subsidence | if i was a bell, which i'm surely not--what a ridiculous thought--

I told Him all the things I would be ashamed to tell you. Leave me to the shreds of my pride, if you would.

when i returned here, my endeavor was to refrain from leaving you to mere shreds of anything.

Looking to fill me back up, are you? This ewer of yours had best be prepared for an eternity of pouring.

[To be granted a remark like that is, at once, an undeniable relief--and a greater strain, a tauter tension.]

i won't let porcelain outpace me.

[...

If a written message can be tentative, then this one will be:]

You were being serious, then.

and why wouldn't i be serious? where you have been made to contend with grief i must contend with the weight and the breadth of the time i did surrender
this i can accept
time is a material as i've said
whether the choice to use it was noble or foul, i did use it

but now i am also held to wrestle with the knowledge that it has been granted unto someone else

[Insanity.

There is no other word for it. For this blatant display of...

It's insanity.]

You are indeed envious toward the porcelain statuette of Saint Estinien of Ferndale that I keep on my bedside table. Do I have the right of it?

[So why, pray tell, is Aymeric smiling about it?]

[There comes a point where a man cannot be expected to relinquish his pride to the role of low-hanging fruit. There comes a point where the branch must snap.]

for someone rubbed so raw by perceived mockery you indulge in plenty of it yourself.

yet it's entirely your own concoction.
my envy of that thing is only as great as your favoritism toward it.

You will have to forgive me for having a spot of fun at your expense... I'd nearly forgotten what it was like to live alongside you, with your gracelessness, your astuteness, your tender sensibilities. I'd nearly forgotten the whole and the parts of you in an effort to protect myself from the horrors of being left without you.

Estinien, I missed you so dearly.

Edited 2020-05-29 00:14 (UTC)

i'm sure you are quite tired of missing me. well you needn't now. there is plenty i want to make you feel. not that you miss me or that you deserve the same as what you believed became of me. plenty else.

Heed my words: Whether you take an ilm of me, or a malm, or the distance from here to the highest heavens, I shall hunt you to the ends of this godsforsaken star should you choose to leave me again.

Have I made myself clear?

now i will feel poorly if you don't.

i've asked your gods-fearing men and women when to expect you these days and they all counsel me not to. apparently tis just hard to know for this reason or that reason. so i will ask you directly

when am i to expect you home, aymeric?

There is a part of me that wants and wishes to know for how long you would be willing to wait.

Edited 2020-05-29 02:47 (UTC)

you had 3 years of prayer and my old clothes besides. i had my hand.
if you think i've not been patient as a saint already why don't you give it another thought.

You scoundrel. How am I to get any work done when you are busy running that mouth of yours?

[But that doesn't answer the question posed. Am I stalling? he has to ask himself, and then he realizes just how fretfully his toes are curling up inside his boots. Unbelievable...]

Oh, by the tenth bell. No later than that.

[It occurs to Estinien all at once that Aymeric will hold him tonight. The time between now and the tenth bell, then, is more of a gift than Estinien will voice. It wouldn't do to have Aymeric walk right in and see Estinien's chin trembling.

Better to give himself fully to the heat of this, then.]

this is hardly what i would call running it. you've grown unaccustomed to such remarks. that's a shame as you warrant much more from a scoundrel's mouth.

And here I was beginning to wonder if you had learned a lesson in humility!

[Estinien on eggshells--it was strange, and uncomfortable, and Aymeric didn't enjoy a whit of it. Better the devil you know, he supposes...]

the idea of teaching me any lesson is an appealing one isn't it
i can tell

I should have taught you the proper respect a long, long time ago.

i hold great respect for my Lord Commander. tis for this reason that i give you the pleasure of meeting with a running mouth rather than a meek one.

there is much and more that i have missed giving you.
and the pauses between them
well they have always been broad.

[...]

By the eighth bell, I should think. Provided of course that I wholly devote myself to my work from this moment forward.

the eighth? o blessed is the man who receives of the Lord Commander's diligence and devotion.

[By the Fury...]

The seventh bell would require a true coup of efficiency on my part. I would have to know if someone is going to make it worth my while, or not.

tis good that you know then. just as it is good that i know now when precisely to expect you. seventh bell it is.

[Presumptuous bastard.

On the first step of the grand staircase, Aymeric's courage finally gives out from under him. The Lord Commander is nothing if not a man with nerves of black steel, yet here he is, his hand upon the banister, frozen solid, unable to take another step. He looks down at his hand and he can see just how it trembles. (Far, far too much.) He closes his eyes, then, and he exhales, and he slowly withdraws from the stairs. This isn't what he would call a retreat. A detour, more like. The halls of the manor are rather quiet, with Estinien somewhere up above, with his servants already sent home... Never before has the quiet unnerved him so. All the more reason for this detour, this anything-but-a-retreat, which takes him from the foyer to the drawing room at the rear of the manor. He's surprised, but still thankful, to find the fireplace alight and the atmosphere one of warmth and persistent good cheer. He must remember to thank his faithful manservant for keeping the lord's evening routines in mind. In here stands a tall cabinet of the finest mahogany, with the finest bottles of liquor, each and every one a perfectly good reason to have taken this detour. A glass or two of the good stuff should liven and lighten his steps, he thinks.

He is halfway across the room when he notices his guest.

Three years ago, on one fateful day, the great wyrm Hraesvelgr descended upon Ishgard with grim tidings clutched betwixt his claws. To Aymeric de Borel, the child of man, he presented the helmet of a dragoon: its faceplate was cracked, the back of it torn out and open, blood since dried but still gathered throughout every crevice of it. Aymeric may have been unfamiliar with this helmet, but he knew in an instant to whom it belonged, and Hraesvelgr explained its origins to him regardless. This helmet, once bequeathed to the Azure Dragoon, as a gift, a message of hope, now sat in a broken heap in Aymeric's hands. He could no longer pretend that Estinien's extended absence from the city was little more than the vagaries of an irresponsible vagrant. In between the numb shock and the unrelenting grief, Aymeric felt a certain something that he would later abhor for its foolishness:

The regret, and the sorrow, for how he would never have a chance to see Estinien adorned in this gorgeous regalia.

Until now, it seems.]

...Estinien?

[Aymeric is convinced that he's irredeemable as soon as the man's name leaves his mouth. No one else would be sitting there on the heirloom settee in a resplendent suit of plate armor. The heavensward hues of it, too, shining in the firelight, could only belong to this man. As might be expected of ancient forges, the armor has a completely different look to it than the drachen armor of the present day--but there's no mistaking the panache of a dragoon. Only the helmet doesn't quite couple with the rest of the armor, being a replacement, obviously. Even so, it's no less beautiful for its craftsmanship with slender horns and a crenulated beak down along the sides.

Once again, Aymeric finds himself unable to take another step forward.]

I... [His voice doesn't wish to cooperate with him, either.] You are... [What in the world? He laughs out loud, and it's a fluttery thing, small, uncertain, utterly unpracticed. This is a man who doesn't know what in the hells is going on.] You are a sight, [he says, before covering his mouth with his hand.] Gods, Estinien...

Edited 2020-05-30 08:28 (UTC)

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