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The Lord Commander feels it in his upswing during morning scrimmages. In afternoon sessions of parliament, an emphatic flourish of a drafting pen can bring it to the Speaker of the House of Lords’ wrists. Other times there is no catalyst or cause for it all. This eve, however, the Empyreum’s beloved Azure Elephant summons it whilst returning the wave of a child departing the street markets with her mother. Fury be blessed, at least no one is close enough to hear him wince when a flare-up swoops down the length of his forearm like a hunting hawk from his shoulder.
Similar pangs and pains plagued Lady Borel throughout her life. The perpetual winters wrought by the seventh umbral Calamity worsened her ailings until she had been all but bound to bed in her later years. Would that he could soundly claim her bloodline for his aches, instead of knowing it had been imparted upon him by the hands of the Archbishop’s Inquisition.
His father’s Inquisition. Aymeric supposes in that manner perhaps his affliction is hereditary after all.
The thatching of scars across his neck and spine remembers his time in a Vault cell blessedly more than he does. For bells—mayhaps even days—he had hung in complete darkness, stripped and constrained by gold manacles high above his head in a halo. Just high enough for his toes to scrape against the stones for balance, leaving his back taut as a bowstring eager to snap. Light only arrived in the form of red-tipped stokers and heated scalpels designed to carve their dogma into his flesh. Between interrogations, he had filled the silence with prayers of mercy and forgiveness, not for himself or his enemies, but for the friends and cause he had surely damned for his foolishness.
Yet, a miracle does arrive. Bleary and broken, the muffled screams and shouting of his captors are a heavenly choir; the keys clinking above his manacles are as sweet as cathedral chimes. And in the torchlight of his rescuers, he sees a glimpse of that foolish son’s face in the reflection of the gentle, jagged helm soaked red with the blood of wyrm and clergy. His arms relax around his dear friend’s neck as his voice reassures him. I am here, is all it says, yet it soothes an ache deeper than any chirurgeon’s skilled touch can reach.
But some wounds do not heal. The burning in his lower back or the twist of an ankle is at least tolerable. No balm, bath, nor poultice brings back the smile of a lost friend or redeems the soul of a mad king—a delusional father.
Yet, there is so much left to be done. So much good yet to do. That alone is enough to make him cherish such aches, instead of indulging the temptation to cast the pains of body and soul away. Aymeric’s spirits drastically improve when he can actually walk among the streets unaccosted and see the work wyrm and mankind can build as they heal from one another alongside one another. His unconventional souvenir from Radz-at-Han endows him with a new freedom to witness his people and his city. Truly, Estinien’s odd gift had given him more than the man could have possibly imagined.
Or perhaps, in his own way, the Azure Dragoon had known exactly what Aymeric and the city had needed.
Regardless of his friend’s intent, both stars and street lamps are alight by the time the Azure Elephant returns from his reflective patrol around the firmament streets. He concludes his route down at the central square where two plump whelplings doze entwined and happy at the snow-covered feet of an effigy of the Fury. And standing before Her in his somewhat ridiculous garb, Aymeric bows his foolishly large head and offers a fool’s prayer to friends distant and near:
For Ser Lucia, that she may yet reclaim her homeland, as she had so valiantly fought for theirs. May Lord Haurchefant continue to smile upon their work from his rightful place in Halone’s Halls. He obliges a special prayer for the intentions of their stalwart yet ever-enigmatic Warrior of Light, Savior of Ishgard, and the star.
And last, to that beautiful, bitter wind that lowers him from self-imposed chains and ever drives him forward. To that brazier who would hold his clammy hands through a winter’s night patrol: one last prayer that dearest Estinien, wherever he is, finds whatever his wandering heart is searching for.
Before his final words, a slam, heavy and metallic, interrupts him from making the sign of the three spears. Immediately, Aymeric turns, ears straining through the comically large flaps of dyed Thavnairian weave swaddling his head. There, a splash directs his attention to the grey pillars that invite residents to enjoy the bubbling bathhouse of the Snowsteep Springs. By Her Grace, it would seem he does not require any additional investigation as to the noise’s source.
