Chapter Text
Coerthas, in the Western Highlands. Beneath the mild sun, which had just begun its descent over the distant forests of Dravania, rode two young men astride their stout Temple Knight chocobos, making their way along the road to the Dusk Vigil. High clouds lay in rows like fish's scales across the expanse of sky, drifting only a little in the crisp breeze that wandered over the fields and downs, ruffling the birds' feathers and shaking the hemlock needles. The merry sails of the great mills were busily turning the summer's wheat harvest to flour, and the farmers of the Western Highlands now tended to turnips and cabbages as they counted the days to the first frosts.
Second Knight-Lieutenant Aymeric de Borel, riding in the rear of the short procession, turned in his saddle that he might more fully take in the passing sights. He had not oft had occasion to visit the Borel family holdings since he had been a boy, what with the endless duties that had come when he pledged himself to the Knights, and even in the earliest days of his boyhood his tutors and trainers had kept him from spending as many bells running freely through the estate's fields and forests as he might have desired. Now he looked upon the highlands, the rows of green cabbages striping the fields, the industrious line of mills along the river, and the implacable snowcapped mountains in the distance with the appreciative eyes of a full-grown knight. Meanwhile, the similarly mail-clad youth riding ahead of him, Second Knight-Lieutenant Estinien Varlineau, rode his bird single-mindedly, his eyes firmly fixed upon the road immediately ahead.
The black outer walls of the keep with their fringe of crisscrossing dragonkillers were growing quite distinct now; the two young knights were set to arrive before nightfall. Before crossing the Coerthas they took one final rest to stretch their legs and water the birds, and Aymeric sat upon the riverbank with his diary while Estinien pissed in the grass. The first few golden leaves were falling from the lowest birch boughs and drifting down the river like gil pieces from a ferryman’s coin purse, and as he wrote of the numerous pastoral sights that he had observed during their journey, a chiffchaff fluttered within a fulm of him, chirping busily as it foraged. He was in high spirits.
"Is the river not lovely here?" he said to Estinien once the other knight wandered within earshot. "Come sit with me a moment, Estinien. Soon enough it will be winter and all of this will be frozen over, and we will miss the sight of it."
"Or the Horde will burn it to ash while we delay, and it will be gone forever," said Estinien, completely ignoring Aymeric's request in favor of testing the leather straps that held their luggage upon the backs of their chocobos. "The birds are ready; we should be going."
Aymeric sighed as he stood, brushing the dirt and grass from the bottom of his hauberk. He had been friends with Estinien for a little less than a full moon, though he had known the man's face and fought at his side for longer, and still he was certain that he could have fit every word he had ever spoken to him that was unrelated to Nidhogg, his Horde, or their own mundane military affairs within a single page of his diary. Yet Estinien had not rejected his continued offer of friendship, and so Aymeric persisted, undeterred by Estinien's frequent bouts of morbidity. It was Aymeric's firm belief that there was a reason Halone had seen fit to spare the both of them at Ever Lakes, and there was something refreshing in Estinien's blunt and taciturn manner that drew Aymeric toward his continued company.
They re-mounted the chocobos and continued on at a jogging pace, racing the sun that had only just begun its slow descent towards Dravania. By the time they arrived at the bridge to the keep, reaching across the Banepool like a giant's arm fashioned from black iron, it had halfway sunk behind the western ridges, the last of its orange rays trailing over the lake. The water was murky and nearly black beneath the dimming evening sky, and the air was filled with the muddy scent of fish and the green muck that clung to the pylons of the bridge in streaming, slimy ribbons. A heron skimmed over the smooth surface before settling in for the night in a patch of rushes near the shore, heedless of the stories of felled dragons whose blood was said to poison the water.
The lookout who guarded the bridge, however, was plainly all too aware of the superstitions, standing as he was some distance from his proper post, where the ground was properly dry. As Aymeric and Estinien slowed the birds on their approach, a fish jumped only a few yalms from the shore with a playful splash, and the soldier flinched before abruptly stiffening as he realized that he had been seen.
"State your business," he demanded in the affected growl of a green recruit still practicing at flexing his authority. When Aymeric produced the commission from the Holy See, printed on thick official paper with an intricate spiraling border, he waved them onto the bridge with nearly palpable relief, not even bothering to make a show of pretending to read it. The knights' warbirds were growing restless, sensing that their warm stables and evening greens were near, and they hardly even had to be directed over the great bridge, instead cantering ahead with a mere touch of the heel upon their flanks, wings fluttering the entire way across.
Again Aymeric and Estinien were stopped by guards on the opposite side, these possessing somewhat greater confidence and higher rank, as they represented the first real defenses of the Vigil. Again Aymeric showed the commission, and inquired as to the whereabouts of Ser Joceux de Maitigny, their new captain with whom he and Estinien were to meet at once upon their arrival.
