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Acrid smoke seeps out from underneath a door in the Waking Sands, from a room which was likely a storage closet before it was commandeered by its chief occupant for all manner of arcane experiments. A moment later, a thud resounds against the door and down the hall, followed by a rattling doorknob that heralds the emergence of a slight, short figure that barrels out of the room, arms flailing to bat away the smoke. Enough dissipates to reveal an elezen woman more the height of a Midlander hyur, with skin a shade somewhere between cool brown and pale grey, thin lips stretched around a series of hacking coughs that she tucks into her elbow, her tiny pointed nose running with snot while pale yellow eyes flood with tears.
She curses, running her hands through cropped, pastel orange hair, her pointed ears flickering in agitation, even as she breathes a sigh of relief at the ensuing pat down finding nothing horribly morphed or on fire. Suddenly furious, she reaches for a thick codex belted to her narrow hips, snapping it open to a seemingly random page and placing her hand on it.
A cool breeze sweeps outward, blowing away the smoke and revealing the rest of her, a body shaped as though the Twelve, for whatever reason, decided to make a woman entirely out of knives, then granted her an affinity for knee-length boots, sensible trousers, and short-coats with epaulets. She flips to another page, makes a sigil with her fingers, and is surrounded by a bright green light, which clears the snot from her nose, the tears from her eyes, and the smoke from her lungs.
"Godsdammit, Estinien," she howls, turning and stomping back into the room. "I told you not to touch anything!"
Olympe LaPlace looks around her ad hoc laboratory, filled with an eclectic mix of arcanima proofs, alchemical concoctions, and mechanical bric-a-brac, and grits her teeth. While the corner in which she does her alchemy and the other where she keeps her machine-works appear to be fine, the entire half of the room where she gradually works on improving and reforming her arcanima looks like a monsoon blew through. Paper of various grades, once marked with all manner of numerological sigils, arcane geometries, and elementally attuned glyphs, flutter down from the ceiling like fat snowflakes. They settle around and over a set of dark blue armor with gold and black trimming and spikes on the pauldrons, as well as a blood red lance with a wickedly pointed haft, only matched in sharpness by the wings and blades on the business end. The armor lies deflated and hollow, like the abandoned shell of one of Doma's giant snails.
"Oh gods," Olympe says to no one. "I've killed him."
And after all the trouble we went through to save him the first time, she thinks, then scrunches up her face like she's bitten into sugar cube and hides it in her hands. Gods, Alphinaud is going to cry about it, then Alisaie will kick up a fuss, and I'll need to trap them both in a bubble just to get any bloody peace.
There is something awfully similar to a feeling trying to make its way up her throat, but Olympe has a lot of practice swallowing those down, along with any panic.
Stop overreacting, she scolds herself. There is no body, ergo, no one has died. Less melodrama, more gathering data.
She takes a breath, and drags her hands down her face, leaving a shimmery smear of mythril ink trailing down the right side of her cheek.
He may simply be elsewhere, she reasons. Naked. And unarmed. And possibly surrounded by vicious beasts.
It seems a small sight better than the alternative, and Olympe sticks out a foot and nudges the breastplate as though it might suddenly reveal the whereabouts of its former occupant with enough prodding. A small, pathetic noise of distress answers her, and her eyes go wide. Immediately, Olympe shifts to the top of the armor, dropping to her knees near the neck hole. She reaches out and carefully lifts the top of the breastplate from the bottom, bringing her face closer as she pulls up the padded under-tunic and linen undershirt.
A pair of grey eyes with slit pupils peek out at her from the darkness inside. Two paws, covered with sleek, fog-coloured fur, pop out from the little cavern of armor and clothing. A small head the size of an apple, just as fluffy and capped with a pair of curled triangular ears, follows soon after. Olympe stares with wide eyes and a dropped jaw at the animal in front of her, which takes a sniffly breath…
And promptly sneezes directly into her open mouth.
"Augh!"
The noise of anguish jolts Estinien back to his senses, forces his eyes wide and spine straight. His hair stands on end, head whipping this way and that as he drags himself out from whatever confined space had held him before. LaPlace looms above him, far larger than she normally appears, sprawled back on her arse and making the sort of disgusted face he's only seen when someone's made the mistake of offering her a hug, or food that might dare to have an onze of flavour in it. He reaches back for his lance, ready to drive it through whatever has horrified her so, but his arm doesn't move as he's accustomed to. Confused, Estinien looks down toward his hands.
Only they aren't hands, they're paws. Little furry grey ones.
He makes to curl his fingers into a fist, and the paws move to his commands, claws sliding out from within each toe and digging into the floor momentarily. He turns his head back, and his eyes are immediately drawn to a tail, which is bristling like a bottlebrush. He snaps his head forward again, stares straight ahead into the middle distance and feels logical thought bleed out from his ears. Instinct floods to replace it.
He cannot think of his body in these terms, cannot think of not being in control again, cannot think of being so small and helpless a creature.
Out. I need to get out.
He looks first to the window at the back of the room and, finding it closed, whips around to where he knows there is a door. He bolts toward it, ignores a shout behind him as he skitters across the floor toward escape. His paws slide on the hardwood and claws come out to offer traction as he gets his feet under him and leaps toward freedom…
Only to slam directly into an acid green barrier.
He recovers quickly, shaking off the daze, the abrupt stop bringing him back to himself. He circles in agitation, pacing in front of the door, turning back to stare at LaPlace, who has her hand outstretched, ink-stained fingers spread.
"You aren't going anywhere until I figure out exactly what is going on."
'What's going on?' he tries to say, but it comes out like a rolling yowl that raises steadily in volume as he realizes he can't manage speech. 'You've turned me into a bloody cat is what's going on!'
