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The end of the Dragonsong War did not mean an end to the fighting.
It was an uncomfortable truth that Aymeric forced himself to accept every day. Though Ishgard had made peace with Hraesvelger’s brood and those that followed them, Nidhogg’s vengeful legacy continued to loom over them long after his final death. His brood, scattered and leaderless as they were, still mounted erratic and disorganised skirmishes and ambushes on patrols and their outlaying territories. The Holy See was largely untouched, the brood no longer possessing the power to mount a direct assault, but they were still bleeding their camps and villages dry.
It had been a careful balancing act when Ishgard assisted the Eorzean Alliance in Ala Mhigo. They needed to send more than a token force but couldn’t risk weakening their defences when the threat of attacks was a constant worry. It was managed, though, and Ishgard had perfected the art of doing their best with the least. They kept Nidhogg’s brood at bay, as they had always done for the past thousand years.
When will that eventually end, though? The brood were deaf to reasoning or bargaining – they had become increasingly savage and maddened with the fall of Nidhogg, with reports of them practically throwing themselves upon bared lances and swords, snarling and gnashing their fangs long after the life had left their eyes. They made up for their dwindling numbers with a single-minded, suicidal determination to murder anything carrying Ishgardian colours – or Aza.
They very much loathed Aza’s existence.
“I’m beginning to think they may have a grudge.”
Bluebird was staring down at the dragon lying sprawled in the snow, its hulking body littered with numerous wounds that oozed a dark red blood. The snow all around was speckled pink, and she grimaced when Aza firmly planted his foot against its neck and started the arduous task of wrenching his greatsword out of its skull.
“This is the-” he grunted and yanked, the blade coming free with a sickening squelch, “-ugh. Fourth time today I’ve had a dragon come screaming down from the heavens, trying to eat me.”
“Well, you did kill their sire,” Bluebird pointed out, wiping her blood-steaked palms on her breeches, “They’re probably still pissed about that.”
“But that happened months ago…” Aza grumbled, inspecting his gore covered sword, “This is putting a dampener on my fishing.”
Bluebird smirked, her amusement returning, “You’re complaining about fighting something? Weren’t you the one begging me to come with you because, and I quote, ‘fishing is soooo boring by yourself, Bluebird, but I don’t want to pay the inflated prices on the marketboard~ Please come with me so I’m not bored~’’”
“I refuse to pay those prices,” Aza scowled, embedding his greatsword into the ground and resting on its wide guard, “Have you seen how ridiculous they get? I saw someone sell a Joan Trout for nine million gil. Nine million. Who the fuck is going to pay that much for a fish?”
“It’s a pretty rare fish.”
“It’s a fish,” Aza sneered, “One that I can get myself for free, thank you very much. Nine million. Fucking Hell.”
Bluebird wondered what it said about Aza that he got more annoyed over inflated market prices than dragons trying to eat him.
“Anyway…” Aza looked down at the dead dragon with a frown, “What should I do about this?”
“Hmm…” Bluebird looked down too, tapping her bottom lip, “We can skin ‘em?”
“Ugh. Effort, though.”
“Eat him?”
“Yeah, sure, just let me construct a giant oven in the middle of this frozen wasteland,” Aza said flatly, “Seriously, Bluebird?”
Bluebird shrugged and pointed in the direction of Falcon’s Nest, “Or we can go back to civilisation and cry to the guards that you’re getting bullied by big, mean dragons.”
“I’m bullying them, more like,” Aza said, quietly affronted, “They barely last a minute, despite their determination to kill me.”
Bluebird slid a glance his way. Despite all the blood making him appear like a murder victim, he was relatively untouched. His hair was dishevelled and his armour had a few scuff marks and stains, but otherwise he wasn’t even the slightest bit winded. Bluebird was intensely jealous of his stamina sometimes.
“Maybe let them get a free hit in if it bothers you so much,” she suggested a mite snippily, “You know, give yourself a handicap of a few broken ribs, or a missing limb, or something.”
Aza laughed like she told a cute joke, “Oh, Bluebird, you card.”
Bluebird rolled her eyes, casting one last look at the dragon. It really did seem like a waste to leave it, but it was much bigger than the last three. Unless they wanted to spend the next hour or so painstakingly skinning it for its valuable leather, it was best to leave it out in the cold for the wolves to feed on it.