"Dicing in the officer's mess, like as not," one of the guards promptly replied. A stout Hyuran woman, her armor fitted her ill — the mail bunched up awkwardly around her elbows and fell too far below her knees. She squawked indignantly as her companion shook his head sharply at her. "What! You can't say it isn't true."
"Whether it be true or false will mean naught if you are sentenced to be whipped for insubordination," the companion said wearily. He turned to Aymeric and Estinien, who were shifting their weight in their saddles atop increasingly impatient birds, and bowed. "Pray forgive this soldier, sers. She hails from the mountain villages, where folk are not taught to watch their tongues."
"I have taken no offense," replied Aymeric, and glanced at Estinien from the corner of his eye. His fellow Knight-Lieutenant sat like a statue, with a frown that may as well have been carved in granite between his brows. He made no move to speak or acknowledge the guardsman in any way. "And I am certain that Ser Varlineau has taken none as well," Aymeric offered in his place.
"Then allow me to bid you welcome to the Dusk Vigil, Ser Borel and Ser Varlineau," said the guardsman.
Now that he had spoken at length, Aymeric could sense a hint of the Pillars in the shape of his words and his persistent bending toward deference. Perhaps he was the third or fourth son of some minor house, sent to the Vigil to earn his knight's commission or else bring honor to his family name with a glorious death in battle against the Horde, though like as not his family would not even expect that much from him. The careful politeness of his words did little to disguise the stink of ambition upon him. Even currying favor with an heir of dubious birth was more advantageous to such a man than patrolling endless circles in obscurity.
By chance there had been few other nobles in Aymeric's previous company. He had grown somewhat accustomed to the sense of camaraderie he had managed to foster with the resilient lowborn knights, until dragonfire had wiped all save Estinien away forever. Those days were now little more than ash scattered in the wind, and the familiar status-jockeying and sycophancy of middling nobles now settled back upon his shoulders as ill-fittingly as the unimpressed guardswoman's mail.
Despite his distaste for the whole business, Aymeric could ill afford to make needless enemies by being openly rude on his very first night at the Vigil, and so he smiled and offered his polite gratitude as the guardsman called for a pair of squires, one to stable the chocobos and the other to inform Captain Joceux of his new lieutenants' arrival and direct him toward his office were he to be found in an inconvenient location. The pair of boys who reluctantly abandoned their idleness beneath the stairs of the guards’ tower to answer their superior's order were thin striplings, one with a brown and freckled face and the other with a persistent ruddiness to his skin. They gazed up at Aymeric and Estinien on their chocobos as if they had been members of King Thordan’s very own company of eld.
The red-faced boy, who seemed the quiet sort, gathered the birds’ leads into his hands while his companion scampered off to begin his search. Aymeric's mount, now growing nearly frantic for its supper, began to shake its wings and squawk as the gate creaked open to admit them. He had only barely managed to soothe it by the time the boy tugged them forward into the Vigil proper.
Not one of Ishgard's four great bastions that defended her from her draconic enemies could be said to be a mirthful place, but the Dusk Vigil, the nearest station to the wyrms’ homeland, was suffused with the sort of grim solitude generally found only in the hoariest of veterans elsewhere in Coerthas. In the midst of the green and prosperous Western Highlands its great walls, blackened by decades of Dravanian assaults, enclosed an outer settlement and training yard long since stripped of all its greenery by the trampling feet of the hundreds of knights, soldiers, and miscellaneous personnel who dwelt there, most recently by those of Aymeric and Estinien, who traversed it after being relieved of their mounts.
Under the light of the sun the yard had no doubt bustled with activity, the business of waging war never fully set aside even in such relatively peaceable periods when the great Nidhogg lay in slumber, but as the first stars appeared in the purpling sky and the early autumn's chill began to creep into the air, the civilians were retreating to their homes outside of the walls and the garrison had abandoned their drills and maneuvers in search of their supper. They passed by Aymeric, Estinien, and the squires with nary a second glance at the unfamiliar new arrivals.
In the midst of the bare brown yard rose the fortress itself, a great spiny adamantoise of a construction that served the sole purpose of repelling the flying enemy. Save for the rear lookouts, where archers kept a constant watch over the fathomless expanse of the Sea of Clouds, there were no windows to serve as weak points for any enterprising wyrms; the keep’s residents, who would now include Aymeric and Estinien among their numbers, slept, ate, and prayed beneath walls of cold, featureless stone. The reality of it began to sink into Aymeric as he parted from the squires and entered the keep proper, though he still did not fully know what to expect from his new home.
