by side for years, hauled each other through the storms of this wretched Calamity and yelled at them to keep going, keep walking, don’t you dare fall asleep. He’s watched them, albeit from a distance, occasionally stopping to wonder what it would be like to sit around the fire with them, share a drink and mayhaps a smile. Soldiers consider their units family, but Estinien knows far too well what that kind of attachment gets you when the dragons swoop in.
Still, he keeps an eye out for Heustienne, the only name he’s really bothered to remember. She appears soon after, as serene as ever, and shoots him a look as she realises he’s watching.
‘I’ll look forward to bossing you around as your captain,’ she tells him, in a tone that’s almost friendly, a complete contrast to the eerie atmosphere. Estinien smothers a snort of laughter.
‘Feeling confident, are you?’
‘Are you not?’ She raises a pale eyebrow. ‘I would say may the best dragoon win, but the Eye is its own entity, by all accounts. It plays no favourites.’
Of course, she’s right, but Estinien has no doubts. The Eye will choose him. It has to. Because if all of this pain was for naught, then–
(A postmoogle arrives in his room just after dawn, disgustingly chipper and dropping a letter into his hands before he can protest the intrusion. Bewildered, he peels it open, and lets his eyes rake over the short note.
“The best of luck for today! Pray come to the Borel manor afterwards so we can celebrate, for I have no doubts whatsoever you will be chosen!”
Aymeric’s name is signed below with a remarkably bad doodle that after a moment Estinien recognises as a depiction of the Eye, followed by a smiley face. It’s new – very new – this relationship. Far beyond him, usually, to even pay one other person the attention required for this sort of thing, but it feels easier to breathe with Aymeric beside him, curled around him during these bitter nights. Being hand in hand has never felt more right, more natural, and he may even, in time, get used to being smiled at- )
His hand wraps around the note, carefully folded and tucked into the pocket of his coat. The paper is a little worn already, but that’s fine. When he has a moment, he’ll put it somewhere safe, where Aymeric’s words can be preserved like light in a crystal, like light bursting through clouds to remind you for a second that you aren’t ever as alone as you think you are.
They’re being called away now, one by one, and all of a sudden he hears Heustienne’s name being called. He snaps out of his daze, studies her face for any sign of emotion, but she seems remarkably calm for someone trapped miles underground with no way out.
‘Good luck,’ he blurts out without thinking. ‘May Haldrath walk with you.’
She turns to him, clearly surprised, the firelight catching on her hair and making it gleam gold.
‘...You too, Wyrmblood,’ she tells him, a genuine smile on her lips, before she vanishes into the dark.
Now it’s just him, alone in the chamber, and he resists the urge to huddle next to the fire. If this is part of the test he will not falter, not an ilm. The Eye is his by blood ties, and he deserves nothing more than to crush it in his fist and claim its blighted power for himself. Weapon, dog, monster, call him what you want, but with this he can ensure there are no more orphans left in burning wreckage, no more shades doomed to wander because there was nothing left to bury. He will be polished to a knife point and he will rip out every wyrm’s heart with his bare hands-
(Haurchefant tackling him in a hug while they pass in the mess hall that morning; it gets his fellow knights catcalling and wolf-whistling, raucous laughter only increasing as Estinien throws them a rude hand gesture.
‘Good luck!’ his friend sings out. ‘Bring home some good stories for me, all right?’ He’s already darting away, undoubtedly late for something, but he’s still grinning and waving as he vanishes out of sight- )
He’ll bring home more than stories.
Finally, they beckon him forwards, Halonic priests in their gleaming robes, ushering him into a side chamber. There’s no signs of any of the other candidates – are their trials over already? No one elaborates and Estinien sets his jaw. Fine. So be it. He takes to scrutinising the room itself, wall to floor freezing stone and a submerged pool in the middle of the room, big enough for a full grown elezen to stretch out in.
The priests surround him as judges, eyes blank as stone. Their hats are hiding their faces in shadow, making it impossible to determine who is speaking. Estinien stares straight back, because whatever they want from him, he can take it. They’ve already taken enough.
‘Disrobe,’ one of them commands, and he does without hesitation, tosses his clothes to the side in a crumpled heap. There’s no point being embarrassed or fretting about modesty – why bother when the military has owned his body for years?
‘Kneel.’
He obeys, and feet pad over to him. A hand is laid on his head and the whispering begins, chanting in a dialect so old he doubts even the Scholasticate could translate it. Something is poured over his head. It burns, hot and viscous, the beast so freshly slain he fancies he can hear its screams. It trails down his face like the mockery of a lover’s touch, touches his lips with its metallic taste and removes the memory of Aymeric’s ki-
–he’s standing outside, the sky yawning and grey above as the snow falls around him. The sun dips below the city spires, speaking of the day creeping into dusk. It wasn’t even noon when he went inside the cathedral.
Pain is thrumming through his head like a taut string being plucked over and over again, snapping against the inside of his skull. His clothes are clean, and as he catches his reflection in a nearby frozen puddle, his hair is its usual shaggy mess. There is nothing outwardly amiss, apart from that he has no idea where he is or how he got there.
Estinien blinks a few times, tries to get the blurriness to lift from his eyes. Though the light is starting to dim, everything feels too stark, too bright, the snow on the ground searing into his retinas. He can’t seem to focus his eyes properly, as if two realities are merging into one, multiple images overlapping each other to create a distorted picture, and it’s a distorted picture he doesn’t recognise. The thought bothers him, but it isn’t anxiety that’s prickling in the back of his head; more like annoyance. Irritable embers pricking at his synapses. He could be at home in a pleasantly dark nest, or soaring above the clouds and leaving this ugly city behind with every beat of his wings-
What?
