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“Does that paper make you angry?”
Estinien damn near jumped out of his skin from the voice over his shoulder, and glared at the tiny dragon that hovered slightly behind him, who returned it with a look of innocent curiosity. Huffing through his nose as the silver and white creature landed on the table, Estinien slumped forward, dropping his chin on an arm flopped on the desk, and flicked the quill so that it lazily spun in a circle. “No. It does not. I am simply…not good at writing letters.”
Tilting its head to the side, Orn Khai regarded him thoughtfully, then scratched behind an ear-hole with a back foot, rather catlike in its movements. “But you do know how to read and write, yes?” The withering stare that Estinien leveled at him did nothing to change the dragon’s demeanor, who simply tilted its head to the other side. “Oh, so you cannot, I apologize, I had not intended to-”
“No, it’s-” Sighing loudly, Estinien let his head drop to the table as he massaged the back of his neck. “I just don’t know what to say,” he mumbled, “all of these places I’ve seen and things I’ve done, I’m not sure how to…”
“Can you not tell of your travels as they have happened? Oh! I had forgotten, he is your mate, you do not want him to worry!” With a choked sound, Estinien gave Orn Khai an open-mouthed stare, and the dragon blinked at him with further confusion. “Am I incorrect? If so, please accept my apologies for speaking incorrectly again, but the Warrior of Light had seemed to think so. It seems more likely that I do not understand mortal relationships.”
“No… We’re… That is…” He sat up to lean back in his chair, head atop the backrest. “We’re not…bonded or anything. It’s all very unofficial. Quiet. Whatever we have, it’s…” He gestured vaguely as he tried to find the words. “I don’t know what we are, I guess ‘mates’ is fine, but he’d laugh if anyone called us that to our faces.” A smile finally cracked the stern mask he’d worn all night. “...I miss his laugh.”
“Can you not mention such things to him? I do not understand mortal customs, but it was my understanding that partners valued communication.”
Silent as he thought, Estinien sighed deeply and stared at the ceiling. “It is simply that…it feels wrong to write to him of what I am doing, because I am free.” He held out a hand in front of himself, for once not clad in armor, and wondered how rarely he had been out of his armor in the last twenty years. “He is trapped there. The city needs him, the people do. Everyone needs him, and he is stuck there. But I… I ran away. I have the freedom to do as I please, go where I like. I am unburdened with responsibility, but that is all that he has, and it is a burden. How can I write to him so cheerfully and know that he likely will never be able to experience even a fragment of what I have? It was unkind enough of me to leave so abruptly. To say nothing for so long, only to write of pleasures and experiences I have known is…something I cannot do to him.”
“Ah! I see!” Orn Khai flapped, momentarily taking flight to make a small loop-the-loop in midair before landing on the table again. “He does not expect to hear from you at all, and as long as he does not, he has no cause for concern!”
This statement was a spear through his heart, and his reaction must have been plainly obvious, because Orn Khai was quiet again. Before yet another apology could be made, Estinien shook his head and picked up the quill, twiddling it between his fingers. “...No matter how I go about it, I’ve been unforgivably rude. I left without saying anything, and have only sent small updates just to let them know I was alive, naught more. …What must he be thinking? …Gods, he must hate me by now…”
Scrubbing both hands through his hair, he sighed again, then swore when he had to pull out the quill from where he’d accidentally stuck it. Orn Khai hummed to itself, scratching the side of its jaw thoughtfully. “Perhaps you can write to ask him? It seems to weigh heavily on your mind, how he is doing and what his opinion of you is. Is it worth it to know for certain, so that you may be at peace with his decision, or is it better to be uncertain until you are able to ask him directly?”
