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“Did I catch you at bad a time?”
Euphemie blinked, the beads of the rosary still woven around her wrist, between her white fingers.
“…No, actually,” Her head gives a little shake as she cleared her throat with an exaggerated sound, placing a strong emphasis on the second word.
“I was just admiring how well it suits my hand—”
“You were praying.”
Estinien folds his arms, keeping out of range of the glow of the lamp post, and thus fulfilling the image of a dark and brooding creature that his drachen mail did fine work in helping him maintain.
“…So what if I was?” Her gaze strayed and she turned to look opposite, lowering her hand to catch the dangling beads in one palm as she tucked it away.
“All things considered, I never imagined you to still be this devout.” She smirked bitterly. Devout. In all the wrong things, it seemed. She’d always been told she was too optimistic for her own good, and before she had an easier time dismissing their unwelcome advice, whether it had been for her own benefit or simply to mock her—but now it had struck her tenfold, the weariness of being both deceived and having her story doubted at every twist and turn. Perhaps she could wear the Coerthan cold just as well as any other of her countrymen after all.
But for all the bitterness she was learning to taste, chew, and swallow in the aftermath of the banquet, Euphemie didn’t want to admit to him that she was disappointed in herself. She was readable enough for anyone who knew her well enough to see it, how her the vitality she carried in stride was sapped from her like a dried fruit, but saying it, feeling those words spoken by her own tongue? Surely there had to be some part of her pride left to keep that from happening.
Her lips dipped in a low frown, as she could feel his gaze pierce through her, sharp even by Ishgardian standards. He wasn’t going to leave unless he got something from her, and whatever it was Euphemie already dreaded. Damn him and his timing. It was as if he was built with an innate compass that pointed due north to wherever she was, even as he had no intention of crossing paths with her. Regardless of his intention he had always been good at that, finding her at a time when no one was supposed to be looking, finding her at her most undone—
And he continued to unravel her with his own hard stare, and she felt her control slip with every second of silence. Her shoulders lowered beneath her karakul-wool cloak, and she licked her lips as she sought out the right words in desperation but could find none but the truth.
Her eyes shut tight when she realized that was what he wanted all along. Ever since they were unceremoniously reunited Euphemie had felt his eyes all over her, seeking everything but the expressions she wore. It wasn’t that he didn’t heed what she said those times when they sparred, both physically and verbally, but rather that he listened when she was silent, that he watched when she was unmoving. It was a fascination she didn’t fancy, because for once he was someone who didn’t accept the half-true façade she tried to exert, but because he knew there was something else that lingered, that festered behind it. Maybe in that part, she guessed that he saw himself in her—or at least she could assume so by what Alberic had told her. It still wasn’t flattering to have someone untangle the web of secrecy she had tried hard to weave and leave forgotten in the past five years outside of Coerthas, yet somehow the thought of him leaving her in her own mess haunts her more.
“…Neither did I.” Defeat was a mutter dissipating into the cold thin air. Her fist squeezed around the rosary’s medallion, which dug into the inside of her palm.
He made a small, tuneless hum. Bastard. He knew the truth before she admitted it, and yet he still sticks around, like the ice that’s crusted at the edges of her dress skirt. But even with how insufferable he is, standing behind her like a ghastly statue, Euphemie knows she can’t keep her back turned forever. Between that and turning to look at him—stung pride couldn’t explain her decision to choose the latter. Maybe it’s the cold that’s making her want to end everything sooner than later, making her want to tie all the loose knots. After all, anything left to hang in a place like this just freezes over.
If they could weaponize whatever force it was that drove her to choose over her own pride, the war could end in a day.
“What does it concern you?” What she intended to be a sharp, clear retort is instead a breath short of a whisper, words weighed by a shiver. Even the way she stares him down is less empowering than she imagined it to be, as the one he gives in return is static, unblinking, while she swears she can see stars in the corner of her vision.
She wanted to see that he cared. She kept her eyes wide open for any crack in his walls, any crease in his brow, any falter in his gaze. The seconds go by and her temper begins to build on the inside of her chest. What the hell did he want with her? Wasn’t it enough that he was standing there in front of her own two eyes, the sole survivor of the day Ferndale burned, the day seared and scarred in his every word and gesture? She had only seen ten summers when Estinien had reportedly been proclaimed dead with the rest of the village, while she was miles away in the safety of the Dansereau Manor, wracked with sobs and cradled by her grandmother. She felt useless then, and she felt useless now. There was no feeling in the world that came as close to receiving her hatred such as feeling trapped, as having her wings clipped while standing by an opened window.
Social mores be damned straight to hell if it meant she could have done anything to save her family from certain death that day, to save them from the Fury’s so-called righteous judgment. In Euphemie’s eyes there was nothing righteous about having their lives taken and left unfulfilled at the bottom of Witchdrop, and it sickened her to think that everyone only agreed, only forgave once they were dead and gone and unable to speak for themselves.
“You talk to me like I’m—” Her tone jumped an octave and she tried to swallow the incoming rage she feels creeping up her throat, but she still has plenty to say. She can only hope that the walls of nobility are as thick as they appear.
“—Like I’m some kind of regret, ever since that day—and yet,” Her jaw tightened and her teeth grit, and she prods a hard finger against his chest, chin tilted upwards to look straight at him with a gaze sharpened by an anger that threatened to burn over.
“Here you are. I’ve enough aches in my head as they are now. I hardly have time to room anoth—”
And right there and then, he leaned down and kissed her.
