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“You must be the new Azure Dragoon.”
The voice from Estinien’s left is no different to the dozens of others who have approached him this evening. The tone sets his teeth on edge, brimming with obnoxious curiosity as they inspect him like a trophy.
While he managed some terse smalltalk the first time it happened, his patience evaporated less than a bell into this inane gala and he has made no effort to recover it.
The lord lingers, smiling. “What a pleasure to—”
Estinien bares his teeth in a snarl and the man’s sentence ends abruptly as he reconsiders the truth of the platitude.
Estinien catches the whispers between the lord and his companion as they scuttle away — no better than a beast, what else to expect from a commoner, extraordinary that Count de Durendaire would invite such a lout — and he leans back against the wall with a grim smile. The absence of his helmet still pains him but he’s been pleased to learn just how effective a repellent his face can be, even without the help of metal and horns.
The dress armor itself is less objectionable, lighter than his usual mail and lacking the spikes, but he’s confident he would fare well enough in battle if pressed. It’s an improvement on the formal dress of the Temple Knights, however, and his gaze lights on Aymeric in the throng of nobles as he continues his internal grumbles.
Aymeric’s dress armor is little more than fabric. The tight breeches and white military tunic may frame his thighs, waist and shoulders well, but they would offer no resistance against even the feeblest of wyrms.
Across the room, Aymeric’s dance partner rests a hand on his waist, fingers slipping beneath the useless sash of a belt. It’s a foolish addition; if it were Estinien’s decision, Aymeric would be clad in solid chainmail atop a thick gambeson, with absolutely no dangling sashes for nobles to toy with.
His partner’s hand inches lower, cupping Aymeric’s hip, and Estinien grits his teeth. Perhaps he would add some platemail too, purely for additional protection.
The partner dips in closer. He’s older than Aymeric, with reddish hair that’s thinning on top and a greedy smile, and he leans to whisper something into Aymeric’s ear as the music picks up.
Estinien has no talent for reading faces.
He’s heard the comment enough times, from Alberic, from his commanders, from his fellow knights when they think he isn’t listening, even from Aymeric himself on occasion. He doesn’t disagree with the assessment — why waste time deciphering expressions rather than learning the attack patterns of his foes — but somehow he’s aware of the exact moment that Aymeric’s polite smile falters.
(Perhaps it’s just Aymeric’s face that he’s learned to read.)
He strides away from his post by the wall. He’s watched for too long, seen highborns circle Aymeric like wolves all evening, heard the whispers besmirching his heritage and reputation; he refuses to stand by any longer.
He makes it about three steps before colliding with an old lady.
With a grumble of annoyance, he attempts to sidestep her but is stopped by a hand on his wrist and the calm interruption, “Ah, Ser Dragoon. Dance with me for a spell.”
“I prefer not to dance,” Estinien mutters and tries to move past her again.
Unfortunately, the old woman is like a small wrinkled brick wall. She smiles up at him, unfazed. “’Tis good thing I did not ask your preference then.” She holds out a hand expectantly. “If you please.”
Estinien stares at her, dumbfounded.
She just laughs. “My boy, if you think I will be denied a dance in my own home, you are sorely mistaken. Now come, I won’t have you sulking in the corner all evening. I do believe I’ve seen statues with more social graces.”
She’s placed Estinien’s hands on her shoulder and waist and is steering him confidently onto the dance floor before he’s fully comprehended the meaning of her words.
“Your home?” he echoes. From the little he knows about the High Houses, Count de Durendaire is a man in his fifties, whereas the woman in front of him is anywhere between seventy and one hundred summers. (He has never been good at ages.) “You’re Count de Durendaire’s wife?”
The old lady lets out a sharp bark of laughter. “Oh, I do like you. Lady Florine de Durendaire, Charlemand’s oft-neglected mother.”
“Oh.”
In retrospect, he can make out the resemblence. Her skin is darker and her hair lighter than that of the Count, but the narrow nose and sharp eyes are near-identical. He’s no closer to figuring out how old that makes her but her grip belies her age as she guides him firmly through the steps of a dance which may or may not be a waltz.