He shakes his head and immediately regrets it as his stomach lurches, his entire body knocked off balance. He puts out a hand to steady himself, palms grazing against the stone wall and the sensation burns on his palm. Useless things, something hisses in his mind, and he absently finds himself agreeing. This is why scales were far superior-
(Hands, scrabbling against the thatch of the roof, cracking stone tiles in two and tossing them aside, the overwhelming need to get out and into the fresh air overriding his bruised fingers and choppy nails. One of them catches and breaks on a particularly jagged bit, sends a wicked hangnail lancing down and he roars with pain, throwing the tile hard against the wall. The sudden sting has cut through his fury and for a moment he realises that this is dangerous, that if he’s caught the consequences will be so severe he dare not think but they’ve taken him away from the sky and this will not stand.
He howls his fury at his prison, words echoing in the cavernous room and bouncing back at him. The voice that pours from his throat is not his own, venting its rage against these humans and their audacity and how he needs his claws- )
Estinien takes a careful look around, tries to orient himself. This is not the cathedral. It is certainly not the dark place from his memory. Does he live here? No, that’s not right. Estinien Wyrmblood lives in a sad little room in the barracks with a bed that might as well be a concrete shelf with a blanket tossed over it, the walls bare and the wind howling through the gaps in the window frame. Certainly nowhere as grand as this striking manor, the door a deep, regal blue.
He’s startled from his thoughts as the door flies open, a pair of stony eyes locking on to his own and immediately warming into a gentler, sky blue.
‘Aymeric,’ he says stupidly, with a rush of relief. He knows who this is, knows that he’s safe. Wherever that dark place was, it can’t find him here.
‘I was about to go to the cathedral myself and enquire whether you were to be kept there all night! ‘Tis good to see you – the other candidates left hours ago, if the rumour mills are true.’ Aymeric takes Estinien’s arm and begins to lead him inside, not seeming to notice that something is very wrong with him and he should probably leave before his claws come back and gut Aymeric like a fish.
It feels like the rest of his body is moving on its own and he’s just a mammet being puppeteered over the threshold. Aymeric is saying something but the words are floating past his ears and oddly muffled, the pounding in his head growing worse with every step. He tries to right himself, make his feet land flat against the floor rather than this odd arched, wobbling stance his toes insist on curling into. Instead all this does is make him slump back against the door, unable to keep his balance, sliding down the wood to sit on the blessedly solid floor before Aymeric can stop him.
‘Estinien?’ he hears someone ask, and Aymeric is peering down at him, his pretty eyes worried. ‘Is aught amiss? You look… where – where are your boots?’
‘...Hmm?’
‘Where are your boots?’ Aymeric repeats. ‘Snow has been falling all day, you can’t have forgotten- ‘
‘I’m cold,’ Estinien blurts out instead. The figure in front of him wavers, flickering like candlelight, and he can’t stop shaking. It feels like there’s ice pouring through his veins; his hands are spasming and he can barely feel his feet, they’re so numb. How had he not noticed?
‘I’m not surprised. You’re not even wearing a coat, how did you…’ He won’t stop staring, drilling into Estinien’s brain the way miners bore through rock, chips of blue precious stones glowing in the dark. ‘Tell me what happened.’
‘’Tis a long story,’ Estinien tells him, because that’s an understatement and a half. ‘I just – I need to get warm. I’m all right.’
‘You’ll forgive me if I don’t believe you?’
‘Aymeric. Please. Let a man catch his breath afore you begin the interrogations, aye?’ He stares wearily up at the other man, his eyes struggling to stay open. Aymeric sighs, shakes his head, but there’s no true exasperation there.
‘You’ll turn me grey before the year is out, my friend.’ Usually that’s Estinien’s cue to laugh and elbow him, maybe aim a gentle kick at his ankle, but for the moment it’s all he can do to muster up the strength to let Aymeric pull him to his feet.
He hauls Estinien up and half carries him into the parlour, the fire blessedly raging in the hearth in a way that feels familiar and homey. He collapses on to the chaise, drops his aching head into his hands. There’s too much light, too many sounds. Mayhap the dark place was better after all.
Aymeric sits next to him, gently guiding Estinien’s tense shoulders to collapse into his lap. His lover combs through the ratty mess that’s meant to be his hair and smoothes out the tangles, massages his shrieking temples to try and ease it down to a whine. This is safe. This is allowed. Aymeric has never touched him in any way that hurts. His own hands may be wicked claws but Aymeric’s are kind despite the blade they wield-
(He can’t tell how many of them there are, lurking in the shadows, just that more and more hands keep reaching forward to pin him down, holding him fast as the needle approaches. He’s told himself he will not turn away, he will not fail, but the thought of dragon blood entering his body is a deep rooted terror unlike he’s ever known, that even after the first, second, third time it burns like liquid levin and scorches away even more of Estinien and turns him to Wyrmblood-
There’s a hand on his head, smoothing his hair in a way that’s almost kind before it twists into his scalp and forces him to bare his neck- )
He flinches, breathing ragged and too fast, Aymeric’s hands falling away as he studies his face.
‘It’s all right,’ he says, keeping his voice soft like you would when coaxing out a scared cat. ‘It’s all over now, I presume? Or do you need to report in somewhere?’
‘It chose me. I remember that, but the rest…’ It hurts to focus, Aymeric’s eyes the only point of colour he can pick out in the gloom, eyes stinging and prickling but not with tears. ‘I don’t know. My head, it…’
‘You were down there a while; I don’t suppose they gave you food or water.’ He can’t recall, just the taste of copper on his tongue and lips, and Aymeric takes that as a no. ‘Let's get some water into you, at least, and then to bed. You look terrible.’
He knows what he wants to do. He wants to laugh and prop himself up to kiss Aymeric and then slyly say that if he’s so hideous, you won’t want me sharing your bed, hmm? And then Aymeric will roll his eyes and call him impossible and they’ll curl in front of the fire together, perhaps listening to the orchestrion. That’s what Estinien would do, but he’s not quite sure he’s Estinien anymore, because his body won’t move the way he wants it to and the space inside his head feels far too small, like he’s being forced out and compressed into the jagged crags of his skull.
