Chapter Text
Aymeric squints at the needle pinched between his fingers, now properly threaded. He slips the tip of the needle into the mattress of his assigned bunk and fumbles as he works on tying a knot at the end. Though his own education had not included embroidery, he had watched his mother at her needle work for hundreds if not thousands of bells. Though her eyesight had been failing and her hand was shaky in these latter years, each tin of biscuits she sent along with him never failed to contain a new delicately embroidered handkerchief. Aymeric did often protest that such fine linens should not be subjected to the blood and grime of battlefields, but he could not deny the comfort of always having a memento of home at hand. Aymeric smiled fondly, picturing his mother sitting in her chair with the cat curled at her feet stitching whimsical birds and flowers. Though she was malms away, knowing that they were both sewing brought a warmth to his heart.
Weapon at the ready, Aymeric sizes up his opponent: his left sock with a sizable hole at the heel. In all his years watching her sew, not once had he seen her mend anything; t’was was something always done by the servants. Alas, being deployed afield requires self sufficiency. He could shoot a dragon’s eye from 30 paces, how hard could mending a sock be? Like any good soldier he evaluates his foe from all angles, methodically planning his attack. No different from stitching up a wound, he decides, though this is decidedly less bloody. If I pull the thread through here and simply pinch the ends like so-
Crunch
With a soft yelp, Aymeric drops the needle and sock both onto his lap, turning to find Estinien leaning against the stone wall. Moments tick by as Aymeric waits, assuming Estinien had something to say. Instead, Estinien takes another rather loud bite from the apple and continues watching. With a sigh Aymeric picks up the needle and sock -still properly threaded and knotted thank the Fury- and pinches the end together again. Pulling the thread taut, he stabs at the sock again to make a stitch, and then another. The stitches were crooked and the edges started to bulge, but by the most basic definition,the sock no longer had a hole.
Crunch
Estinien may be a man of few words, but this was absurd. And rude. “Is there aught I may assist with?” Aymeric huffs, trying to tamp down on his annoyance.
“Not particularly,” Estinien replies blandly after swallowing.
“Well if you don’t mind I would like to return to-”
Crunch
“Estinien!”
Estinien ignores him, focusing instead on inspecting the scant remains of the apple. After a brief moment, Aymeric can only watch in horror as in two swift bites Estinien finishes the entire thing, core and all.
“Your feet will blister from that shoddy mending job,” Estinien says while wiping his hands on his pants. “Did they teach you anything useful in the priory?”
“My education was not left wanting if that is what you mean to imply.”
“Of course. Now what passage from Enchiridion shall we recite to call upon Halone to bless this sock? Perhaps she will come down from the heavens and mend it with a mighty thrust of her heavenly lance.”
Aymeric glares at Estinien before retorting, “If there is naught else you have to contribute, I should like to finish.”
Estinien taps his finger on his chin, a mimicry of thoughtfulness. “Hmm. I could be convinced to mend it for you.”
“I’ve never seen you mending anything.”
“Well you’ve never seen me with holes in my socks either. Half a dozen of the biscuits your lady mother had sent.”
“Four”
“Six”
“Five”
“Six”
“Fine Estinien. Six biscuits, though your payment will be dispensed after you complete your task.”
Estinien plucks the offending sock from Aymeric’s hands, all the while muttering about sloppy stitches and “useless little lordlings.” He retrieves his own mending kit and sits on his bunk. From a well-worn leather pouch, he pulls out thread, thicker than what Aymeric had used, and a needle. In a blink, Estinien threads and knots the needle with practiced ease. He then pulls out another small apple from his pack and before Aymeric could protest that surely Estinien could not possibly be hungry again, the apple gets shoved into the sock.
Estinien's hands move with a graceful efficiency, needle darting in and out of the sock with practiced ease. Unlike stitching a wound, Estinien did not pull the thread taut and instead left it to follow the apple’s curve. Once finished with one row, Estinien angles his needle the other way and it seems only after a few minutes, there was an entire new patch of fabric weaved into the sock. He holds the sock up for inspection. Satisfied with his work, he cuts off the remaining thread and pulls the apple out.
“Ah, thank you my friend. It seems my reservations about your skills were wholly unjustified.”