Unlike Ishgard proper, where beneath the protective shelter of Saint Daniffen's Collar the sunlit upper city could also house its most prestigious residents, the Dusk Vigil's strategic offices had been built at ground level and were ensconced in the center of a winding maze of corridors within the keep, the better to shelter the upper command in the event of dragon attack. The aging soldier who performed attendant duties led Aymeric through the windowless halls lit by cold crystal light with a methodical pace that Aymeric did his best to memorize. Estinien trailed behind him, offering no opinion on his surroundings. Whether he was studying the layout of the halls as well, Aymeric had no way of telling.
Their procession halted before a heavy door, upon which an embossed plaque bore the name MAITIGNY in heavy block letters. The attendant rapped upon the door with his walking stick, and the sharp sound echoed all the way down the hallway. “Visitors for the captain,” he then murmured with much less pretext or fanfare, as if he feared punishment for asserting himself beyond his station.
To Aymeric's surprise, when the door was opened, it was revealed that the room did in fact already contain the man he sought to meet. Evidently the thin young squire had been fleeter on his feet than the grown knights, for Aymeric did not doubt that the guardswoman had spoken true of his new Captain's habits.
Even were he to know nothing of the man's surname (a lower noble house mostly recognized for its theological scholars), a single glance into the office told him much of Ser Joceux’s tastes and sensibilities. A shelf of books and logs was nestled against the far wall, its contents impressive at first glance, but closer inspection revealed a thin layer of dust that the rack of wine bottles and glasses proudly displayed on the end table conspicuously lacked. The man himself had polished the otherwise quite dull hardsilver of his armor to a gleam, and was in possession of a short mustache and goatee, styled impeccably in the latest fashion of the capital.
In short, he was exactly the petty noble Captain that Aymeric had expected him to be, and already he knew that Ser Joceux was unlikely ever to earn his true respect. Yet knowledge, though valuable in its own right, was only half the battle. Aymeric was all too aware that the foreseeable course of his military life lay entirely within his Captain’s hands.
Joceux peered at them over the top of his mahogany desk. “So you're the two lieutenants they promised me.”
Aymeric performed a knight's salute and bowed low in greeting as the door swung shut behind him, and with a moment's delay, Estinien followed his lead. “Captain, ‘tis my honor to serve Ishgard and the Fury as a member of your company,” he proclaimed, his words practiced and polished with the experience of years among the nobles of the Pillars.
“Yes, yes. Good to see some conviction in you. We need conviction these days, sorely need it.” The mustache twitched upon Joceux's upper lip as he thumbed through a short stack of papers at the front of his desk. “I was informed that the two of you have already slain your first dragon. Not many green knights can say as much. You clearly have a rare talent, Borel.”
Aymeric acknowledged the comment with a bow of his head, yet he felt compelled to speak up about the clear omission of his companion. “Ser, the honor belongs to Estinien just as much as I. He–”
“I don't doubt that he provided assistance,” Joceux interrupted him. “I'd expect nothing less from a knight with the illustrious sponsorship of our former Azure Dragoon. But you, Borel, ‘tis plain to see that you are in possession of a true tactical mind.”
Estinien was staring straight ahead, past Joceux's shoulder. The knot of his throat flexed, and for a moment Aymeric wondered if he would speak out, but he offered up naught in his own defense.
Aymeric swallowed his own words despite the bitterness of the injustice. It was useless to argue the point; when a certain kind of nobleman decided upon a version of events that suited his needs, not even Halone Herself could sway him. The actual truth of the matter was a rare consideration among such men.
Captain Joceux carried on with no further heed paid to the insult he had just levied against Estinien. “There's far too much Dravanian influence in these parts. People claim to follow the Fury, but mark my words, Borel. This region is crawling with heretics.” He grimaced. “Not enough conscripts from the villages already, and to make it worse, they hoard the food that is rightfully ours. What they need, Borel, is a man with dragon's blood on his hands to put the fear of the Fury back into them.”
“Ser,” Aymeric said, flat and non-committal, uncertain as to the Captain's intentions. It was abundantly clear that Joceux was a harsh man, certain in his station above the farmers of the countryside if not among his fellow nobles and officers, but Aymeric could not yet ascertain what role he himself was meant to play to keep his favor – at least until he rose high enough to no longer require it.
Joceux leaned back into his chair, his countenance a few shades more rubicund following his passionate speech against the supposed heretics that surrounded them. “The harvest is coming in, and soon we will need men to ensure we servants of the Fury get our due. You will assume the role of First Lieutenant – Acting, of course, until you have proven your competence. First Lieutenant Celine will report your undertakings to me.”
