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Published:
2021-09-07
Updated:
2022-06-18
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4/?
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i found respite in you

Summary:

Series of small one-shots between these two elves which have sapped me of all sense.

Notes:

Most of these are prompted from the ever-wonderful Bookclub, which finally inspired me to write something again <3

Rating will definitely change at some point in the near future, I know what im about

Chapter 1: wyrmbloodian red

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

"Did you not bring a cloak?"

Estinien kneels in his foyer, scarred fingers lacing up his boots. He shrugs. Crumbs yet cling to his jerkin from breakfast.

"Hardly had time to bundle myself after you purloined me ere our return."

"Purloined," Aymeric scoffs, tugging his own cloak from the rack. If only it were that easy to keep Estinien at his side, safe and protected, shielded from all that would do him harm. "'Twas merely a polite request, not thievery. One, I might add, you agreed to readily."

"Under duress," Estinien says darkly.

"Arnoulet's bavarois hardly counts as a threat."

Estinien flips his hair over his shoulder, rises to his feet and moves to rummage through the vestiary, grumbling.

"Bribery, then."

Aymeric watches with carefully stifled fondness as Estinien pilfers suitable outerwear; a pair of his older karakul-hide gloves, a coat of wool dyed dark blue. His back flexes beneath his undershirt as he tugs his arms through the sleeves. Aymeric licks his lips.

“I will admit to nothing,” he says as Estinien flips through more of his habiliment. “So pray spare me your accusations–”

A flash of red, pulled from the shelf above; cold sweat beads on the back of Aymeric’s neck. Hells.

“This is new,” Estinien says, sniffing suspiciously. Narrow silver eyebrow raises. “And not your usual hue.”

The foyer feels overwarm, tight black collar of his tunic scratchy at his throat. Estinien brushes his thumb over the innocuous wrapping, finger trailing over neat stitches–

At the crozier, surveying the shop for his latest divertissement; spotting the cashmere skeins, blood-red and tempting.

For someone special? the shopkeeper had asked him with a wink, and Aymeric had nearly dropped the lot, spluttering.

Fingers aching after long nights of diplomatic diligence, ink-stained and stiff, slumped in front of his fire counting careful stitches.

Red, the color of loyalty, of devotion; of love.

How striking it would look, he thought, against silver-white hair–

Knitted into a simple circular scarf. Stared at a long while once complete. Finally, shamefully, stowed away in his vestiary by one sentimental fool.

Now in the hands of the very man whom had prompted its creation. The sight very nearly sets him aflame.

“Ah,” he rasps. Clears his throat. “A m–” no, not a mistake “– momentary lapse in judgement on my part.” The truth, well-enough. Estinien often inspires such interludes between otherwise rational thoughts.

“As you can see,” Aymeric continues, shrugging, “it clashes with near everything I possess.” He eyes Estinien, ignoring the pounding of his heart, the desperate affection that threatens to boil him. “Take it, won’t you?” he asks. Casually, he thinks.

Estinien stiffens. “‘Tis well made,” he grunts. Aymeric flushes, struck by the unintended compliment. “Expensive,” Estinien adds, squinting at him. “Upon my person ‘twill be ruined within a fortnight.”

“Better than sitting in my foyer, collecting dust,” Aymeric protests.

“I have no need for such frippery–“

“Yet you brought no neck coverings of your own, so I must insist–“

“Too much comfort makes a man soft–“

“You will be doing me a favor, really, by taking it off my hands, so please–“

“Better to gift it to one of your ceaseless admirers, to better woo them to your cause–“

“Estinien,” he barks, near ready to throttle him. “Take the damned scarf.”

Estinien bristles. Slumps. Twists the scarf in a second circle, and shoves it over his head, scowling.

Ah, Aymeric thinks, helpless and weak. I was right– it does look striking.

“Happy?” Estinien growls, and jerks his hair out from under the cashmere. It settles atop the scarf in a delightful rumple.

There his officer stands, encircled in his dedication, draped in his affection; a declaration in red, woven by his own hands. It feels daring. Nay, risqué. Aymeric blushes to behold him.

Commander, red with loyalty, and devotion. And love, most of all.

“Ecstatic,” he says blandly, ushering him towards the door. His fingers hover before the small of Estinien’s back, needlessly protective.

