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“I suspect my hair will soon be as white as yours.”
Estinien grows to anticipate his lord husband’s irritating quip over their years together. He endures it and the chuckle accompanying it whenever the former Speaker of the House of Lords discovers yet another stark strand brought about by the stress of duty or the passage of days. Unlike most aging lords and ladies, Aymeric points them out gleefully. It is, after all, something they should celebrate. The joy and prospect of growing old together had been a dream long thought out of reach for men like them.
And it should be something to celebrate. Alas, it remains irritating in its truth. For such a day does come to pass all too quickly.
All too soon.
Scuffing the snow from his boots, Estinien opens Borel Manor’s front door to a quiet foyer. There is no cat at his heels to trip over, no son dutifully practicing upon Lady Borel’s cherrywood harpsichord; no scabby-kneed daughter tumbling to embrace him with sticky fingers fresh from their kitchens.
Their children are all grown now, all with their own families, duties, and lives ahead of them. But for a brief time, they had the pleasure of raising future chefs and clerics; dragon-riders, authors, and adventurers. And whilst swaddled within the thick, warm chaos and wonder that parenthood welcomes into their manor, how could he imagine the place ever being so quiet again?
Quiet, but not silent, mercifully. The coals in the fireplace wheeze when he passes, but the faint tinkering from the kitchen sounds as beautiful as a heartbeat. The house is not a stone corpse yet. But with the same tight smile that he entertains his husband’s jokes about white hair, he acknowledges that in time–in that irritating inevitability–that will change.
He looks at their mantle where a delicate blue-ribbon collar with an engraved bell hangs still and silent over a copper urn. A fresh bundle of Nymeia lilies rests in front of it. Time passes. At an almost snow-blindingly fast pace, it passes, and with it, people, things, and creatures.
And yet…it is passing around him.
Their bonding ceremony portrait paints a clear picture of that. Master Alphinaud’s gift to the new lords of Borel Manor stands as undeniable proof that Ishgard’s sour-faced former protector is indeed capable of smiling —even when standing for bells stuffed into a stiff white suit. Estinien remembers the feel of the fabric of the veil covering the bonded couple just by looking at the masterful way House Leveilluer’s scion had artfully spun oil paints into sheer lace. Almost as clearly as he can feel the Aymeric that is enshrined in this moment: his dark hair and rich blue suit accentuating the clear-skied eyes on the precipice of tears the entire day.
The happy couple in this portrait has not moved since being interred over their fireplace for some thirty-and-seven summers.
Estinien looks as though he had posed for it yesterday.
And save for a few new scars, he looks the same as when he met Aymeric at the altar as he did when they walked their daughter to it; the same as when they brought her home from Saint Reinette’s, as when he watched her proudly don dragoon armor and take to the skies atop her bonded wyvern as their original order intended. He looks the same as today as he did yesterday, and just as he will tomorrow: the same as he did when he foolishly took both of those accursed eyes into his hands, and Nidhogg into his soul.
A lingering consequence of the nigh-immortal wyrm’s influence over its mortal host’s flesh, most likely. It is the best answer Sharlayan’s premiere scholars in aether can offer, though in far more erudite terms. He had invited a horde of Thavnarian alchemists to poke him with more needles than a pissed cactuar only to yield regretfully similar findings. By then, even his Lord Husband’s reassuring kisses about just coming from strong, handsome stock had to admit defeat.
Not that most of them acknowledged it with remorse. Glee, instead–like Aymeric finding stark strands sprouting from his head—over this supposed gift of extended life. Only Vrtra breaches the subject with any sense of solemnity. The kindred heartache of witnessing the lives and loves he knows come and go is an all too familiar struggle and one that all life, especially those who are longer-lived, must learn to accept.
Learn to anchor yourself to the moment, had been the great wyrm’s advice. Hold them, but accept them as a treasure that you cannot stop from slipping between your claws.
His fingers dig into the shoulder strap of his bag when the door to the kitchen swings open. A fur-trimmed alpine housecoat billows out carrying an impossibly stacked tray of teacups and patisserie cakes. And somehow under the frills, porcelain, and tiny doilies, Aymeric greets his husband with that broad, youthful smile that remains unchanging from their Temple Knight days—even if it now crinkles his blue eyes under a pair of thin gold spectacles.