For a moment Aymeric stood carefully still as he processed this new development. He certainly had done naught to merit a promotion on his first evening at the Vigil, naught that Estinien had not also done, anyroad. The Captain's belief in noble superiority was clear enough, yet Aymeric could not shake the sense that there was more to his actions than simple favoritism. A promotion, even only in an acting capacity, was a rare opportunity – but if he failed in his duties or slipped in the political dance he had now entered, he knew he would have all the further to fall.
But appropriate gratitude was what was required at the current moment, and so Aymeric bowed deeply before the silence could carry on too long. “Thank you, Captain. I will do my utmost to be worthy of this opportunity.”
“Of course you will. As for you…” Joceux glanced at Estinien as if he had forgotten his presence entirely. “Report for outer patrols in the morning.”
Aymeric, too, shifted his attention to his companion. Estinien stood still for another moment, with an expression that may as well have been carved into stone, then acknowledged the order with no more than a slight lowering of his head and a “Yes, ser.”
Blessedly, Joceux appeared not to interpret Estinien's minimal deference as a slight, and waved a hand haughtily at the both of them. “Dismissed.”
With a final bow, Aymeric hurried from the office, waiting for the heavy sound of the door swinging shut behind him before letting out the tense lungful of air he had been carrying. To be promoted on his first day, if only to an acting rank, should have been cause for celebration, but the blatant way Estinien had been slighted had thoroughly soured his mood.
Estinien was silent as he followed two steps behind, and guilt began to coldly gnaw at Aymeric's gut. Had he angered Estinien by failing to support him before their captain and receiving a boon, however backhanded, that Estinien himself had been denied? A green knight of his meager standing could hardly hope for advancement without some measure of ingratiating himself to his superiors, and arguing with the Captain would surely have worsened Estinien's standing along with his own, but the whole business still left a bitter taste in his mouth.
“Forgive me,” he said to his companion. “I should have risen more quickly to your defense. You deserve equal recognition for slaying that dragon, if not an even greater share than I. If anyone is to be promoted –”
Estinien shook his head. “Enough. You care too much about a petty nobleman's good opinion of me, while I do not. Patrolling the outer holdings will provide the opportunity to slay more of our foe’s wicked brethren, and that is all that concerns me.” He looked about them, the walls and lamps continuing in both directions. “Which way leads out?”
“The right was the direction from whence we arrived. Now that we have been shown the way, I believe I can lead us to the entrance,” said Aymeric, feeling as if some of the weight upon his chest had been lifted by Estinien's dismissiveness, but enough remained to bring him discomfort. No sooner had Nymeia seen fit to join his and Estinien's paths than the uncomplicated friendship between equals he so desired was on the verge of being sundered. “I have a mind to make for the mess hall, if you care to join me.”
Estinien made only a non-committal sound in lieu of offering a definitive opinion, yet Aymeric was still surprised when he arrived at the mess at last to find that Estinien had vanished, slipped from his side somewhere in the mazelike halls. Briefly, he considered postponing his supper in order to look for him, fearing that mayhap the meeting with Joceux had angered him after all, but he quickly abandoned the thought at the sudden arrival of a pang of hunger that all but demanded immediate action.
The hall was busy but not overly crowded, and Aymeric made his entrance without any undue notice. The air smelt strongly of onions, which he presumed were the main ingredient flavoring the soup that the rather haggard-faced kitchen maids were doling into bowls and distributing to the line of soldiers. He slipped easily into the line, and soon his hands were filled with his daily sustenance: the bowl of soup, a small boule of heavy knight's bread, and a wedge of fine sheep's milk cheese.
He cast his gaze about the hall, looking for a good place to sit. It would not do for him to appear too lonely and vulnerable, yet he had never stayed at the Vigil before in his youthful career, and he knew not which of the knights and soldiers that had long resided there might require his best first impression. No one had even paid special attention to his entry – but there! To his left there was one table of soldiers whose members appeared to be trying to surreptitiously observe his actions and had not yet realized that, among a crowd of indifferent fellows, their unobtrusive glances stood out all the more. Aymeric made directly for them, his most disarming smile upon his lips.
It was a small group – a handful of Elezen knights and one Hyuran woman, sitting an extra few ilms or so apart from the rest. The others watched him with curiosity, calculation, and a hint of apprehension, yet the furrow between the Hyuran knight's brows deepened in an expression of unmistakable anger as he approached.
“Good evening,” he greeted them once he had arrived within earshot of the table: necessarily quite close, as expected for a bustling mess hall. “I do hope I am not intruding. My name is Aymeric de Borel, newly assigned to the company under Captain Joceux de Maitigny. I arrived at the Vigil tonight. May I join you?”
