Chapter Text
The Azure Dragoon’s prior encounter with the sacred mountain of Sohm Al had also been at The Warrior of Light's side. Along with Lady Ysayle and the little lord Alphinaud, they had trekked into a Dravanian territory fraught with violent vegetation and battalions of angry drakes, biasts, and whelps. Even with their eclectic party’s combined strengths and arcane talents, they had only just narrowly escaped the jaws of Nidhogg’s chosen consort.
Malms of a most harrowing journey—but about two steps into his half of the Sohm Al tart’s recipe, Estinien decides he would very much rather be surmounting the actual mountain again.
For it turns out, the chestnuts have to be sliced just so their skins crack but do not burn. After tasting his first attempt, he realized he had made a sugar paste out of a sweetened tray of charcoal fit only to be consumed by the refuse bin. His second attempt fairs much better in that it is at least edible. So edible that he helps himself to a roasted nut—or twelve—just to make sure all are evenly cooked, of course. And when the diced nuts weigh in at less than half for what the recipe calls for, he prays his friend will not notice.
Which should not be too hard considering his own baking struggles. The pastry crust Toren attempts seems to require the time and care of a newborn babe—and with all the stress it entails. Dedicated to deciphering Aymeric and his mother’s preparation edits, he watches as the Warrior of Light stamps out half a dozen perfectly shaped pie crusts only to reroll all the dough again. Again—and again. He watches as it goes in the icebox, and it goes out of the icebox. The dough needs to set. The dough needs to chill. The dough needs an eggwash. The dough could use a dash of cinnamon. By the time the dough is in the oven, tracks of flour trail after him like snow underfoot.
And at the end of the third bell, they have produced—at least according to their recipe– a batch of tarts. After finishing the delicate act of piping the chestnut cream, Toren steps back to take in their collaboration with a squint.
“They look…” he starts, words trailing while his frown deepens.
Personally, Estinien thinks they look…fine. Certainly not a batch that would be at the front of the patisserie window— but they are tarts. And while the dragoon is curious about what Ohrn Kai or any of his kin might think of this particular representation of what is already a mockery of one of their most sacred sites, he’s certain no one in a Coerthan village would turn their nose up at it. For while the crusts vary in color and thickness, they hold the chestnut cream adequately, even if each swirled peak dips between different heights.
“Perhaps…they look proportionate to the actual mountain range?” he attempts to cheer, as he watches Toren struggle to squeeze more cream out of the piping bag to even out some of the shorter ones.
The slitted eyes that look back at him hardly look amused. “They are disproportionate to what the recipe calls for because you were snacking on your ingredients,” he says, holding up the empty piping bag.
Estinien swipes a guilty smear of fresh chestnut cream from the corner of his mouth and sucks it shamelessly off his finger. Neither of them has had a proper meal since they arrived, but he thinks better of mentioning it.
“But it’s not just that,” the Miqo'te continues with a deepening frown, “the crusts are bowing too. Maybe the cinnamon threw off the measurements…?”
“Bah. So much criticism into how it looks when we’ve neglected the most important thing,” Estinien reminds as he grabs the tray of cooling candied chestnuts from the stovetop. He holds it out to Toren.
Toren looks at the tray but ignores his offer. “We’ll have to wait for those to cool before we can finish them. I just hope we haven’t made too much of a mess of it…”
His whole body slumps when he sighs. Estinien knows not whether he speaks of the tarts or the kitchen itself. Between the two, he reckons the tarts are in far better shape. The utensil drawer sticks with spilled maple sugar. Impressions of flour-dusted fingers mark every cabinet, while broken egg shells and stray chestnuts line the floor like caltrops.
Yet the most concerning thing in the kitchen is his friend, who is even more lopsided than their sloping chestnut cream when he casts off the apron he had been so eager to don for the sake of surprising a friend.
“You’ve nothing to worry about, Toren. You know I am no picky eater—and Aymeric will surely find your efforts more pleasing and charming than any shop’s signature sweet.”
The Miqo'te only hums, unconvinced as he picks up a handful of scattered chestnuts from the floor and sets them on the counter.
“And if it’s any consolation, if the finished crusts taste half as good as the dough you made, you have even less to concern yourself with.”
The sharp crunch he makes draws Toren’s attention to the candied chestnut between Estinien’s teeth. He grins wolfishly and offers him the tray of nuts again. “Aymeric has always told me the best chefs taste as you go along.”