And when he meets him with Welcome home, my love. How was the journey back? the dragoon can only stare at him.
More and more since becoming acutely aware of his condition, Estinien questions where he stands in time. Is it now…or is it a cherished memory quietly slipping through his claws? Once, their Warrior of Light had confessed to a terrifyingly similar condition of experiencing long stretches of time from their varied journeys, and walking them as if they were happening at present.
Is this a now too late..? Had his errand been all for naught?
Aymeric sits on their sofa with one hand delicately paused over the tray of treats. He stops setting out cups for their tea, every beautiful line on his face worrying. “Is everything alright…?”
What do you do? Estinien had asked their vaunted champion, Savior of Ishgard and their star. When the lives and memories start to blur, what do you do?
A free, almost drunken-spirited laugh answered his query. Indulge it. What else?
“Estinien…?”
He finally answers by leaning over the sofa and pulling his husband into a slow kiss. Aymeric meets his lips with a confused…but not un-pleased noise, even as Estinien pursues him into deepening it. It’s fierce enough that the wiry bridge of his golden frames bumps between their noses, and strong enough that the dragoon is already half-hoisted over the back of the couch. Aymeric’s arm is soon forced to abandon their confections to steady his impending tumble. And wonderfully lost in this moment or memory, Estinien forgets the fragile contents in his bag and lets the rest of his body fumble over the cushions like a squire climbing into the cot of their first lay.
The old chestnut groans underneath him as he fits himself around Aymeric, mouth hungry and devoted to him with an appetite to rival Hresvelgar’s. And perhaps he would’ve been tempted to take him and swallow him whole had not Aymeric pulled back to breathe. His damned white hair is all mussed while he cups Estinien’s face in his palms. He looks up at him through half-lidded lashes yet still clinging to their dark hue. “So…I take it the journey was good?”
“Aye…” says Estinien, smoothing a wrinkle at the center of Aymeric’s brow with another kiss. “Happy to be home.”
Though his long winding wandering days are long behind, the words never fail to bring a smile to his husband’s face. “Happy to have you home.”
“Mmhm...happy to have you.”
Estinien pinches the highest button of his husband’s high collar blouse loose and promptly flushes the skin underneath with kisses. He trails along the underside of his jaw and pushes the second button free just in time to be rewarded by a shrill gasp from the kitchen. Aymeric startles under him as though the wail had come from one of their own children.
“Estinien...the kettle…”
“It can wait.”
But despite his insistence, he knows he has lost this battle from the moment Aymeric sits up. “Nay. Your hands are like ice, love…” his husband says, giving each a little squeeze. “Let us see to it that you are properly warmed from the trek.”
He stands and is through the kitchen doors again before Estinien can protest with anything other than a compliant grunt. Not that anything could be said to dissuade his lord husband once his mind is set upon something, be it tea or new budgets and bills. Though no longer its Lord Commander or Speaker, he still contributes to the House of Lords and swears to serve Ishgard in any capacity as long as he is able.
And in this fool’s fleeting moment, he is. Still strong despite battling a couple of constant aches brought about by the impetuous wounds of youth. He feels the cold more easily, and his reading glasses have become a more permanent fixture, once the years of long hours by low candlelight finally caught up. And in bed, he remains affectionate, though hesitant and more reserved by an ever-muted conscientiousness of the frustrations that an aging body brings to intimacy.
Which makes itself known even now. When Aymeric returns with the piping tea kettle and begins to pour into their respective cups, both blouse buttons are pressed back into their proper place.
“So, your business at Anyx Trine went well then?” is what he asks while gilding his portion with an unholy amount of birch syrup. Even if the rest of him has matured, he still maintains the sweet tooth of a sweet boy of seven summers.
Estinien snatches one of the petit fours from the tray and pops its entirety in his mouth. “Aye. Fair enough,” he says around the bite, though shows enough grace to swallow before continuing. “Vidofnir sends her regards— and a reminder that her offer still stands. Should you ever wish to visit you need only ask. Both she and her brood brother are more than happy to accommodate by ferrying you there personally.”