She squints at him as she slowly lowers her hand, standing and shuffling around him toward the door, giving him the space one might give an explosive. LaPlace shuts them both into the room, and Estinien finds his panicked distress replaced with a thrumming aggitation. Now in his right mind, he's less inclined to leave the room. If there's anything to be done about this transformation, it will be here and it will be due to LaPlace's efforts.
"Estinien?" she says, then crosses her arms and stares up at the ceiling and sighs. "Gods, this is so much stupider than I initially suspected."
She reaches down, hands wrapping around his middle, fingers digging in uncertainly. She pulls, and he arches his spine, unused to and discomfited by the way it feels to be picked up, digging his claws into the wood. He has never been inflexible—at least, not in body—but his spine has never felt quite so springy. Eventually, he has made a full 'u' shape, and looks up into LaPlace's perplexed face as she huffs softly and plucks him off the floor.
Even as wary as he is of holding onto pride overmuch these days, there is a limit and it is being picked up like he is nothing more than a sack of popotos. Estinien twists in her clumsy grip—LaPlace has clearly never held a small animal before, and he has seen her scuttle away from Aymeric's cat when Snowdrop rubs up against her leg—curving his body and scratching at her arms with his hind-claws as he tries to find an angle to sink his teeth into her hands.
"Estinien, I'm trying to help you, you-"
He manages to outmaneuver her, which would be a treat if he weren't currently a cat, and ends up on her back, LaPlace stooped over and grasping at him, arms angled awkwardly behind her. She growls and he growls back, clinging onto her jacket with his claws.
"If you want to play that way…"
'I don't want to play at all! Change me back!'
Suddenly, he feels weightless, and a turn of his head shows him the floor is fast approaching, LaPlace having swept her legs out from under herself to pancake him between her back and the floor, rather than risk a spell so close to her body.
'Hah…'
Effortlessly, Estinien unlatches and summons his aether as he twists his body to land on his feet in midair, a gentle wind breaking his fall and providing a surface for him to leap off of. It feels stranger than usual, using his abilities in this form, and his body feels oddly light as he leaps out of the way of her fall and watches her back hit the hardwood. He pads up to her as she groans in pain and sits back on his haunches as she opens her eyes to glare at him.
As if she has the right to be annoyed. There have been combat situations that changed his body before, but it had usually worn off in seconds. There was a difference between the unstable mechanisms of a deranged Garlean scientist, and the apparently quite stable magicks of his deranged scholarly friend, and he is quite ready for it to be done with.
"You horrid little beast," she groans, and Estinien feels rather smug.
And then he feels very, very dizzy.
The first thing he notices upon waking is a gentle swaying, and when he opens his eyes, Estinien is greeted with the bars of a cage, the solid wooden bottom meeting the metal halfway up the sides. At the very least, his prison has been made comfortable, the bottom cushioned with a pillow and lined with worn-soft blankets. For a moment, Estinien considers tearing them to shreds out of spite, but is stopped by the cold and bitter wind that blows through the bars.
"Ah, you're awake. Excellent," LaPlace says from above him, cage handle gripped firmly in her bony fingers. "Let me catch you up on what's happened since you knocked yourself out."
She is still immense, which means he is still a cat—as if the cage wasn't enough of a clue—which is exactly as annoying now as it was when he realized it the first time. He shoves his paws out of the door to the cage and claws at the latch, but the jagged-winged faerie that is LaPlace's constant companion swats his paws away. He bats away its swatting hands several times with his paw, then realizes he is doing little for his dignity by getting into a slap-fight with an aether-constructed nursemaid.
Instead, he takes the measure of his surroundings, from the dark wood interior that surrounds them, to bright yellow faerie that has resettled at the top of his cage, channeling healing into him with her tiny hands outstretched. He barely needs to see more to know they're on an airship. They are surrounded by the smell wood touched by crisp air, tainted by the smell of ceruleum running through all the machinery that keeps the ship afloat, and yet he can tell they're entirely still.
'Docked, then. But where?'
"You knocked yourself out by trying to channel your usual reserves of aether through the pathways of such a small form," LaPlace murmurs, shaping her fingers into a sign that has the faerie cutting off the supply of aether which tethers them together. She looks down at him, her thumb and index finger shaped into a hole over her eye. "Rather like trying to push the contents of a lake through a straw."
As she makes her way down the gangplank and onto the airship docks, Estinien realizes they are disembarking, and wonders just how long he's been asleep. They leave the crowd behind, a cold wind forcing him to nestle into the blankets as the crush of bodies dissipates and leaves them more in the open. Finally, he is able to get a look at their destination, which immediately makes him shrink further down into the blankets of his cage, wishing he could bury himself in them.
'Ishgard,' he tries to say. 'Why are we in Ishgard?' The mewling that comes out of his mouth is soft and pathetic, and he resolves to say nothing more.
It remains similar to how it looked when he was last in the city to find transport to Azys Lla; imposing stone spires, squat buildings of stone to keep from catching fire in any Dravanian assault, and yet gradually rebuilding. Some of the debris even looks oddly new.
He's given ample opportunity to wonder about that face as LaPlace reaches into the inner pocket of her coat and pulls out a brass cigarette case. Cage meets floor, cigarette meets lips, case trades places with a lighter that LaPlace channels aether into. The device sparks a sliver of flame that she holds to the end of her cigarette, and she seems to relax as she inhales. Estinien growls low in the back of his throat at the smell, ash and heat, but a sharp herbal scent that rings to his senses more as poison than medicine, but LaPlace pays him little mind as she packs away the lighter and picks the cage back up again.
