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A headache threatens him as the Scions walk into the cheering throng of Old Sharlayan, their friends and allies whooping with relief and celebration at their safe return.
He ignores the cacophony and focuses on the twins as they rush into their mother’s arms, Fourchenalt joining in to settle a hand on each child’s back, a dazed look of disbelief and gratefulness breaking across his usually stern features. Estinien doesn’t much care for the man, mostly due to the intentional use of cruelty Fourchenalt employed in his attempts to safeguard his children as the Final Days became a real possibility.
Now, the Final Days averted, his children having played a major part in the salvation of the world–of multiple worlds–the Sharlayan scholar seems equal parts a proud father and a lost sheep.
As he puts distance between himself and the crowd, seeking a quiet corner of the bay, Estinien wonders how long it will take for twins’ father to remember what being a father truly feels like.
From his shaded alley, he observes.
The crowd disperses slightly, allowing him to catch sight of the lalafellan scholar as she rushes through in a flash of yellow, Tataru’s pink just behind. Krile is shoving healing magic into the Warrior’s body, right there in the center of the crowd, despite the Warrior looking far better than they did when they first returned to the Ragnarok. He admitted being worried, angry even, at his comrade’s near lifeless state when they were transported back aboard the ship, and Estinien knew that much of the damage had been done by the disgraced Garlean prince. He could smell the sulfur in the air, the bloodlust left from the prince’s onslaught. Estinien had chewed on his inner cheek, almost drawing blood, as Y’shtola, Alphinaud, Urianger, and G’raha worked hurriedly to bring their dear friend back from the brink. He had felt rather helpless, only moving to hand Y’shtola requested tools and balms.
Now, the Warrior stands tall, a bit bruised and obviously tired, smiling down at Krile as she pushes white magic into them in soft waves. With his enhanced hearing, Estinien can hear her apologizing, for sending Zenos to them, for allowing the prince to draw upon the leftover aether of the Mothercrystal.
The Warrior responds the same as he would: “Had you not, we would not have made it back.”
As much as he loathes the monster that is Zenos, Estinien understood the necessity. He understood Krile’s decision. A powerhouse such as he was exactly what they needed at the time. But it still nearly cost the Warrior their life. And he knows that his friend would have given that life glady to save the world.
Eventually, the Warrior convinces Krile to drop her spells and leans down to hug the scholar in thanks. Krile dips her head to wipe at a tear, forcing her breath to slow.
Amidst the nearby smells of the Last Stand, and the lingering sweat and blood and aether wafting in the air, Estinien picks up the salt of Krile’s relief.
He’s restless.
The world is safe, Etheirys and its shards no longer under existential threat, and yet he cannot fully subdue the adrenaline in his veins. The Scions are scheduled to return to the Rising Stones in the coming days, but first: they rest, they celebrate, and they share their experiences and the knowledge obtained.
He will leave the scholarly work to the scholars. Y’shtola, Urianger, Alphinaud and G’raha can assist the Forum in the recording and preservation of the accounts of the Final Days. He is merely waiting, “resting”. Sometimes downing a lager in celebration (as if he needs the excuse).
Tonight, in his room at the Annex, he finds no rest.
It’s not unusual for him to sleep in short bursts, to go longer periods without such as most people would need. He thinks, like many of his “quirks”, that the reason lies in his blood. The alchemists of Thavnair were not wrong in their smothering assessment: his blood has been irrevocably changed. Though Nidhogg’s vengeful spirit is at rest, the wyrm’s blood is part of him now, granting him strength beyond that of most dragoons, and inhuman qualities to boot. Excess stamina is what allowed him to outpace Krile and Tataru for so long, though in the end, it did him little good. The two women both impressed and aggravated him in equal parts; he will not deny that it was Krile’s convincing that wrangled him to join the cause (more than once, he admits).
He sits up in bed, taps a finger on his cloth pants. The Baldesion woman has worked herself into his consciousness a lot lately, and not just because she likes to irritate him.
He can tell Krile is awake, and he knows by instinct that it is very late in the night.
Normally, he does not allow something as silly as curiosity to get to him (everyone knows what it did to the coeurl). But tonight?
He’s restless.
She’s in the main hall of the annex, faced away from the door, on her knees.
At first, he’s alarmed by her position; a new rush of adrenaline lights up his muscles.
For what? A fight? Against who?
A second later, he realizes Krile is unharmed and perfectly healthy, simply stacking tomes and documents in the far corner of the large room. Other such mess surrounds her in small piles, and he thinks this must be her way of fighting restlessness herself.
Organizing. Or rather, messing up organization in order to re-organize it.
Fitting.
She hasn’t noticed him enter, apparently, continuing to roll papers, slip them into capsules, and stack them.
He leans against the wall by the door for a few moments and simply watches. This is the first time he’s seen her out of that ridiculous coat of hers. In lieu of the offensively bright yellow, she’s wearing neutral sleepwear: a grey-blue cotton top that nearly hangs to her knees, with matching shorts. Her brown hair is let loose to roll across her small back, though much of it is also dangling in her face as she bends over the floor. He smiles a little when she puffs a breath to blow the hair from her eyes, too stubborn to stop her work for even a moment to just. Reach up with her hand.