Aymeric rests his aching wrist upon Naegling’s hilt and cautiously approaches the archway leading into the springs. The Azure Elephant’s reputation as the protector of Ishgard’s Empyreum needs to be safeguarded as sure as her people are. Even so, he does not suspect malice.
Whelps, much like the ones slumbering at Halone’s feet often come to Ishgard by invitation of Ehll Tou. The heat calls to their well-traveled wings, while the bubbling pools ease weary hearts homesick for the geysers of their clutch grounds. Occasionally, bold dragonlings will even join the bathers, treating them to aerial stunts and diving spectacles as though they were Costa del Sol gulls.
Though Aymeric has yet to partake in the baths themselves, he sees the appeal. Feels it. Even passing by whilst fully covered from ailing head to aching toe, the steam seems to reach through his costume and grab him. Had he the time and privacy to indulge, he would—as surely as the springs' current occupant, who surfaces and stands upon one of the underwater steps to a full wiry and wingless height. If the visitor enjoying a midnight dip is one at Ehll Tou’s behest, they are of distinctly elezen proportions.
All the more reason for Aymeric to approach. A traveler or guest may not know the springs are gated for a reason after sundown. The marriage of heat and fresh snow ices over the surrounding paths. Without someone on site to attend to them, the walkways quickly become hazardous– fatal even, given the Holy See’s pride in pointed architecture. The spa’s bar means he should not rule out intoxication being a factor in this confrontation as well, especially once he notes an uncorked vintage resting poolside on its belly.
He clears his throat to pitch his voice, calling out in a literal and figurative mask: “Pardon the intrusion, friend, but the baths are closed until morn’.”
The startled bather bumps their head against the stone maw of a lion fountainhead. A swear and another splash answer Aymeric back, who winces sympathetically. Perhaps, this had been a poor plan.
“Are you alright?” he asks, stepping closer and nearly slipping on the very ice he had sought to warn them of. “If you need any assistance or accommodations for the eve, I would be happy to help find you a place to stay. You will be more than welcome to return in the morning.”
The figure goes rigid as though their limbs were locked by a sudden onset of frost. They are almost indistinguishable from one of the spa’s stone fixtures until it speaks.
“...Aymeric?”
And then it is his turn to be staggered into silence by the strange, sweet sound of his name undressed from all honorifics and titles. No Lord Commander, no Speaker, not even a Ser. Even his adversaries in court would not dare.
Only one would ever greet him with such welcome, intimate audacity.
“Estinien…?”
The moon hits his mysterious familiar visitor just as he pushes the full weight of his damp hair to the side. It’s as though a curtain lifts to reveal his dear friend’s stern features wielding confusion and amusement in a lance’s perfect balance. “What are doing you here? And what are you…wearing.”
Then a laugh, loud, brief, but long-missed nearly doubles the dragoon face-first back into the bath. “You blessed fool…you are actually wearing it, aren’t you?”
First unsure where Estinien had acquired a newfound critique of fashion, he notices the blue stumps obscuring his hands and remembers he currently dons a gift in front of its giver.
“Oh!”
With muted strain, Aymeric hefts the plush mask off his shoulders and sets it at his feet. A strange mix of cold Coerthan air and bath steam rushes his cheeks when he shakes his hair out. With his vision no longer obstructed, he lays eyes on the dragoon for the first time in ages; admiring the way the Thavnairian sun has embraced his skin all the way down to where the water laps just above the rise of his hip. A blanket of chaste steam obscures further.
Aymeric swallows at the disparity in one another’s attire. “And you are…entirely disrobed.”
“Aye,” Estinien replies, predictably unperturbed whilst wringing the water out of his hair. “The onsens in Kogane required no attire for bathing. Does our fair city not practice the same?”
Ishgard’s Lord Speaker frowns. He suspects their climes would be too frigid for such a policy. Then again, most bathing attire offers little in regards to insulation either way. “I regret to say I do not know.”
A snort answers him back, “You don’t know. That…that doesn’t surprise me at all.” He sinks back down so pale steam, hair, and moonlight engulf his shoulders, indistinguishable from one another. “I was, however, surprised to see your office so pleasantly dark after I had disembarked.”
