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The passage of time becomes a fuzzy thing the longer one stays in the same place. Even as the chirurgeons come and go periodically to take vitals, Aymeric makes no effort to count their rounds. His eyes do not leave Estinien’s unconscious form for long, for fear of missing the moment his eyes open.
However long it takes, he tells himself. Anything less would add further pain to the shame that has haunted him since the relief’s unveiling at Falcon’s Nest.
Since that horrible snap decision to shoot him down.
Aymeric cannot bring himself to say it aloud, but in the deepest part of his heart he thanks Nidhogg for stopping the arrow he loosed, the mercy that it didn’t find its mark. His guilt begins to build in layers.
First you try to shoot down a man who means the whole of this star to you, and now you give thanks to the dragon who precipitated it. You were so sure then. Which is it? Where is the Lord Speaker’s famous resolve now? What of your conviction, Borel?
Aymeric takes a deep breath and brings a closed hand to his mouth, gaze remaining on Estinien as he reflects.
He knows Estinien. The Warrior of Light told him herself that Estinien implored her and Alphinaud to put him down before they extricated the eyes from his arms. To shoot him from Vidofnir’s back, lay Nidhogg low and keep him from furthering the chaos would have been Estinien’s wish, wouldn’t it? It’s what he would have wanted.
Would that Estinien had asked the same of you in the moment. Does Estinien even know? Does he know he lies unconscious with a man who tried to kill him with no hesitation?
Aymeric realizes, with a choked noise, that he is not only questioning his faith in himself, but his faith in Estinien and Estinien’s in him, and that feels worse than anything else. The contemplation of such disrespect, of the wavering of their trust rocks him to his core, as unsteady earth would shake his bones.
He grits his teeth gently, his hand tightening into a fist as he shakes his head. Surely he could manage to spend this time in actual reflection, not self-flagellation. Maybe one day Estinien would think him silly in falling to such anguish here, and laugh like he did when they’d get drinks when they were younger.
His miserable vigil continues; there is no other choice. Until Estinien rouses and he can ask for forgiveness, all Aymeric can do is sit and wait.
A stiff breeze moves through Ishgard tonight, ruffling the hair and clothes of two drunken soldiers trying simultaneously to walk each other back to the Congregation barracks.
“‘m perfectly fine, ‘Meric. I c’n handle myself,” comes the slurred mumble from Estinien, leaning into Aymeric but with an arm slung around him as if he’s trying to support him.
“No, no, my friend,” Aymeric chuckles, a little more openly than he might normally. He can tell Estinien is far more drunk, but it’s impossible to ignore the slight swerve of his head with each step the pair take. “I insist. ‘won’t answer for Alberic finding you snoring two blocks from the barracks in the morning. Besides, I couldn’t stand the thought of it myself.”
“‘N why’s that.” “You’re my best friend.” “Huh.”
Left foot, right foot. Though tonight had been intended to be a celebration of his own promotion to captain, Aymeric was glad not to have had so many drinks as Estinien. What a way to repay their superiors’ recognition it would have been, to get falling-down drunk at the tavern and show up to block tomorrow with the same hangover the dragoon surely will face come the morn.
Estinien’s voice descends to low, gravelly mumbling, and in spite of their years together even Aymeric struggles to decipher his thick Highland accent. He glances down, and with the still-pleasant-enough buzz of alcohol in his system does he allow his attention to wander. His gaze meanders, from the snowflake-pale eyelashes fluttering on his friend’s cheek, to the wind-chapped lips closing and parting with rambling nigh unto unparsable, and he spares himself a smile.
Yes, Estinien Varlineau is beautiful. But no, not now, not here. Estinien is far too drunk, and Aymeric far too honorable. His grip on Estinien’s haubergeon tightens, only to be met by a heavy sagging feeling.
Oh. Oh, no. Estinien is starting to go down.
“Oh no you don’t, Varlineau,” he grumbles, trying to pull at him. If Estinien takes Aymeric down with him– no. Aymeric will not suffer the misery of being pinned under Estinien’s warm, firm body, nor will he suffer their peers’ sniggering at his friend tomorrow. He turns and sweeps his free arm behind Estinien’s knees, and with a startled noise the dragoon is awoken anew.
“What’n the Fury–” “Shh, Estinien. You were about to pass out and we’re not even to Saint Valeroyant. Let me do this much, at least.”
He has the good grace to set Estinien down just outside the Congregation’s doors, that his friend might walk past their comrades on his own two feet and preserve his dignity. In their bunk Aymeric patiently endures the process of getting Estinien out of his armor, and despite everything he cannot help the chuckle at how limblessly Estinien flops face-first onto his bed as would a ragdoll.
“Swive off…” Estinien tries to growl, but it lacks any aggression. “Thank you, ‘Meric.” He rolls onto his back, and is out like a light, a groan quickly turning to a snore.
Aymeric chuckles again, fetching a glass of water to leave on the nightstand for the morning, and pauses, taking in his friend’s face once more.
It is a selfish whim that leads Aymeric to lean lower, as he sets the glass down, and presses a chaste kiss to Estinien’s crown.
Let me do this much, at least.
He hastily withdraws, neatly shucking his armor and crawling into his bunk, turning onto his side, with his back to one open, steely gray-blue eye.
Let me do this much.
“Ser Aymeric?” He’s awoken by a knock to the door, Alphinaud Leveilleur on the other side. He starts, sighing unhappily when he realizes he fell asleep in his chair. Estinien’s state remains unchanged, though, and he sees he has not missed anything.
“Lord Commander, please don’t exhaust yourself. There are others who would take vigil if you are tired.”
A possessive urge to send Alphinaud away arises in him, perhaps the remnants of his earlier reverie of self-loathing, but he takes a breath, glancing at the window. It is morning again; he really did nod off. Just terrible, really.
He glances back, before folding his hands, his elbows resting in his lap. “Give me but a moment, Master Alphinaud. If you intend to relieve me, I should like to pray before I take my brief respite.”
Alphinaud sighs, nodding. “I’ll be here in the hall when you’re ready to trade. You need rest too, you know.”
“Speak for yourself, ser,” Aymeric chuckles as the door closes. He turns back to Estinien’s unconscious form, bowing his head and lifting his hands to meet it.
Blessed Halone. I always ask so much of you, but ever do I ask on behalf of the people of Ishgard and never of myself. I remain assured of the path that lay ahead of me, but I need Estinien if I am to follow it to the fullest.
I need him, Fury. In a world that ungently changes before our very eyes, let me have this much, at least.
At last, Aymeric begins to stand, pausing. He leans up to press a kiss to Estinien’s forehead, and after a moment of panicked waiting in case he does wake up, he takes a breath and goes to find Alphinaud in the hall.