Instead he lets Aymeric sit him up and dazedly gets up to follow him to the kitchen, grip white knuckling against the countertops. He accepts the water without complaint but for some reason it’s making him shiver more, like ice is replacing the levin in his veins. The cup of tea Aymeric presses on him next is blessedly warm and he spends longer holding it than actually drinking it, stares into space as Aymeric frets over his hands and how he should be careful. Silly thing. The heat from this is nothing.
He finally figures out that maybe the hot drink will help burn away the chill and stop Aymeric from worrying, so he coaxes himself to take a sip and forces himself to swallow. He doesn’t manage more than a couple before his stomach heaves. The mug crashes to the floor and explodes into shards; Aymeric’s shout rings in his ears but doesn’t register with the taste of rotting flesh coating his tongue.
He barely makes it to the sink before he starts retching, detritus clogging his throat and for a moment he can’t clear it enough to breathe. Blood spills from his mouth, lukewarm and congealed, mixed with chunks of meat that’s so tough it hasn’t broken down at all, lumps of cartilage crawling up his throat and carving wicked scars on their way out.
A desecration of the most debauched kind, making him consume his own kin for the sake of power, for the petty games of men and the ancient rituals they throw around like toys, as if forcing this vessel to imbibe a wyrm’s essence will even come close to reproducing their power-
(There’s a voice next to him, smooth and grinning even without a face, a spectre in the dark.
“Consume thy flesh and absorb thy soul. There is no You any longer, just who You will become, Azure Dragoon.”
His fingers are digging into the lump of flesh in his hands, blood rolling down his shaking wrists as he lifts it to his mouth- )
‘Estinien?! Estinien, talk to me- ‘ Aymeric’s voice is frantic, gripping his shoulder tight and thumping his back while he chokes on gore and splintered bone. ‘Tell me, what did they do?! I will fetch a healer- ‘
Estinien shakes his head, flaps a hand in Aymeric’s direction in a vague attempt to reassure him, though the effect is probably ruined when he sways uncontrollably on his feet. Aymeric props him up without him even needing to ask, and that’s enough to make him feel better. Aymeric won’t let him fall, won’t let him drown in his own blood.
Slowly, the convulsions stop and he gags up the last piece of sinew, tiny bones littering the bowl of the sink. Something brushes against his lips and he reaches up to clear it, dread filling his heart as a handful of crumpled, bile-soaked feathers choke free from his oesophagus.
‘I don’t feel well,’ he manages to mumble, finally slumps back and lets Aymeric steer him over to a chair. His body is rejecting him in favour of this creature impaled to his soul, pushing him out so the wyrm inside can hollow him out and make his skin its own.
‘What did they do to you?’ Aymeric asks, crouching in front of him and resting reassuringly sturdy hands on Estinien’s shoulders like he can prevent the wyrm from crawling out. ‘If you are bleeding internally or- or- ’
‘No, no. Not hurt. The ritual requires…’ He almost doesn’t want to say it, instead opens his hand to show Aymeric the crumpled feather. His lover blinks at it for a moment, connecting the dots into their sordid picture. The barely-digested dragon meat rotting in the sink, the pieces of bone littering the floor. Aymeric is not a stupid man.
‘But if it acts as a poison, something no mortal can withstand- ‘
‘If that were true, none would have held the title of Azure since Haldrath.’
‘And the priests knew this was to happen?’
‘I don’t know.’ He can barely hold his head up, letting his forehead rest on Aymeric’s shoulder, eyes screwed tight shut in an effort to stop the stinging. ‘They were… pleased. Said I could sleep it off.’ He starts to shiver again because even thinking about it brings back the memories of the dark place and freezing walls, a door slamming shut and the overwhelming feeling of suffocating because he knows not if this feeble body will be able to contain him or if it will broil from the inside out.
‘Sleep’s probably the best thing for you.’ Aymeric’s voice cuts through the ringing in his ears, a hand cradling the back of his head, his thumb running over the nape of Estinien’s neck. ‘Unless of course you’d let me bring a healer to you, if only to check you over?’ His words are so tender it makes him want to cry, ever patient and calming, only wanting to help.
‘No. No,’ Estinien insists, finally gathering the strength to lift his head. ‘Just… need to lie down. Somewhere dark.’
‘I’m sure we can manage that,’ Aymeric says, relief colouring his voice, and he lifts a hand to gently tuck Estinien’s hair behind his ear. ‘My bedchamber should suffice, or is the light from the fire overmuch – Twelve above, your eyes- ‘
Numbly, Estinien reaches up a shaky hand, it taking far longer than it should to make contact with his face. The skin underneath is oily and clammy, and his fingers skid along his cheekbone before coming away wet. The smell of old meat is unmistakable, as well as the substance smeared over his hand; blood, but far thicker and more coagulated than that of a human, closer to black than red, unnaturally warm on his freezing hands.
‘I’m fetching a chirurgeon,’ Aymeric says firmly. ‘Part of this… this ritual or no, you’re losing blood- ‘
‘I’m – I’m all right. Doesn’t hurt.’
‘Can you even see?!’
‘Mmm. Well enough.’ Almost too well, truth be told, the scene in front of him stark and bright like a finely honed sketch rather than reality, colours a touch too vivid and the light searingly bright. ‘No healers. M’fine.’
‘Estinien. Your eyes are bleeding.’