Aymeric chuckles. “Yes. Well, with Ser Lucia stationed in Garlemald, Ser Handeloup has taken it upon himself to ensure I do not tarry beyond the eighteenth bell.”
“Good man. It should be earlier, though. ”
On that, Aymeric agrees. His faithful second has had to take on a gryphon’s share of work in shouldering Ser Lucia’s duties alongside his own. Reminding his Lord Commander that a doting wife, daughter, and newborn are awaiting him at home has certainly helped Aymeric be more conscious of his own working hours. And while he usually ignores the protests of his wrists and limbs by taking any outstanding ledgers home, it means the Azure Elephant has also had more time to enjoy the world outside the walls of the Congregation.
“I am blessed to keep the company of many good knights,” Aymeric says, smiling at the one before him. “Would that I could count myself amongst them, as I have been quite the poor host thus far. Forgive me, if I had known of your arrival–”
“You would’ve fussed.”
Aymeric wrinkles his nose at the playful accusation. “I would not have fussed. I simply would have ensured you were properly greeted—and I would have had a hot meal ready for you upon arrival. Mayhaps something with the spices you generously gifted from your last visit—”
The dragoon’s laughter interrupts him. “Yes. My thanks for the perfect reminder of why I didn’t send notice.”
The jest stings only a little. Full well he knows his dearest friend cares little for grand gestures and noble obligations, even if he did seem to count the most basic of social pleasantries amongst them. Still, if the vibrant garments and gilded trinkets spilling out of the pack beside his anointed lance are any indication, he’s not above receiving some comforts. “You only permit the Satrap to pamper you now, is that it then?”
“Ha. That’s a different matter.”
“How so?”
“I thought it obvious,” Estinien says, wading over to the edge of the bath. He props his elbows over its stone lip and rests his cheek over his hands. “In Radz-at-Han, I was an honored guest. Even I know not to refuse a host’s hospitality—and Vrtra was a very good host to me. But here? Here I am not a guest .”
He tilts his head up at Aymeric and grins. “ Here I am home.”
Oh. The heat that spreads to his chest and cheeks could rival Snowsteep’s very springs. For all the souvenirs he has brought back from his travels, none compares to the gift of those words: that after everything he has endured, his wandering companion still thinks of Ishgard—of him—as home. Halone might as well have appeared and answered his prayers Herself.
“And imagine my luck,” Estinien continues, smirk curling a little higher, “my first foray back to the Holy See in moons, and I have the privilege of seeing the elusive Azure Elephant of the Empyreum.”
Aymeric smiles, thankful the spa is warm enough to keep any tears from freezing to his lashes. “Not as blessed as mine are for this glimpse of our long-missed Azure Dragoon.”
“ Former Azure Dragoon,” Estinien reminds. He pushes himself off the ledge and bobs back towards the deeper end of the water, “and I fear you shall have to suffer me for more than a glimpse.”
“...You mean to stay then?”
Despite there being no ice at his feet, Aymeric nearly slips again. Though his legs remain steady, his words are not as fortunate: “Where? I mean…for how long? For a while?...For good?!”
Fury knows he is making more of a fool of himself than usual. The volume of Estinien’s hard-won laughter bubbling across the bathhouse stones is a testament to that. Yet, if heartfelt jests are what inspires such a beautiful noise, Aymeric will happily maintain the role.
“Let us say…for a good while,” Estinien compromises once the spa’s walls are quiet again. He paddles over to the wine bottle he left by the edge of the pool and takes a swig. “So, until our good friend and Master Alphinaud require my lance, I am yours to command–and I would even take you up on your previous offer, but it seems the posting has already been filled by one more capable than I.”
He raises the bottle to the Empyreum’s unmasked protector and Aymeric sighs down at the plush, oversized, and unnaturally dyed gaja head at his feet. “In truth, I would much rather have you relax than put you to work. Leisure agrees with you quite well, dear friend.”
He may scoff but it does. Estinien’s smiles come easier; his laughter a bit louder. A miracle when not even The Forgotten Knight’s strongest bottle of spiced wine at Heavensturn could tempt such joy out of him. With eyes shut, floating on his back, even his scars look softer. He is content–happy even–and all within the walls of a city that has been the center of so much strife in his life.
