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Aymeric blinks, and he finds himself leaning against a tree.
Oh, he thinks, feeling foolish. I must have dozed off.
This in itself should not be surprising; Aymeric has survived on mostly cat naps, especially in the last several moons.
He stands up, brushing his red tunic. That’s right–he is a little helper this Starlight. He should be spreading cheer and gifts to the children of Gridania.
The glade Aymeric is in is not in the least familiar, but no matter–he spies a small figure in the distance. A young elezen boy was huddled behind a large and ancient tree, sniffing and rubbing his tear-streaked face. Aymeric smiled–a little helper was in need!
He approached slowly and deliberately, having his greaves clink with each step. The boy’s head rose, now aware of the interloper. “Ho there, youngling!” Aymeric called. “This little helper was tasked to cheer you up!” He crouched down to the boy’s level, handing out a gift. “Perhaps this will help?”
The boy took the gift silently, and opened it with a schooled expression. Inside was a leatherbound journal, graciously donated by the leatherworker’s guild in Gridania. “My thanks,” the boy mumbled, grasping the journal tightly.
Hm. This was not the reaction Aymeric was hoping for.
“Come now lad, is aught amiss?” Aymeric asked. “Starlight should prevent tears, not cause them.”
The boy turned away sharply, curling into himself. “It’s not like I am upset on purpose! You wouldn’t understand…”
“Try me,” Aymeric challenged. “Help this little helper understand.”
Slowly, the boy unraveled, puffy but striking blue eyes bore straight into Aymeric’s own.
“All I wish,” the boy hissed, “Is for my father to recognize me.”
_______________
When the Warrior of Light shows up unannounced to Estinien’s quarters in Radz-at-Han, he knows there is trouble.
“Come to Gridania,” Meteor pleaded. “It’s an emergency.”
Gooseflesh (and scales) raised, Estinien wordlessly grabbed Nidhogg and followed Meteor to the Aetheryte Plaza, forgoing his armor.
Several teleports later, they stand before the entrance of Stillglade Fane. Estinien knows of this place–the Conjurer's Guild is here. A young pajdal boy stepped out from behind a curtain of ivy. Estinien recognizes him from the Ilsabard Contingent.
“He yet lives,” A-Ruhn-Senna declared without greeting. “It is good that you came without delay.”
“Who yet lives?” Estinien demanded, patience thin and adrenaline high. “I do not wish to remain in the dark any longer.”
Bewildered, A-Ruhn-Senna looked at Meteor, who stood silent and unmoving.
“Very well,” A-Ruhn-Senna conceded. “Please follow me.”
They were led through twisting walkways to the very back of the Glade. The haze of burning incense was the strongest here yet, with flickering candles keeping the slightest light. Inside, several other pajdal stood, including the Elder Seedseer herself. They surrounded a figure wearing the classic red and shapeless starlight tunic. Noticing their arrival, the Elder Seedseer grimly stepped to the side of the platform.
Aymeric de Borel, Lord Speaker of the House of Lords and Ishgardian representative of the Eorzean Alliance, lay pale and still surrounded by some of the strongest users of conjury in the known world, and Estinien’s world comes crashing down.
_______________
There are probably stranger things in Hydaelyn than speaking with a younger version of oneself, Aymeric muses. The Warrior of Light has definitely went through something like this.
Probably.
“Oh, don’t look so surprised,” his younger self sighed bitterly. “We both knew you couldn’t avoid these feelings forever.”
“Yes,” Aymeric agreed, “But I realize now that asking for my father’s approval and, well, acceptance of me was futile. I fear he only wanted to use me for his ambitions.”
“But you resisted and stood true to your words, deeds, and beliefs,” the boy replied. “We know how long this has been spiraling, ever since his coronation…”
The lush and green Twelveswood faded and warped into the stone and sharp angles of inside the Vault. His younger self gestured to the throne with conflicting emotions crossing his face. Out of the corner of his eye, Aymeric spotted a young Artoirel de Fortemps, probably twelve or thirteen summers old, who was visibly fighting his desire to be nosy and the expectations drilled into him as a firstborn noble.
“This is a memory,” Aymeric gasped.
“Yes, do keep up,” the boy smirked. “The rumors have been plaguing you since longer than you can remember, but this is the very moment you took rumor for fact. This is when you decided on your path.”
Suddenly, a younger Thordan VII phased into the throne, appearing as he always did—stone faced, emotionless, and old.
“Here we are, a bastard finally looking at his father for the first time,” his younger self growled. “And you knew—you immediately knew that having him even acknowledge your existence was impossible. This is how it has always been in Ishgard, and this is how it will remain. You are a bastard, and the very blood that of which you were created denied your very being!”
“So I needed to earn it,” Aymeric recalled. “I was destined to serve Ishgard, and I very soon became a squire within the Temple Knights.”
The Vault twisted into the wilderness again, but the steep slopes and rolling hills were stark from the Twelveswood. The ground was stained red from maimed and mutilated bodies of faceless temple knights. A lone temple knight with a lance faced against a red dragon in the familiar ravine. Aymeric’s heart beat out of his chest.