Once again the little dragon was far too prescient and thoughtful, despite knowing almost nothing about How Things Were Done! …But even so, Orn Khai was right, the only thing worse than knowing that Aymeric hated him was not knowing, wondering whether the Lord Speaker no longer desired his company, or if it was all that he desired. He traced the edge of the quill’s point with his thumbnail, thinking silently. “...No. You’re right. I need to write something. More than just to say that I yet live. I need to know how he is doing, and how he feels about…us…”
He hesitated again, then ensured that the quill had a suitable point on it, reached for the inkwell, stared at the blank page for another minute while he sorted out just how to start it all, then began to write. He wrote until his hand was cramped, and he put down the quill with a groan of pain, massaging his fingers. But it was worth it. He’d said all that he had wanted to. All that he needed to. It took a few more minutes to work up the courage to seal it once the ink had dried, and even more to hand it over to the Postmoogle. They were such odd creatures, he still didn’t know how to react to them, but he knew that Ysayle would have loved him, and this thought was another spear, this one icy, in his heart. So many lost, so many who had given so much, or their all, to see Ishgard free, peace forged, and his own life saved. Without a backwards look he went back into the inn, flopped onto the bed, hugged a pillow to his chest, and went to sleep.
The next day, in Ishgard, Aymeric sat at his desk, a near-permanent fixture. He had taken a small break for a cup of tea; not for the pleasure of it, but because he needed sustenance to deal with the never-dwindling and ever-burgeoning mountain of paperwork that threatened to dwarf the city in its bulk. With a weary sigh he put the cup on its saucer and set it aside. He wanted another, but wants could wait, he had taken care of basic needs, and now there was work to be done. …As if it could ever be truly considered “done,” it was simply “some progress made.”
Ser Lucia strode in, holding a small pile of letters, looking over them as she decided their relative priority, then stopped in the middle of the room to stare at one in particular. This was odd enough that it got Aymeric’s attention. “Is aught amiss?” he asked, and frowned with concern when Lucia laughed and smirked at him.
“Not in the least, unless you count a missive from a certain someone for the first time in months to be ‘aught amiss.’”
Puzzled, he accepted the letter as she handed it over, and froze as his fingers closed on the envelope. No, it couldn’t be from him…could it?...
With hands that almost shook, he carefully examined the letter, and his breath caught in his throat as he realized from whom it had come. “...Estinien, it’s…”
“It is nearly lunch time,” Lucia remarked as she picked up the teacup from the edge of the desk, “I shall return with a full pot, as well as something to eat, as I’m certain that, like usual, you have neglected to eat properly today.”
Her barb was accurate, but he also smiled at the unspoken respect in it; she was giving him the space to read the letter alone, knowing that he would be Having Some Emotions, and he always kept them hidden when around others. But a few minutes to himself to be able to experience them without being observed, and judged, even by a colleague…
When the door closed behind her he very nearly tore open the letter, then smoothed it out carefully and read slowly, both afraid of what the letter contained, yet eager to absorb all of its contents.
Dear Aymeric. Before anything else, I need to say that I’m sorry; for leaving without saying anything. For never writing. For never telling you what should have been said every day. If you have cause to hate me then it is justified, but even so, I still hold onto the hope that you do not, and it is with that hope that I write, and share with you that which has occupied me since we last spoke…
He read it quickly, almost skimming it, needing to know everything, too hungry to taste it all properly, but when it had been devoured and he was at the letter’s end, he exhaled a shuddering breath and clutched it to his chest, feeling tears sting his eyes. He let them fall, glad that he had the privacy in which to do so. Estinien was not only safe, but he was doing well. He was finally free to explore, to see the world, to find out who he truly was, now that he was no longer controlled by vengeance and hate. He was finding himself, and part of that discovery was the realization of what he had left behind, and what his true feelings for it was- what his feelings for him were. Knowing that the former Azure Dragoon was not only doing well, but was thriving made Aymeric’s chest ache as it likewise filled him with an unbearable lightness. Finally, at last, Estinien was living, not simply existing for the sole purpose of destroying Ishgard’s greatest enemy.
Allowing himself the time to process and let his emotions actually happen, Aymeric smiled, then read the letter again, but slowly. This time he digested it properly, enjoying every morsel of information and tidbit of interest, until at last he was done and felt satisfied. Taking out a handkerchief, he wiped his eyes, and just in time, for Lucia had returned with a tray containing a fresh pot of tea and something to eat. “Ah, thank you, as always your timing is impeccable,” he said, carefully folding the letter and tucking it inside of his coat, “once I am finished I must needs reply immediately. It won’t do to keep him waiting.”