With another long sigh, the Warrior of Light takes the tray from his hands without indulging in any of them. “Tasting is fine. Eating half your ingredients is another matter entirely. Never mind that you shouldn’t be eating raw dough anyway.”
“Ha. Well, should I be unmade by baked goods after all this, I will count myself rather fortunate,” the dragoon adds beaming around another pilfered chestnut.
His companion does not smile back.
“I wish you wouldn’t speak so lightly of yourself…” is all he says after he finishes retiring his apron on a nearby hook, “and I know Aymeric would feel the same.”
He sits on one of the barstools and pokes at one of the uncooked chestnuts, chin settled against his elbow. Estinien frowns as he undoes his apron and returns it to the hook beside him.
“Twas a poor jest, Toren,” he quietly amends as he sits opposite him on the central island.
“No. I know. Sorry, I’m just really…”
His teeth suddenly cinch together. His own body won’t even let him admit it and Estinien absolves him of the need to say it.
“I know.”
Toren takes a paring knife to one of the chestnuts and nods. “I know you know…but at the same time, you didn’t see him—after we came back from Azys Lla, I mean. You didn’t have to be the one to tell him you weren’t coming back. You didn’t watch his face grieve you a hundred different times…and a hundred more after you left your sick bed without a word—to either of us.”
His eyes flick up at him as he flicks off another piece of chestnut with his knife. “For a while there, I thought I was on the verge of losing both of you.”
Estinien swallows, throat sticking like maple sugar, remembering. When he had left suddenly and unceremoniously, he had hoped—no, knew—Aymeric would understand. Maybe not the why or even the exact reason, but he would know. Know that Estinien is Estinien and that his friend would justify any reason as simple as that. Not that a reason would’ve made it any easier—or that he could even give a clear one to either one of them should they have asked. He’s not sure he could voice what it was in that exact moment that compelled him to go: the lack of purpose and belonging or fear that somehow the tendrils of the Dreadwrym’s presence might still linger. That he might lose himself again and this time with the two of them so close…
“Mm. In reflection, I would’ve perhaps done some things differently,”
That earns him a laugh, even if it’s a bit incredulous. “Perhaps?”
The Former Azure Dragoon looks down at the mottled skin enshrouding most of his left forearm in angry red scars. His back and right shoulder look much the same when exposed, and though not healed, it does not hurt.
“I would rethink certain choices. Especially the ones that ended up hurting people,” he explains. Especially the ones in this house. “And yet for any of my regrets, I would not change what it has made me and where it has led me: Here right now—and with you.”
He flicks a loose chestnut on the counter so it bounces off of Toren’s arm. “Partner.”
One corner of Toren’s steadfast and focused frown curls at the sentiment.
Though his friend’s journey has only intersected with his for a short time, he knows the road that the one bearing the mantle of Hydaelyn’s champion walks has been paved with burdens, regrets, and broken promises.
And broken shields.
But filling between the cracks and heartbreaks, he has seen so much joy and so much love, often found in the littlest most mundane things.
When the Blasphemies had assailed Radz-at-Han and the surrounding villages, Estinien had spent the night in a jungle thicket choked with horrors and smoke. Toren and the twins remained amidst the heart of the villages. From the canopies, he watched as they went house to house with blankets and tea, delivering words of comfort that so often eludes the dragoon’s tongue. Small gestures to assure the people that they are not alone. In joy and in grief, they are not alone.
He looks over at the row of Sohm Al tarts settling on the table and realizes: “This is all so Aymeric wouldn’t feel so alone, isn't it?”
Toren whittles the knife against the nut in his palm and nods. “We didn’t exactly arrive in Ishgard under the most auspicious of terms. After the bloody banquet in Ul’dah, we were all separated. I had no idea who was even alive at that point. I was freezing. All I remember was shaking the entire ride to Camp Dragonhead. Everything in a blur of white falling snow…”
His eyes soften until they shine like the first light on morning frost “…And then a hand placed a mug of hot chocolate in front of me.”
He smiles up at Estinien. “It sounds silly over something so simple, but for just a moment, I forgot where I was and why. Everything just lifted off my shoulders like steam off of that cup. All just because in that moment—amidst despair and betrayal—there was still kindness…there was still love.”