Aza heaved his sword out of the ground, swinging it over his shoulder and letting the magnetic locks secure it. He seemed to dither for a moment before turning towards Falcon’s Nest and beginning to trudge through the ankle-deep snow, “C’mon, let’s go back.”
“Giving up on your fishing trip?” Bluebird asked, privately relieved. Unlike Aza she didn’t find much enjoyment having man-eating monsters leap out at her on a regular basis. She especially didn’t like being the only other person fighting alongside him. Not because she bought into the rumours that Aza was some psychopath barely in control of himself on the battlefield – she knew him before Eorzea, thank you very much, she knew just how fucked up he was from first hand experience. It was just he had a habit of running headlong into battle like the muscle-headed moron that he was and without Crisp there to rein him in or keep his blood in, Bluebird was the one that had to endure the stress of trying to remember whether they stashed some potions or not before going out on their jolly outing.
(The answer was this time: no. No, they hadn’t brought any potions, a fact she was becoming uncomfortably aware of the longer they stayed out here)
“The smell of blood is starting to make even me queasy,” Aza admitted, “We’ll take a rest at the inn and try again to…morrow…”
He trailed off, his steps slowing until he was standing still, his head slightly cocked to the side. Bluebird instantly stilled, turning her head this way and that to spot any looming threat in the snowy distance. There was nothing out of the ordinary, though the snow was coming down a littler harder, the wind picking up enough to make her cheeks sting from cold.
“Aza?”
“Hm… nothing, I guess,” Aza said slowly, sounding unsure. His ears were flicked forwards, listening for something, but after a tense pause they flicked back lazily, “I thought I heard something.”
Normally that was code for ‘I’ve detected an enemy but they’re so beneath my notice that I will pretend they don’t exist while utterly forgetting that most people aren’t superhuman monsters like myself’ so Bluebird didn’t relax in the slightest.
“Something.”
“Mmhm.”
Aza didn’t elaborate. He just continued walking, his tail swishing from side to side. Bluebird hurried to keep up, prepared to use him as a meatshield the moment the enemy popped out of the snow like a daisy.
But the walk was largely uneventful. Falcon’s Nest slowly loomed in the distance, becoming starker in the snowy backdrop as they approached. Bluebird found herself relaxing when they were close enough to see the guards milling about on its walls, the distant chatter of civilisation whispering on the wind. Falcon’s Nest had seen a large boost of support since the Ishgardian Republic stabilised itself. From what she understood they were determined to set it up as firmly as possible before trying to secure old villages and settlements out in the Western Highlands.
No idea why since it was still a frozen wasteland, but, hey, maybe they just wanted their land back, even if it was shit.
But, anyways, it seemed like Bluebird got nervous for nothing. They were almost within Falcon’s Nest’s walls where she could crawl into a bath and defrost-
As if to spite her, something in the distance roared.
Aza stopped. Bluebird stopped. The guards, only fifty yalms away on the walls stopped too. The roar echoed oddly before it faded, and Aza half-pivoted towards it, his ears flicked forwards in interest. Bluebird closed her eyes, cursing her luck. They were within the shadows of Falcon’s Nest’s walls for fuck’s sake.
The roar echoed again, louder, angrier, and the guards immediately shouted a warning, a bell swiftly following. “DRAGON!” she heard someone bellow at the top of their lungs, “DRAGON INBOUND!”
Fuck her life, honestly!
Despite everything telling her to just keep her eyes closed and will away reality, she opened them and turned, seeing something dark flying in the distance towards them. It looked small, but, as it approached, Bluebird came to the horrified realisation that this was the largest dragon of the day yet, and the last one had already been large enough to bite her in half.
“Oh, fuck me sideways…” she groaned.
The dragon didn’t land so much as it smashed into the snow, throwing up a powdery haze as it thrashed itself onto its feet with a gurgling noise that made every instinct Bluebird possessed shudder. As the snow settled, the dragon shook its head and locked its yellow, slitted eyes onto them, fangs bared in a fearsome snarl.
Aza, the idiot that he was, stared back curiously.