He does not want to be in Ishgard. There is a rancor that he knows is not entirely his own when it comes to this city and the people in it—though he has plenty of his own to spare, when he thinks of how cruel and unfair it could often be and, in spite of Aymeric's best efforts, often still is. Yet it shames him that he cannot repress it after the ruin he visited upon the Steps of Faith, that he still thinks of how much he'd sacrificed in his life for the people milling about, casting him curious looks as LaPlace moves through the Pillars and down the ramps toward Foundation, cursing the slippery pathways of the city for death-traps. Though he knows it is because they make a strange picture as mage and cat, Estinien still cringes away from their stares. It feels like judgment well-deserved, as nonsensical as that is given the situation, for the death he had wrought when possessed by Nidhogg, and he is not sure how to earn forgiveness. Even so, there is a part of him that resents the very idea that they would judge him, that he should beg their forgiveness at all, when they are so steeped in the sin of their ancestors, the power of a slain Great Wrym coursing through the city.
There is a reason he visits rarely, and does not stay for long when he does.
And yet, there is a part of him which feels nostalgic for Ishgard. Nostalgic for the steep rooftops he leapt across with his fellow dragoons, and the rundown eateries hidden in brume-filled back-alleys where matronly cooks would ply them with small meatpies that warmed their hands and bellies. Nostalgic for the way he could return from a long sortie out in the frozen wilds of Coerthas, barely cleaned of blood and carrying aches that speared him straight through the marrow, and be taken in from the balcony of Borel Manor for a warm bath, a velvety voice murmuring comfort into his ears as bright blue eyes regarded him with concern and fondness both.
He has spent the last few years avoiding those eyes, sending letters in lieu of long visits, answering Aymeric's polite inquiries into his well-being without looking up from the floor. He left Ishgard to learn how the world handled dragons, so that he might reconcile with his newfound nature and learn where he might fit into the grand scheme of things. Having done all that and more with the Scions, there has lately been a part of him that wonders if he might return and look Aymeric in the eyes, to see if the spark that once ignited between them, the spark that he had failed to smother within himself as Azure Dragoon, still remains after everything.
'But not now! Not like this!'
Being in the city as an animal is overwhelming, the cold does little to mask the smells; sweat, soot, dirt, stone, wet chocobo feathers, hot metal, silk, linen, cotton, butchered meat being cooked, bread being baked and burned, and so, so many perfumes.
His protest at their destination comes out as a plaintive meow, which only gets louder as they approach the Congregation of Her Knights Most Heavenly. Estinien shifts toward the door to the cage, eyes darting between the watchful faerie and the latches keeping the cage shut, but he cannot make his body move. LaPlace nods at Firmalbert, who gives her nothing more then a quizzical glance, and then they are past the doors and shut inside.
If the stares outside had felt judgemental, they are nothing like the looming ceiling of the convocation, and the stares of the handful of knights pausing to gawk before they return to shifting through supplies and organizing them for deployment. Two lean against the railing on the mezzanine above, where Estinien can see the top bunks of the few cots left for knights to take their breaks.
"Miss LaPlace!"
"Oschon's bloody bowstring," LaPlace hisses and takes a deep inhale of her cigarette, burning it halfway to the filter before Handeloup appears in front of her and pinches out the burning ember at the end between the tips of his gauntlets.
"No smoking in the hall."
"Saved this bloody city and I can't even smoke where I'd like. Ridiculous," LaPlace mutters, looking mournfully at the crushed end of her cigarette. Estinien wrinkles his nose as the smell of ash and half-burnt herbs wafts past him when she drops it in the bin next to the commander's desk.
"Aymeric still in his office, Second Commander?" she asks, then continues before Handeloup says anything further. "Grand."
She doesn't wait for a further details, though Handeloup protests that he is about to have a meeting with someone. Estinien gives him a sympathetic look as LaPlace skirts around two knights carrying an enormous box between them and launches herself through the doorway and up the stairs to the Lord Commander's office, the cage swinging side-to-side as she climbs.
Estinien feels for all the world like a condemned man, and only hopes Aymeric has the wherewithal to say no to a request from the Savior of Ishgard just this once.
Aymeric stares down at the latest expense report regarding funding the Convictory's patrols along the Swiftrun River and Blackiron Bridge in the Coerthas Western Highlands, thumbing through various requests for supplies, as well as the recommendations Coincounter Amianne Tristelle regarding where such supplies could be sourced from. She was quite approving of shipments for better food, weapons, and fuel, though she had left pointed notes about certain unrealistic expectations.
Nidhogg's death had sent much of what was left of his brood into hiding, with some rallying around Faunehm and making peace with Hraesvelgr's brood, while others continued to plot bitterly and turn away any attempts at reconciliation. Few had the confidence to trouble Ishgard directly, but their influence over the local scalekin could often lead to strange behaviour from the creatures. While Ishgard's forces were spread across the realm—some assisting the Ala Mhigan government in the deconstruction and repurposing of the materials of Baelsar's Wall, while others labored to supply the acting government of Garlemald with aid in curtailing the primal-influenced beasts in the area—the Convictors helped shore up the defenses of the Western Highlands against any wild beasts or influenced scalekin that were threatening the reconstruction of Camp Riversmeet.
However, he did agree with Amianne that it was not advisable to use his authority as Lord Speaker or Lord Commander to 'get those stingy hunter pricks over in Tailfeather to ship us some of their fogweed'.
He shuffles through the paper, initialing in the places marked by the Head Coincounter, ears perked as he listens to a heated conversation no doubt taking place on the benches outside his office between his latest appointment and what seems to be a newcomer trying to jump the line.
"Well, you keep banging on about that," says a woman in a tone that could generously be called icy. His recognition of the voice is the only thing that keeps the agitation at bay when Olympe LaPlace shoves open the door to his office and shuts it behind her, in spite of the protests of Cardinal Defleureaux outside.
"I remember when you used to knock before entering my office," Aymeric says, leaning back in his chair with a sigh. Olympe snorts in response, and then lifts a cage up and sets it on the short table in the sitting area near the fireplace of his office.
"I need you to watch this for me," she says. Aymeric stares at her with furrowed eyebrows and directs his attention back to the cage.