That’s nothing compared to what else has been done to him, what has been dripped into his body and scratched on to his soul. Maybe this time they’ll know how it feels to have an eye gouged out and a lance scraping around in the socket to ensure the optic nerve is severed as the hunters laugh-
He makes a strangled noise, and Aymeric has the sense to move out of the way as he heaves more viscera onto the floor, the taste of rotten meat and bile coating his teeth, his tongue. His body is rejecting itself, this pathetic human vessel unable to contain the wyrm’s flesh, proof that mortals will never know what they’re dealing with, what they hold in their hands, that they can only control it in the way you can control magicks sparking out of their boundaries-
A hand holds his hair out of the way, the other rubbing soothing circles on his back. Aymeric looks unbothered by the mess, focusing instead on hauling Estinien back to the surface. If anything he looks far too calm, face blank apart from chewing his lip bloody. His movements are slow and for some reason that calms him, his breathing starting to even out a little. There’s no words of condemnation or scolding, for which he’s grateful. Not that he could offer up much in the way of an argument at the moment.
‘You need to be checked over by someone who is far more versed in the magical arts than I,’ Aymeric tells him, and his voice is shaking underneath the carefully painted on veneer of Temple Knight Commander. ‘If something is seriously wrong, how would I know? I could lose you.’
‘No. No.’ Estinien blinks a few times, feels the not-tears rolling down his cheeks. ‘I was… they… they put me in a cell. With guards.’
‘Aye, and probably with healers within range, did they not?’
‘To be opened- ‘
‘-To be opened in two suns, no less. It should be long enough to determine if the Eye takes to the vessel.’
‘Is that all? Seems a rather short span of time to decide on matters of such import.’
‘Previous trials have proven this to be the most… effective method of testing. The subjects cannot survive much longer without fluids, at any rate.’
‘Can the healers not- ‘
‘There are precious little healers left. They would not be able to help, anyroad. One tried to place an intravenous line in a few of the earlier candidates. Claimed it would be more humane. The servants were cleaning blood off the walls for weeks.’
‘I was not supposed to leave,’ he grinds out. ‘No healers. If they find out- ‘ Losing the title of Azure Dragoon would be bad enough; even being close to this much dragon blood would probably get them both executed for heresy.
Aymeric inhales sharply. ‘What did you do?’
‘Escape.’
‘But surely they would be able to – to help with this affliction?’
‘Aye, with an axe to the neck?’ He tries to sit up. ‘There are no chirurgeons. You survive or you don’t.’
Aymeric’s face turns white. ‘I had heard… stories but I always thought they were hearsay. Tales to scare children.’
Estinien laughs weakly, because he’s seen twenty seven summers and he’s fucking terrified. Aymeric’s jaw sets.
‘Well. ‘Tis a good thing I don’t scare so easily. You shall be stuck with me, I’m afraid, at least until you’re well enough to stand on your own. If there is naught a healer can do, I won’t allow you to suffer this alone.’
‘Swear it. Swear it.’ His clumsy hand scrabbles for Aymeric’s arm, digging into his sleeve in the effort to convey what his words can’t. He’s not sure, exactly, what he’s asking; the promise of no medics, or for Aymeric to stay with him until his traitor body finally fails.
‘I promise you, on my lady mother’s grave. No one shall hear of this apart from the two of us, even Haurchefant. There’s no doubt in my mind that you can fight this.’ The man’s name conjures a flicker of pain in his heart because truly, there’s no one either of them trust more, and Estinien knows without a doubt that his dear friend would never wield this truth against him. Doubtless he would know the right words to mend this, but at the moment it’s just the two of them against the world, huddled on Aymeric’s kitchen floor amongst a puddle of vomit and congealing feathers.
‘Right. Let’s get you somewhere safe. We can puzzle out the matter of this… confinement when you are more yourself.’ Aymeric exhales slowly, wraps an arm around Estinien’s waist and helps him to his feet. The body heat is almost euphoric, and if he was given half the chance he’d pass out right there and then, cling to his lover like a heat pack. It’s only a testament to Aymeric’s ridiculous strength that he can almost entirely support the other elezen’s weight the entire way to his bedroom.
Aymeric carefully deposits him on the bed, moving swiftly to douse the lights and yank the curtains tightly shut, leaving—as promised—only the light of the fire in the grate. He can hear it crackling and snapping; it must have been burning for a while, but he can barely feel the heat, the flames failing to chase away the chill skittering over his skin. It’s so encompassing that he can only just about focus on Aymeric coaxing him out of his ruined clothes, bundling blankets around him until he’s not sure where his body is anymore. No matter what he does, it’s so, so cold, but at least it’s blessedly dark, the dimness of the room soothing his aching head.
Aymeric makes to move away, and without thinking he snags his partner’s wrist, reflexes strangely quick.
‘Don’t go,’ he pleads. ‘Don’t.’ The world is already thrown off its axis, the room spinning and the void beckoning. The dark place is only bearable with Aymeric by his side.
‘I won’t leave,’ Aymeric soothes, squeezes his hand tight. ‘But I need to collect some medical supplies, fetch some water… lock the doors. I would much rather appear that there is no one here tonight; I cannot chance an unexpected visitor, and I need to dispatch a page to stop Jannoux arriving in the early hours, give some reasonable excuse.’ The manservant, of course. Gods only knows how Aymeric’s going to explain the dragon blood all over his floor. ‘I shan’t be long.’
‘You’ll… you’ll come back?’
‘Estinien. Look at me.’ He does as he is bid, lets Aymeric tilt his head up to look him in the eyes, kind fingers skimming over his jawline and tracing a path with his thumb. ‘I need you to trust me. I won’t leave you, I swear it, but I need to keep you safe. I promise it shan’t be for long.’
The only one who hadn’t flinched away when he’d found out his new friend was the last survivor of Ferndale and awoke screaming almost every night, who had never recoiled when he spoke of nightmares so horrific that even Alberic had turned away with haunted eyes. Aymeric had watched his feverish obsession with wyverns spill into every aspect of his life and still extended a hand in friendship, still sat beside him for meals and took patrols with him. The one who had held him tight in the small hours of the morning until Estinien’s heart stopped racing, his hands stopped shaking, listened when he described how the boy he’d been died that day and promised not to tell anyone when the tears had started rolling down his face.