“I imagine it would agree with you just fine too if you would ever let it.”
Aymeric shakes his head. “Forgive me. I have not been able to find the time.”
Estinien frowns for a moment and then extends an inviting, dripping hand. “Hmm. Well…why not join me in it now?”
“ Now ?” Aymeric inquires, following his hand down to the water, “ ‘Now’ as in here and now ?”
“Why not? There’s no one else around. No one to stop you except…well, yourself.”
As is his main obstacle in most things, Aymeric begrudgingly admits. He glances over his shoulder to confirm the streets are indeed empty and quiet. In all likelihood, no one would see. No one would know. But still…
“We really are not supposed to be here at this hour–and it would set an incredibly poor example if—”
He stops, not from any verbal interruption, but from a familiar sharp, stone stare that he swears could turn the air around the hot springs frigid. His travels have not completely eroded his friend’s well-documented prickliness. And yet, Aymeric cannot deny as his breath partially crystalizes before him that the curling tips of the steam rising from the baths beckons him almost as much as Estinien’s outstretched hand.
Sweet Fury preserve him.
“Fine,” Aymeric relents, turning swiftly around to better avoid seeing the dragoon’s victorious grin, “if you would not mind assisting me out of this...”
“Thought you would never ask.”
Behind him, the water breeches with a warm, breech-less Estinien. Aymeric spreads his arms out to provide some form of cover for his compromised companion. But then even he cannot deny how good the freshly warmed fingertips feel as they brush the back of his neck while working the clasps cinching his unruly costume together. Once it’s loose enough for Aymeric to leverage his arm out from the shoulder support straps, he raises one over his head to free himself.
And then that whip of pain—the same as he endured when waving to the child in the markets earlier— lashes down the length of his arm again. This time, someone is close enough to hear the noise that escapes him.
Estinien’s fingers pause. “Something wrong?”
“‘Tis nothing,” Aymeric quickly assures, sucking through his teeth before the second flare from freeing his second arm announces itself. Blessedly, the rest of the suit falls around his hips without exerting further effort. He steps out of it, leaving the beloved mascot behind like a molted drake skin in his under-leathers and long breeches. And no sooner than he’s free of one layer does he feel those still-flushed fingers slip under the hem of his undershirt.
“Estinien!”
He hunches forward, pinning the assisting hands between a fold of fabric and his ribs.
“You need dry clothes to walk home in.”
“Yes, but still—”
But still, even his body seems to know Estinien has a point. In practicality, it surrenders the garment to being pulled over his head. The throbbing tenderness in his limbs is appreciative for the assistance, though the gratitude starts to waver when he is relieved of his breeches and smalls in just a few rough tugs.
With the rush of cold, he presses his thighs together and immediately pivots to the other warm body, who gently takes him by the palms.
“Come now, Lord Commander,” he teases, breath batting the tips of his chilled ears, “no need to be so modest with me.”
He takes his hand and goaded by frost, Aymeric follows him as close and easy as if he were one of his lambs from another lifetime. Estinien leads him to where his feet leave behind frozen stones and hit the first level of steaming water. A splendid shudder hugs his skin. First at his ankle and then his calves and thighs, each step treading deeper until the opaque water covers them like a whitefrost cotton quilt from the neck down.
Aymeric takes a breath, squeezes his eyes tight, and dips his head below to better acclimate. He counts to ten while his ears enjoy the tepid bubbling of the spring before resurfacing. Crisp alpine air clears his lungs and nose as he wipes his arm across his eyes.
And when he opens them to snow-capped mountains under an endless dome of stars, he gawks like a babe seeing it for the first time. Estinien, who had been to the very black edge of such stars, floats in silence at his side looking out over their frozen homeland with him. He has taken flight on the back of wyrms’ wings, soared around mountain peaks where clouds fear to tread, and Heaven has never been closer.
“This is …nice,” Aymeric allows himself to admit.
“Aye…and certainly beats dips in the Banepools, eh?”
The reminder pinches The Lord Commander’s cheeks to a bright red.“Pray, do not. I do not even want to think about those times…”
There are many memories from training he cherishes. Their stint at Dusk Vigil is not one of them. Even during the summer months, their old bathing pools had felt like soaping up on a glacier. Worse for Aymeric, who preferred the privacy of washing up at night. Blessedly, he had devoted and a keen-eyed companion who would keep watch over him whilst he washed.