Notes:

Leve quest "Halone's Jewelry Box" mentions that Ishgardians view the color red to mean true love and loyalty :'-) im in hell

Chapter 2: curglaff

Summary:

i am sitting here cozy, therefore my boys must be cozy as well

Chapter Text

“Will you s-stop bloody wiggling.”

“‘P-pologies,” Aymeric sniffs, attempting as best he might to silence the chattering of his teeth. He tugs the blanket tighter around him, inches closer to the fire.

“Don’t apologize, you p-plonker,” Estinien rasps, voice still scraped raw and wet-sounding. He shakes his hair like a dog, spraying freezing droplets about the fire. Aymeric hisses, ducks further into the blanket. With his uncovered eyes, he musters his best glare.

And then sneezes. Thrice.

“Fury buggering take me,” Estinien hisses. “I cannot watch this a m-moment longer; ‘tis too bloody p-pathetic.” And then he lifts the edge of his blanket. Raises his eyebrow. Imperiously, Aymeric thinks, for one who looks akin to a drowned rat.

The edge of the blanket flaps. Aymeric blinks at him, uncomprehending.

Estinien scowls, effect ruined by the intensity of his shivering. “Well? Come here afore we b-both freeze our damned b-bollocks off.”

“Oh,” Aymeric breathes, and hastens to obey, scrambling on frozen fingertips tinged blue over frost-bitten grass and rime-coated rock, clamoring over the steel crossbeam that is Estinien’s thigh.

“Wait– I didn’t mean–”

“A m-moment, just let me–”

“Let go of me, you buggering–”

“Just– ah. There.”

Greedily, he shuffles back to press against the long hot line of Estinien’s chest, near moaning in relief.

“Gods, but you are a furnace.”

“And you’re a swiving icicle,” Estinien grouses, stiff as a boulder. He swipes the discarded blanket, tucks it around the front of him with something suspiciously close to tutting. Aymeric hides his smile in the blanket as the warmth soaks into him from all sides.

Estinien coughs, once. Wetly.

Aymeric startles, grips Estinien’s thigh as jolt of adrenaline spears through him.

“All right?” he asks, casually as he might, trembling.

Estinien wheezes, and Aymeric’s mind jumps to not a bell before– frantically searching for a glimpse of white hair beneath the ice, desperate compresses hastily administered, the feel of his lips, frosted and unmoving as he pressed air into his lungs, ordering him to breathe–

“‘M fine,” Estinien grumbles, knocking his brow against the back of Aymeric’s head, enough to break the torturous slideshow of thoughts. “Worry about your own damn self,” Estinien continues, tugs the blanket up further. “Your ears are turning blue.”

Hands tangled in warmed wool clasp over his ears, lobe to tip. Aymeric flushes, sniffing loudly in protest. Estinien pushes his head down, settles his chin atop damp black curls with a smug, contented noise.

Entrapped on all sides by Ishgard’s premiere predator. Aymeric smiles, settling against him more comfortably.

He can imagine worse fates.

Chapter 3: divination

Summary:

for a quick prompt: star. Just a silly thing I wrote a while back and forgot to publish here

Chapter Text

"How in the bloody hells is that a tree?"

Aymeric bristles. "'Tis the- trunk, there," he points towards the sky, careful not to jostle his recumbent companion. "And from it, lo! Its luculent branches."

Estinien snorts. His bangs drop to cover one half-lidded eye.

"Branches," he mocks. "Is that what they teach you at your priory de rigueur?" Estinien shifts his arm out from between them; Aymeric hears his quiet hiss of pain, stifled yet unmistakable. One long finger jabs at the star.

"Any simpleton knows 'tis a flower: its center, there, and around it," his finger loops, sluggish, "Her petals."

Aymeric's eyebrow twitches. "The Arbre du Monde 's existence cannot be disputed; do the Astrologians not draw from its power, to offer such succor as they might?"

"Have you ever heard one of those whiffle-whafflers make one ilm of buggering sense?"

A thoughtful pause. "'Tis an art which works in mysterious ways," Aymeric says, diplomatically. "But come, now, surely you can see Azeyma there—" he points to their left, up beyond the northernmost peaks of the Spine. "Her golden fan, raised in judgement?"

Estinien's head slumps further down Aymeric's shoulder, each breath he takes shallow, and strained. Aymeric subtly adjusts himself against their shared rock, to offer what support he may. One midnight-blue eye peers sideways along the line of Aymeric's arm.

"Stick."

"I- beg pardon?"