“Hmm… you’re new,” he said slowly, taking in the dragon’s form. It was fucking ripped, with thick, muscular arms and also barrel-chested, like some terrifying Behemoth-Dragon hybrid. Its wings were large and bristling with spikes… actually, scratch that, its entire body was bristling with spikes, pitch black and sharp looking. Its head carried thick, white horns reminiscent to a bull, and she could already envision what horrible, messy death she’d get from being smashed by those things.
The dragon gurgled, an alien clicking noise that carried unpleasantly. The guards were yelling, though Bluebird wasn’t paying attention to that, very carefully stepping back and away as Aza and Dragon stared each other down.
Aza shifted his weight, his stance widening though his hands remained relaxed by his sides, “Here to avenge Nidhogg too?”
The dragon didn’t reply. Well, verbally. It flapped its wings, once, twice, launching its bulky form high into the air and-
Bluebird remembered how it landed, realised that it was just high enough to launch itself down like a comet on their position. She didn’t need the Echo to realise that – and a near lifetime of fighting at Aza’s side made her recognise the way his body tensed and shift, automatically mirroring his movements as the Dragon howled, at the apex of its flight-assisted vertical leap, its body leaning forwards, wings tucking close like an eagle preparing to dive-
Aza and Bluebird both dived in opposite directions, just as the dragon smashed down upon them with enough force to make the earth tremble.
Aymeric sighed as he shuffled through the latest reports from their outer territories. There were more sightings and altercations with the remnants of Nidhogg’s brood by the day, a fact that was going to give him grey hairs at this rate. Lord Drillmont seemed certain that these were the final death throes of a beast in a trap, but it was still causing so much damage politically. People were already uneasy and suspicious of their peace treaty with Hraesvelger’s brood, soothed only by the promise that they would no longer have to lose sons and daughters to the endless Dragonsong War. But while the war was over, Nidhogg’s brood was still stealing lives away. It was almost as if nothing had changed.
He leaned back in his seat, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He could petition help from the other City States… ask them to bolster their patrols or flush out the bolt holes the brood was hiding in between raids. That carried the risk of ruffling more than a few feathers both within the House of Lords and in the smallfolk – Ishgardians were so used to dealing with this by themselves, they’d view asking for help as a sign of weakness. It could get ugly.
Or… he could ask Aza to investigate. The thought made him feel uncomfortable, though, already aware that he asked much of him already. Aza always agreed to help quite happily, but there were days where Aymeric felt like he was using him a little too much. Aza surely had other worries to attend to, such as that Auspices thing he spoke to him about last night. Battling Gods of a different sort surely required more attention than desperate ambushes from a fading brood.
He’ll think on it. At the moment the attacks weren’t serious enough to warrant much change in their usual procedure. With that decided, Aymeric neatly pushed the reports aside, turning his attention to the more political paperwork – he was still catching up on the policy changes and petitions during his absence in Ala Mhigo, so he still needed to-
“Lord Commander!”
He looked up sharply when a Temple Knight rushed in in barely contained urgency, Lucia hot on his heels. Her face was grim, and Aymeric felt a knot clench in his stomach as he focused on the knight struggling to catch his breath, practically gasping for air on trembling legs. A runner?
“What is it?” he asked sharply.
“A-Attack on… on Falcon’s Nest, sir!” The knight wheezed, pausing to swallow thickly before continuing in a more steadier voice, “A dragon has attacked it! The Warrior of Light was in the vicinity and intercepted it but, but it’s terribly powerful, sir! I was sent to request reinforcements! Our cannons and ballistae, they… the dragon’s hide is too thick to pierce and it has already destroyed the northernmost wall, sir!”
Aymeric barely held back a curse, instantly standing. Lucia looked poised to leap into action, and he gave her a nod. She swiftly vanished to round up the Dragoons to meet this threat.
“Who else is fighting with the Warrior of Light?” Aymeric asked, rounding the desk, “Were any of his companions with him?”
“Just the- the Au Ra girl,” The knight stammered, “I’m not sure. Everything happened so fast when the dragon arrived, but, I know his chocobo isn’t with him. I- I was told to get it from the stables as soon as I finished reporting to you.”