Amongst the Lord of Camp Dragonhead’s many and well-known eccentricities, Haurchefant’s fondness for outsiders had always been particularly infamous. Less peculiar now that Estinien knows of the lord’s precarious upbringing in more detail. A bastard child raised amongst noble blood: an outsider in his own home. Where bitterness could’ve easily been sown, Hauchefant had chosen to grow to be kind and spread that compassion to others instead.
And away from the cover of his hands, the pale chestnut Toren had been chipping away with his knife is not just peeled, but has a form. A shape that curves into the body of a half-moon. Though small and faint he can make out the ears, tail, and an equine muzzle curled in on itself. All set off by a single horn protruding from the top of its sleeping head: a unicorn at rest.
Toren crosses his arms and lays his cheek beside his little figurine. “We’re always telling Aymeric he doesn’t need to do everything himself and that he can trust us to fall back on. It’s a fine sentiment, but it feels sort of hollow considering we’re not here far more often than we are. So the time we are all together needs to make up for it. That’s probably why he worked himself to exhaustion trying to prepare that meal…”
His ears flatten as glances around the disheveled kitchen. “...And that’s why I went and overdid it in the exact same way, huh?”
Estinien swallows a laugh. “The similarities between you both are strikingly similar. Admirably and frustratingly so.”
“Ha. Sorry…”
“Don’t apologize. Nothing I haven’t already dealt with before. ‘Tis just…doubling the recipe now, I suppose..”
Toren smiles a little. “I think I just got set off after walking in and seeing him lying there and not moving.” He taps the top of the unicorn’s horn. “Hit a little too close to home, you know?”
Estinien cannot fault him for that. He had been there when the bolt broke through the lord’s shield at the Vault. But he had also been there in the Aetherial Sea when he had heard his friend’s bubbling laughter guarding and guiding them along their path.
“Aye. It’s good to know he’s still watching out for us, too,” Estinien reminds, though he knows all three of them will bear the burden of his great sacrifice until their final breaths. Lord Haurchefant is not the only one he owes either. “To think even Lady Ysayle decided this fool was worth sparing yet again.”
“They’re counting on us, Estinien,” Toren says quietly. “All of them. Minfilia, Moenbryda, and Papalymo. Venat… and everyone else. I need to make sure I’m worthy of their sacrifices.”
“ I agree, “ the dragoon says, “but I also once knew an idiot who spent half his life thinking of naught else but making sure those he loved didn’t die in vain. So much so that in his pursuit of justifying unjust deaths, he neglected others…and himself. So much so he nearly lost everything all over again.”
Toren smirks up at him, blue eyes blinking slowly. “That does seem a bit familiar.”
“A bit too familiar for my taste,” Estinien scoffs amicably, “but that is all to say that the world will ask many things of you and your Blessing of Light. But those who love you in this world or the next will demand but one thing of you, Toren. That you live and live well. Everything after that is just…candied chestnuts on top.”
“Hmm,” the paladin muses, noise low enough it comes out close to a purr. He glances at the desserts they’ve prepared and looks back at Estinien. “So what then does Ishgard’s Azure Dragoon ask of me?”
“An equally impossible task, I’m afraid,” he says, leaning back in his chair. ”That the Warrior of Light, Savior of Ishgard, Liberator of Ala Mihgo, and Hope of the Star might take this opportunity as it was intended and rest.”
As if willed by his words, the Miqo'te’s mouth stretches wide in a yawn. “That is a pretty big ask, partner.”
He scoffs in mock outrage. “Oy, I know I lack Aymeric’s talents with words, but to think mine would put you to sleep so quickly. I would’ve tried this first had I known.”
With a tilted smile, he watches his good friend’s shoulders shake with silent laughter and his blinks grow longer and heavier. His chin sinks into folded arms while his breathing slips into quiet snores. Estinien stands and crosses over to him.
“Always leaving me to clean up your mess, eh?” he says tussling the front part of his hair. “Typical.”
The Lord Commander dreams, as he so often does of his friends; of exchanging his chainmail for traveling leathers, and walking the lands he has only heard of in gossip or tomes. He trades the comforts of home for the camaraderie of a journey, where the playful bickering of friends over a campfire replaces the squabbling of Cardinals across the pulpit. Between his fingers, he holds quills for arrows and not ink. But when he finally stands to collect his bow, his knees buckle. He hears his friends shouting as his body is cradled and carried away in a spinning blur of color and song, warm and gentle like a fading music box.