To their credit, the other knights managed to smother their surprise at his bold approach quickly, though not before Aymeric had noticed it for himself. “Of course, you're the new lieutenant,” one of them eventually spoke up, a pale, scrawny man with thin chestnut hair that was largely escaping the short tail into which it had no doubt been hastily tied. “I’m Percevain, and this is Gaspard and Gwenolie… and Millie, of course. We're Joceux's men too – ‘twill be nice to have another set of hands around. But I must admit, we weren't expecting you to turn up until tomorrow morning.”
“By the Twelve’s good grace, the weather was fair and Ser Varlineau and I made remarkably good time on our journey from Ishgard,” Aymeric replied.
Abruptly there was a loud scraping sound as Millie stood, pushing her chair aside. She was no longer glaring at Aymeric, but he caught a glimpse of the raw expression on her face before, without a single word, she turned her back on him and left the hall.
Aymeric blinked after her. “I hope I have not given offense to the lady.”
Gaspard, a much darker, stockier man than either of his remaining companions, scoffed. “Millie? She's offended by everyone. You need not take her ire personally.”
“She can hardly stand to even eat with us,” chimed in Gwenolie. Her apple cheeks and bright red hair gave her the look of a much younger girl, even as she sat taller than Gaspard beside her. “It's probably because you're from Ishgard. She won't suffer any talk of the place. Don't take it to heart.”
“If you are certain,” Aymeric said, though he wondered as to the true reason behind the woman's anger. He took his seat close to where Millie had been, placing his bowl of steaming soup before him.
“Ugh, the food is still piss here,” said Gaspard. He plucked a crust of his knight's bread out of the bowl of soup where it had been soaking in the onion broth, and grimaced as he bit off a mouthful and swallowed. “It’s like the country bumpkins don't know a damned thing about flavor. At least in Ishgard you get salt with your soup.”
“I don't think it's all that bad,” said Percevain, whose own bowl was long emptied. “At least we don't have to eat skyfish out here.” He shuddered.
“No skyfish, but also hardly any meat but eft and mutton,” grumbled Gaspard. “How can a man keep up his strength without any good, solid beef? The heretics are probably hoarding all of the real food for themselves.”
“Aymeric, you're here from Ishgard, aren't you? What do you think?” asked Gwenolie diplomatically.
They all turned to look at him with expectant wide eyes. Aymeric smiled his most placid smile. “While I am accustomed to Ishgardian cuisine, I find that Coerthan cooking has many merits of its own. This soup, for instance, is quite delicious, if I may say so.”
The soup in question was rapidly approaching a lukewarm state, and he spooned some into his mouth while his fellow knights began to debate the validity of his words. Like most Coerthan meals, even the mild flavor of onion dominated in a dish that tasted as if it had never been so much as present in the same room as a salt grinder. Still, despite his upbringing, his time in the Temple Knights had given Aymeric an inordinate fondness for such uncomplicated fare.
The intrigue of his arrival now thoroughly wrung out for its meager entertainment value, the other knights continued the now heated argument over the quality of the dinner amongst themselves, and Aymeric took advantage of the peace to eat his own meal. Soon enough he had emptied his bowl, but Estinien had yet to make his appearance in the hall, and the supply of onion soup from the kitchen maids’ great tureen was nearly spent.
Strictly speaking, it was none of his concern whether the man forewent his supper or not. Still, some sense of duty, born both of friendship and of lingering guilt over his own promotion, drove him to wrap up the remaining bread and wedge of cheese in his handkerchief and, carrying it nonchalantly, he gave a cursory farewell that went unacknowledged by the still-quarreling knights, slipped away from the table, and made his way out of the mess hall, through the narrow halls of the keep, and into the night.
The bell he had spent within the keep had been enough for night to fully settle upon the highlands. It was a clear evening, and the stars glittered like a noblewoman’s train embroidered with diamonds. The first breath of fresh air after the bells he had spent in the depths of the keep, crisp with the oncoming autumn, nearly stopped Aymeric in his tracks. He took a moment to savor it before being on his way.
Instinct carried him along his path, some sense of understanding that he had developed for his newest friend that he was fully capable of discerning yet could not quite put into words. The drink he had shared with Estinien had yielded remarkably few insights into the man's character, even as the alcohol had begun to redden Estinien's face before he had even finished the first glass. The little Aymeric had gleaned, however, steered him true: as he approached the training yard, the rhythmic wooden thumps and cracks told him that he had guessed correctly as to Estinien's whereabouts.
A low iron fence was all that separated the spacious sparring grounds from the rest of the Vigil's outer courtyard. Beyond it lay a cluster of dummies upon poles, their misshapen forms barely lit by the moon and the distant light of cooking fires in the staff's quarters. One dummy had already been knocked to the ground, its straw entrails scattered across the dirt, and Estinien was clutching a wooden training lance and determinedly making similar work of its fellows.