“Go now,” Aymeric ordered, a horrible feeling creeping over him at that. He knew Aza’s chocobo was well trained in the healing arts, to better suit his battle style, and if she wasn’t there… “Release his War Chocobo from the stables and bring it back to him immediately.”
“Sir!” The knight hurriedly bowed and ran out as fast as he came – Lucia stepped back into his office only a few seconds after.
“The Dragoons are mobilising,” Lucia reported, straight-backed and grim, “They will arrive at Falcon’s Nest within the hour.”
Aymeric nodded distractedly, his mind already churning over these events. Falcon’s Nest had been left largely alone – so close to the Holy See, its defences were strong and its position deeply entrenched. There had been the odd few fly-by from the more fool-hardy dragons, but they were always shot down by ballistae or did minimal structural damage. They got complacent, he realised, and the dragons must have capitalised on that. Thank the Fury Aza had been in the area.
“We should-” Aymeric stopped, frowning when he realised he couldn’t personally run to Falcon’s Nest’s aid. He would need to inform the Houses, his counterpart and then act as liaison between the forces here and in Falcon’s Nest. Frustration bubbled up in him at that – just like in the Grand Melee, just like with Nidhogg, Aymeric was once more delegated to the sidelines while Aza squared up against the threat. It was a realisation that cut deep, but he quickly stifled the emotion to be dealt with at a more appropriate time.
“You should go to Falcon’s Nest,” Aymeric continued, “I trust you to handle the situation, Lucia.”
“Sir,” Lucia saluted, “I will keep an eye out for the Warrior of Light.”
Trust her to pick up on that… “Thank you.”
Lucia left, no doubt to join the Dragoons, and Aymeric took a deep breath. The Lord Commander always was a step away from the battlefield – being too close meant you couldn’t see the whole picture, focusing too narrowly on what was directly ahead of you, instead of the enemy closing in behind. He told himself that, firmly, and strode out of his office to inform the Houses of the situation.
Even if Aza was involved, Aymeric needed to keep his distance.
Bluebird hated Aza with every fibre of her being.
“If I somehow live through this, I’m gonna kill him,” she vowed under her breath, peeking over the edge of the wall with her Garlean binoculars that she pilfered from a Castrum a while back. She tracked the hulking, black dragon rampaging across the churned-up snow, intent on the small form nimbly evading and dodging under its wild, furious swings.
Aza could most fast when he wanted to.
“Fuck,” Bluebird hissed, ducking down when the dragon pretty much ripped up the ground with a powerful heave of its forelegs. Chunks of stone and earth when flying over the wall she was hiding behind, followed by a cry of pain from someone further down who must’ve been too slow to duck. She hastily straightened up again, just in time to see the dragon rear up on its hind legs, wings spread wide and spikes bristling.
“DIVE-BOMB!” she yelled, ducking back down as the dragon took flight with a thunderous roar.
The warning was echoed in various degrees of terrified panic, and Bluebird gritted her teeth when the dragon smashed back down into the ground, the wall making an unhealthy crunching noise when the black spikes smashed into them. Yeah, they found very early on that those spikes flew everywhere whenever the damn thing crash landed. She’d already seen one of those spikes run a man straight through and she very much did not want to endure the same experience.
This fight was insane – well, insaner than their usual ones. Normally this would be fine. Normally there’d be Crisp and Papaya and maybe a few other lads to dance around this Behemoth-Dragon and have it all be a fun laugh at the end of the day. With just herself and Aza? No. Nope. Not a fun time. Not at all. This was terrible. Awful. She almost died seven times already until Aza made her retreat, and Gods know how the fuck he was still standing.
The knights began yelling, and she watched as they scurried around, reloading ballistae and cannons that had been hastily pulled from other parts of the camp to arm the half-crumbled wall. Not that they seemed to be doing much since the dragon found the bolts and cannonfire mere nuisances at best, but she supposed the knights didn’t want to sit here twiddling their thumbs while Aza did all the hard work.
She let her head loll back, her hand pressing against her side. The wound there still ached terribly – healed by a harried passing chirugeon, but only enough so that she didn’t bleed out here and now. She felt so useless. It was a bitter pill to swallow, but without the others to support them, she couldn’t keep up with the more robust Aza.