And then he awakes, surrounded instead by a forest made of carved cherrywood and under a sky of blue curtains. He sits up, bangs clinging to his damp forehead. Some pressure around his temples, but his vision seems otherwise fine, even if he questions the sight of the blanket covering him.
It’s not one of his quilts, but a rich deep blue like the bottom of a frozen lake. Golden threads weave geometric shapes around its border. They cascade into patterns that make the distinct outline of a city skyline. At its center are a pair of stylized wings, a tail, and singed horned maw. He smiles and runs a thumb over the delicate hem. Thavnairian weave. He’s heard praises that should be reserved for the saints and gods testifying to its beauty, but even those fail to do the material justice. He’ll have to think of a proper gift to thank the Satrap for his generosity when they meet.
And when he follows the pattern to the corner hem, he suddenly realizes he is not the bed's only occupant.
The Miqo'te looks like a dream curled up beside him. The light alights the tips of his brown hair to a golden syrupy color, much like the way sunlight passes through a bottle of birth sap. He touches the end of one and gasps when it does not disappear. Greedy for confirmation that he is not dreaming this time, he brushes his hand up and through the autumn curls, and watches them fall around his fingers. In slow circles he moves to the base of his ears, tracing them to the tip and back down again until his head tilts into the movements.
Toren turns up from the pillow to face him, eyes still pressed in a sleepy squint. “Aymeric…? How did…?” he murmurs, slowly blinking to take in the room, puzzled. “How are you feeling?”
Leaning closer, Aymeric nuzzles against the tip of his nose. “Much better. Especially now seeing you.”
The paladin returns the gesture with a smile. “Mmm…I think the nap probably had more to do with that,” he says, stretching out under the gifted blanket.
Though reluctant to admit it, Aymeric has to agree. “Our Estinien is quite skilled at doing what needs to be done, even if not in the most tactful way.”
“Mmmhmm. It’s why we love him,” Toren adds with another brief yawn
And the way he says it, so simply, so fondly stirs him. Perhaps sleep makes the words sound so effortless. He had not realized just how good it is to hear them said so freely—words he’s oft held back from saying. But then all fears—from campaigns to conversations—seem vanquished beside the Warrior of Light.
He seizes that feeling and kisses the bridge of his nose. “Aye…that we do,” he says, tilting another quick one to his lips.
With pinkening cheeks, Toren wiggles himself closer under their shared blanket, taking full advantage of each of their respective heights to snuggle directly under Aymeric’s chin. He pushes himself there, breathing slow and soft until it's like a purr buzzing against his chest.
Aymeric folds around him in a perfect shape made to kiss the top of his warm brown curls. Perfect for dozing into again as well. He has no idea what bell it is, nor how long he has been abed.
Or when he last ate. Though his heart feels full, he can feel his stomach twist in on itself. So much so that even Toren’s hair tickles his appetite with a sweet, woodsy smell.
“You smell marvelous…” he murmurs, indulging the pleasant scents further, “like maple syrup…and cinnamon.”
“Oh…”
He had not intended the remark as an insult, but the Miqo'te’s ears droop, apologizing even before he could. “Sorry…we were hoping to cheer you up. But—”
“But it ‘twas meant to be a surprise,” a fond and familiar voice breezes in. The man it belongs to arrives in a similar brusque fashion with a wooden caddy of steaming mugs and a tiered tray of confections balanced on one arm.
“A pity our Lord Commander cannot help sticking his nose into things.”
He ruffles Toren’s hair as he passes, gently pushing him down just low enough for him to steal a long kiss from the other Elezen.
“Could we not say the same for your tongue?” Aymeric teases as Estinien joins them in bed. He swipes over the sugar crystals still clinging to his bottom lip from the kiss. “It seems you have already taken it upon yourself to sample these lovely treats.”
One particular pastry stares at Aymeric with a very distinct dragoon-shaped bite missing from it. Estinien only shrugs as he begins unloading the drinks. “I got hungry on the way up is all. Besides, is that not why we make a Baker’s Dozen?”
He passes a mug over him to Toren with a smirk. As Aymeric takes his cup carefully, he notes the flour stains on Estinien’s blouse. That and the spices covering Toren make him look down at the spread in front of him with a renewed sense of awe.
“You…made these?”
“...and Hot Chocolate?” gasps Toren, beaming as he takes his first sip.
Estinien nods. “Mixed with some chai courtesy of our friends at the Thavnairian embassy.”