Aymeric, whom he trusts with his heart and everything else besides.
Estinien hasn’t been able to trust anyone since Alberic had pulled him out of that wreckage and told him that everything would be all right, because he’s been waiting for that day since he was twelve years old.
But Aymeric… Aymeric has never lied to him.
‘Okay,’ he croaks, and is rewarded with the tiniest smile blooming across Aymeric’s face.
‘Thank you. Try and rest; I shan’t be more than a few minutes.’ He presses a feather-light kiss to Estinien’s forehead and tucks his hands back into the blankets, blends almost instantly back into the dark. The only sound is that of the chattering fire, giggling at the pathetic state he’s been left in, and breath rasping in and out of Estinien’s lungs.
(He remembers the first time he got sick, after Alberic took him in. Nothing more concerning than a winter bug, a malady that would spread like wildfire through his village this time of year and require a few days in bed. He would act tough and pretend to be a man grown until the winter flu season kicked in, and then would gladly spend a day snuggled in blankets in front of the fire, asleep in his mam’s lap or Da stroking his hair.
Alberic’s home is a lonely building made from stone, carved out of the hills itself. There’s no chatter of the village in the background to be distracting, no murmurs of the flock at all hours of the night, just cavernous rooms and the wind howling through the trees. Hamignant doesn’t pester him by bringing him his favourite toys, doesn’t clamber in next to him and hug him tight, doesn’t clumsily attempt to read to him from books that he’s making up half the words to anyway. Every year Estinien would be snappish, irritable, push the younger boy away because his voice was too loud and his words grating, but now his brother isn’t capable of saying anything ever again and Estinien misses him so badly it hurts.
Alberic hovers but doesn’t quite touch, can just about manage to squeeze his shoulder or pat his head, wrap a blanket around him and bank the fire, but then leave him quite alone. He remembers shivering in his room, which in truth is a converted pantry with no windows; a scratchy blanket made from untreated wool, pilfered from military stores; a straw-stuffed, itchy pillow. Alberic will pour medicine down Estinien’s throat, bring him water, but anything more is stolen away before it was voiced, instead marked by a murmured request to get some sleep and the click of the door being shut- )
So many dark places he’s trapped in.
The ever-looming cold won’t go away, digging into the marrow of his bones with thin, razor sharp fingers. The blankets are an irritant against his bare skin, scraping the upper layers in a hypersensitive screech masquerading as comforting touch. Dragonhide would be far preferable, of course, his core lit from the warmth of his inner flame, but this wretched shell has none of that. Human blood is always so tepid when it pours down his throat.
‘Stop it,’ Estinien rasps, huddles deeper into his cocoon like it will keep him safe from the invader. ‘I know naught of this, wyrm.’
A sly chuckle rings out from the crevasses of his brain, a voice so ancient and fathomless it can barely form human tongue at all-
‘Soon thou shalt.’
He curls his hands over his ears. He’s not sure if it’s blood or tears rolling down his cheeks this time.
It feels like an age until Aymeric returns, cradling what appears to be a washing up bowl stacked high with things his bleeding eyes can’t parse. He closes and locks the bedroom door, before doing the same to the window, and that brings Estinien the smallest measure of relief. No one will find him here. He can hide in the dark and the quiet until this is all over. Aymeric perches next to him, strokes his hair back from his forehead.
‘How do you feel?’
‘Bloody awful.’
‘Aye, I suppose ‘twas a foolish question,’ Aymeric says with a sigh. ‘Can you stand some water, do you think?’ Thankfully he can, and it soothes his raw throat a little. It feels like his vocal chords are twining around each other in some perverted embrace, twisting until they snap. The act tires him out, so he slumps back against the pillows while Aymeric tends to his battered hands. It burns in only the way that ice can, straight down to the marrow. It would be so easy to make him stop, to grab those fragile fingers and shatter them as easily as you would a sparrow’s neck-
‘I’m sorry. I know it isn’t pleasant,’ Aymeric murmurs, dabbing away at his ruined nails. ‘’Tis hallowed water. I thought it may help.’
Estinien forces his eyes open a crack.
‘’Tis expensive, to waste on the likes of me.’
‘Aye, and I would use every drop of it, if it brought you some level of comfort.’ Aymeric’s tone leaves no room for argument. ‘How will the Holy See explain their newly forged Azure Dragoon losing his hands to infection? Or frostbite, no less.’ He clasps Estinien’s hand in his own, briskly massaging it to try and circulate the blood. ‘Halone preserve, you’re cold. Did they truly mean to leave you like this?’
‘Mmm. Underground.’ His memories are fuzzy and piecemeal. In truth he has no idea how he’s going to find his way back. But for now his head aches too much to think, his nails burning as Aymeric wipes away the gore.
‘Had I known- ‘
‘No one does,’ he interrupts wearily. ‘Do not apologise for the church and their pageantry.’ He flinches as a sharp pain spikes through his fingers, reflexively curls them into a fist.
‘I’m almost done,’ Aymeric soothes. ‘Try and relax for a minute.’ It’s getting harder to move his hands, the whining pain rising into a howl, and it takes a huge amount of effort to unfurl them. His hand is resting on Aymeric’s lap, his skin an unhealthy grey, his nails catching the light looking as wickedly hooked as- as-
‘Aymeric,’ he rasps, tries to pull back. ‘Don’t- ‘
‘I know they hurt- ‘
‘Stay back- ‘
He’s started to shake again as his nails sharpen before his eyes, hooked claws pushing up from his nail beds far faster than anything natural should grow. The itching and prickling is spreading across his body like scabs, ink spattered across snow. He scrabbles at them, nails biting into flesh to try and get them out, skin sloughing away like his childhood burns did, weeping pus and peeling. He must needs be thorough, is all. Every vessel is like this at first, writhing and thrashing until they can be subdued, cowed under the weight of Him in their soul. There has not been an Azure Dragoon in fifteen years. Mayhaps their sires make them weaker now, and that thought pleases Him because now these humans will know the pain of seeing those they love dead and mutilated-
His claws are digging into flesh, a voice shouting louder than the one in his head;
‘Don’t even think about giving into that creature. You have fought off every other obstacle and trial with naught more than a lance and sheer bloodymindedness. This-this will not be the end of you!’’