“This would be the part where you introduce yourself in turn,” she prompts.
“Uh,” Estinien says intelligently. In the rush of being corralled into a dance, he lost sight of Aymeric and so is forced to concentrate on the woman in front of him instead. “Estinien Wyrmblood, Azure Dragoon.”
Florine smiles. “And avoider of social engagements?”
Estinien scowls, rumbled. “I’m here at the behest of a friend.”
She makes a noise of understanding. “I suppose that would explain the staring.” Before Estinien can raise an objection, she pushes onward. “I would have your honest answer: how are you finding my son’s gala?”
Hellish, Estinien’s mind supplies. Tedious. Pointless. Insufferable.
It must show on his face as Florine chuckles. “I shan’t take offence,” she promises. “I expect half the women in this room have far sharper tongues than yours.” She leans in, conspiratorial. “Personally, I think the decor is hideous. I never did enjoy lilac.”
In spite of himself, Estinien smiles. There’s nothing warm about her, none of the comfort of the elders from Ferndale or the bawdy cheer of the older women among the barrack cooks, but there’s a strange reassurance in the way she talks to him, like he’s a person rather than a curiosity or a weapon.
(He opts not to correct her.)
“I don’t understand it,” he admits. “Why people come here.”
Florine laughs. “Is socialising really so foreign a concept?”
“It’s a pretense,” Estinien blurts out. He doesn’t think he’s spoken this much to anyone beyond Aymeric in years but after bells of watching in silence, the words spill out in a helpless flood. “All the pomp and ritual of the highborns but underneath it’s no better than an evening in a tavern. You dress in silks and play at courtesy but your hands still wander and you whisper as much filth as a drunken lowborn.”
Florine’s lips part in surprise. She doesn’t strike Estinien as a woman who is often lost for words but she’s silent for a long moment as she guides him through the next steps of the dance.
“Have you been the recipient of this?” she asks mildly. “Of the whispered filth and wandering hands?”
Estinien snorts. “I’d break their fingers if they tried. I don’t know why Aymeric doesn’t do the same; he’s more than capable in a fight.”
Realisation lights Florine’s eyes. “The Borel boy. He’s the friend you’ve been watching so closely.”
Estinien can’t help the embarrassment that heats his cheeks. “Aye.”
“I see. You’re close friends, I take it?”
Estinien frowns. “We’ve fought together, aye.”
Florine hums and he follows her gaze across the ballroom to where Aymeric is still dancing with the balding redhead. The man leans in close, hands on Aymeric’s hips as he whispers in his ear, and Estinien’s jaw tightens at the grimace that flickers across Aymeric’s face.
“The hazards of being young and beautiful,” Florine says, almost wistful. “They always did attract the most unsavoury attentions. Especially for one without the protection of a High House name.”
“He’s a knight captain,” Estinien says. “I’ve fought at his side; he can well protect himself.”
“Oh, dear boy.” Florine’s tone is pitying, as though Estinien is a child still struggling with his letters. “This is an entirely different kind of battlefield.”
He stumbles over his own feet as she leads him in a sharp right turn, cutting through the twirling lines of nobles. He steadies himself as the dance continues, this time in closer proximity to Aymeric and his partner. The man’s advances are no less unsettling from this distance, and Estinien is reminded of Aymeric’s steadfast passivity in the face of bullying knights and snide remarks.
He loathes it.
The song ends, the hall filling with chatter as dancers break apart and find new partners, but Florine keeps a firm grip on Estinien’s hand. A barely perceptible shiver runs through Aymeric as his partner steps back, and fury surges in Estinien’s blood when the redhead reaches up to cup Aymeric’s cheek.
He can’t make out everything he says but his hands curl into fists at the whisper, “—do hope I get to make use of that mouth in future.”
Aymeric’s polite smile doesn’t waver, even as the man’s thumb brushes his lower lip before he steps back. “’Twas good to see you again, Lord Vallemont.”
Estinien is a heartbeat away from closing the distance and breaking Lord Vallemont’s nose when Florine’s hand closes around his fist. “At ease, Ser Dragoon.”
