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“Rhyun'a.”
Estinien's voice is loud against the otherwise dulled out world. Music and color have drained from Foundation for Rhyun’a and he's made little effort to help it return.
Haurchefant lays dead and buried where he had so simply, so sweetly, been as Rhyun’a’s side but a few days prior. It's a miracle Rhyun’a had not drowned himself in his cups. The damnable barkeeper of the Forgotten Knight refused to let him drown his sorrows in drink after the first night, and Rhyun’a had not the energy to go shopping for a personal supply. Plus, Tataru was at the tavern more often than not, and he didn't want to show her the worst sides of himself. He also simply knew better, knew no one else would ever be able to fill his shoes if he did more than drink.
No one else will serve as the righteous executioner of Haurchefant’s murderers.
Fray helps channel the sorrow he otherwise feels into fury, into the roiling abyss, shaping him into the weapon that will enact such a purpose. Even if… Even if Fray’s voice sounds like he wants to tell him to stop everything instead.
“Rhyun'a.” Estinien repeats, voice louder and firmer.
“I heard you.”
He's sat upon the edge of Foundation hiding in the Brume, legs over the edge of the literal abyss as he faces the cliff that now cradles the young lord’s body. A spot he commonly finds himself when he does not want his mind to wander elsewhere. Common enough that Estinien knew to find him there. If Fray were where Rhyun’a usually finds him, would he interject twixt he and Estinien?
No, he had been absent when he descended the stairs. There are no knights left to rescue him today.
“You hear, but will you listen to me?”
Rhyun’a sighs. Of all the people to chase him down. “Speak, and then I'll decide.” The attitude earns him an exasperated scoff.
“I've been tasked by the little lordling to convince you to return to the Fortemps manor.” Footsteps approach from behind, armor shifting against armor. Rhyun’a swears that there is no man beneath it at this point. Only duty and revenge. “According to him you've not been back since the funeral, and that you accidentally neglected to take your linkpearl with you.”
“So, that’s where it went.” Rhyun’a gives him a noncommittal shrug, the both of them knowing better.
“Just because he knows you're capable of taking care of yourself does not mean he is not wont to worry over your safety.” The footsteps stop just behind Rhyun’a, and he has no doubt that Estinien is close enough to touch now.
“Come. I'll take you back.”
Rhyun’a turns his head to look over his shoulder. As expected, the Azure Dragoon is dressed as he should be. As Rhyun’a should be, had he not now abandoned his lance fully for a greatsword. To see Estinien still so well kept is infuriating.
To see him so well hidden is heartbreaking.
“I'll go back soon.” Rhyun'a turns back to the distant cliff. He hasn't visited Haurchefant, his feet too heavy to carry him there no matter how badly he wants to go. Too much left undone.
“If I were able to believe that, I would not have come here.” A click of Estinien’s tongue is parroted right back at him as Rhyun’a’s tail flicks in irritation. “Rhyun’a.” He calls out again, much more gentle this time in a way that stings. “Come on, I will walk with you.”
“Would you…” Rhyun’a cuts himself off from asking what he wants. As much as he’s isolated himself in his pain, it’s not what he should be doing. He hears Estinien huffing out a quiet laugh.
“Aye, I’ll even stay with you, if that’s what you wish.” When Rhyun’a finally turns fully around to face the man Estinien has a hand outstretched to him. “Only to be company, mind. I'll not have you drown your sorrows in drink or other vices.” Rhyun's wrinkles his nose at the implication, though it would be unfair to say the idea had not passed through his mind. It's not a burden he'd place on his fellow dragoon, even if he felt such a kinship with the man. Such affection.
He never got the chance to discuss it with Haurchefant, even if their relationship was as open as it was private.
“Why do you care so much? To come this far?” The question is a bit dishonest. What he wants to know is a bit harder to say.
Why do you find me worth the effort?
“Have you anyone else willing to help you piece yourself together once more?” Rhyun’a takes the hand and allows the other man to help him stand up. It's when he can feel the warmth of Estinien's hand even through the armor that he realizes he's been outside dangerously long.
“I will not have you fall on that new sword of yours before you accomplish what you set out to do in Dravania.” Estinien lets his hand go, his gaze turning to the aforementioned blade as it leans against the wall Rhyun'a perched himself on. What must he think of the shift, Rhyun’a has to wonder. “One way or another, with or without Hraesvelgr or the Holy See’s blessing, there will be an end to this war.”
Revenge is a bloody path. Rhyun’a tilts his head, eyes squinting in the slightest of smiles. It stains his hand, just as it stains mine. Be it the blood of dragons, Garleans, or now the men who would become as gods. He just gets another half-laugh from Estinien, the man gesturing with one hand for the two of them to begin walking through the cold streets of Foundation. The company is good, and will only serve to be better when wrapped in the warmth of what has become a second home.