That is a lie, pathetic and pleading, because they have been bound by ash and melting flesh for aeons. He doesn’t recall the boy and his particular vein of ire, but the sheer knowledge that He has been nestled in this heart for so many years, is a thing of beauty not oft seen in mortals. Sitting there, biding His time, poisoning this sad little soul from the inside out. The transformation is barely needed, because this body and mind has been rotting for a long, long time.
‘Go,’ a voice tells the stupid creature in front of him, clinging to his claws like he’s keeping this body from falling from a cliff, even as blood flows down his arms. ‘’Twill do thou no good to become a martyr.’ He isn’t sure from whence the words are flowing, whether the vessel is fighting or he just wants the human out of his sight. ‘This one has been dead for years.’
Just a little longer, while the vessel’s grip on itself weakens. It has not yet succumbed to madness but soon it shall. Once the physical form awakens, ‘tis a gamble whether its heart will stop or arteries rupture, but if it can remain intact for simply a heartbeat-
There’s a searing pain shrieking up his arm, levin made flesh. The sound of blood thunders in his ears and the world greys out for a second, sends him reeling. When Estinien comes back to himself, his fists are clenched tight, wrapped not around Aymeric’s hands but bloodied dragon scales. His arm is white hot with pain, and he’s vaguely aware of blood trickling down his skin. Oh well. At least it’s warm.
‘...Estinien?’ Aymeric tentatively reaches out to him, and Estinien leans into the touch, allowing his eyes to close. Gods, he’s so tired. ‘What… what was that?’
‘You know what that was.’
‘It can use your voice?’
‘I know not what it can do,’ he replies wearily. ‘The wyrm had the right of it; leave me. If I turn- ‘
‘You won’t- ‘
‘I could hurt you,’ Estinien interrupts. ‘You know the damage they wreak and I… if you were to be injured by mine own hand- ‘
‘And pray tell, what is it I’m supposed to do? Lock you in the cellar and pretend you’re not here?’ Aymeric’s voice is sharp but he looks like he’s about to cry. ‘What kind of person would that make me?’
‘A sensible one.’
‘More of a monster than that thing trying to possess you. I’m not leaving you. Not now, not ever. I mean it.’
A crazed laugh escapes, low and rumbling, echoing around the room in a way it has no right to. The creature wrenches his head back, forces him to look Aymeric in the eyes.
‘’Tis a poor time to be making vows, mortal. Or wouldst thou prefer to die at thy lover’s hands?’
Aymeric stares straight back. ‘I mean to give him a fighting chance.’
The beast keeps laughing until its throat is raw.
Estinien limps back to consciousness, his hands sticky with blood. He’s not chained to a wall which he supposes is a bonus, but right now everything hurts so much it would make little difference. Exhaustion coats his every limb, and it’s an effort to force his eyes open and focus. He’s slumped on the rug in front of the fire, which will no doubt have to be disposed of, and there’s something glittering in the light. Ice crystals, blocking him in. Astral rocks laid out in the familiar pattern of Halone’s spear and shield; several clusters that are undoubtedly crystallised levin, searing into his retinas, placed at strategic points. The stink of hallowed water.
He buries his face in his arms. He doesn’t need to scrutinise the scene further to know that there will be rosaries scattered around the room, an enchiridion open somewhere. Smoke is trickling through the cracks in his flesh armour, his heightened olfactory senses clamouring to tell him that herbs are burning. Rue. Furymint. Sage, probably some Abalathian Mistletoe thrown in for good measure and- ah, yes. The salt circle drawn around his battered body. Do they really think him so stupid that he does not know their tricks, that for centuries humans and dragoons have tried to expel his kin’s blood from their vessels?
Its grip is tightening. Estinien can feel it.
Aymeric sits at the head of the circle, enchiridion open in his lap, keeping his distance as he murmurs prayers. Good. Estinien doesn’t know where his body ends and the monster’s begins, and if he’s to lose himself it’s on the proviso that Aymeric is still kept safe. The pain is spreading throughout his body, muscles spasming and twitching as its aether corrupts. The last time a dragoon took the Eye, it ended in failure when he ran-
Estinien closes his eyes. He can’t listen to the voice creeping through his mind anymore, its claws digging through his memories, tail dragging along the floor.
‘Alberic bested you,’ Estinien says through gritted teeth, though in truth he isn’t even sure he’s speaking aloud. ‘I picked up a lance much younger than he did. The Eye will be no different.’
‘Oh? Truly?’
‘Fury take you and swive your frozen corpse,’ he tells it, hands cracking as he unfurls them. The nails are completely gone now, the beds raw and stinging, but the scales are not, creeping up his hands like vines, dappling red like an infection. Ilm by painful ilm he stretches a hand out towards Aymeric, ignoring the salt as it irritates his skin. Aymeric pauses, watches carefully for a moment, then reaches forward to clasp it with his own.
‘Remind me why we were barred from the Forgotten Knight for almost a year?' he asks, and for a moment it stuns both of them into silence until Estinien manages a tiny grin.
‘...Because I punched Ser Vielle for calling you a Brume rat’s whelp.’
‘Hard enough to shatter several bottles of horrendously expensive wine, as I recall.’ Aymeric chuckles softly, squeezes Estinien’s hand tight. ‘Apologies. I wished to determine to whom exactly I was speaking.’