He takes another moment before announcing himself, to sniff the air of the room. Remnants of salt–of tears–and the light cotton scent of her clothes. He feels a frown pull at his mouth.
Clears his throat and watches her jump.
“Ah! Estinien. What in the Twelve–how long have you been–?”
“Not long,” he half-lies, and the tension in her shoulders eases slightly. He pulls from the wall, intent on approaching, but he’s stopped when Krile’s eyes widen at him, her pupils suddenly dilating as they dart across his chest and then flit down.
Oh. Right. He’s shirtless. Oops.
Watching her eyes closely, the movement tracks down to his abdomen, just above his navel, before jumping back up and then away, her face flushing visibly.
Hmm. Maybe not oops, then.
Estinien is not one to gloat on his physique, or even take a lot of pride in his masculinity. He’s usually more focused on a fight than whether his muscles impress anyone. And he’s certainly not any good at–well, wooing.
So it surprises him–pleasantly–to feel a prideful warmth swell in his chest when Krile blushes at the sight of his skin. He isn’t sure when the frustrating woman wormed her way this close, close enough to make him feel such things, but Fury take him, she has. He doesn’t deny it. He hasn’t the care to.
That said, the warmth he feels spreads, settles deep, and Estinien knows it’s not just pride–or even lust–in his reaction. It’s affection. And that, he fears, is harder for him to convey like a normal person.
Krile has begun tightly rolling a document, her eyes on the wall to his right. The red in her cheeks remains.
“So what has you up so late, Ser Estinien?”
‘Ser Estinien’ . Back to the honorifics, then.
“I was about to ask you the same. It’s several hours to sunrise yet; is this really the best time for…?” He gestures to the piles of paper and tomes around her. Still keeping her gaze averted, Krile giggles a bit.
“Well, I couldn’t sleep, and it’s better to be productive than lay around and…fret.”
Fret. The smell of salt in the room.
“The Final Days are over, world’s safe. What are you fretting about, Mistress?” He knows the answer already, having overheard her repetitive apologies to the Warrior by the bay. It’s guilt. Guilt for sending Zenos yae Galvus to them fully empowered, unsure of the result. It was a coin-toss, and the coin had landed on both sides. Zenos helped. And then hurt.
It wasn’t for Krile to blame herself. She couldn’t control the chaotic prince any more than anyone else who had tried. Just getting him to listen long enough to agree to her terms was an impressive enough feat in his book.
Estinien steps closer as Krile shrugs. “Oh, you know, almost getting our dear friend killed by a madman juiced up on Hydaelyn’s raw aether. I know things turned out alright, but I could tell the moment I saw them that their life had come close to ending. I don’t know if I could have lived with myself–” Her voice cracks a little, lowers into a whisper. She almost appears to suck the threatening tears back into her eyes as she steels herself.
He doesn’t mean to, but he chuckles. When she cuts a glare at him, he holds his hands up in apology.
“You know as well as I that the Warrior would not go down in Ultima Thule. Not to the Final Days, not to Meteion. Certainly not to the likes of Zenos. There’s naught for beating yourself up over something that didn’t even happen. Our friend is alive ,” he emphasizes, stepping into her space.
“We’re all safe,” he kneels, a knee hitting the floor just before her own.
“Leave this mess for another day. Rest, Krile.” Estinien knows he’s being a hypocrite. And he’s usually not such a mother-hen over anyone . But Krile’s eyes are dark and heavy, and he doesn’t like it. Fury knows he will pick her petite form up and carry her from her work if need be.
The flush on her face has renewed with his proximity, and he takes a moment to bask in another jolt of pride before reaching out.
He plucks the roll of paper from her grasp, tosses it aside. She huffs, probably annoyed with his mishandling of her documents, and he doesn’t give a shite. He digs deep for old lessons on being a gentleman as he turns his palm upward and offers it to her. Krile takes it with a tired sigh.
When he helps her rise to her feet, he’s bending high above her. She’s so small, and he sometimes forgets. Her presence is decidedly not. She’s glancing at his chest again, less nervous in her boldness, and then she meets his eyes.
“Thank you, Estinien. I suggest we go to bed–that is– our beds. Our own beds.” She stumbles over her words and laughs at herself, and he chuckles again. A deeper, darker growl slips into it, the insinuation in her faux pas shaking something awake in his blood. He pushes it down.
“Let’s away from this scholar’s hell, then.” And he turns, leads her to the door. She’s at his side almost instantly, and he hears her huff at him again.
“ Hell? You mean heaven. Are you insulting my workshop, Ser Grumpypants?” Without even looking he knows she’s smiling at him, and it’s reaching her eyes in that way he so enjoys. The source of that warmth he can’t seem to shake.
He decides he rather dislikes Sharlayan; he’s restless to go.
But he has reasons to come back. And he thinks it will be soon.