"It's a cat," he says bluntly, because that's what he sees crouched among the brown blankets; a medium-longhaired cat with sleek, smoky fur and coeurled ears. It's looking at him over a fold of blankets with round black pupils that don't quite hide the dark grey of its eyes.
"I just need you to keep an eye on him for the day, and I'll be back as soon as I sort out a bit of complicated spellwork."
"Please tell me you weren't experimenting on this poor animal," he says, pushing himself up from his chair and slowly approaching the cage. He knows little about spellwork beyond the small gifts he can bring to bear as a knight of the Fury, and the conjury that takes place within Ishgard is a far sight from what Olympe practices. Even so, he knows her to be a mage of the sort that seeks constant improvement and innovation, and he had seen Alphinaud blanch at some of the suggestions she made to improve the lethality of his spellwork during their sojourn up Sohm Al and into the Churning Mists to seek audience with Hraesvelgr.
"Oh, I don't typically bother with that sort of thing," she says with a wave of the hand. "There are plenty of beasts in the wilderness that need culling anyhow."
He breathes a sigh of relief as he crouches down and reaches his fingers to the bars of the cage, careful not to get too close. The cat shuffles forward and sniffs his fingertips, then rubs its cheek against the bars of the cage. A chuckle from Olympe sends it reeling back, and it stares up at her and hisses, reaching out an arm to claw at her boots, which she neatly sidesteps.
"He's a vicious little brute, likely to bolt the second you take you let him out, so be careful with the door."
"Olympe, I have work to do."
"Oh, you're always working," she says with a wave of her hand. Aymeric doesn't bother to suppress the urge to roll his eyes. Tis a pointless courtesy where Olympe is concerned, especially given the hypocrisy of her statement. "Consider this my way of livening up your day a little."
She heads towards the door, then pauses with her hand on the knob, then turns and bends forward to give the cat a playful salute. "Be nice for the Lord Commander, Estinyan," she says sweetly.
"You named him after Estinien?"
"Well, you have to admit, the resemblance is uncanny."
Aymeric looks back down at the cat, and by the time he looks back up, Olympe is already gone.
He inhales slowly and pinches the bridge of nose. This isn't the last thing he needs today; that dubious honor belongs to the cardinal waiting outside. Even so, it certainly isn't helping matters.
A soft meow draws his attention back to the cage, and Aymeric offers his fingertips again, only to have the cat—Surely I can't call him 'Estinyan'—eye him warily and turn up his nose. When he pulls away, there is a louder meow, and Aymeric casts the dear creature a look of sympathy.
"Just a moment," he says to the cat, more than accustomed to talking to his own, and presses his finger to the linkpearl in his ear. "Handeloup, could you mayhap run a messenger out to Borel Manor? Miss LaPlace has left me with a cat for the day. Eaulvont should be able to put together the supplies I'll need to keep it in the office."
"Well," replies Handeloup, pausing for a moment. "If it's only for the day, I suppose we shall have to manage. You will have some time to sort out the particulars, as your twelfth bell appointment has just left in something of a hurry."
"Oh dear… I shall need to send an apology, I imagine."
"You needn't bother," Handeloup says dryly, and Aymeric is hardly surprised at the opinion. He had appointed Handeloup to his position due to his brilliant mind for logistics, which hardly mixed well with the demands of religious-minded clergy. He wouldn't have been surprised by Handeloup's less than charitable opinion even if he hadn't followed it with, "I saw him try to stop Miss LaPlace from leaving. Intent of giving her a lecture, I imagine. Grabbed her by the arm, in fact."
"Furyssake," Aymeric hissed. "Did he not realize who she was?"
"Evidently not, but I imagine he does now," Handeloup replied coolly. "I'll send out that messenger "
The supplies come well within the hour; a flat box with a bag of litter, a jar of Abalathian smelt on ice, a waterskin, and two porcelain bowls that Snowdrop had turned her dainty nose up at for some obscure reason he had never been able to guess at. Aymeric quickly sets it all up in the side-room that he has long since accepted is his second home. Furnished as it had been by his predecessors with a cot, a washbasin, and a small wardrobe, he hardly needed to bring anything more than clothes and blankets when he had first been appointed Lord Commander, and has made frequent use of the room since.
It's only once he has everything set up in the office (and put a sign on the door warning the others in the building of a 'Mouser-in-Training') that Aymeric is confident enough to open the cage of his furry little guest.
"Apologies for the wait," he says softly, unsnapping the unreasonably tricky latches and opening the little door. Given Olympe's dire warning, he's surprised when the cat simply sits in the cage and stares at him with wide eyes, but Aymeric is familiar with this sort of mood, and so simply backs away very slowly and makes his way back to his desk. He returns to his work, though somewhat distracted, occasionally glancing up to see if his guest has left the cage.
"Estinyan, was it?" he says to the cat, expecting little in way of a response. He's pleasantly surprised when the cat slinks out of the cage and sits back on his haunches, raising himself to his full, noble height to give Aymeric a look of such utter contempt that a laugh, the first in a while, bursts out of his throat. "I can see the resemblance."
Which is true, now that he can see the entire animal in a better light. The fur is a similar shade to Estinien's hair, a tone somewhat south of snow white, while his eyes share that same storm-cloud grey Aymeric has always been fond of. Estinyan—and he is resigning himself both to the suitability of the name and the fact that he can never tell Estinien of it through his letters—has clearly seen his fair share of battles as well, parts of his fur grown somewhat patchily on his forelegs, with other scars manifesting as places where the fur is parted and paler.
It does move him to further sympathy, and Aymeric croons softly at the cat, curling his fingers and attempting to coax him over so he might grant it some measure of affection. Clearly, the poor thing hasn't had much in his life. Estinyan responds by turning away from him, nose turned up and utterly aloof. He jumps first onto the mantle of the fireplace, and from there makes a rather astonishing leap onto the top of one of the tall bookshelves that line the walls of Aymeric's office.