‘Might have been better to do that first, aye?’
‘Not if you needed me.’
He can almost take comfort in this little air pocket of peace, but he can feel the beast crouching beside them, watching them. He has fought it with bones and teeth, kicking and screaming, but Nidhogg has been biding its strength, coiling for one last strike. His time is almost up and the beast will either hatch from his body or be strangled in the cradle.
‘Is it over?’ Aymeric asks hopefully. Foolishly.
‘Far from it. Can you not feel the beast in the dark?’
‘I must admit I cannot,’ he says sadly. ‘Tell me, what must I do? Anything at all to see you safe.’
‘You cannot.’
‘Let me try.’
‘It won’t be long now,’ Estinien tells him as the lights start to flicker, his body beginning to shake as the muscles warp and sinew dances. ‘I’m sorry.’ He pulls his hand away, withdraws it to cradle close against his chest, Aymeric clinging on until the last possible second.
‘You have naught to be sorry for,’ he says softly. ‘I’ll be here when you wake.’ There’s no fear of Estinien Wyrmblood in his eyes, no revulsion for the scales he so lovingly held so tight that left his fingers bloody. Always the one to lead him out of the dark.
‘I love you,’ Estinien tells him, and his eyes roll back into his head.
They bury the bodies outside the empty village. In a few moons, mayhap a year or so, ‘twill be a peaceful place. Someday the grass might grow again, but for now it is a place of embers and ash.
Estinien is only there because Alberic swore he’d return them both to the infirmary after the priests are done with their ceremony. Burns litter the top half of his body, most of his torso and hands swathed in bandages, leaning heavily on the older man though he tries to pretend he isn’t. They watch from several yalms away because Estinien refused to get any closer, counting the mounds of earth the gravediggers shovel into the pits.
‘They’re at peace now, boy,’ Alberic tells him softly, a steady presence at his side. ‘In Halone’s halls, waiting for you.’
‘...They won’t.’ His eyes stare straight ahead but see nothing. ‘They were burned. Father Odoux said they only burn heretics.’ If he lives a good life they won’t burn him, will inter him in a coffin and lower him into the earth so his body is intact and then his soul has a form to cross the frozen tundra to Her icy halls. Piles of ash are no good for one last journey.
Alberic sighs but doesn’t move to correct or scold, just stands with him as the sun dips lower into the sky. His chest hurts so badly he actually thinks his heart might explode out of it, his tears under lock and key. He wants to cry but can’t make himself, a numbing sensation flooding his body, stealing his voice, stealing his screams. Mayhap if he stands still enough, his body will turn to ice and shatter.
Gods above, Estinien wants to reach out to his younger self, wrap the boy in his arms and tell him it’s okay to cry, that he misses them too. That one day there will be someone who loves him again, that he won’t feel alone, that for a few blissful moments, will allow him to forget-
‘Ah. Now I recall thee.’
The voice is like scratched leather, almost humming as it forms human words, standing right behind him. Estinien takes a deep breath, closes his eyes to the silent child and his companion. He is no longer a boy of twelve summers standing in a burned out field. He knew this would happen. He chose this.
‘I remember not the name of the hamlet. The former thief and murderer, however… he was weak.’ At any other time it might sound ridiculous, the aeons old voice coming from a six year old’s throat, but right now Estinien can only stare. The simulacra of his baby brother stands unsteady on his feet like he’s unused to being bipedal, twisted horns sprouting from his head, scales and burns and rot all overlapping on his small face, just enough humanity left to sport a casual smile. ‘The little one screamed afore he died.’
‘You dare- ‘
‘Ratatoskr begged for her life. Thought of men as her comrades, and this is how thee repaid her.’ Hamignant’s voice flattens to a hiss, dark red eyes narrowing, the waning sunlight catching his skin and emphasising that awful, dead blue. ‘And I swore I would not stop until every child of Ishgard lay scorched upon the ground, until thee know pain akin to mine.’
‘You think I do not?!’ Every part of Estinien is being pulled in opposite directions, the urge to bolt yet unable to move, the urge to grab this monster and bludgeon it to death with his bare hands versus stumbling forward to hug Hamignant close and never let him go. ‘You have the right of it, wyrm. I may walk this star, but not a day goes by when I wish I was in the ground with them. Is that pain not enough?!’
The spectre has drifted closer without him realising, the stench of decay filling his nose. The head wounds from the falling house are sickeningly apparent, staining his pale hair. He wants to call out – to Aymeric, to Alberic, to anyone – but it’s always been his fight and his alone, a scared child curled in the corner trying to hide from the monsters.
‘You presume to know mine agony, child? One who holds the tiniest sliver of mine essence?’ The creature reaches for him and Estinien can’t make himself cringe away from that tiny hand. ‘Then I shalt show thee.’
Pain, white hot, erupts throughout his body when Nidhogg seizes him, worse than the burns from Ferndale, worse than the scorching flame from a wyrm. Finally the screams rip free, howled into the dark like he did in the cell, begging for someone, anyone, to please make it stop make it stopmakeitstop-
He crumples to his knees, the pain shrieking through his back like it’s being burned all over again, like the muscles inside are combusting. There’s something under the skin, something writhing, something living and it’s clawing its way out, a cicada moulting its shell. This is the last shreds of Varlineau, Wyrmblood settling into his bones. He can still feel Hamignant’s hand in his; limp and only getting colder.
The dermis splits and his wings finally fall free, slick with fluid. He can barely see them save for impressions out of the corner of his eyes, but can tell the appendages are truly monstrous, a wingspan too many fulms to count, bones heavy and skeletal, just about covered with a thin layer of new flesh, scales peppered in to fill the gaps.