“He’s a swiving pig—”
“Oh, quite,” Florine says, unfazed. “Regrettably he is far from the only swine in attendance this evening.” Vallemont’s place at Aymeric’s side is taken by a tall, burly man with slick white-blond hair, and Florine sighs. “Your friend certainly attracts them.”
Estinien strains to overhear the conversation between Aymeric and the newcomer. The opening gambit of “I understand congratulations are in order, Captain” seems reasonable enough but when it’s followed by ”Was this promotion earned on your knees or your back?”, Estinien is once again ready to start throwing punches.
The music picks up before he can hear Aymeric’s response, a jauntier tune compared to the prior one, and Florine boxes him in with concerning efficiency as she guides them both in time to the song.
“You will do him no favors by intervening,” she says, as though they’re watching sparring practice instead of relentless harassment. “We’ve only spoken in passing but he is full able to manage his own affairs.”
Estinien blinks, incredulous. “You think he wants this treatment?”
“Oh, heavens, no,” Florine says with a chuckle. “I daresay no-one desires the attention of the least couth Dzemael in Ishgard, low bar as that may be.”
Estinien looks back over to see the blond man — a Dzemael, apparently — slide his hand down Aymeric’s rear. Aymeric tenses but the mask of his smile remains firmly in place.
“This is simply how things are done,” Florine explains. Estinien doesn’t know if he’s imagining the note of sadness in her voice. “The boy knows how to play by the rules, despite the difficult hand he’s been dealt. He won’t get anywhere if he makes a fuss.”
Estinien frowns and Florine regards him with something close to sympathy when she says, “Ishgard demands far more than prowess in battle from her most prominent servants. Skill with a sword only gets one so far; allies, influence, and a clever tongue are necessities if one wishes to advance beyond a mere knight captaincy.”
Estinien’s frown deepens. He knows Aymeric is good at politics, at picking his battles, at saying the right thing to the right people, but he hadn’t thought social advancement would require such a degrading price.
“Then the people who’ve been dancing with him…”
“I expect it varies,” Florine says. “Some likely just enjoy a dance with a handsome young knight, no matter his parentage. Others, however, will think more fondly of him if he bears their attentions without complaint. Only to a limited extent, mind you — polite acquiescence may win allies but harlotry is rightly looked down upon.” She sighs, tired. “’Tis sometimes a delicate path to walk.”
Estinien had thought the politics of Temple Knights alone to be labyrinthine; the emergence of whole new intricacies in high society makes his head ache.
“Take Lord Vallemont,” Florine says. “He advises the Tribunal and has the ear of certain persons high in the Church. He has a fondness for war stories and a truly abysmal tolerance for wine. When he wakes on the morrow, I have no doubt this evening will be a blur, but I expect that he’ll have pleasant recollections of the bright young knight captain he danced with.”
“The captain he fondled,” Estinien says, sour.
Florine hums. “You’d be surprised how many view themselves only as perfect gentlemen, despite all evidence to the contrary.”
“Hmph.”
She leads him into a turn, Aymeric and the uncouth Dzemael dropping briefly out of view. Estinien purses his lips as a worry nags at him.
“I don’t understand why he would ask me to attend,” he admits. “I’m here tonight only on his request but... Surely he wouldn’t expect me to participate in this?”
“Azure Dragoons are famed for their social prowess,” Florine says solemnly.
Estinien stares at her.
She cackles, delighted at her own joke. “I jest, my boy. I jest.” She pats him on the arm. “You’ve yet to leap through any skylights so you’re already an improvement on the last girl. Besides, I believe bloodlust and lethality are all that one requires in one of your station.”
Estinien tilts his head. “Thank you?”
She pats his arm again, looking a little despairing. “Oh, dear.”
Before Estinien can formulate the right question — he is both bloodthirsty and lethal, why does she act as though it isn’t a compliment — Florine presses onward, trotting them both back towards the edge of the room.
“I claim no special insight into your friend’s motivations,” she says, voice softening, “but these galas can be quite gruelling. They take place quarterly, with additional celebrations at Starlight or after successful campaigns, and those looking to maintain their status and reputation must be sure to attend each one.”