The very same one whose thumb comforts his wrist in slow, rolling circles.
“ ‘Tis far better at easing persisting aches, as well…”
Aymeric’s already flushed cheeks deepen. “You noticed…” he laments, fidgeting under the water. But then of course he would. Whose hands had liberated him from golden chains and carried him out of the bowels of the Vault catacombs? Who had stubbornly tended to his bones, bruises, and welts when his guilt and pride had shooed the chiurgeons away?
And who was beside him now, arms and shoulders reddened and raw by the burden of bearing an eon of righteous rage. Who would know better than someone else who covers themself in thick plates of adamantite, bears steel, and swallows every ache and pang that enters them—be it heart or flesh—because they know Winter is not kind to the vulnerable.
But in this moment of solitary comfort, no one—not even Winter—is watching them now.
“You have found this helps you?” Aymeric asks quietly.
The water between them ripples when Estinien nods. “Certainly one of them.”
Aymeric smiles. It’s strange and exciting to see his oldest friend so unwound in every sense, right down to the loose hair he has only seen pulled taut back and high for drills: the boy training nonstop since two and twelve, who wolfed down meals, specialized in quick, effective washings, and never allowed himself a day’s rest. Oh Fury, be blessed he gets those years back and can actually live now.
“Hmm…I think I can see the merit.”
Estinien corrects him with another snort. “You should feel it. Here…”
He hoists himself up onto the stone ledge behind them. The water still falls tightly around his waist, while his knees peek above the surface and flank either side of Aymeric. As if he were the very tide, he draws him between them.
“Sit,” he says as Aymeric cheats a glance at him, “relax.”
“What are you…?”
A gentle squeeze to the valleys connecting his shoulders quiets him by unwinding the bundling tension just below his blades. His back rolls with the motion, following another two or three rotations before his head lulls forward, dampening his bangs. Try as he might to literally drown the relieved moan that escapes him, the water only succeeds in carrying it throughout the walls of the bath.
Estinien sounds equally pleased. “Good.”
“You do not have to…” Aymeric tries to assure. But while his skill in rhetoric is largely unmatched in court, even he is unconvinced by such a halfhearted plea.
Estinien is not either. His arms instead draw Aymeric closer until he’s leaning over his body and covering him as close as the water would. He presses a kiss into his nape. “I want to.”
More careful squeezes flow up and down his elbow. Long slow strokes break both surface and muscle tension as warm fingers and water soothe those invisible twinges that gnaw beneath him, be he wearing the mantle of Commander, Speaker, or Elephant.
“You need to take better care of yourself.
The words from his impromptu masseuse surprise him. Invisible but not unseen apparently. Though he cannot see Estinien, he can hear the frown in his voice as he begins to work the underside of his arm. The concern is flattering, however, and Aymeric cannot help but chuckle. “ Now, who is fussing?”
“Fair,” the dragoon concedes, albeit after a grumble, “though that does not make it any less true.”
Aymeric lets himself laugh again. “Are not my concerns for you not the same? You need not worry about me, however. ‘Tis nothing unbearable.”
At that, Estinien huffs. “I doubt you would admit anything is.”
His thumbs start to work the lean bones and tendons in his wrist that support swords and quills; handshakes between lords and commoners, and hand waves to sweet children leaving the night markets with their mothers. He thinks of his own Lady Mother and how the cold worsened her condition; how the calamity robbed her of precious years of life. How after she went to Halone’s halls, Lord Borel had not been far behind her.
They say it is not the cold that actually kills us, his doting adopted father had explained to his grieving son one exceptionally frigid morning, but rather the absence of warmth.
Beneath the bath water, Estinien’s palm slips against his own. Before it can pull away, Aymeric closes his fingers around it. “Nay, my friend. Something unbearable does come to mind,” he quietly admits.
No words except the strong, careful squeeze he gets back. It doesn’t stop there. Estinien wraps their joined hands until they’re huddled around one another. He presses his nose into Aymeric’s shoulder and holds him there: embracing him, like they had when two lone surviving temple knights had to work their way back to the city after their first bittersweet victory over one of Nidhogg’s Horde. For them both to have made it then is nothing short of miraculous.
