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

[subsidence]

they don't say much to me here as they seem afraid to do so
but they do say that you're not often home these days

a very busy man, they tell me
always hard at work
but they tell me little else

hard at work as you are, have you any time?

Comments

[subsidence]

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

[embankment]

[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...

[subsidence]

[He was goaded into it, you see. Estinien was goaded into the armor he wears now by the little bastard on Aymeric's bedside table.

Saint Estinien wears the drachen helm--of course he does. The lance in his hand is the appropriate size. He's a son of Ferndale. And that's that. The similarities end there. At first, Estinien told himself he'd no right to be offended by it. He'd no right to take offense to anything that Aymeric might say or do--or that he might not say, or that he might not do--for it was Estinien who had committed the greatest offense of all: coming back alive. He understood this. He had transgressed against Aymeric by being a man, a thing of the world, all that hot flesh and blood, rather than that pristine idea who had heeled to Halone and faithfully dwelt within the heavens. Faithfully. Faithfully! Estinien had no right to be offended by how faithful Aymeric had come to pledge himself in love and service to featureless porcelain and its impractical mantle...

Idiot.

Estinien had not understood at all. He does now. His slight against Aymeric was not to be comprised of flesh, but to be comprised of it and then to withhold it. They should have lain with each other already. Right away. Estinien thought he had become a better man for how he restrained himself from lifting Aymeric off his perch and taking him to bed. To wait for him. Instead they're both worse for it. Well, he can rectify that now. But even before that, he must allow himself to take the first offense he did deny himself: that pristine Estinien, brought to heel, is not him. More of a cloak than a man. A name in a shroud, with a pointy stick. It offends him. He looked upon its figure and then dressed himself. He wore what he has not felt fit to wear in some years.

(As a boy, he found Alberic's cast-off drachen armor. It wasn't free of dust. It had not been maintained. But it was kept, and Estinien asked Alberic why. If he had set it aside, if he had left it to the mold of a crawl space in their cabin, why bother keeping it at all?

Alberic set his hand upon Estinien's head for a moment so long that his palm was heavier than Estinien had ever felt it. Then he pushed Estinien along to go fetch the hatchet for cutting wood. "Some things a man hangs onto!" he said, and sent Estinien off into the woodlot.)

He wears it now.

Little is bare but Estinien's mouth. Aymeric will regardless know that Estinien's eyes lie upon him. Estinien says, "Here I am." He says it not with his tongue, but with only the view of his bare mouth.

The fire eats at the wood in the hearth. Estinien himself is quiet enough that the leather at his waist whispers for him when he stands. He's taller than he has been since he was young. He's taller than the Saint from Ferndale that looms over the Last Vigil. And he is every splendid edge that a dragoon should be, from his head to his very heel. He takes a first step, and he is quiet, but the spur at his heel sounds like a call from a cathedral for how clearly it rings. His boots call out again and then again, before he's come to the narrow table at the side of the study. The table has already been set: two wide, deep wine glasses, and a short, stout bottle of darkest glass. Black glass, truly, with a label that was surely white when it was younger. Estinien lifts it by its neck, then braces the bottom of the bottle against the palm of his other hand.]

Welcome home, [he says. He's looking over the label. Surely he must have done so when selecting it from the cabinet when he did, but even so, he reads it now.] 1547. I hear it's a source of great envy to see a man with a bottle from this year. [This is from Wineport itself, no doubt, and there is little finer in Aymeric's cabinet. Little more costly, as well. It must be a wealth in several swallows. Estinien considers the bottle for a moment longer, then dashes his forefinger against the cork without preamble. The claw of his gauntlet sticks fast.

At last Estinien looks upon Aymeric again. It's still only his mouth that's bare, but his eyes must be a wealthy swallow too, hidden though they are. He's guiding his wrist back and forth, loosening the cork with his claw plunged into it.] You've come just in time. Faithful as ever...

[The lip of the bottle sings one glassy note when the cork pops free. Estinien brings his finger to his mouth, to take the cork from his claw with his teeth. With both hands free, he can turn back to the table and pour the wine. It's old, and strong, and fragrant. He pours for the both of them.

The glasses are fuller than they would otherwise be if Aymeric were to sit in polite company this evening.

Every movement of Estinien's has a curious weight behind it--the steps he took, his cradling of the bottle, the pouring of the wine, and now the way he sets the bottle back onto the table. It's more than confidence, more even than deliberation. He carries himself like a man conscious of his own great strength. There is the ability to wreak havoc and the ability to refrain from it.