"Fair enough," Aymeric murmurs, only a little crestfallen. It would have been nice to have some company while doing his paperwork. It isn't as though he can bring Snowdrop into the Congregation, and it's likely that he won't be able to take Estinyan home either; not unless he wants to subject himself to a night of acclimating two cats to each other, especially given Estinyan is likely to be gone by the end of the day regardless.
'Still, if Olympe doesn't return for him, and he's anywhere near as skilled as his namesake, he may actually make for a good mouser,' Aymeric muses. 'Certainly a welcome addition to the building, at any rate.'
As Estinyan settles onto the shelf, Aymeric settles in for another few hours of paperwork until his next appointment.
Estinien creeps out of the sideroom as though he's sneaking through Garlemald's royal capital once again, swearing vengeance on LaPlace the moment he returns to human form. Already, he's trying not to think too hard on how being an animal reminds him of how he lived when he was a green recruit in the Temple Knights; his breath smells of Abalathian smelt, he is spending as little time as possible thinking about latrine duty, and Aymeric is here.
Estinien glances at the bookshelf perch he'd been settled on for the past few hours and wrinkles his nose at the thought of clambering back up there. It's dusty enough to be tacky under the soft pawpads of his feet, and even if it had allowed him to get his bearings, all that had really happened was Aymeric doing paperwork and occasionally taking a sip of lukewarm tea. He's had several meetings that Estinien dozed through, largely involving the repair of one part of Ishgard or another, and it's been somewhat amusing watching people squeeze through the door, barely opening it enough to slip through, all while looking around to make sure he doesn't escape.
He had considered bolting through someone's legs and running off, but it was a short-lived fantasy. What exactly is he to do as a cat in Ishgard other than freeze to death or chase vermin? Both acts seem well beneath him, and while he disdains being trapped, he does enjoy being warm and fed on someone else's gil, even if it is smelt.
Inevitably, his eyes again find Aymeric, who looks back down at his paperwork as though he hadn't briefly paused his work the moment Estinien walked back into the room. It seems that even as a cat, his presence is capable of distracting Aymeric, and he does take a moment to feel smug about that, at least.
'Hah… No wonder that cat of his is such a vain creature.'
To be able to distract Aymeric is no small thing. He is nothing if not fastidious. Always did he need to work twice as hard as anyone else to make up for the rumors surrounding his birth, as if he were to blame for the actions of the Archbishop. Though there had been a part of Estinien that had been wounded by the fact that Aymeric had hid the truth of the rumors, he could hardly hold it against him in the face of everything.
Even now, Aymeric works to undo the damage Thordan VII had wrought during his rule. He meets with representatives of the House of Commons to listen to proposals of how the Brume might be more effectively reconstructed to insulate its residents against the cold. He speaks with the Manufactory about upgrading the archaic sewage system and installing lifts to better transport goods and people between tiers of the city. He speaks with a woman who lead one of the old heretical factions about how they might address the return of old property and titles, of what will happen to those children left behind now that their parents have returned.
Thus far, he has been studious in his replies to letters, only throwing one thus far into the fire, and a second straight into a drawer after reading.
In short, Aymeric is, as always, working hard.
Too hard, Estinien seethes. As if all that is wrong with Ishgard must be fixed by him alone.
His ears flatten against his skull as his fur bristles again, and Aymeric looks up from his paperwork and around the room, as if trying to find the source of his irritation. Such moods seem to come easily in this form, though how much that has to do with the nature of cats or simply being stuck as one, Estinien can't even begin to guess. Even so, he has no interest in being angry with Aymeric for anything other than ceaselessly working for the last few hours while Estinien is right here. The man hasn't even stopped for lunch beyond the soldier's rations he still keeps in his desk, and with the sign on the door, no one seems willing to risk bringing him something better.
Still, if there is any use to this form, it is that Estinien is unlikely to face any consequences for being a nuisance. Not that Aymeric ever did much beyond scold him when he was in the form of a man.
He trots over to Aymeric's desk and wriggles his body underneath the slight gap between the front and the floor. Almost immediately, Aymeric goes very still, as if he's worried the slightest of movements might cause Estinien to bolt away after he has finally gotten so close. Estinien takes advantage of this to push himself onto his haunches and place both his front paws onto Aymeric's greaves, sparing a brief thought to how ridiculous it is that he's wearing his full regalia while in his office alone. Estinien finds a place where he can lever himself up Aymeric's leg, tail flicking playfully as Aymeric makes a startled noise and reaches down to pull him the rest of the way into his lap.
"Whatever has come over you, I wonder," Aymeric murmurs, but his confusion doesn't stop him from stroking his palm down Estinien's back, carding his fingers though thick fur.
He smells good, compared to the cacophony of scents from the city. Musk and metal and oiled leather from his armor, ink and parchment from his work, but underlying that is the mild scent of warm skin, pine soap, and warm birch syrup. Estinien arches into the touch almost on instinct, reminded of those times in their youth when Aymeric would tend to his hair when Estinien was unable, usually due to injury. The last time had been when Estinien had been in his hospital bed after the months he'd spent enthralled to Nidhogg, where Aymeric had carefully washed his hair clean of old blood, anointing it with oil and working out every last tangle, all the while minding the raw skin on his face where Nidhogg's aether had seared scars along his aetherial pathways.
There is something better about it, now that he is in a place to choose the circumstances. More than that, it simply feels good, the gesture as comforting now as it had been then. Estinien finds himself relaxing, settling onto Aymeric's lap and kneading at his thighs with his paws. A rumble starts up in his throat and reverberates in his chest, sounding for all the world like someone has thrown a fork into a gears of a machinist's clockworks. Yet Aymeric seems to find the noise charming and hums softly in response, fingers curling to scratch behind his ears and under his chin.
And then there's a knock on the door.