Aymeric waited until Estinien had finished his drill and lowered the lance before politely clearing his throat. “Are you not hungry, my friend?”
Estinien's shadowed form stiffened. The lance fell to the dirt as he turned to face Aymeric, staring at him in silence for a long moment before striding brusquely to the fenceline.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded.
Aymeric raised the handkerchief. “I've brought you supper. The mess has no more food for the day, unfortunately, but I felt as if you might regret going to bed on an empty stomach, so I saved you a bit of bread and cheese.”
He handed the food to Estinien, who hesitated. The hunger in his expression was stark, but it was not until Aymeric had nearly opened his mouth to insist rather more forcefully that he moved to take the food at last. He turned away in response to Aymeric's encouraging smile, fiddling with the knot in the handkerchief and wearing a stony expression.
No words of gratitude were spoken either before or as Estinien ate, yet Aymeric could see in the way he tore into the bread, hardly chewing at all before he took the next mouthful, just how much he had truly needed the sustenance, and was satisfied for the time being.
“Follow me back to the barracks,” he said once Estinien had finished. “They will be putting out the lights and shutting the doors soon enough.”
Estinien shook his head. “There are still five rounds of drills remaining in this regimen. I must finish it tonight – I’ll find somewhere else to sleep when I'm through. The chocobo stables, mayhap.”
“Like hells you will!”
Both knights jumped at the sudden incursion of a stocky figure, revealed to be a rather elderly Hyuran man by the amber light of the lantern in his grip, puffing and muttering further curses under his breath.
“No training in the yard past nightfall! Do ye see the sky? Night! Are ye blind or do ye just have no brains in yer heads?”
Estinien blinked, and Aymeric felt a powerful premonition that he ought to intervene as he saw his companion open his mouth to reply. It took a great many pretty platitudes to finally placate the man, who turned out to be the former master-at-arms who had officially retired from combat but retained oversight of the training yard’s operation, and took this duty with the same grave seriousness as the Scholasticate’s strictest decency monitor. When the man was finally satisfied that Estinien would be kept from any further disturbances of the peace and hobbled away to the little cabin at the edge of the yard that served as his quarters, Aymeric breathed out a quiet sigh of relief.
They walked briskly along the corridor to the knight-lieutenant’s barracks, Estinien once again trailing a few places behind Aymeric. At their rank, they no longer ran the risk of being made to do additional drills the next morning if they were not behind the barracks doors when they were shut for the night, but the prospect of sleeping in the chocobo stables as Estinien had suggested was not one Aymeric particularly wished to face, not to mention the embarrassment and blow to his authority as (Acting) First Lieutenant that would come with being locked out on his first night in the Dusk Vigil. No, he had slept on the road for the past several nights, and though he was well aware that no barracks mattress would ever hold a candle to his bed at Borel Manor, he was rather looking forward to sleeping upon a proper mattress again.
It was a simple desire, so small as to be taken entirely for granted, and so Aymeric was all the more surprised when they arrived at the men’s barracks to find two vacant beds with empty mattresses, the sagging layers of cloth bedding crowned with great piles of straw and chaff.
For a moment Aymeric could not understand what he was seeing, then he blinked and stood utterly still as he searched his mind for whatever might be a proper response to the rather childish prank. Most of the other knights had already returned to the barracks, and were steadfastly pretending disinterest in his reaction to the spectacle.
Aymeric glanced at Estinien out of the corner of his eye. His friend’s arms were crossed, and he was looking at the piles of mattress stuffing with a disdainful frown.
“It seems,” remarked Aymeric, “as if someone wished to welcome us to the Vigil.” He turned to one of the knights he recognized from the mess, who had just pretended to smooth out his pillow for the third time. “You wouldn't happen to have seen aught of the one who did this, would you, Percevain?”
Percevain’s back stiffened at being called by name. “I didn't see anything,” he replied on cue. “But… Millie left dinner early, didn't she? She might have come here and done it before anyone else could see. Yes, it must have been her.”
“Percy’s right,” chimed in another knight, one Aymeric had yet to meet. “I passed Millie in the hallway earlier tonight – it must have been when she was coming back here.”
A murmur of assent rippled through the group of knights. Aymeric bit back the dramatic sigh he sorely wished to heave, choosing instead to maintain a stance of professionalism. He could simply pull rank on them all – the tenuousness of his acting rank aside, he did still have that authority – but that was not the first impression he had been hoping to make on the men with whom he would be living for the foreseeable future.
He coughed delicately, and was about to ask more pointed questions of the other knights when a distinctly feminine voice echoed into the barracks from the hallway outside. “Whatever is going on here?”