Estinien.
_______________
“We believe that Ser Aymeric was poisoned,” The Elder Seedseer explained. “The alleged culprit died by his own hand when questioned, however, so the poison itself remains unknown.”
“Aymeric has no shortage of critics and enemies,” Meteor replied. “But to attempt an assassination on foreign soil…”
Aymeric laid prone and still on the so-called bed—it was more of a stone slab with intricate carvings, indicating the significance of this chamber within the Conjurer’s Guild. His hands were folded low on his stomach, as if he was napping in a natural position.
(Estinien knew that Aymeric always slept curled on his side. He would never be exposed like this, inviting another attack, another stabbing, another enemy, It was all wrong, wrong, WRONG—)
Beads of sweat dotted Aymeric’s forehead, flattening his usually pristine dark waves. His mouth was parted, with clipped puffs of air escaping.
Only Aymeric could appear unworldly and ethereal on his sickbed.
“We cannot purge the poison with traditional means,” the pajdal youth in dark robes said. “We can only guess and assume the properties with no known sample.”
“How long has it been?” Estinien growled. “How long ago was he poisoned?”
“Lord Aymeric was found four hours ago near his assigned post for the Starlight Celebration,” Kan-E-Senna stated. “He was barely conscious but managed to describe the suspect.”
“Is the motive known?” Meteor chimed in.
“According to witness accounts, the perpetrator was rambling about heresy, and said some colorful words about consorting with dragons,” A-Ruhn-Senna said. “But there was nothing that could identify him with a group or cause.”
“That’s no matter any more,” Estinien snapped. “Is there anything else that can be done?”
“There are representatives of the Ul’dahn Alchemists’ Guild already here, in addition to the experts of healing and conjury all present,” the pajdal male in dark robes said.
“I am confident in Brother E-Sumi-Yan and his conjurers,” the Elder Seedseer said, “But whatever poison Lord Aymeric is afflicted with is proving to be more potent than expected.”
On the slab, Aymeric began to shiver violently. Estinien turned to the pajdals in alarm, ready to strike, attack, maim—
“It’s as I feared,” Brother E-Sumi-Yan declared. “He is deteriorating far more rapidly than expected.”
“How long does he have?!” Estinien all but snarled.
“Hours, if not minutes,” Brother E-Sumi-Yan said. “I am researching far more ancient and obscure remedies, but I welcome the help for other methodologies.”
“I will contact the alchemists of Radz-at-Han,” Estinien declared, already reaching for his linkpearl. “Mayhap they may shed more light on your research.”
And if anyone noticed the pointed claws and red-hued eyes that Estinien gained, they remained silent.
_______________
Aymeric watched, enchanted by Estinien’s movements as he faced the dragon alone. His younger iteration had less refined and complicated movements, but they were still well-practiced and accurate. Purpose and rage graced his form, as his jabs and thrusts struck true, as if he were made for this fight.
And he was as beautiful as Aymeric remembered.
A disdained scoff cut his observations short, as his younger self appeared unimpressed.
“And this is when your so-called goal became muddled,” the boy sighed, “because you wanted Estinien’s companionship far more, at this point. You were enamored at first sight, because of course you were, and your raging hormones and growing pains only amplified your feelings.
“But you never stopped!” younger Aymeric exclaimed. “You never stopped pining after this fool, even after he condemned himself to his duty-bound purpose.”
Suddenly, the red dragon transformed into something far more sinister–A large humanoid in dragoon armor that was drenched red in blood and endless, seething aether. Multiple pairs of scaly wings extended from their back, flared and ready to strike.
“Estinien!” Aymeric gasped, as both the young Temple Knight and the draconic beast turned their heads in recognition. The dravanian abomination raised his lance and pointed to Aymeric, mirroring a stance he has seen many times–
Nidhogg charged.
Aymeric instinctively reached for Naegling, but he didn’t have it! He was still dressed in his red starlight tunic, not his usual blue robes–
“Enough of this.”
Nidhogg-Estinien froze. Time stopped. The lance-point was mere ilms from Aymeric’s shocked face, sharp tip glinting in the light.
“You know what happened next,” a disembodied voice declared. “And yet–-and yet this fool still ran away from Ishgard, and away from you.”
“That is not true,” Aymeric ground out, searching for the origin of the voice. “Show yourself!”
“Estinien ran, leaving you to pick up the shattered remains of the nation you tore down from its very foundation,” the voice pressed on. “You were left alone. He could not face you, and he did not wish to do so, ever again.”
“I tire of this farce!” Aymeric exclaimed. “You speak of naught but lies!”
“You stole Estinien’s purpose and his livelihood,” the voice snarled. “You robbed him from the very death he craved, and so he ran. And now, he despises you. You do not deserve to love him.”
Cold hands reached out and gripped his face, squeezing. Aymeric was thrown to the ground on his knees. Ishgard burned around him, screams of despair and death deafening the air. Eyes watering, Aymeric craned his neck to see a blurry figure slowly approaching him. Their black armor clinked with every slow and purposeful step. They thrust out an intricately curved greatsword, and the deep blue stones along the edge glowed in fury.