It's three quick raps, perfunctory and professional, and Estinien jolts in Aymeric's lap, shoving himself up to sitting position so he can glare at the door. He isn't sure what has him more aggravated: the fact that he allowed himself to be doted on like he's seen Aymeric do with Snowdrop, or the fact that they were interrupted.
Aymeric soothes him with a broad palm along his back, and Estinien settles reluctantly. If anything, Aymeric's lap is a perfect vantage point to launch himself at the intruder if they prove to be a danger. He is distantly aware of the political tensions in Ishgard from Aymeric's occasional letters, and has the distinct feeling that said letters have downplayed the issue severely, if Y'shtola's reports of Profane Fafnir are anything to go by.
"Enter," Aymeric says, and the instructions are followed briskly by the person on the other side.
He doesn't recognize the woman, which isn't a surprise. Estinien has long since come to terms with the fact that his revenge blinded him to many things, chief among them the vast majority of Ishgard's political players (not that he believes it would be a worthwhile use of his time to learn them now). Still, there is something oddly familiar about her; the warm brown skin and pale eyes, combined with tarnished golden hair twisted into a severe bun, set some instinct tapping at the back of his mind. Aymeric's fingers twitch on his back, but he keeps stroking through his fur, even though Estinien has stopped purring and is focusing all his considerable ire at the guest. She doesn't appear to care, simply looks at the sign on the door, then nods and shuts it behind her.
"Lady Fortienne de Dzemael," Aymeric says, his tone distantly polite.
Estinien scrunches his face up in a snarl and hisses, a growl rumbling in his throat. That is where the familiarity lies. She is a relative of Grinnaux, that dog of the Archbishop's that tried to kill Alphinaud when he first arrived in Ishgard, and who attempted to prevent Aymeric's rescue from the Vault while aiding the Archbishop's escape. Estinien hisses again, ears flat against his skull. Even as Aymeric tries to soothe him, the growl still maintains a low level grind in his throat.
"Apologies, he is… unused to strangers."
"Well, I am not unaware of the reputation my family holds," Dzemael says with a low laugh. "I was just unaware it extended to beasts."
Her boots click against the floor as she crosses the office and sits in the chair on the other side of the desk. Her clothes are that of a workman's more than a noblewoman, her waist ringed with hammers, pliers, files, and pouches that rattle as she adjusts herself in the chair.
"I had hoped to speak with you about my proposal."
Underneath him, Aymeric tenses, but when Estinien looks up, his face remains that polite political mask.
"Lady de Dzemael, while I am… flattered at the offer, I am not seeking that sort of relationship at the present," Aymeric says, tone even and polite. He sounds almost sympathetic.
'As if he's letting her down easy,' Estinien muses, still ready to pounce at the woman if needed. Then what Aymeric said clicks in his mind and sparks his ire into a blaze, his fur bristling as a growl starts up again in his chest. Is this something else Aymeric has been made to put up with in his absence? Foolish lords throwing their daughters at him to try and weasel their way into his graces?
The Dzemael woman looks utterly baffled. Like she cannot believe he would reject her advances, as if her brother had not had a hand in Aymeric's torture. Aymeric's hold on him firms as Estinien's growl grows louder and he squirms under his hands, trying to get atop the desk and make his displeasure known with tooth and claw. The Dzemael woman merely blinks at them both, then inhales deeply, gathering herself no doubt to shout the walls down.
Instead, she sighs low and long.
"I think there has been a misunderstanding. Might I see the proposal you're referring to?"
With one hand firmly pinning Estinien to his lap, Aymeric reaches into down into the bottom drawer and pulls out a letter, handing it across the desk to Lady Dzemael, who opens the pages and leafs through them. Her eyes flash dangerously, jaw tense.
"I see," she rumbles, her voice an avalanche in the distance. Unceremoniously, she tears the letter into halves, then fourths, then eighths. "My apologies for that waste of your time. I cannot pretend to know what the Count de Dzemael was thinking, but rest assured I will see it handled."
Estinien is still wary, still growling, but it seems he is not the only one displeased with the implication that she and the Lord Commander might make a fine match. Aymeric relaxes underneath him, so Estinien stops his bid to squirm to freedom and enact his wrath for the moment. There is a spike of wariness when she reaches into one of the pouches on her waist, but all she hands to Aymeric is a thick leather billfold.
"As you know, the specialty of House Dzemael has always been the building of fortifications, but with the war over and the climate a more precient threat, I thought to run some suggestions by you with regards to how we might resettle Gorgane Mills as a waystation for trade between the settlements in the Dravanian Forelands and Hinterlands.
"But I can see you haven't read the proposal, through no fault of your own," she continues, "so I will leave this with you, so we might discuss this at a later date."
With that, Fortienne de Dzemael levers herself up from her chair and makes her way out of the Lord Commander's office, the picture of grace… If one discounts the dark mutterings and the way her leather-gloved hands are curled into tight fists. Aymeric sighs and slumps back in his chair, the back of his head thumping against the wood.
"Thank the Fury," he mutters, then turns his attention to Estinien, who does his best to look as unaffected as possible. Aymeric hums softly, curving his fingers under Estinien's head and skritching softly under his chin. "One would think Estinien himself sent you to safeguard my virtue. If so, he has my thanks."
Estinien has no retort for that, and it is only partially because he's a cat at the moment. He wants to huff, to slip out of Aymeric's lap and skulk away, but then Aymeric starts petting down his spine again and a purr starts up one more against his will.
He should be embarrassed. He was once the Azure Dragoon, and is at present Scion of the Seventh Dawn, disbanded though the organization appears. If Y'shtola or Alisaie ever got wind of this, he would never live it down. And gods only know what Krile might do with the knowledge if her Echo deigns to show it to her. Estinien resolves to avoid her for the foreseeable future.
Yet he cannot deny that there is a part of him which thrills to be the focus of Aymeric's attention. He may not wish to remain in Ishgard—There is still a world out there which he longs to see, especially now that he has saved it from oblivion—but he is beginning to wonder if he has done himself and Aymeric a disservice by staying away for so long.