A courtesy Aymeric finds himself quite enjoying after he tries the combination as well. The species cut through an already decadent drink, highlighting its sweetness even more. It emphasizes his companions’ efforts as well. For them to have gone through the trouble of making a dessert from scratch for him…
He smiles down at his reflection swirling in the spiced drink. “Between this and the blanket, it seems I am greatly in debt to Vrtra for many things.”
“Aye, but ‘tis Toren who deserves the griffin’s share of the praise. All this is his idea.”
The dragoon thumps his back with a forceful friendly pat that prompts Toren to quickly cover his drink from spilling. “Perhaps we should taste them before we start praising or thanking anyone,” he suggests sheepishly.
“But of course!”
Eager as he is famished, Aymeric grabs a saucer with an unbitten tart and slices into it with the edge of a dessert fork. It cuts clean from the cream to the crust, clipping crumbled shavings of glazed chestnut on the way down. Though the desserts range in size, they are all unmistakably Sohm Al tarts—even if some look more like hills than mountain peaks.
He’s not surprised. While it’s one of his favorite delicacies, it is a delicate and temperamental treat for even Ishgard’s most accomplished pâtissiers. As a lad, Aymeric’s first attempt had ended up looking like something that would come out of the back end of a chocobo. He had burned the syrup for his marron glacé and overworked the cream to a curdle. But this—
“Oh…!”
When the fork passes his lips, whatever criticism he might’ve had about the tart’s height or bake melts on his tongue. It takes every onze of etiquette and good breeding in him to not lick it clean.
“The flavor is…incredible,” he remarks around a second bite.
“Truly…?”
Toren’s surprise makes Aymeric suddenly aware of the two sets of eyes trained on him since his first bite. Even so, the Miqo'te looks doubtful as he digs his fork into his portion. His ears flip straight up the moment he discovers the Lord Commander has not been sugarcoating his praise.
“Oh! This is pretty good!”
“What did I tell you?” Estinien says. He gives his baking partner in crime a playful shove, causing him to swallow the next bite a bit prematurely. “Substance over style is our specialty, eh?”
“Indeed! I would have never thought about adding cinnamon to the crust. A most ingenious addition.”
He smiles at the young culinarian in training, who sinks shyly behind his mug of cocoa. “I’m glad you like it! La Noseans tend to use cinnamon in…well, everything—especially sweets. I was a little nervous about adding it since Ishgardian cuisine is well-established and known for being particularly orthodox when it comes to its flavors but…”
He blows some of the steam off his drink and looks to each of the Elezen. “...I’m just glad it seems like it added something to it.”
Under his plate, Aymeric feels Estinien squeeze his hand. “Of course it does,” he says as he presses his forehead against the paladin’s. “It’s perfect, Toren….and I cannot possibly imagine it without it anymore.”
He leaves behind a sticky kiss on his cheek and hopes from the way the Miqo'te’s tail curls that he knows this isn’t just about cinnamon.
“But while you are both here, I shall have to get your insights so we can properly update Lady Borel’s recipe together.”
Toren’s brow pinches with a small frown. “Oh. I feel a bit guilty changing your Lady Mother’s recipe though…”
“She would be the first to suggest it, my friend, so do not worry! She was an intrepid adventurer when it came to the kitchen. Never once hired a cooking servant, until the very end,” Aymeric says, looking down at the heart-shaped swirl of crumbs and cream on his plate with a smile.. “Aye…I think she would very much approve of this new Sohm Al Tart.”
“Mm. A new Sohm Al Tart …” Estinien muses. He forgoes his fork to swipe up what little remains on Aymeric’s plate with his finger, savoring right it down to the tip. Once empty, he removes the saucer from his oldest friend’s lap and replaces it by resting his cheek against his thigh. “A fitting thing to consider, especially given our new allies.”
Toren looks up from stirring in some of the chestnut cream into his hot chocolate. “Ah that’s right. I’d nearly forgotten…”
In truth, it had slipped Aymeric’s notice as well. Looking at the tea tray toppled with tarts his friends had spent bells preparing, it’s easy to forget they’re shaped as a mockery of a sacred site to the Dravanians. For all their sweetness, the thought leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. The centuries of lies his father had helped perpetuate had been literally baked into their culture. So much so that even something so sweet and celebratory had been tainted by their forbearers’ sins.
“Even at war, it’s a shame that such a comparison was ever made,” Aymeric sighs, “To frame something as necessary as cooking and eating as an act of conquest.”