He takes the cork away from his mouth with his forefinger and his thumb, and sets it upright upon the table. One edge of it does gleam.] It's been a long day, [he says. He holds one arm away from his side, just enough that he might display his open palm and all the space before him. All the space between him and Aymeric.]

I want to share a drink with you.

[embankment]

[Aymeric doesn't drop his hand away from his mouth until he feels a smile take shape. He'll never understand the audacity of this man--the courage, the brazenness. The recklessness, too. It's something the Saint couldn't have captured with his stoic, majestic atmosphere and his unmoving hands and feet. Estinien, formed of hot flesh and blood, decided to don this armor with all the intention of going into battle with it. He decided to purloin for the war effort the rarest and most expensive bottle of wine that Aymeric has in his cabinet. A source of great envy, is that how it is? That must be a crude understatement. There are collectors the world over who would trade in their very lifeblood for a single glass of this glorious undertaking. Saint Estinien of Ferndale wouldn't dare to pour a drop of it without express permission to do so and the special occasion to pair with it. Now, to be fair, this could be considered the most special of special occasions. Estinien's miraculous resurrection doesn't just happen every other day...

Estinien can claim he's responsible for his own return all he likes. Until both feet are mired in the grave, Aymeric will believe it was divine providence that saw to his survival and then to guiding him safely back home. Nothing else can explain the latitude of these blessings.]

I was expecting to find you above and abed for the evening, I'll have you know. Not skulking about the drawing room as though you're preparing for a literal ambush. [But his good humor is more than evident in the unfolding caramel texture of his voice. And, as if right on cue, the grandfather clock out in the hallway chimes merrily with the eight bells of the hour, just as he promised. Aymeric tilts his head down in acknowledgement, mayhap in prayer, before committing himself to walking forward. The distance between the two of them isn't going to last for much longer.] With that many sharp edges, I would have you take care around the upholstery and the cushions. Any accidents are going to be your own responsibility, and I'll see to it that you pay in full for the repairs that should result. [He slows to a stop in front of Estinien. They're still looking at each other. Yes, it had to have been divine providence that made this moment possible. There's no other explanation...

Aymeric's smile thins out, like water receding before a wave. His eyes have a flinty, insistent gleam to them.]

Stand at attention, dragoon.

[If Estinien truly desires forgiveness, he will listen to a direct and lawful order from his Lord Commander. Aymeric waits until Estinien has his arms hanging straight at his sides, with his fingers curled inward, about even with his seams. Approvingly, Aymeric places one hand on Estinien's left arm, feeling up and down the different interlocked pieces of armor--for flexibility, he'd imagine. The original dragoons were dragonriders, according to the great wyrm Hraesvelgr. He doesn't doubt that Estinien polished this armor on the regular, and further maintained its repairs, but only ancient magicks could have kept it in such pristine condition and for this many years. It doesn't look like any one aspect of it has aged more than a day: undaunted, sharpened, still eager. Aymeric tests his thumb on the jagged edges at the shoulder, and the shallowest pressure threatens to slice him clean open. The leather straps crossing Estinien's abdomen are also as soft and supple as the day they were fashioned. They smell just as fresh, unbelievably so, when Aymeric crouches down and surveys them up close. (Estinien's body heat is making itself apparent even through the layers of leather and mail.) The greaves seem plenty sturdy when Aymeric knocks the inside of his boot against them. The gauntlets appear to fit those large, strong hands perfectly. Estinien's jawline, thanks be to Halone, is reinforced in several sheets of steel and iron and lined with soft fur. Reaching upward, Aymeric sets a fingertip to Estinien's chin and tilts it aside by degrees. At a certain angle, he can catch sight of Estinien's dark eyes, still focused to the front and patient. Just as a soldier should look during a routine inspection.

As a parting remark, he plucks at one of the leather straps with its quaint leather pouches to match.]

I'd say this novel little curiosity of yours is in violation of the Order's dress code... but there is no need for making mention of that on your permanent record. Consider it a small favor for your otherwise faithful service to the Holy See. [The way Aymeric's gaze slips lower has the finality of the sun sinking behind the mountains. Even so, he's feeling warm. He'd do anything to keep the night's chill from biting them both.]

At ease, dragoon.

[He turns away, off to the side, but only so he can retrieve the two glasses of wine that would be the envy of any serious collector. Only the most immaculate self-control can keep his hands from trembling and the treasure of 1547 from sloshing over the rim.

He offers one glass to Estinien, and then he murmurs this:]

I am feeling decidedly underdressed.

[He's back to smiling quietly.]