It isn't as if he is under the illusion they could maintain a relationship that would be considered normal by the standards of Ishgard's social order, but that is already changing. The only thing keeping him from confronting what he feels—what Aymeric might, if he is very lucky, feel as well—is himself.
'When did I become the sort of man who balks at confrontation?'
It is just very inconvenient to be a cat when he realizes this.
The clock in his office has already chimed for the twenty-third bell, but Aymeric still has at least three other proposals to review before he can consider going to sleep. Going home to sleep in his own bed is an idea he discards at least twice a week, and tonight it is made doubly likely by the presence of his guest and the continued absence of Olympe. Estinyan doesn't seem to mind that she is still absent, though he is pacing back and forth between the office and the sideroom. At first, he was mewing softly each time Aymeric looked up from his work. Now, Estinyan has sat himself in the doorway to the side-room, meowing growing louder and louder until Aymeric is forced to pull himself out of his chair and meet him at the doorway.
Immediately, the cat turns to enter the sideroom and Aymeric has to take one large step to scoop him off the floor. He makes an unsettled 'mrrp' as Aymeric takes him up against his chest and wanders back over to his desk, settling back into his chair with the cat on his lap.
"I just need to finish these last few proposals," he murmurs, looking down at Estinyan, who looks up at him with intense feline skepticism.
Within moments, Estinyan is shoving himself between Aymeric's chest and the desk, which he levers himself up onto, immediately sitting haughtily atop Aymeric's stack of proposals. Aymeric sighs deeply and scoops him off the desk to set him onto the floor.
"It will be just a moment," he says, and returns to his paperwork, sighing again when he sees Estinyan hop back up onto the desk and plant himself behind Aymeric's inkwell. He squints at the cat and reaches out to dip his quill, only to have a paw curl around inkwell and move it away from his grip and closer to the edge of the desk.
"Don't," Aymeric says warningly, but the inkwell makes steady progress toward the edge of the desk until he's forced to lash his hand out and snatch it away from the edge to place on the other side of the desk. Undeterred, Estinyan instead swipes a stack of papers off the desk, scattering them onto the floor.
"You aren't going to let me get any work done, are you?" In answer, Estinyan hops off the desk and pads over to the doorway to the sideroom once more, circling and meowing loudly.
"Fine, fine. At least let me clean up the mess," Aymeric says, and kneels to pick the papers up and organize them back on his desk. He flips the top of the inkwell shut and grabs the lantern from his desk, then follows Estinyan to the doorway, laughing softly as he goes and stepping carefully when the ends of his greatcoat obscure the cat darting around his feet.
He sets the lantern on a side-table by the cot and gradually begins to pull off his armor; pauldrons first, then coat, tunic and the chainmail that rests underneath, all set on a nearby armor stand. Aymeric peels his gloves off and rubs along his left arm, where prolonged wear has left pink impressions in the shape of the scales, even in spite of the lining. He rolls his neck and reaches up with his other hand to dig his fingers into his shoulder blade, grunting when he finds a knot he can't quite work out. All the while, Estinyan sits watching him from the cot, shifting only when Aymeric drapes the last of the leathers over a lone chair left expressly for that purpose and comes to sit on the cot to take off his greaves and sabatons, then the boots underneath. He sets them into a box and slides that across the room toward the armor stand with a pushing kick.
He doesn't keep a nightgown in the office, but he isn't about to strip down to his smalls to sleep either. The Congregation is not Borel manor, and there is nothing heating the room but the dying fire in his office, which will not be re-lit until he wakes in the morn. He moves to the washbasin, aware of the pair of inquisitive eyes on him, and shivers when he splashes freezing water from the washbasin over his face, wiping himself off as much as is prudent before heading back to the cot where Estinyan is circling.
Aymeric gently brushes the cat away from the tall pile of blankets, guiding him off the bed just long enough to spread a duvet atop the thin mattress, after which Estinyan immediately hops back up onto the mattress, only shifting just enough for Aymeric to lay down and pull the rest of the blankets over himself and his apparent bedmate.
He's surprised when Estinyan doesn't wiggle out from under the covers. Snowdrop loathes to be confined in such a way, preferring to sleep atop the blankets, tucked into the curve of his waist. In contrast, Estinyan merely wiggles until he is sprawled across Aymeric's chest, that guttural purr filling the silence between them. He blinks slowly and reaches out a paw, touching it to Aymeric's mouth.
There is a sudden and noticable drop in pressure. Aymeric feels his ears pop and hears a noise like a snapped violin string, and there is suddenly a much heavier weight on his chest, obscured by smoke. Underneath him, the frame of the cot creaks ominously.
His first thought, as he pushes himself onto one elbow and waves away the smoke with his other hand, is that he is going to give Olympe a piece of his mind for lying to him about experimenting on Estinyan.
He doesn't have time for a second.
Every thought is swept entirely out of his mind by the sight he finds when the smoke clears; a very startled and very naked Estinien sprawled under the blankets and along the length of his body.
"Estinien?" he hears himself say, reaching forward to check his wide-eyed and red-flushed face for injuries, bewildered to find him there. "What—?"
Estinien opens his mouth, seemingly to answer, which is when the cot's frame finally gives way under the weight of two grown elezen.
"Shite," Estinien wheezes.
He doesn't even get the time to enjoy having his voice back after a full day of being stuck meowing and yowling. Underneath him, Aymeric stares with wide eyes, seemingly unbothered by the weight of another man atop him—unsurprising, given when he knows about Aymeric's strength—and unconcerned with the broken cot-frame underneath him.
"Are you..?" Aymeric reaches out and settles a hand along his ribs, finger spread. Estinien shivers, shuts his eyes briefly, and feels the way Aymeric's fingers dig in just slightly, as if testing the reality of the situation. There is a part of him that feels anxious to be so vulnerable, that is still frustrated and embarassed at the absurdity of the situation, but it serves as a reminder that he has little recourse but to confront this thing between them.