He looks between his two companions. “Think of what you did today. How you both came together to make something to lift my spirits. All the time and effort it took to make that wonderful display—and then you turned around to share the fruits of your efforts with someone else. And even that is built upon centuries upon centuries of knowledge. Techniques, tools, and recipes passed down from generation to generation to recreate—to improve. That’s through collaboration, not conquest.”
He takes another sip of the hot chocolate, savoring each individual flavor that works to make something entirely new and beautiful. The thought warms something deeper than the drink can reach within him.
“Forgive me if it sounds odd…but it makes me hopeful. After years of isolation and seeing our city’s cherished desserts and drinks change and become better through the influx of other lands and cultures…I’m excited for our future. So thank you for this. You’ve both given me so much more than you know.”
A wide-eyed Toren nods at him with a gooey smile as Estinien offers up a thoughtful snort.
“There’s our Lord Speaker,” he says, grin slowly spreading. “Such moving words might’ve even tugged at Nidhogg’s black heart.”
“I shall take your approval by proxy then,” chuckles Aymeric. “I only pray we can offer something to our allies in turn—and that we can carry this endeavor, not just in spirit, but in our deeds, as well.”
Hopeful as he feels, the amount of work that lies ahead for him and them as a nation still crushes a small sigh out of him. “If only undoing a millennia of atrocities could be as easily rectified as changing a recipe name.”
“True, but even small cultural changes like this could be a good start,” Toren says, tail swishing between the two Elezens as he thinks. “Ehll Tou mentioned some of the other dragonets have an interest in cooking lately. Maybe we could ask them for their input? They might appreciate having a sweet named after their mountain in a different context—or maybe they might know the name of a better one to replace it.”
“If nothing else, they’ll appreciate being included in the discussion. I know I would, especially if there’s food to be had.”
Estinien’s contribution insights Toren’s sigh. “True. It’s the only conversations you willingly engage in.” His tail bats against the dragoon’s cheek with two playful flicks and Aymeric laughs.
“I think that’s an excellent suggestion, Toren. Forgive us for constantly dragging you into our politics. I know you are not Ishgardian but—”
“But it feels a little more like home every time I’m here,” he assures, hot chocolate lining his lips and teeth when he grins. “Even if the temperature doesn’t quite agree with me yet.”
His tail puffs up with a small shiver, and oh, Aymeric’s heart could shame a dragoon with how it just leapt. His throat sticks with sentiment and cinnamon.“Full glad I am to have you both here for as long as you can stay, my hearts. Thank you for being there to clean up when this fool makes a mess of things.”
He squeezes their hands, which Toren returns firmly and fondly. Estinien’s hand, however, goes completely slack.
“This mess is…figurative, yes?” he says, throat bobbing when he swallows. “Because if you mean the one in the kitchens…”
“The kitchens…?” Aymeric starts to ask, but meets the same blank look of horror on Toren’s face as he notes once more the flour in his hair and the syrup stains on his blouse.
“Ah…”
His prepwork in the kitchen before he collapsed floods his memory as he wonders what the state of it looks like now after his dear friends attempted to make one of the most tenacious Ishgardian desserts for the first time.
“Right. I’ll see to it then,” the dragoon says, sitting up.
He only manages to rise halfway before Toren lunges at him from across the bed. “Not another step, Ser Estinien!” the paladin warns, after successfully grappling him by the shoulders. “You were the one harping on us to rest, so it’s your turn now!”
And there is something juvenile and oddly satisfying about seeing his elusive friend caught off balance, pinned to a nest of pillows and blankets below. It fulfills something from their Temple Knight sparing days Aymeric could only dream of as he locks him down by the other arm.
“Yes, it can wait until the ‘morrow, love,” he says, sidling under his arm. ”You did give me your word you’d stay, did you not?”
The dragoon’s grey eyes flick to each of his beloved captors. Once resigned, he shuts his eyes with a huff. “Ha. Fine, fine. Seems I’m caught between your whims once more…”
After some time amongst the empty mugs streaked with spices and chocolate, the stacks of plates licked clean of cream and crumbs, Aymeric’s eyes grow heavy as well. And when he closes them, he dreams, as he so often does, of his friends. This time, there is no great adventure or expedition. But there is peace, calm, and conversations that bleed into the early bells. He dreams of Sohm Al—of their promised rest: the future that one day unites dragon and man in their fair city, and a house that his two wandering hearts might one day call home.