Her eyes take on a faraway look. “Heavens, it’s been decades since I attended as a young maid yet I shall never forget how wearing it was. By the time I wed my husband, I could have wept with relief at having someone beside me for these things.”
She straightens, misty-eyed for reasons Estinien hasn’t quite followed. “Far be it for me to put words in his mouth,” she says, “but could it be your friend simply desires your company?”
Estinien considers this. He’s usually wanted for his skill at arms — his company is just an unfortunate side effect that people are required to endure — but of all people, Aymeric is the first (and only) one to seek him out, to invite him to drinks, to coax him away from his drills for food and shared stories by the campfire.
He never imagined social events to be taxing for someone as competent as Aymeric. However, when he thinks of this evening happening again and again, of enduring jibes and leers and unwanted touches year after year just to avoid being rejected entirely by his peers, he has a newfound sympathy for those in Aymeric’s position.
Even Estinien’s company, terrible as it is, must be a better alternative than this.
He finds Aymeric amid the crowd, still following the steps of the dance even as the Dzemael presses close against him, and his stomach turns as a thought occurs. “Has anyone— Do things ever go further than this?” He gestures, helpless. “Than the… touching.”
Florine’s lips thin and Estinien gets the sense she is choosing her words carefully when she says, “No. That should be the extent of it.”
“Should?”
Florine’s gaze tracks across his face. Estinien has no idea what she’s looking for but when she speaks again, her voice is pitched low, as if calming a spooked horse. “On rare occasions, there are incidents. Never at a Durendaire gala, I might add, but some of our fellows are more lax with their security.”
Estinien swallows. “Did Aymeric—”
“To the best of my knowledge, no-one was harmed,” she says firmly. “It was years ago, shortly after Viscount de Borel — the former viscount, that is — passed away. The boy was barely twenty summers, with few connections and even less experience as the head of a household, and he…”
She pauses, regretful, before collecting herself. “Word is that Count de Fortemps personally intervened before anything too egregious happened under his roof. The details were kept quiet but he made it known that he’d taken the boy under his wing.” She smiles. “Edmont always did have a soft spot for strays.”
She pauses, looking down to where Estinien’s hand rests on her arm. “My boy, I don’t know whose neck you are picturing but I can assure you that my arm was not involved in the incident.”
Estinien follows her gaze and pulls his hand away sharply when he realises how hard he was squeezing. “I, uh—“ He clears his throat. “Apologies, ma’am.”
She pats him on the shoulder, a twinkle in her eye. “I shall send your Lord Commander the bill for my healing creams. And for some new shoes, as you have thoroughly trampled these.”
“Oh.” Estinien’s cheeks heat. “I’m sorry.”
His interest in the feet of old ladies is regrettably limited and he steers back to more important topics. “So Aymeric is allied with House Fortemps?”
“Allied is a strong word,” Florine says. “He’s a Borel; he doesn’t enjoy the level of protection of a true Fortemps, or even a distant relation. Still, Edmont made it clear that the perpetrator would answer to him if anyone were to overstep their bounds in future. Ishgard may have no shortage of fools but they do know their limitations.”
She glances in the direction of Aymeric and the Dzemael, and Estinien follows her gaze when he sees her eyes narrow. The Dzemael has one hand on the small of Aymeric’s back and the other wrapped tight around his arm as he guides him away from the dancers, despite Aymeric’s polite attempts to resist.
“Or rather most of them do,” Florine says with a sigh. “Pray excuse me, Ser Dragoon.”
Showing the same confidence as when she’d accosted him initially, Florine strides across the room and barks out, “Arismont de Dzemael, I take it you aren’t leaving without a dance with your godsmother.”
It’s loud enough to get the attention of a good fifth of the room and the Dzemael whips around, releasing his grip on Aymeric. He plasters on a smile. “Lady Florine. Of course not, I would never dream of—“
“Have your household staff fallen ill, my dear?” Florine interrupts. “I can think of no other reason for you to attend my son’s ball with such creases in your waistcoat.”
“Ah, no, well, you see…”
The Dzemael’s voice lowers as Florine marches him back out for a dance, accompanied by snickers of amusement from those in the vicinity, and Estinien winds his way through the crowd before someone else can get there before him.