Aymeric turned just as a tall woman, still in her hauberk and boots, strode without hesitation into the men's quarters. She had a pale complexion, her brows so fine as to nearly disappear on her face, and her fine blonde hair was twisted into a tight bun at the top of her head. Even if he were to miss the badge of rank affixed to her breast, there was no mistaking her identity: his fellow First Lieutenant, finally arriving to restore order.
Her face was vaguely familiar. Aymeric riffled through his memories of the minor nobility’s parties and gatherings he had attended to place it along with the given name he already knew, and in short order he had solved the puzzle. He had never spoken at length with her before, but he was well aware of her position: Celine de Vesnaint, the youngest daughter of a family that had already produced a number of notable knights, recently including a Knight Dragoon. The last time he had seen her, she had been an adolescent in a hoop-skirted party dress, giggling at another girl's jokes; now, she commanded a barracks of grown men with little more than a word and was giving him an appraising look.
“Lady Vesnaint,” he greeted her with a shallow bow. “‘Tis a pleasure to meet you again. As you can see, Ser Varlineau and I seem to have offended someone in the company.”
Celine appeared momentarily astonished that Aymeric had recognized her so immediately, but the flicker of surprise quickly arranged itself into a warm smile. “Lord Aymeric de Borel. I must apologize for the rude reception after your long journey from Ishgard. I had not thought our esteemed knights to be so childish.”
“It was Millie, Ser,” a fresh-faced, freckled knight whined. “She’s the only one who left supper early, and everyone knows how much she hates nobles, and–”
“And did you actually see Ser Millie doing this, Firmien?” Celine interrupted him in an icy tone.
“No, but…”
Celine ignored the rest of his plea, turning to Aymeric. “Ser Aymeric, do you have any thoughts on the matter?”
Aymeric cleared his throat. “While Ser Millie did seem to hold some animosity towards me when we first met, there is little evidence beyond speculation that actually serves to implicate her. Besides, even if it is true that Ser Millie bears ill will towards those of the nobility, she should then have no quarrel with Estinien.”
They both turned to Estinien, who glanced at Celine and shrugged, but otherwise made no comment before returning his attention to the mess of his bedding. Celine sighed and crossed her arms.
“I will not accuse anyone in this room; however, I will advise you all to take more care when choosing a target for your jests. Captain Joceux has informed me that he has promoted Ser Aymeric to the rank of Acting First Lieutenant, and I am certain that none of you wish to face the punishment for insubordination against a superior officer.”
A chill ran through the barracks, the silence deafening in the wake of Celine's proclamation. Eventually a knight, his voice an indistinct mutter from the back corner of the room, spoke up. “He just got here! Since when is he First Lieutenant?”
“Since two bells ago,” Celine replied coolly. “The Captain has decided to recognize his valor in slaying the dragon of Ever Lakes. I came to congratulate him and show him to the First Lieutenant’s quarters, only to discover this spectacle. I do not appreciate it, and I am certain that First Lieutenant Aymeric does not either.”
Another low voice from the back of the room floated up. “What about Millie?”
“I shall personally speak to Ser Millie,” Celine said. “Now, Ser Aymeric, please accompany me to your new quarters.”
She swept out of the room, and Aymeric had no choice but to follow behind her. He was grateful for her intervention, but the thought of leaving Estinien among potentially hostile fellows sat ill with him. Before he passed through the doorway he glanced back at Estinien and hoped his friend could read the apology Aymeric dearly wished to give in his expression, but his friend’s face betrayed no hint of either approval or disapproval before Aymeric left his sight.
Celine led him a short distance down the stone hallway, passing the other rooms of the barracks in which the rest of the Second Knight-Lieutenants were poorly concealing their desperate curiosity. “It has been a rather long time, Lord Aymeric,” she said conversationally, ignoring the other knights. “I am told you were assigned to Captain Orselfaux's unit at the Congregation before being posted here. I served one of his lieutenants briefly as a squire – I imagine he's still terrifying his men with surprise barracks inspections at dawn?”
Aymeric wondered briefly just how much gossip had preceded his arrival, but the unexpected point of additional connection heartened him. At the very least, she had not brought up his parentage in front of the other knights. “Indeed. ‘Diligence separates boys from men', as he would say.”
“‘Tis good to know that some things have not changed,” Celine said with a soft laugh.
At the end of the hall were the doors to the First Lieutenant's quarters, one of which Celine opened for him with the ring of keys on her belt. “It isn't much, but at least you no longer need to share with the rabble,” she said as Aymeric took in the sight of his new bedchamber. It was small, just barely large enough for the bed and an armoire with a candle-holder on top, but any access to truly private quarters was a luxury in the Temple Knights.