The dragon roared, earth raining over the wall again as it continued tearing up the place in its single-minded mission to crush the Warrior of Light underfoot.
Aza was fairly certain he had broken a few things.
It was a sort of vague, detached knowledge, though, because everything else was intent on the snarling jaws snapping and lunging at him. He twisted and ducked and dived, only able to deliver the occasional glancing strike when the dragon paused long enough for him to do more than scrambling about like a terrified rabbit. Which he wasn’t. Terrified.
He was exhilarated.
His muscles burned, his bones ached, his lungs hurt and gods, he was sweating like a fucking animal, but it was so good. Not even Byakko at the height of his fury pushed him so hard. This was – furycrushattackdestroy incarnate. The dragon advanced. It smashed. It tore. Gusts of white, panted air past sharp, white teeth, jaws constantly snapping, always only mere ilms from him, snapping, gnashing, very close, yellow eyes glaring at him in maddened fury and-
The dragon slammed its claws so hard into the ground it briefly got stuck.
Aza used the momentum of his dodge. Pivoting his weight, he heaved up his blade without further thought, laughing breathlessly when the edge of his greatsword caught the dragon right over the eye and lodged an ilm deep into its horn. It swung its head, almost wrenching the blade out of his damned hands, but Aza was quicker, pulling free and away, almost stumbling over his feet when hot white pain shot up his leg-
Pain that burned nicely, that he breathed in and let settle behind his breastbone, fingers flicking through the motion as he discharged it as burning red-black aether. The dragon screeched as Salted Earth closed around it, hungrily eating and stripping at its body.
Black spots dotted the edge of his vision. He ignored that. Push past it – pain is power, suffering is strength- and, to the left, a smooth twist of his body, momentum lifting his greatsword up – catching along the dragon’s jaw, shallow wound but enough to draw out a snarl. Jaws snapped, ilms from his arm – Aza practically threw himself on the floor as the dragon overshot its lunge, thundering over him, claws landing only ilms from his head and- oh.
Pale, soft scales above him.
He took advantage. Even though the angle was awkward and his arm was screaming in agony from the weight, Aza thrust the blade upwards into the soft underbelly above him.
A roar. Screamed so loud Aza was briefly deafened – and almost blinded when the dragon thrashed violently, wrenching his blade free and letting blood and gore spill out from the wound over him. Aza scrambled, narrowly avoiding getting stomped on as the dragon howled and screamed and then moaned, quietly, shuddering as its limbs collapsed under it and… stopped.
Aza, sprawled out in the snow, stinking of blood and seeing thin traces of steam rise over him, let out the breath he’d been holding.
Mm. Satisfying.
The silence afterwards was one he was familiar with. It was a nice thing. Silence after the death of something powerful. He took in a breath, feeling pain light up every nerve in his body, smelling viscera and having it stick in the back of his throat, blinking slowly to clear the blood clinging to his eyelashes, his skin sticky and warm.
Right.
Stiffly, Aza propped himself up on his good arm, his fingers still clenched tight over the hilt of his blade. The dragon was slumped in the snow, unmoving and quiet in… death? Aza frowned, sensing something amiss.
‘fwmpth’.
His ear flicked when something landed heavily in the snow behind him, and he looked over his shoulder slowly, recognising a pair of Dragoons from the Holy See standing battle ready, their gazes hidden behind their helmets.
“Ser Aza,” one spoke, female, voice even, “I see you have done our job for us.”
“Well, I got carried away, I guess,” he said, the black spots creeping in a little more into the corners of his vision. Nope. He’s not going to faint. “I’d check it, though. Not sure it’s… dead dead.”
“Is there any other kind of ‘dead’?” The other Dragoon asked, male, with a more light-hearted tone. His movements were casual as he eased out of his battle stance and stepped around Aza. He kept his head slightly tilted in a way that kept Aza in his peripheral, though, as if expecting him to leap to his feet and stab him the moment his back was turned.
Well, even if he felt so inclined, Aza wasn’t being that spry any time soon. He was feeling every second of his thirty-three years as he carefully climbed to his feet, a minute tremor wobbling up his legs. Pain stabbed him in all sort of strange places, white-hot and dizzying, and the female Dragoon moved closer to him, as if unsure whether he was going to swoon or not.