And for them both to be here now? That is more than enough. It would be selfish to crave anything more. And yet…
When Estinien’s arms slacken just enough, Aymeric swivels to face him. Spreading his fingers under the thick of his damp hair, he lifts it as a bridegroom would a veil and presses his lips to his.
The skin is wet, clinging sweetly to salt and sweat. No shock, no hesitancy when his good friend’s mouth parts to respond in kind, eager and willing to form around his mouth as the very water surrounding them. This is not their first by any means, but previous affections have always felt like a last. Something rushed, rough, and famished. This one samples the corner of his lips and the peak of his cheek; this one savors because it knows they need not starve for one another anymore. At least for a good while.
They drift back sated, bodies barely half an ilm apart. Close enough for Aymeric to see the sweat shine on his partner’s brow; close enough to feel his own head start to become hazy at the sight.
“ I fear the bath might be getting a bit too hot,” he says, despite nuzzling into the other’s flushed body.
“Aye,” Estinien agrees, “should probably think about heading back before someone discovers the beloved Azure Elephant deflated…and our Lord Commander in such a compromising position.”
He untangles himself by pressing a kiss to the top of Aymeric’s head. Swiftly, Estinien stands, still dripping and naked as his name day when he ducks behind the bar. From there, he produces a thick stack of cloud cotton towels and holds a white one out to Aymeric.
“They seem to be out of blue, I fear.”
Aymeric laughs. He takes it and wraps it around his waist as soon as it is above water and his feet find cold grey purchase against the Snowsteep’s stones. “It will have to do until we get back to Borel Manor. Presuming…that’s where you intend to stay.”
“Uncertain,” is the answer Estinien gives while moonlight rolls off his shoulders in a shrug. “Does the Lord Commander even still have rooms available, considering he offers his lodgings to every vagabond who uses the hot springs after sunset?”
“I merely offered to assist in finding lodgings—such as the Forgotten Knight, ” Aymeric clarifies, “Never did I offer the manor.”
“Aye, but you would,” his teasing friend counters, and Aymeric can only sigh–because yes, of course he would. And knowing this, the dragoon blesses him with a sharper smirk. “Well, hopefully, you can spare one for this old wanderer.”
“Of course.”
The cold air dries them cruelly and quickly, prodding Aymeric to squeeze into dry, half-frozen leathers. Estinien is equally quick to change, but rather than his usual traveling clothes, adorns himself in a tunic bearing the vibrant flair of Radz-at-Han: delicate, fur-trimmed, and delightfully from-fitting. Pleasingly so, especially when the dragoon bends to collect his satchel and lance.
“Now that you mention it,” Aymeric thinks conspicuously aloud, “I think the master suite might suit you more. It has balcony access, after all.”
“Oh? Now, that is a tempting offer…”
Something soft and wide as a wyrm's wing suddenly covers Aymeric’s shoulders. It pulls him close to the other man as arms and a blanket in the same style as Estinien’s new apparel covers the two of them. Handmade and commissioned for a hefty sum of gil no doubt. He looks over the golden threaded shapes forming its pattern when a kiss surprises him at the center of his forehead.
“And where might the master of the house be staying, then?” Estinien whispers so that not even the snows can hear.
When Aymeric lifts his arms beneath the blanket, he notices the design is a series of elephants joined trunk to tail. At its very center is one threaded in a bright, distinctive blue. Malms apart, yet close in thought—and yet Estinien dares to claim he is the one who fusses. He smiles and slips his arm around him.
“Close enough where I do not have to let go of this,” he answers, taking his hand, “...at least for a good while.”
Arm and arm they depart, each toting one half of the strange blue gift that brought companions separated by long malms together this eve. The warmth of Snowsteep wanes with each silver streetlamp guiding them back to Borel Manor. Weary bones and lingering pains persist with each step. Though they come and go like a fickle beloved friend, they are a part of him as much as his blue is—as much as he is. But with him tonight, the ache feels a little more distant, a little more bearable—and he is a little more able to be.