“Come on, I’ll help you undress. After that you’re to lay down and rest, as I’m sure you’ve failed to do.”
“As though you know me.” Rhyun’a sneers, but he still walks over to Estinien to have the man help him with his armor. He’s still getting used to the heavy plating, and an extra pair of hands to take off something that took him half a bell with help to put on is welcome.
“I know grief.” Hands gracefully work the buckles strapping pauldrons into place, Estinien seemingly unbothered by acting the role of manservant for this instance. “It's capable of bringing even the strongest of men to their knees, to make them give up everything. Even you.”
Even Alberic. Rhyun’a leaves the words unsaid. It would only serve to add to Estinien's pain, ripping open an already sloppily mended wound. He watches instead of helping, wanting to be taken care of but unable (unwilling) to put it into words. Let Estinien make all the assumptions he likes about Rhyun’a’s thoughts, he is here for him and that is more than he could hope for.
“I would try to convince you to bathe before retiring, but I fear that you would drown yourself by falling asleep.”
Probably. Rhyun’a tries to keep his eyes open, but now that he's in the warmth and safety of his quarters his body is growing more lethargic. He sways with each small jostle as Estinien continues to remove his armor, this time taking off the breastplate and setting it on top of the chest at the foot of his bed. The backplate follows, set aside similarly.
“Sit on the bed.”
Without question Rhyun’a lets himself be guided to the bed, all but collapsing onto the soft, downy comforter that has kept him warm for a few moons now. Estinien kneels down, grabbing his foot with a small amount of force. He makes quick work of the buckles and laces before he tugs off the boot, just as quickly removing the other one and setting the pair together on the floor away from the bed. Rhyun’a sighs, lazily stretching out limbs sore from wearing his armor like a second skin. He would lay down and pass out right there if Estinien didn't stand back up and begin to undo the laces of his tunic.
The thought of that sends a jolt of adrenaline through Rhyun’a, his heart picking up the pace. He doesn't need Estinien to see the full extent of how little he's been caring for himself.
“I can handle it from here.”
The frown he sees before turning away from Estinien’s hands can only be described as tremendously full of doubt.
“Strip, then.” Estinien crosses his arms out of the corner of Rhyun’a’s vision. “I'm not leaving until you're in bed.”
That's almost worse than the other man stripping him. Rhyun’a chews the inside of his cheek, fangs threatening to do damage the more he gnaws at it. They sit there in silence, Estinien only gracing him with an irritated sigh and the sound of his armor clicking as he shifts on his feet. Rhyun’a could kick him out. The other man, even if it only caused him to snitch him out to Alphinaud, would leave if Rhyun’a truly didn't want him to help. To be there. He brings his hands up to the front laces half-undone and finishes loosening them, fingers trailing down the fabric until Rhyun’a hooks his fingers on the bottom edges of the top.
Sluggishly, almost struggling with sore arms, he pulls it up and over his head. His ears tuck back with the motion and stay pressed against his head as his bare torso is revealed.
He's bruised. Decorated in patches of green and purple hues that merely act as a backdrop in comparison to the angry, bright red closed wounds on his abdomen around to his sides. From blade, tooth, and claw, the Warrior of Light has gained what will become scars in fights where he protected no one else. Not even himself. He hears the click of Estinien’s shoes on the wood floor as he approaches even closer to the bed, he kneels again and reaches out an armor-covered hand. Rhyun’a shivers at cold metal against his bare skin, goosebumps rising as the lightest of touches trails up a slice that went from stomach to the right side of his ribs. The worst and most recent of the wounds he’s taken.
“Did you heal these yourself?”
“No.” Fray had taken care of the wounds he sustained during communion. Though… he knows not all of the wounds were taken from then, hunts and leves fill the time in between. Why, then, does he still remember someone else's hands wiping away the blood from every wound? “Yes. Sometimes?” He shakes the cobwebs from his head, trying to make sense of it.
“Might've taken too many blows to the head if you're having trouble remembering.”
“I still breathe.” He sighs. “And I've had worse.”
“Such as these?” The claws go from the newest scar to his oldest. The series of three star shaped scars that brand his skin a pale white from his gut to the middle of his back. “What sort of wound leaves such a mark?”
“Don’t remember.” Rhyun’a shakes his head. “Gone with many of my other memories.”
“You’ve forgotten?” Estinien's head perks up, the blank front of his helm meeting Rhyun’a's gaze as he turns back to the dragoon. He nods in response. “How much do you remember?”
“I've forgotten everything up until the last five years.” What a time to be telling one of the few people not left over from the past he doesn’t remember. He hasn’t told anyone new since he told Haurchefant. None of the Scions even knew, especially not Alphinaud. He’ll keep it that way for as long as he can, just as he keeps any information about his adoptive family close to his chest. For safety, he thinks, though he starts to doubt it’s for their safety.