Aymeric smiles. “That is kind of them, but I would never wish to impose.”
“...And she knew you would say that, so she impressed upon me to insist that it would be no trouble: that you are ever a delight to have as a ride.”
He nudges the former Lord Commander’s foot with his own. “Though...such a truth I was already well and fully privy to.”
His buttoned-up husband's ears turn scarlet under the bawdy encouragement, and he nearly drops his stirring spoon. “Such a cruel jest…” he mutters, though the lips he lifts his cup to curl in such a way that betrays his dismissal.
“‘Tis neither I assure.”
And in truth, it isn’t. Innuendos aside, not a soul who had gathered outside the basilica on the day the concordance with the Dravanians had been struck would ever forget the sight. The confidence, the strength—the trust—he exuded perched upon Vedrfolnir’s back as they ascended to the skies together. The New Azure Dragoon they had hailed, and for once, the greater population finally saw him as Estinien always had: the hope of their fair city. He would take the to skies on dragon back in both battle and ceremony many more times throughout the years, and never did it not inspire.
But neither did the sight of him straddled around Estinien’s hips. His pale back pulled like a birch recurve certainly never failed to inspire the dragoon’s less-than-gentle fingers. Kneading him and needing him to the point they could push him past the need for clever phrases or sounds. Moments, where the former Lord Speaker is at a loss for words are rare, but the former Azure Dragoon is delightfully the cause of most of them.
Even if it has been some time. The very resource one of them does not have.
Though Aymeric seems blissfully unaware whilst happily sipping tea beside his old but not aged companion. “Well, ‘tis a relief to know that japes at your poor husband’s expense were not the intended purpose of your visit.”
Estinien frowns at the front pocket of his shoulder bag. “Nay, it was not. She showed me the new clutch of wyrmlings eager to begin bonding and training with riders. Many wish to travel to their brethren assisting the Radiant Host. The ways of the true dragoon have become quite popular, I am told.”
“No surprise, given they had the finest instructor at their disposal.”
It’s his turn for his ears to pinken, even if he vocally refuses the compliment. “Bah…Vrtra deserves the griffin’s share of the credit. They look up to their leader —the same way Ishgard still looks to you.”
His husband chuckles at that. “I have not been its leader for some time…and should not have been for far longer.”
“But they still need you.”
And while Aymeric shakes his head in his usual cordial display of self-deprecation, Estinien skirts around divulging it’s not just the city that does.
“But other than that, we discussed defensive measures to secure the hinterlands from the Alag abominations that have started to encroach upon the dragons’ hunting grounds,” he swallows. “And we spoke on the future…and possible solutions to…other things.”
“Other things?”
Fury, never mind. He’s goddamn terrible at talking around things. It’s why he prefers a direct approach and why he relents and lets his fingers go to his pack. Best just to get it over with, he supposes, and fishes out a small leather-wrapped parcel. He holds it towards Aymeric, who takes it as Estinien watches him unwrap it, keenly and carefully.
And when he pulls out the small vial stoppered with thick dark liquid, Aymeric’s eyes widen nearly large enough to fill the lenses set in his golden frames. “This is…”
“...a possible solution,” he interjects.
And Merciful Fury Estinien prays he understands.
It only takes a heartbeat for that furrowing pinch in his lover’s brow to make itself known that he understands not only what but why . “Dragon’s blood…” he identifies with a soft, somber reverence. “So, this was the true purpose of your journey...”
Estinien reaches for his neglected cup and takes a long, guilty sip. The heat doesn’t even have the courtesy to sting his tongue anymore and has not for some time. Another of Nidhogg’s gifts .
“Vidofnir gave it freely when I explained–and she has no reason to believe it would not work. They live longer lives than the races of men, after all.” He cheats a glance at Aymeric through an unbound slant of hair. “Taking it…would surely extend your own.”