Aza clenched his jaw against the wooziness, digging his blade into the churned up earth at his feet to prop him up, and watched as the male Dragoon advanced on the fallen dragon with light, cautious steps.
The male Dragoon stopped, slowly turning his head from Aza, his lance held loosely in his hand. The dragon didn’t stir, even as he skimmed the tip of his lance over its arm, and the Dragoon relaxed, “It seems-”
The dragon lunged upright faster than any of them could react.
Snow was thrown up like a cloak from the violent movement, and Aza moved – deep, animal instinct screaming DOWNDOWNDOWN, hit the compact snow and hard earth underneath, as, a deep, deafening roar, the crash of claws against unyielding frozen ground, and screams of pain, and-
Aza scrambled forwards, feeling the whistle of air as claws swiped at where he’d been only a split second before. He couldn’t get his feet under him. Something oddly tight fluttered around his heart at that realisation, pain stabbing and robbing the strength from his legs as he tried to stand up, hand still gripping his blade, but uselessly, seeing a shadow loom over him and a snarl echoing around-
The dragon smashed him aside with one powerful, furious swing.
Aza… kind of blacked out for a second.
Because suddenly he was on his back, his body oddly numb and vaguely aware that his blade was… not in his hand. Oh, what? How stra-aaah… ah, there was the pain. It crawled up higher and higher as he breathed and wheezed, blinking rapidly as he distantly heard… things. Heavy footfalls. Angry, strained roars and snarls. Yelling. Spoken-yelling, even. Hmm…
Well, fuck.
Aza, not one to allow something as irrelevant as crippling agony hold him back, very slowly rolled onto his side, then his stomach, then pushed himself up onto his hands and knees. The pain was so absolute that he couldn’t even pinpoint what specifically hurt, and odd colours and shapes exploded in his vision whenever he tried turning his head to the right which – hmmm, not very good, that. But, he held the pain, he breathed into it, letting it settle as dark, churning aether behind his breastbone.
He held it… he held it… then let it suffuse through him.
Living Dead was always such an unpleasant experience. His nerves sang with a pain that was both awful yet blissful, his vision clouded with a red tint that made everything appear nightmarish and unreal. The heaviness that weighed down his limbs vanished – he leapt to his feet as spry as any cat, spotting his blade only a few paces away, which he scooped up and looked up to see – the dragon and dragoons both in fierce combat.
The dragon was not as fast as before – it was dragging itself low on its belly, leaving streaks of dark red, and its lunges and swipes were sluggish and poorly aimed. The creature looked to be in just as bad shape as Aza felt, and the Dragoons were nimbly leaping and limboing beneath its attacks, spearing the soft parts of its spiky armour with ruthless precision.
Aza waited, waited until the dragon screamed its agonised fury, flinging its wings out – throwing up snow and dirt and making the dragoons retreat – lifting its head high, the soft throat exposed-
Pushing everything he had into his legs, Aza executed a perfect Plunge.
He swallowed up the distance between them as well as any dragoon, his greatsword moving in a perfect, glorious arc – momentum and gravity both guided it neatly and precisely into that exposed, soft throat. The sharp edge cut through – jarred, hit bone – and Aza twisted, heaved his body weight into that last bit of resistance, hearing the dragon gurgle, jerking and spasming in surprise, hot blood spilling and-
It collapsed just as Aza’s blade finished its journey through its throat. He very narrowly avoided getting crushed under the dragon’s heavy body.
Now it was satisfying.
Taking two careful steps back, Aza planted his sword deep into the earth and leaned against it, feeling that seething, burning aether pushing through his body begin to wane. Never lasted long, Living Dead, but it served its purpose today. He got the final shot in this fight. He delivered the killing blow. His kill hadn’t been stolen or tainted. It had most definitely been worth it.
His vision greyed out. The aether fizzled and the pain reached such a height that it went very nicely numb.
Or.
Oh. No, wait, he was passing o-
“I leave you two alone for a single afternoon,” Crisp muttered irritably, pushing her thick hair out of her eyes, “And look what happens – attempted dramatized deaths.”