Especially given that the alternative is to freeze his balls off fleeing starkers through Ishgard.
There is long silence between them, empty space that yearns to be filled. Only, Estinien hasn't a clue what to say to explain this situation. Aymeric's brow is furrowed, his eyes darting around, nakedly processing every single thing that has gone on since LaPlace dropped a cat on his doorstep. In the dim light of the lantern, which they have miraculously managed not to knock over, Estinien can pinpoint the exact moment Aymeric's eyes finally fix on his bared form as if it's his first time seeing it.
"Ah… You were the cat…"
Aymeric peels his eyes away before they can trail lower as Estinien tries to shift into a more comfortable position atop him, watching as the flush from Aymeric's face spreads all the way to the tips of his ears. Finally, Estinien settles for straddling Aymeric's hips and crosses his arms in front of his chest. He watches Aymeric's eyes rove down his body again before they come back to stare intently at his face. Estinien allows Aymeric's naked interest bolster his confidence, cloaks himself in the reassurance it brings like he cloaks his shoulders in the blanket.
"Estinyan," he says flatly, and raises an eyebrow at the man. "Really."
"Wh—! It's what she called you!" Aymeric sputters, and Estinien smiles broadly in spite of himself. It's not often that he finds Aymeric at a loss for words. Even in private, he tends to carefully consider his speech, and Estinien is pleased to see him off kilter and sincerely flustered, especially after watching him slog through hours upon hours of work in that polite, political fascade of his.
"You are," Aymeric continues, "very naked at the moment. If you would, ah, just let me up, I could find you something to wear?"
"No," Estinien says. He can feel his own ears heat even as he speaks, but he is resolved to his course and there is no turning back. "I'm perfectly fine where I am."
"Naked and on top of me?" Aymeric asks incredulously. Estinien nods resolutely, and watches Aymeric's throat bob when he swallows. He feels Aymeric's hands settle on his knees, feels his fingers twitch as Aymeric resists the urge to move further, watches the other man bite his lip and try to gather his thoughts.
"Tis good to see you again, Estinien, in spite of the circumstances," he says, and when he makes to pull his hands away, to pull himself away, Estinien sets his hands over Aymeric's, pulls them up, and pins them to his thighs. Aymeric blinks and furrows his brow. "I aplogize for how I treated you, but in my defense, you were a cat at the time."
"I'm not upset with you," Estinien insists, and oddly enough, he isn't. Aymeric treated him with warmth and kindness as he waited for Estinien to come to him on his own time, as he always has. "It is only… I've no intention of ceasing my travels, but I have missed you, and I have been given cause to wonder if you might— If we might—"
Gods, he really is shite at the words part of this.
"I'm going to kiss you now," Estinien says, and then leans in slowly, hair curtaining around them both as he tries to give Aymeric ample time to decide whether it is too late for this, for them.
But Aymeric doesn't move. His eyes flutter shut and his jaw relaxes, and his lips pucker ever so slightly until Estinien presses their mouths together.
The kiss is soft and warm, and Estinien sinks into it, pressing their bodies together chest-to-chest, letting his legs straighten out and tangle with Aymeric's, the worn linen of his underclothes almost soft against his bare skin. Aymeric tilts his head, mouth moving eagerly against Estinien's, his fingers splaying out over Estinien's thigh and squeezing at the muscle. Estinien drapes himself against Aymeric, pushing him down to the bed and releasing his hands so that he can push his fingers into night-black curls and relish the silky feel of them between his scarred knuckles.
When they finally part, Aymeric is rolanberry red, and Estinien knows he isn't much better. He leans down to press his forehead to Aymeric's shoulder, turning his face into the other man's neck and breathing him in. Sweat, ink, and pine-scented soap greet him, the scents duller than they had been before, but all the more comforting for it.
"I see," Aymeric says. He sounds awestruck, and Estinien smiles against his skin. He feels a hand slide up his body and into his hair, fingers pushing against his scalp and stroking downward, carefully loosening any tangles in his hair. He settles further into his position atop Aymeric, reaching back only so much as it takes to tuck the blankets around them again.
They will no doubt need to discuss this further, but for now, he's more than content to remain like this.
"Estinien," Aymeric murmurs softly, still carding his fingers through the other man's hair. His other arm is wrapped around Estinien's middle, hand pressed to warm, bare skin. He traces the scars along Estinien's back idly, marvelling at the old and the new, baffled at his own good fortune and the absurd situation that got them here.
He has pined for Estinien since he left—No, much earlier than that, but he had considered it a pointless endeavor while the man was fixated on his revenge, resolving to support him as a friend and comrade. Aymeric had known chasing after Estinien was hardly an option when Ishgard needed his guiding hand, and Estinien needed to learn who he was beyond his capacity for revenge. There had been a part of Aymeric that had resigned to letting him go entirely, if that turned out to be what Estinien wanted, even as his heart yearned to hold the other man close.
And now Estinien is here, his firm body stretched languorously along Aymeric's own, his deep, slow breaths tickling the base of Aymeric's ear. For a moment, Aymeric allows himself to be distracted by the way Estinien's hair feels as he combs his fingers through the strands, but when he attempts to shift, he realizes how little the floor is softened by the mattress and duvet.
"Estinien?" Aymeric pauses in his petting.
"Mm?"
"You aren't going to get up, are you?"
"Mm-mm."
He feels teeth press momentarily into his neck as Estinien hides a smile against his skin, then a nip to his earlobe that clicks slightly against the base of his earring.
Aymeric sighs and resumes carding his fingers through Estinien's hair, resigned to both serve as a pillow and deal with the inevitable back pain in the morning. It is entirely worth it to have Estinien in his arms for the night.