Her grey eyes widen like enkindled flames, and she cringes at the first clack of teeth, but melts once she feels the heat of his tongue on her own, eyes shut and seeking to return it in full. They search one another for a while in the solace of the vista, with only the still statues of the knights as their witness, their company welcomed by the reassurance that they could say nothing, and even better, tell no one. Smoothing out the rough edges they began with into a velvet touch, they pursued the kiss until their breath allowed it no longer.
Euphemie’s eyes fluttered when they part, disoriented and in disbelief. She saw only the faintest hue of red on his cheeks as he rests his forehead over hers, their intermingled breath fogging up the few ilms between them. She felt the secure grasp he had on her arms, gripping the fabric of the woolen cloak. She waited for him to say something, anything, and remained silent herself in fear of ruining the moment. As unexpected as it was, this was her first time doing anything of this sort, for in her life the five years prior she hadn’t felt the drive to do anything as intimate.
The fact that he hadn’t so much as bothered to ask before kissing her left her slightly annoyed but seeing him almost blush was more than enough of payback—for now at least. He scowled down at her when he saw her widening grin.
“…I knew it.” She must have, all along. He made a small grunt, the edge of mouth crinkling in what was…embarrassment? At least another sign that this might have been his first.
“I want you to say it. I need y—” She stopped short when his gaze scrambles to find hers again, and he holds her closer against his chest.
“I know you’re not the most eloquent, but—” Her gaze dropped off to the side, a little disappointed at herself for demanding so much of him yet failing to look him in the eye for more than a few straight seconds.
“I love you.”
He said it not hidden as a whisper, as she expected of his type to do—but spoken plainly into thin air, his gaze ferociously soft, unyielding in the way they follow her own. She doesn’t know what strength it took for him to say it, and suspected that it was the same thing that drove her to look at him in the first place, that froze her in place instead of running away. Euphemie looks at him—as he’s more than earned it, after his quiet declaration—her smile fading into something trembling, something scared of him leaving again.
The hand on her arm raises to rest on her cheek, thumb brushing the strand of dusky rose off the side of her mouth. Her hair was still carelessly strewn over her cloak, not having known the love of a hairbrush for several nights, and there were circles hanging under her eyes. Not that he cared, for being only recently possessed by a dragon afforded him little time for self-care as well.
“I only realized after the wyrm—”
“Even before, you already did, didn’t you?”
She whispered, her earlier rage giving way to soft tears, her around his wrist. Estinien can only nod as he stroked her cheek, an odd sense of catharsis coming to him as he feels her warm and safe in his arms, an undeserved grace.
“Even before then.” Her eyes widened again, brimming with tears at the confluence of emotions flooding her all at once.
“Before--?”
He rolled his eyes.
“Does it really matter when?”
“Perhaps it does…” Her voice was a soft, whimpering whine, and he sighed. Even in this emotional state, she had the energy to jest. She lets out a breathy laugh when she sees his look of quiet exasperation, though softer than all the other times he had reacted to her voluntary moments of foolishness.
Her smile returned in full, full as the Coerthan sun in spring, and it’s contagious enough to draw out his own, wry and crooked. As her fingers threaded through his silver locks in their second kiss, imperfect but an improvement from the last, the rosary fell from her fingers onto the stone pavement, which he retrieved when they break for air.
“Oh, that old thing.” She frowned at it, then at him, certain that she could have made the kiss last longer before he ended it, taking the medallion back into her grasp. She blinked in surprise when he doesn’t let go of the beaded portion for a few seconds, before letting it fall past his fingertips for her to reel in. For the trouble he gave her earlier regarding prayer, he was still the more faithful of the two of them, as he’d revered the heirloom that she’d snuck out of their country manor in an effort to impress him.
“You took good care of it.”
“By not using it as much as I should have.” She hid it back in her pocket and winked, earning a low chuckle.
“All this from the woman whose charge of heresy was only recently cleared.”
“As someone who was once told me said, I’ve yet to grow wings.” She shrugged.
“They can try to throw me back in there. If they want.”
“I doubt Aymeric would even allow hearsay of that.”
“And neither would you.” Euphemie tilted her head to the side, casting her hair down like a mane, giving him a knowing smile.
“Nor the Fortemps. Or the Haillenarte...” He shrugged one shoulder as the list went unspoken. Ishgard owed her, a once-vilified heretic, an immeasurable debt, and there were more than before now willing to lay down their lives for her, not to mention those who had already done so. They, along with the others who had made it out alive, were charged with the more burdensome task of not just surviving, but living in the light that had been bled for.
“…Right.” Her shoulders sagged as she exhales, remembering that for the most part, she had earned the trust of the people once again. It meant having to uphold it once again, and what better way was there of proving than being tested? Not that she was looking forward to when that would happen again. Especially if it meant leaving Ishgard, which was slowly becoming home again.
Estinien took note of the pressure mounting on her shoulders and looked forward from where they stood.
“It seems they’re gathering at the forum.” The swoops of air and the clamor of the masses were centered around the statue of Saint Reinette, and Euphemie’s face was alight once more.
“The dragons…!” She darted forward, wrenching him along by the wrist.
“Euphemie—”
“Come on. I think it’ll be worse if you make them think you’re avoiding them. And besides,” She cast him a glance over her shoulder, beaming.
“It’ll give you a chance to practice apologizing.”
He sneered while keeping pace beside her, only grinning once her head was turned.