"'Tis a bloody stick. Firewood, for the hearth." A tired sigh, followed by a shiver. "Off'r buggering chumpy," said slurred, barely intelligible.

Aymeric presses his thigh along Estinien's frayed linens. Jostles him with it, ignoring the worry in his gut.

"Not falling asleep, are you?"

"No," growled from half-way down his arm, defiant. A pause. "Next you're going to tell me Byregot's stars aren't a hat."

"A what?!"

Chapter 4: thaw

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

As always, the adrenaline fades with agonizing slowness.

It pulses through him in waves, piercing ice gnawing at his gut, awaiting new, unperceived horrors. A constant bracing, tense as Ishgard’s unyielding walls, brittle as glass.

It accompanies him on his rounds: first to the fields, where he strains to listen for anything other than the stillness of the dead around the pounding in his ears. Squeezes around his aching ribs as a noose as he ensconces the last of his wounded men to the safekeeping of the chirurgeons. Steals his breath as he pulls aside his captain for the body count; quick math that leaves him weary and numb.

Once the most pressing of his duties are tended, he absconds to the edge of the battlefield to scan the horizon and the cliffs beyond. Tired eyes seek a familiar tapered shape, excessively spicate; his dearest friend, and most vaunted officer, besides.

Long has it been their custom. Before battle, an order, from commander to officer:

Report to me once the battle is won. (Stay alive. Return to me.)

And always, the response-

Aye; I’ll find you. (Stay alive. I will return.)

The horizon, however, is still, and quiet. His heart pounds. The tree at his back groans; smoldering roots blistering and breaking. A branch snaps, crashes to the mire beneath. Aymeric flinches, fingers flexing on his crossguard as he grinds his teeth.

Put it aside , he wills himself. He will return .

Aymeric inhales slowly through his nose, and out through chapped lips. The taste of ash is heavy on his tongue.

A sharp whistling sound above; his head snaps skyward, squints at familiar steel cutting through the air as a knife–

The half-formed ice shatters from the impact, mud splattering over the hem of his outer robe, slush surging up and over his boots, and then–

Before him, he appears: his most loyal knight, knelt in supplication.

“Lord Commander,” Ishgard’s Azure grunts, and finally, Aymeric’s breath returns to him. All at once, as if it were stabbed into him.

“Ser Estinien,” he manages, voice carefully measured to hide his relief. Estinien’s lance squelches in the mud, its base embedded deep within the earth from the force of his landing.

Aymeric leans against the tree, arms over his chest. “The battle was finished two bells past, in case you did not notice.” Around his lance, Estinien’s fingers twitch.

“Stragglers came for the auxiliary ere the battle’s end.” Estinien shrugs, unrepentant. “Took care of it.”

Aymeric squints at him, assessing.

His voice– more wet than usual. Inhaled too much smoke; hydration, before rest, then. The rest appears as if naught is amiss, and yet– Estinien holds himself quite stiffly , there in the mud. Lacking his usual grace. Still, he kneels, his weight shifted to lean more heavily on his lance. Suspicion rises within him.

“Injured?” he asks, casually he thinks.

“Nay,” Estinien lies. Predictably unyielding. “You?”

“Nary a scratch,” Aymeric responds cheerfully, ribs aching. “Halone be praised for small mercies. Come then,” he commands. “Rise, and escort me back to camp.”

Estinien grows more rigid. 

Aymeric waits, patience incarnate.

Lance arm visibly trembles. Greaves shift in the mud; a quiet hiss, barely audible.

Aymeric lets out a long-suffering sigh.

“Stubborn,” he tuts, gently, and moves to assist.

“Godsdamned Fury-fucked knees ,” Estinien growls, stumbling as Aymeric pulls him to his feet. Aymeric steadies him, basking in his solidity. His realness. The sharp stench of sweat and blood and mud, the creaking clattering of his armor, the hard spiked chestpiece wearing divots in his bruised ribs. His fingers grip at Estinien’s hip, just under where fauld meets belt, thumb slipping under one of the scales on his chausses.

Alive , he thinks, and holds that thought in his mind, repeats it until the icy tension in his chest begins to thaw, glacial limbs melting, ice cracking, until finally he can breathe .

Together, they limp towards the light of the distant fires.

Notes:

i want to continue this but i'm so busy right now it's impossible, so thought i'd just post this little snip for now! just imagine these two soldiers tenderly caring for one another in aymeric's tent and falling asleep on the same cot cause estinien is too tired to make it back to his own tent, thank u