“So, I will love him in your place,” they cackled.
And suddenly, Aymeric was no longer comforting a boy on Starlight, and instead found himself face-to-face with an unrecognizable, incomprehensible dark visage of himself.
_______________
The Hannish Alchemists once again performed a miracle; their expertly crafted antidote at Estinien’s demand (and aetheryte expense) neutralized the poison. The Seedseers confirmed that there was no trace of the poison left.
And yet—
Aymeric continued to deteriorate.
The Seedseers, other pajdal, and even Meteor himself stood vigil around the ailing Lord Speaker.
On the bed, stone slab, the godsdamned altar, Aymeric was deathly still. His usual handsome visage withered into sunken cheekbones and undereye bruises. He still breathed, but in short gasps and wheezing exhales. His long fingers were curled, as if he was seeking warmth from another hand. Estinien gladly offered his own.
Trembling with a multitude of emotions, Estinien snarled and all but ran out of the glade. It was all becoming too much, and this want something he could solve by ripping, tearing, clawing—
His best friend, the only one who stuck with the unapproachable Azure Dragoon after all of these years, was dying. It wasn’t from the glory of battle, as a knight wants, and it wasn’t from age either, but a cowardly, godsdamned poison. How dare the cowardly bastard take the easy way out; how dare he steal the one person who mattered, who he took for granted because he thought he had time to sort out his feelings—
The one Estinien loved.
Night has fallen in the Twelveswood, and through a clearing the sky revealed itself to be unseasonably clear. The stars twinkled in the near-black sky, befitting the holiday’s namesake.
Estinien reflected, and remembered the Starlights that followed the destruction of Ferndale, the Calamity, and when he became Azure Dragoon.
The many Starlights he spent with Aymeric, huddled in tents as Temple Knights, or at the Forgotten Knight, or in Borel Manor, fireplace lit, tea warm and Aymeric dozing on his shoulder—
And so Estinien prayed, not to just Halone, but to every one of the Twelve, the spirits of Thavnair, the Kami of the far east–
Let Aymeric live.
_______________
Aymeric was dying.
He was held in a chokehold by an evil version of himself.
“No, no,” his alter tsked, raising Aymeric higher. “I am no mere “version”. I AM you.”
What?!
“Oh yes,” his other version purred. “I am your doubts, your guilt, and your self-loathing. I am the deepest and most hidden truths you kept under lock and key.”
He slammed Aymeric into the ground, kicking his sides and stomach. Aymeric coughed and gasped, vision blurring. The attacks were quick, powerful, and relentless–
“Where is your anger? Where is your rage?” The alter demanded, mere ilms from Aymeric’s own face. "I AM!!”
Aymeric was fading–he couldn’t breathe. His vision closed in around his periphery—
Shadows closed in as a large claymore met its mark.
_______________
Estinien kneeled at the altar, silent tears running down his face. It was time to say goodbye. Clenching Aymeric’s cold and still hands, and brushing the damp curls away from his forehead, Estinien bent down for his first, and final kiss.
_______________
And suddenly, the overwhelming pressure lifted.
Dazed and panting for air, Aymeric rose just enough to see his alter self halted mid-swing, smirking. “Well,” his esteem said incredulously, “this is certainly a development.”
The blue greatsword was sheathed, blue crystals and stones dimming and becoming dormant. Heavy black armor clinked and rattled as the lone Dark Knight simply walked away.
“Rise,” he called. “We will finish this later.”
_______________
In the deepest and most sacred room of healing in Gridania, Aymeric de Borel opened his eyes.
As his vision slowly focused, he was met with the most beautiful sight–Estinien, eyes puffy and nose red, lips parted in awe.
Slowly, and with great difficulty, Aymeric raised a hand to cradle Estinien’s face.
“‘Stinien,” Aymeric whispered.
“I know, ‘Meric,” Estinien sobbed. “Rest. I will not leave your side.”
Aymeric closed his eyes, felt the gentlest forehead kiss, and drifted into a dreamless sleep.
_______________
Aymeric’s recovery was slow and arduous. Estinien vowed to see Aymeric through to full health, and remained glued to his side through every trial they faced in the recovery process. Aymeric did not mind, to say it mildly. He enjoyed every moment with Estinien, especially when they were wrapped around each other under the covers. Estinien ran warm, and Aymeric enjoyed leeching his heat, soothing the aches and pains that stubbornly remained.
The other leaders in the Eorzean Alliance were calling Aymeric’s survival a Starlight Miracle, and Estinien could not help but wonder if his prayer was answered, but it didn’t matter. Aymeric was here, and it was now.
Aymeric claimed to not remember much of the whole ordeal, but he was often plagued with night terrors during his recovery. Who could blame him–his aether was systematically destroyed by poison, and the long recovery can be hard on both the body and the mind.
His esteem could wait, after all. There will be another change to be turned inside out and erode Aymeric’s faith. He will break out. He will escape.
Soon.