“Hey, I was lightly grazed,” Bluebird protested, sitting on the edge of Aza’s bed as the muscle-headed idiot snoozed away. She envied him – dodging Crisp’s flat, unimpressed stares via unconsciousness. She should’ve made sure to trip over her feet and bludgeon her head on the stone floor the moment she heard Crisp was coming.
Crisp’s dead-eyed stare slowly dropped to her side, where the recently healed wound was still a vivid, angry red scar. It still ached and throbbed terribly, but Bluebird just gave a tight-lipped smile through the pain.
“Right,” Crisp sighed, clearly not caring anymore. She turned back to where she was carefully prodding Aza’s bare shoulder, her fingertips glowing with White Magic, “I hate it when he uses Living Dead. It completely destroys him from the inside out.”
Bluebird looked down at Aza’s sleeping face. He had been cleaned up after the battle – he looked like he’d been swimming in the damn thing’s guts, so it was mostly for everyone else’s sake, really – but it just exposed the mottled bruising spanning over his body. She knew he took several direct hits from that Behemoth-Dragon but holy shit, she didn’t think it hit that hard. His entire ribcage was black and blue.
“Is he gonna okay?” Bluebird asked. She aimed for casual disinterest, but her voice wobbled a little anyways. She still remembered when that Dragoon lady, Bevene or whatever her name was, dragged him back – she had honestly thought him dead and very nearly had a heart attack because of it.
“Yes, he’s fine. Uh, relatively,” Crisp chortled at her slip up, “He is going to be sore for the next few days, and he is most definitely not going to be doing anything more strenuous than walking up the stairs for the next week.”
That was practically a death sentence for Aza. He was going to be so whiny.
“Can we… uh, keep him drugged for that time period?” Bluebird asked, “Y’know, because, he’s gonna be insufferable.”
“I’m tempted to leave him to Ser Aymeric’s tender mercies,” Crisp said carelessly, lifting her broad shoulders in a shrug, “He has so kindly lent this room for his convalescing, after all.”
Bluebird glanced around the room – a guest room in the lovely de Borel estate. She had only been here… once before, and that had been because Aza had been late for an engagement and she drew the short straw of chasing him out of Ser Aymeric’s bed. It had been pretty fun, actually, if only because Aza had squealed like a little girl when she dragged him out of bed by his tail – Ser Aymeric had been a good sport about it and actually found the entire thing hilarious.
She sighed at the fond memory. “How romantic… lettin’ Ser Aymeric play at nursemaid.”
Crisp smiled, “Well, it’s best to let him get some experience in it, since it seems like they’re actually serious.”
“Yeah, a serious pair of lovebirds. S’kinda nauseating to watch them sometimes.”
“It’s cute,” Crisp laughed, rising from the bed and brushing down her robes, “I’m just waiting for one of them to propose at this rate.”
Bluebird made a face – a proposal? That meant a wedding, which Bluebird would be obligated to attend because fuck letting anyone else take best (wo)man from her, but she found them so embarrassing to watch and always had to fight down tears of happiness – which totally wrecked her reputation as a stone-cold adventurer.
“I’m gonna be best woman,” she instantly claimed.
“You may have to fight Lucia for that honour.”
Both Bluebird and Crisp jumped, looking over to the door to see Ser Aymeric standing there looking mildly amused. Despite herself, Bluebird found herself turning a little pink, while Crisp looked absolutely delighted.
“Oh? Already thinking about it, are you?” Crisp chortled, “Well, in that case, he’ll find it very romantic if you take him to-”
“Oh Gods, can we not,” Bluebird hissed, waving her hands around as if to dispel this disgustingly sweet conversation before it properly got started, “The man was on his deathbed only a few hours ago. Let his corpse warm up before you start talking about that sappy stuff!”
Crisp just smiled, her eyes crinkling in the corners, “I’ll write you a note,” she told Ser Aymeric mischievously.
Ser Aymeric, who Bluebird found to be utterly shameless, dipped his head gratefully, “Thank you. And, ah, thank you for your help with Aza.”
Crisp waved him off, “Your Chirugeons did well enough on him. I just fixed up the damage from his, hmm, unique abilities.”
“Next time you see him do that Living Dead stuff,” Bluebird butted in, “Kick him in the shins. It wrecks his insides.”