He is going to die. Mayhap he will get to Halone’s halls or mayhap he won’t, tossed in an unmarked grave like his family, like a late spring lamb born deformed. At least he got to see Aymeric one last time. Piles of ash don’t get reborn and neither do heretics, so maybe there will be a nice middle ground where they drift in the void and their aether may tangle together again someday.
He hopes Aymeric knows how much he means to him.
‘-ien! Estinien!’ The voice is so close, so wonderfully familiar even in his death throes. Perhaps the gods have deigned to show him mercy just as his heart gives out. ‘Please, please, this isn’t- you can’t have him!’
The world goes silent, the scene in front of him warping once more. There is warmth in his limbs again and he’s leaning on something solid and comforting, a heartbeat thumping under his ear. Someone’s chin is resting atop his head, holding him close, rocking him back and forth as they beg like the gods really are listening.
‘Please, Halone, do not take this one. I am Your dutiful servant and live under Your wrathful gaze but if you would only even grant one prayer of mine let it be this. Fury, let him stay with me. I have no one else. Please.’
He sometimes forgets that Aymeric is now an orphan too. Both of the Borels were caught in the flash freeze that took Coerthas, their frail bodies unable to cope with the eternal winter. He’d sat here in this very room after learning of their passing, he and Haurchefant and Aymeric, each holding one of Aymeric’s hands late into the night as he cried.
Aymeric, too, knows what it’s like to feel so alone.
It takes whatever strength he has left to wrap his arms around Aymeric’s shaking body, holds him close.
‘I’m here,’ he mumbles. ‘I’m here. I won’t leave you.’
The circle lies in disarray, the candles blown out, hallowed water knocked over where Aymeric had lunged over the protective border. The fire has gone out and the room is pitch black with no sun or moon to stare balefully down on them. It takes a long, long time before either of them have the strength to move.
Estinien has never felt safer in his entire life.
He doesn’t remember falling asleep or Aymeric moving him. He mumbles in sleepy protest as Aymeric gently shakes him awake, hoping for a few futile seconds that his blurred memories of the night previous were just a twisted dream.
The scars on his back prove that to be a lie.
‘Did they… retract?’ Aymeric asks delicately as he helps him dress, runs a hand over the raised wounds on his shoulder blades. Estinien tips his head, thinks.
‘No,’ he decides. ‘I am unsure if they were meant to be… permanent, or how much power the Eye still holds.’ He hauls the now shredded shirt over his head, hisses as his muscles protest. ‘The priests can decide what it means, I’m too tired for it.’ Illusion or flimsy biological construct, he has no idea. They had been gone when he awoke and if he hadn’t known better, would have thought it another hallucination.
‘Must you go back?’
‘Unfortunately. If they find me gone…’
Aymeric grimaces but nods, stops fussing over him long enough to pull him into a tight hug.
‘When they let you go, come home to me. Let me look after you. Please.’
Estinien buries his head in Aymeric’s neck, breathes him in. The embrace is blessedly, blessedly warm.
‘I will. I promise.’ It is he who breaks the embrace this time, but he feels oddly calm. There is nothing they can do to him now. ‘Do not worry yourself. I’ll come back.’ He makes for the door, bare feet padding against the stone. He doesn’t feel cold anymore.
‘Estinien?’ Aymeric calls after him.
‘Mm?’
‘I love you too.’
As he wanders back through the pre-dawn streets, it’s like his body is moving on its own, a hatchling returning to roost. It’s effortless to locate the torn up roof deep in Ishgard’s underbelly, find the hole he carved, slide back down into the darkness. The cell is icy cold, his chains ripped free from the wall, the door locked and bolted as it should be. The straw mattress is bloodstained and filthy, but he collapses on to it anyway, curling into the memory of Aymeric against him. He knows not how long he waits, but it matters little. He can still feel Aymeric on his skin, his lips, the smell of him seeping through the blood. It’s like a fire crystal he can cradle against his battered body, fighting off the chill with its delicate light.
It feels like home.
When the priests come for him, they look delighted. There will be a great feast, they tell him, held in his honour, and a ceremony officially swearing him in as their newest Azure Dragoon.
‘We will grant you a week’s leave to recover, of course, Azure Dragoon,’ one of them adds hastily. ‘A weapon must be maintained lest it breaks.’ Because that’s all he will ever be to this city and its people, a tool to be sharpened and used, perfected for a thousand years of war. They’re already calling him “ser,” and a part of Estinien wonders if anyone in this accursed place will ever call him by his name again, ever tilt back the visor and look into his eyes.
They finally let him leave, and he shoves those thoughts aside. They can dwell with Nidhogg, where all the dark things go. There has to be some light left in this city. There has to be.
It’s an effort, but he makes it back to Aymeric’s door. The door has been left unlocked, and it swings open at his touch. Aymeric waits for him in the kitchen, surrounded by cleaning supplies, a cup of tea, and an exhausted smile reserved just for him.
‘Welcome home,’ he says wearily, and wraps Estinien in a hug. He’s still covered in blood, his clothes in tatters, and no doubt smells dreadful, but it doesn’t seem to deter Aymeric any.
It never does.
Half a bell later they’re curled in bed together, fresh sheets hiding the worst of his bruises, gore sluiced from his hair and neatly braided. Aymeric strokes his battered arm regardless of the patches of scales, holds him close, relaxes into him despite the abomination that now is hammered to his soul. He sleeps next to a monster as easily as he would a prince.
‘Does this not repulse you?’ Estinien murmurs, drowsy and content in the heat of the fire and kitten-soft blankets. ‘That I am no longer entirely human?’ It’s getting harder to stay awake but he needs to know before he surrenders his heart yet again. Aymeric squeezes his hand, careful to avoid the meticulously bandaged fingertips and barely scabbed over cuts.
‘You are my best friend. The one I love. That’s enough, and always will be.’
Aymeric has never lied to him. Estinien is certain he won’t start now.