The line in his husband’s brow deepens while he studies the vial in his palm. “But I would be changed…”
“It would still be you ,” Estinien defends quickly—and mayhaps too quickly sets his tea down to place a hand on Aymeric’s knee. “A different body, aye, but the same heart and mind!”
“Estinien…”
“And while it may not gift us eternity, we would have longer. A few centuries at least. You could see our children—our grandchildren and their children grow and inherit the spring you have toiled so long for Ishgard to have!”
He finishes with his throat burning and sticky--and with just a smidge more respect for those who manage to present their case before the houses of parliament without their tongues cleaving against the rooves of their mouths. Especially knowing they don’t get the firm but gentle squeeze of the Lord Speaker’s hand upon their own at the end of it.
Aymeric’s face mirrors the same feeling: firm, gentle, and a little bit sad. And long perfected over the years from parliament and parenting, Estinien knows well the face of a diplomat who cannot give the answer the other wants to hear.
“And then?” he says, each word slow and measured as the birch syrup he sweetens a bitter tea with, “...when those centuries inevitably come to pass—along with our friends, children, and grandchildren…will you be ready to let me go, then?”
A cold truth buffets him. In accepting this change, Aymeric would be sharing in his burden: an equal witness to the inevitable loss of their friends and family...and only for a time. Even dragons eventually sleep. And in the face of these unconsidered consequences, Estinien stares down at his own suspended in time and black tea. “Forgive me.”
Another squeeze brings a deep ache into his bones. “There is naught to forgive, love. ”
“Then Nidhogg needs to beg of mine!” he snaps, first down at the unchanging reflection and then up toward his aging partner. “For his… curse –and do not call it anything else!”
There are men, they tell him, that piss their whole lives away seeking longevity. Oh, how blessed he is…but then they did not roil within the wyrm’s weary soul. This is no blessing: Know me— he had demanded in damning him —become me!
His outburst at least does not shake the gentleness from Aymeric’s face, who remains as still and calm as the stone saints in the Hoplon. Estinien knows they’ll carve that very expression into one someday too, but only one of them will be able to witness it.
He hangs his head and runs his fingers through the thick of his hair. “It’s happening again, Aymeric. He’s taking everything from me again. Though this time the flames are slower and further in the distance, I know their taste. I know exactly what they will bring. And despite everything I have trained and learned, I am still condemned to just watch…”
He sneers down at the long angry scar engulfing his forearm. “How fitting that in the end, I am frozen in time from whence I started: an angry little shepherd boy powerless to stop it from happening again.”
“Nonsense...”
His husband shifts an ilm closer. “Curse or no, I know of no stronger heart. Though I lament the heavy burdens it has been forced to carry from such a tender age, this star is a better place while it still beats. And I have seen men frozen in time, their cold hearts stuck in their frigid ways, whereas yours has only continued to blossom and grow. It has made you a true friend…a devoted partner…a caring father. It is the seed of spring Isghard will inherit.”
He turns Estinien’s hand so the palm faces up and slides his fingers against his, stopping when they rest atop his wrist. His thumb circles the quiet pulse fluttering beneath the skin. “And what a blessing it is to know that others beyond this time will come to know it—come to love and cherish it—as I do.”
“Don’t…” Estinien begs, balling their hands into a fist so tight their marriage bands threaten to fuse like chainlink mail. He knows exactly what he’s alluding to as he shakes his head into the curve of Aymeric’s shoulder. He won’t hear it. “Please…”
Knowing Nidhogg’s gift is intended to impart his millennia of loneliness unto his former host is maddening enough without his husband already handing him over to another while he yet breathes. If Aymeric were so replaceable, he himself wouldn’t have had to introduce a bill citing term limits for House Speakers to secure his own retirement. Had it been left to the city’s lords, he would still be gristle locked in the jaws of duty until the day he passed. Fury forbid he actually die at his desk as he so often cruelly jested.
A comforting nuzzle burrows through his fuming and into the top of Estinien’s head. “Alright…but know that you be allowed to give your heart to any worthy of it.”