“The Calamity?”
Rhyun’a hums a confirmation. The gauntlet on his torso has since grown warm from his own body heat, no longer feeling like ice against his skin and bringing some comfort instead.
“You don’t seem terribly bothered by it.” The touch is taken away now, Estinien standing back up now that he's taken a closer look at the damage.
Thinking of the dark boughs of the Shroud, of a warm home filled with even warmer people inside of it, Rhyun’a shakes his head. “These five years have been very kind to me. Given a new name and taken into a new family, whatever life I had before can chase at my heels all it likes. What I have now is enough.”
“Even now?”
“I…” Rhyun’a stares up at Estinien, startled by the sudden firm tone. Being cared for and brought into the warm room had put him in somewhat of a trance. There’s the sudden snap back to the reality of being broken in the harsh cold of Foundation, grief with its firm hold on him. “It… has to be.” The frown he gets this time seems almost… sad.
“I see.” It’s said rather plainly before Estinien seems quick to move on. “Finish undressing and I'll fetch you a night shirt. Where would you keep something suitable?”
“Armoire’s second drawer…” Rhyun’a half-mumbles, feeling a chill as Estinien walks towards the dresser. Meekly, he looks at the shirt he’d been wearing with a sigh. His hands make quick work of the belt around his waist and the front laces of his trousers.
This is not how I wanted him to see me fully undressed. He keeps those sort of comments to himself, tugging the clothing down his legs with some effort. The pants are quickly folded into a sloppy pile and he tosses them next to the shirt just as Estinien walks back over.
“I assume you can put this on yourself.”
A plain white shirt is presented to Rhyun’a and he sighs. “...If I asked for help, would you?” It’s asked with a smirk and some levity, but truly now that his body is completely free of his gear his limbs are tired. Help would be…
“Hmph.” Estinien lets out an amused huff, shrugging as he steps into Rhyun’a’s bubble again. “Mayhap I should be calling you the ‘little lordling’ instead. Arms up.”
“If you call me little, Alphinaud’s going to wonder what you truly think of his height.” Rhyun’a complies, his tail wagging slightly from the comment, thumping on the duvet under him. His ears press back again as the shirt goes over his head and pop back up once it’s on. Estinien’s face is especially close as he tugs the shirt until he’s satisfied with how it settles on his shoulders.
A pang rings in Rhyun’a’s chest, and his hands raise to hold the dragoon’s cheeks on both sides. Estinien pauses his movements, his attention brought to the touch. With a little effort Rhyun’a holds him in place as he carefully tilts his head to lean in to kiss Estinien’s lips. It’s a simple peck of the lips, but he lingers, hoping he can pour his gratitude into the small gesture. With an incessant need to ruin the moment, Estinien gives him a firm frown as they part, standing back up.
“Rhyun’a.” His name is said as a warning.
“I know, I know. I ask for no more, I just…” Rhyun’a closes his eyes, grimacing. “I just wanted to thank you. For everything.” Hands fall to either side of him, claws gently running over the blankets. “You didn’t have to go this far.”
A moment of silence. “...It’s no trouble.” Estinien steps back, crossing his arms as he looks away. “I will tell the servants to bring you a bath and something to eat in the morning ere I depart.”
Rhyun’a eyes quickly open again, panic flickering like a flame in his chest. “Can you stay until I fall asleep?” He grips the blanket in both hands. “You don’t have to lay down or anything. Just… Maybe sit in the chair by the bed?”
Estinien chuckles. “You are very demanding once you start asking for help.”
“...” That earns Estinien a frown. “I change my mind, get out of here.”
“After such an earnest plea? That I cannot do. Get in bed already, my lord.”
“Arse.” Rhyun’a grumbles, but again he complies. He scoots up towards the pillows, picking up the blankets so he can once again be wrapped in the fluffy heaven that is a highborn’s accommodations. He groans as he sinks into the sheets, almost literally with how heavy his limbs still feel. His eyes slipped closed almost immediately and he can hardly bring himself to pull the duvet blanket up past his waist.
Despite his ribbing, he feels Estinien take hold of the covers and tug them up to his chest, stopping short of tucking him in. The sound of a chair being pulled up to the bedside make his ear twitch against the pillow followed by the noisy clamour that comes with sitting on a wooden chair in drachen armor. Not the kindest lullaby, but it’s firmly… Estinien. Rhyun’a feels the darkness of sleep creep through his tired limbs, ready to pounce and finally claim him. As the fangs of exhaustion sink into his flesh he feels a clawed gauntlet reach out and gently comb through his hair.
“Sleep well. We will have our chance on the morrow.”