“Yes, and it’s a pain to heal,” Crisp sighed, letting out a heavy puff of air, “He’ll be dead before he’s fifty at this rate, I swear.”
Ser Aymeric looked discomforted at that, and Bluebird felt something pang in her at the sight of it. She didn’t know how it must feel, to know the person you loved was under constant threat of dying well before his time. Today must’ve been awful for him.
“But today he lives for a little while longer,” Crisp continued, seemingly oblivious to the heavy mood now creeping in, “He’s like a cockroach, I swear. Well, anyways, Ser Aymeric, I leave him to your gentle care. Please stop him from doing anything stupid, even if you need to tie him down to the bed. I think he likes that sort of thing, anyway.”
“Ugh,” Bluebird wrinkled her nose, “Crisp, why.”
But Crisp just grinned, lazily, and brushed her hands together, “We will take our leave now. Please, send for us at the Forgotten Knight if he rolls out of bed and breaks a rib, or something.”
“Or if he’s being a nuisance and needs to be sat on,” Bluebird added.
Ser Aymeric bowed his head again in gratitude, though this time his smile seemed a little tired and sad, “Thank you.”
They gave their farewells, and Bluebird couldn’t help but glance over her shoulder as they left the room, seeing Ser Aymeric stand beside Aza’s bed with an expression that instantly made her look away.
Yeah, she didn’t want to know how it felt like to be in his shoes. Must be painful, to be in love with someone like Aza.
When consciousness returned to Aza, it was like getting hit in the face by a mallet. Abrupt, unpleasant, and left him feeling all sorts of dazed.
He groaned.
He faintly heard something – rustle of pages, of clothes – and then familiar fingers gently stroked his hair, thumb rubbing next to his ear that made him relax despite the ache pounding through his body. Aymeric, undoubtedly.
“Mmn…?” he asked unintelligibly, barely able to open his eyes. His body was utterly spent, he realised sluggishly, and even the usual trick of gathering up his pain, breathing through it… it only gave faint splutters of aether, enough for him to stay conscious, but not much else.
“You’re home,” Aymeric said, his voice quiet, “You gave us a bit of a fright, collapsing as you did at Falcon’s Nest.”
Falcon’s Nest…? Oh, right, that amazing Behemoth-Dragon thing that practically left him a smear on the snowy landscape. The memories were trickling in, slowly, though most of them were coloured with that reddish, frenzied haze of bloodlust and agony. He won, he remembered that, but only by the skin of his teeth. Not a flawless victory, but something satisfying at the very least.
“Sorry,” he rasped, almost wincing at his dry throat and he finally managed to open his eyes. The room was dark, lit only by a lantern on the bedside table. Aymeric was sitting next to the bed, book open and forgotten in his lap, his expression unreadable in the low-light. He didn’t look happy, though, and some of that satisfaction he felt of having a glorious battle instantly withered.
“…you have my thanks, holding the dragon at bay for as long as you did,” Aymeric said after a heavy pause, his gaze lowering briefly, “The damage may have been worse if you weren’t there.”
But the dragon was after me, Aza thought in confusion. Wasn’t it? Or had its goal been Falcon’s Nest? He couldn’t quite remember, and he was too tired to, letting his eyes slide half-closed, only barely able to see Aymeric beneath his eyelashes.
It looked as if Aymeric wanted to say more, but he didn’t. He just sighed, looking away and then back, tired smile in place.
“Go back to sleep,” he said, “I’ll be here when you wake up next.”
Aza didn’t want to sleep, though. He fought off the fatigue trying to drag him back down, “Mm, but…” he murmured, struggling to put thoughts into words, “Upset?”
Aymeric paused, briefly, “No, I’m not upset. I’m simply relieved,” he finally said.
It sounded a bit like a lie, but Aza lost the war with exhaustion, and he slipped back into sleep before he could ponder any deeper on it.
At the end of the day, Aymeric had to accept the fact that he was in love with a man who flirted with death so intimately. He was no stranger to loss, no stranger to the fact that when the day came that Aza’s luck ran out, he would have to endure the grief and pain and move on… it was still a bitter thing to accept and understand and dread, though.
But there would be no regrets, at the very least. He hoped.