Estinien snorts at that. “You shall not find me so generous, ser,” he grumbles, lacing their fingers together even tighter. “Piss on the old Ishgardian custom of relinquishing their spouse to love any who walks in Halone’s Halls. I tell you now that the Fury Herself could proposition you and I would forbid it.”
His whole body shakes under the warmth of Aymeric’s laugh. Modest as the man may be, he can’t politely wave away the rosiness that blooms across his cheeks. Not that he should. Even at his age, there is no shame in wanting to be desired. “I would not dream of it,” he promises. “I have waited for you before. What are a few eons more?”
The dragoon cinches his eyes tight, breathing in the homey must of the old alpine coat. His years of wandering and travel had of course been fruitful. He would not be the man Aymeric deserved had it not been for his time amongst the Seventh Dawn and the Radiant Host. The experiences should not be something that inspires remorse—and yet, when the time inevitably does come, will he regret not tithing him that extra year? To share another moon—another day with him?
As if privy to his thoughts, Aymeric’s chest suddenly rises under him with weighty breath. “And not to inspire false hope, but I do agree I should give consideration to your… solution .”
The dragoon lifts his head. Within his unbound hand, Aymeric holds the small stoppered vial adjacent to his cooling tea. Between his thumb, he tilts the blood from side to side as if testing the viscosity of his beloved birch syrup. “After all, change suits Ishgard,” her Former Lord Commander supposes with a faint ink stain of a smile “...mayhaps it would look good on me as well. At the very least, I daresay it would be an improvement.”
Estinien frowns. “Your meaning…?”
“Meaning I would be a hypocrite to suggest I have somehow made peace with mortality and its limits,” he quietly admits as his fingers fold over the vial of dragon blood. “...meaning with each moon that passes, I see him more and more. Out of the corner of mine eye…etched in mine own reflection.”
Estinien recoils back in disgust at the mere suggestion—as though the insult had been hurled at him! For Aymeric to even insinuate he is anything like his father—like Thordon —
“I don’t.”
He unbinds their hands and snatches Aymeric’s face towards him so quickly, his spectacles slip to the tip of his nose. “I see only you. Make no mistake, no matter how you look, I will only see you.”
Carefully, he removes Aymeric’s glasses and sets them upon the tiered tray of delicate, uneaten sweets. He unfurls the vial from under his fingers and sets it aside to be considered another time. Unimpeded, he presses his forehead against Aymeric’s, admiring every furrow, spot, and wrinkle that anchors them to this time and moment and rubs a palm over a knee that aches a little more in winter now.
“Whether you are young or wizened, flush with thick dark hair or a thinning pale. Whether you be skin or scaled, know that I will only see you. Know that I will love you...”
He trails his hand along the inside of Aymeric’s thigh.
“...and that I will still want you,” he adds, grinning at the low, pleased noise he squeezes out of him. “Just as fiercely as I wanted you on our bonding day.”
And just like the day he hefted his new husband’s thighs around his waist, Estinien pulls him onto his lap with a subtle roll of his hips.
“See?” he says, watching Aymeric’s mouth fall open in the shape of the Fury’s name. A bit of the frigidness in his limbs thaws as he leans into the movement–into the not-so-subtle tell that he is indeed desired as is. Both in this moment and any others. As he is and always will be. Steadying him, Estinien toys with the strings securing his husband’s trousers loose. No more slinking off to bashfully rebutton here.
Aymeric properly relents with a sheepish chuckle. “...My hair is getting rather thin, isn’t it?”
“I hadn’t noticed,” Estinien says while peeling the band of his small clothes down to where the hair is still thatched and coarse, nearly as white as Estinien’s own. He brushes against it, and then takes Aymeric’s soft cock into his hand with a slow, strong stroke.
His thighs squeeze around Estinien’s hips. Ever a delight as a ride, even as he bows his head and swallows down a frustrated moan.
“Sorry…” he breathes, deepening that furrowed crease between his eyes. “Pray…give me a moment…”
“Take your time…” Estinien whispers against the slant of his husband’s ear. He keeps that word and the worries it inspires between his teeth as if hoping that holding onto it could stop its inevitability. But he swears it—promises it as if it is a bonding day vow. From this moment to their last:
We have time.