He reaches Aymeric at the same time as an old man with a thick mustache. Estinien glares daggers at him and the man retreats, hands held up in surrender as Estinien taps Aymeric on the shoulder.
Aymeric whirls, wide-eyed and pink-cheeked, and Estinien summons up a tight smile. “I hate this swiving party,” he tells him. “Dance with me.”
Aymeric looks at him as though he’s grown a second head. “I— You wish to dance?”
“Shut up.”
“What happened to ‘Not if Halone Herself came down to ask me’?”
“That was before I spent three bells being gawked at by idiot highborns,” Estinien mutters but is pleased when Aymeric offers his hand for a dance regardless. “You’d make a better partner than Halone anyway. Sturdier feet.”
“I-“ Aymeric frowns. “Thank you?”
Estinien offers a vague grunt in response and sees the way Aymeric tries to hide his smile as he leads them back into the throng. The crowd is thinning, guests steadily retiring for the evening, and the music has slowed to a new melody by the time Estinien settles his hand on Aymeric’s waist.
This close, he can feel the tension in him, lingering in his shoulders and in the tight set of his jaw, but it also means he gets to watch it ebb with every turn they make around the ballroom. Aymeric’s eyes are a vivid blue against the white of his dress uniform, and despite the exhaustion on his face, Estinien doesn’t think he’s ever looked more handsome.
“Thank you,” Aymeric says, barely loud enough for Estinien to hear. “For keeping me company this evening. I know how much you loathe these things.”
“Everyone should loathe these things,” Estinien says. Especially you, he doesn’t add. “Once you become Lord Commander, you should outlaw them.”
Aymeric laughs, bright and surprised, and reaches up to tuck a strand of Estinien’s hair behind his ear. He doesn’t miss a step. “I doubt outlawing galas is in the Lord Commander’s remit, my friend. Fear not, I shan’t make you attend another.”
Estinien can’t find the right words for a response. It’s true, he would rather submit to the rigors of dragoon training again than suffer through another of these ridiculous parties, but Aymeric shouldn’t be forced to attend either. He’s always known Ishgard was broken, cracks running right to its crumbling core, but seeing the obscene demands it places on a good knight — a good man — makes him doubt that repair is even possible.
It’s only when the music slows further that Estinien realises he’s missed his window to respond. The dancers around them hold their partners close, swaying gently to the music, and Aymeric looks hesitantly to Estinien. “It may be best if we…”
Estinien rolls his eyes and tugs him in closer. “If only your concerns about proximity had stopped you from using me as a blanket for the past three winters.”
Aymeric flushes a furious pink. “I— There is limited room in the tent! You may be very warm but I certainly didn’t intend—“
“Relax, Borel,” Estinien teases, “else I may need to swap back to the Count’s mother as my dance partner.”
Aymeric frowns. “Count de Durendaire? Estinien, his mother has been dead for five summers now.”
Estinien’s eyes widen. Panic begins to set in, right up until he sees the grin on Aymeric’s face. “You swiving prick.”
Aymeric laughs, freer than Estinien has heard all evening. “My apologies, my friend. I did indeed see you dancing with Lady Florine.” His smile softens. “I truly am grateful for your presence this evening. Thank you.”
He leans in. For a moment, Estinien thinks he means to kiss him but before he can process any reaction to that, Aymeric rests his head against Estinien’s shoulder. His body is warm against Estinien’s, his hair tickling against his cheek, and Estinien lets the scent of Aymeric’s cologne wash over him as he takes a slow breath in.
After all Aymeric’s work this evening, all his determined courtesy in the face of vile lechers, Estinien can’t help but worry he is ruining it somehow. He understand little and less of the rules that govern this world; as far as he knows, Aymeric’s reputation could be forever stained by dancing too closely with a lowborn dragoon.
Still, Aymeric makes no move to pull away from him. There’s a tired smile on his lips, his hands resting easily on Estinien’s waist, and after all Estinien has witnessed this evening, he can’t bring himself to deny Aymeric this comfort.
The music plays on, gentle and calm, and Estinien holds him close through it all.