Aymeric reaches for the sock, but Estinien jerks it away and holds his hand out. “Payment first.”
Aymeric rolls his eyes. Truly there is no force that could stand between Estinien and food. Perhaps a dragon, he muses as he rummages through his pack, though not for long if he had his lance at hand. Aymeric places a small blue tin into Estinien's awaiting palm and snatches back his sock, taking a moment to admire the neatness of the mending. Predictably, Estinien had already opened the tin and crammed a biscuit into his mouth.
"You need not return the tin, Mother insisted that she send one to you as well. 'Tis the spiced ones you enjoyed when you joined us for tea last. She also sent this.” Estinien wipes the crumbs off his mouth and gingerly takes the white linen.
"Only Halone knows how many times I’ve told Mother that her work goes to waste. but she worries when we’re deployed far from Ishgard and it seems that… Estinien?" Aymeric pauses, transfixed by the sight of Estinien cradling the linen with a gentleness rarely seen. His calloused fingertips delicately trace the fine needlework: pale blue snowdrops, cheery little asters and, on this Estinien's finger lingers, long stalks of purple lupine. When he failed to respond, Aymeric sat down next to him and gently roused his shoulder.
"Estinien," he tries again. "Are... are you alright?"
Over the moons of their friendship Aymeric learned that at times, there are terrors that follow Estinien deep into the night, his sleep interrupted by a sharp gasp and then a soft whispering, mayhaps prayers for the dead. Most knights had fitful nights, horrors they wished they could forget, but the loss of Ferndale had broken something deep in his ill-fated friend.
Snapping out of his reverie, Estinien finches his hand back as if burnt. His eyes are wide and wild, a storm brewing in its depths. Aymeric tamps down the urge to fill the growing silence and instead waits patiently.
“Lupines were her favorite,” Estinien finally whispers, so quietly that Aymeric barely catches his words. “They bloomed all across the hillside. I always made sure to pick some while the karakul grazed on the sweet summer grass.” Estinien pauses here, taking a few breaths to settle himself. “At seasons end, she would dry the last bouquet and hang it over the hearth until Heavensturn.”
“It sounds lovely,” Aymeric says gently. He raises a hand to place on his shoulder, but thinks better of it. They sit here for a few moments more.
“Send your mother my thanks, t’was kind of her to think of me." Estinien neatly folds the handkerchief into a small square and tucks it into his pocket before shutting the tin of biscuits.
"Estinien, should you need-" Aymeric is cut off by a sharp look from Estinien. Though he could not help but want to comfort his friend, the message was clear: some sorrowful tales were best left untold. Perhaps one day Estinien would deign to share more of his burden.
Estinien closes his eyes and jerks his neck left and right, each movement accompanied by a faint popping sound. "Well, it seems your mother has more than paid your debt, enough for some reinforcement to your socks I should think. Prevention is the best form of mending, or so I've heard."
"If you are offering my friend, it would be foolish of me to decline. But if I may request, do you mind ah- instructing me in the art?" If Aymeric is surprised by the sharp turn of conversation, he smooths it over with grace.
"Hm. Fine," Estinien shrugs, "if it won't offend your noble sensibilities. Perhaps I'll even teach you to knit your own pair."
"Though I do confess I would like to learn to knit, perhaps we should start with the mending." Aymeric smiles at the thought of knitting his parents a pair of socks for Starlight, perhaps a scarf and mittens too, but in the end the practicality of mending his own gear is of far more import. Despite the ferocity Estinien displayed on the battlefield, he was a surprisingly patient teacher, correcting any wayward stitches with gentle hands and a gentler voice. If either of them noticed their fingers lingering as socks were passed back and forth, neither deigned to mention it.
On quiet evenings, it becomes something of a habit for them. More often, Estinien does the mending while Aymeric makes something to nibble on, sometimes tea with biscuits and other times cleaning and roasting a fowl he shot. At some point Estinien teaches Aymeric to knit and that Starlight he is given a soft blue scarf which becomes his constant companion on chilly nights. It is only when he is out sleeping under the inky expanse of the Azim Steppes on a chilled autumn night does he remember it and keenly feels the absence of it.