“I take no issue with shared barracks, but thank you,” he said sincerely. Celine received the gratitude with a nod, her smile turning to seriousness.“Congratulations on your promotion, Acting First Lieutenant. I am certain you will be more than capable at the position, but if I may offer a word of counsel…” She drew close, her green eyes narrowing, hard as flint in the midst of her delicate face. “The men here respect actions far more than they do titles, doubly so for those of us in… uncommon circumstances. ‘Twould be best to find a way to prove yourself – quickly.”
Aymeric held her gaze as she stepped away. They were alone in the small room, yet the back of his neck prickled as if the entire barracks’ eyes were upon him. The prospect of earning the trust of a group of men who were yet strangers to him was daunting, and the stale air inside the keep sat heavily in his lungs, bringing little relief to the creeping apprehension overtaking him.
“‘Tis rather late, so for now, I shall wish you good night,” Celine said with a slight tilt of her chin. “We shall have much to discuss in the morning, I am sure.” Then she turned on her heel and was gone, the candle shivering in the wake of her passing, leaving Aymeric alone to ponder her words.
The other knights were making a show of getting ready for bed, shuffling uncomfortably behind Estinien as he methodically stuffed one handful of straw after another into his mattress. He didn't mind the work – it was an irritating inconvenience, but he expected little enough already from his fellow knights. Once they learned that there was no gratifying reaction to be found in harassing him he would be left alone, which had been his goal from the moment he was given his knighthood. His deeds in battle would speak for themselves.
“We all know it was Millie,” one of them said rather pathetically. “She has it out for all of us, you know.”
Estinien ignored him, the ensuing expectant silence failing to compel him to speak further. The mix of straw and chaff was dry between his fingers, leaving them coated with dust that he patted off unceremoniously on the thighs of his leggings. The scent of it was familiar and even comforting in its own way. A fully inducted Knight Dragoon was equivalent in rank to a Knight-Captain and slept on flockbeds stuffed with karakul wool, which he supposed would be as tolerable as the straw he was accustomed to, but the Azure Dragoon’s bed was filled with only the finest chocobo down. Alberic had once confessed to him that he had never quite grown used to the luxury, and Estinien wondered if, when he claimed that rank (for there was no doubt in his mind that he would someday be the one to claim it), he might be able to swap his bed with someone.
Aymeric's face appeared, unbidden, in his mind’s eye. He shook his head and continued stuffing the mattress.
“Celine's not going to punish her either,” said another knight’s voice, eventually. “Bitch thinks she can play favorites and let the girls get away with murder just because the Baron hasn't been able to marry her off yet.”
“Don't let Gwenolie hear you say that.”
“Gwen knows she won't be here forever. Do good work, keep your head down, then use the pension to do well by your children – that's what a girl who knows her place should be doing, not putting on airs and taking promotions from the deserving.”
“Well, it's not as if you'll be seeing that promotion any time soon anyway since the Captain’s up and given it to Borel on his first day.”
“Hogshite is what that is. Joceux’s just as bad as Celine, but now it's the Archbishop’s arse he's trying to kiss. I hope he gets shite in his eye for the trouble.”
“What's the Archbishop got to do with it?”
“Are you deaf or do you just get drunk too quickly to listen to anyone who's talking at your uncle’s parties? Everyone knows that Aymeric de Borel is Thordan’s secret bastard.”
Estinien paused, the next handful of straw held tight in his grip. He had paid little attention to Aymeric before the incident at Ever Lakes, though they had been assigned to the same company; if the others had spoken of his parentage, Estinien had never bothered to remember it, and in the time since Aymeric had been the one asking him all of the questions about his origins, his training under Alberic, his lack of other friendships. Of course he knew that Aymeric was a noble, soon to be the Viscount of his family, but the Archbishop’s bastard?
Estinien had only laid eyes on Thordan VII once, when he had given his benediction at the formal knighthood ceremony. It seemed difficult to believe that the elderly clergyman with his drooping eyelids and prodigious white beard could have been spry enough to father a child twenty years prior. And, though he knew little and cared less about the concerns of Ishgard's nobility, he was certain that they did not take kindly to their bastards standing to inherit a manor in the Pillars.
The others continued to discuss Aymeric, his supposed parentage, the favors he may or may not have paid, and other uncharitable speculations, thoroughly ignoring Estinien until he had finished stuffing his mattress and the magicked lanterns were finally put out for the night. As he lay on his back in the dark, he found his thoughts drifting back and forth along the conversation, wondering how much of it was true and what Aymeric himself would say about the matter, should he choose to broach the topic.
It was a strange thought, for he had never much cared what Aymeric might have said about anything before that night.