“Even though he kept you waiting for…how long?” she asked with a wry smile and an arched eyebrow. This was a valid observation, and she was right to say so, but they both understood just how difficult it must have been for Estinien to have written at all. And that Aymeric was in good spirits told her all that she needed to know; Estinien was doing well, wherever he was, and would be someplace to which Aymeric could write and know it would be delivered. They took a few leisurely minutes to eat, though Lucia did pry, just a little, for anything particularly interesting.
The next day, Estinien stepped out into the early-morning light, up early, as was his wont. Despite being free to do as he damn well pleased, his body still told him to wake with the sun. He needed something to eat, and as he was about to ask Orn Khai something (who flew along at his side, like usual), a Postmoogle appeared almost out of nowhere, startling the both of them. Fortunately for the Moogle, Estinien was unarmed, but despite that, muscle memory had readied an imaginary spear and aimed it directly at the offending creature until he realized not only what was going on, but that his hands were empty. “One of you,” he grunted, taking a deep breath to sort himself out, “what do you need with me?”
“I need nothing, no, kupo!” it exclaimed, spinning in place, “but you need something from me! I have a letter for you, directly from Ishgard!” Stunned to silence, Estinien was without a reply as the Moogle shivered. “Brrrrr, that place is certainly cold, kupo, I nearly froze my pom off! But no snow or storm will keep me from doing my duty to deliver the mail!” It rummaged in its satchel (which was damn near its own size and probably its own weight, from how heavy it looked!), then pulled out a letter and held it out, and Estinien blinked before remembering how to move again, taking it in both hands.
“I…thank you. I should…” He looked over his shoulder back toward his room, and decided that food could wait. “I’m going to read this now. …Oh, um, thank you.”
Spinning again in place, the Moogle made a gesture that was likely a salute, but could have been a wave. It was difficult to tell with such tiny, stubby arms. “It’s my pleasure, kupo! Seeing delighted smiles wherever I go is what makes this job a delight!”
Estinien didn’t hear the last of what had been said, almost running back to his room, and almost closed the door on Orn Khai. Apologizing, he let in his companion, then sat down on the edge of the bed, and hesitated, his thumb under the edge of the wax seal in Borel Blue. So Aymeric had not only received his letter, but he had responded right afterward, if the turnaround time was accurate. At first he had felt elation, but now he felt a cold pit forming in the bottom of his stomach. What if…Aymeric had been angry after all?
…It didn’t matter. What did matter was that they had both written, and now they both knew the other’s thoughts. Well, one did, the other would, and the sound of the wax seal separating neatly from the paper was the sensation of a blade being drawn. But regardless of whether that blade was meant for him or for his fear, he would not flinch from it. Slowly, he unfolded it, and read as though every word had the potential to cut him like a razor.
But none did.
My dearest friend, full glad am I to hear of your good health. When you departed Ishgard I had feared that you had not fully convalesced from your injuries, but to hear that you have recovered, and more, brings a lightness to my heart that I almost cannot put into words…
Estinien read silently, then stared at the letter in his lap as he thought, feeling relief soak into his bones, as if it were the heat of a bath after coming in from the cold. Aymeric had missed him as well, and he was likewise doing well. There was no malice or anger in the wake of Estinien’s prolonged silence. Rather, the man was simply relieved, and had expressed his joy that Estinien had finally been able to pursue his own wants, not just his needs. Further, he had damn near commanded him to continue to do that which brought him happiness, asking only that someday he return to Ishgard. The city was now flourishing, and Aymeric wanted nothing more than to show it all to him, to let him know all that his efforts both as Azure Dragoon and a traveler had done for their home.
“Does that paper make you sad?”
Estinien didn’t reply to Orn Khai’s query as he thought about it, then he shook his head and laughed at himself, not having noticed the tears that now left shining lines down his face. “No. It does not. I am simply…glad to have written that letter.”