Chapter Text
It's supposed to be summer.
A fierce wind blows across the highlands. Freezing rain slices through the frigid air like the Fury's own myriad spears. The cold is biting and tears through even his heavy armor. His skin burns from the cold as he curses at the vile wind.
"Damn it all..."
Estinien fights to keep his eyes forward. He grasps his spear like the only light to guide him in the storm. A veil of ice obscures the mountain range and -- there, he sees it, the shadow he's been chasing. It lurches through the hail and lunges for him with a beastly screech, nearly consumed by the howling winds.
Estinien leaps out of its path, coming down and driving the head of his lance into its skull. Its scaled body hits the ground with a hollow thud, and Estinien draws back his spear to pierce its head once more. Its wings flail wildly. Its body thrashes beneath him. The dragoon can barely see his prey just beneath him, little more than some cold, writhing mass in the dark.
Estinien stabs it again, and again, until its death throes finally cease. The wind carries off its dying cries. He can see the dark strokes of blood painted upon the collecting snow. A shiver rattles through him. It's supposed to be summer. It's too fucking cold to be summer.
He kneels to quickly study the creature and, sure enough, it's exactly the beast he's been tracking. A young wyvern. The highlands' fauna have been just as disruptive as the weather. Their hibernation cycles interrupted. Their homes destroyed by ice and snow. Their typical paths venturing more and more into odd territory. And it seems even the Dravanians have grown desperate, appearing across Coerthas to feast on such new and abundant prey, and --
Fuck. It's cold. Too cold to wonder any more about the mindless beast dead at his feet. It's grown huge thanks to a healthy diet of farmers' karakul and unaware knights. He traces the span of one wing with his spear. It should be bigger, he thinks, but the reports may have exaggerated its size. Regardless, if there happen to be more like this, happy to expand their territory, he'll be just as happy to hunt them in return.
But, not today. Not in this storm. The wind screams. The ice clatters upon his armor. He readjusts his grip on his lance. His prey slain, his work is done. He turns and makes his way down along the ridge. He needs to find shelter soon. Fuck. It's too cold. It's supposed to be summer.
"Ughh."
He gets his bearings. Despite the raging winds and gnawing cold, he knows where he is. He leers into the distance and, there. A light, a glimmer in the distance. Estinien nearly laughs against the wind. He moves quickly. The ridge grows slick with ice, but he keeps moving.
Dragonhead isn't far, he reminds himself. Camp Dragonhead isn't far. He makes his way along the ridge, keeping his eyes fixed on only the destination ahead.
But it's a slog. Estinien lets a heavy breath. The next he takes fills his lungs with those myriad icy spears. His familiar armors feel so heavy. He feels as if his gauntlets will fuse to his lance.
He has to keep moving. He has to keep moving. Finding no relief in the raging storm, his thoughts travel inward, sifting through thought and memory alike for any mote of warmth.
A different scene. Not a day consumed by storm, but bright daylight streaming in through tall windows. A soft, warm bed. His arms wrapped around someone else, those arms around him in reply. Their bodies drawn together, legs entwined, heavy covers drawn over them as they sleep. Estinien's eyes open in this soft, safe memory and, oh, he sees him. Aymeric.
He feels his warmth, his body against him, his slow, even breath as he sleeps. His dark hair falls over his eyes, curls strewn upon the pillow. His long eyelashes. His lips parted just slightly. The length of his neck illuminated in the morning light. A bruise along his collarbone, left by Estinien himself. His eyes open and those blue eyes gaze at him.
As he trudges through the storm, warmth blooms inside him. It spreads through him, his arms and his legs, and keeps him moving. He grimaces. He aches. He lets a heavy breath and, oh, what he wouldn't give to have Aymeric before him now. Heat and hunger take hold. It keeps him moving. Wholly bothered, but moving.
He barely realizes he's reached Dragonhead, the gate shut in the rage of the storm. A leap brings him to the overlook, and another into the camp proper. A handful of knights rush about in the dark. They pull covers over the cannons and weaponry. They hurry supplies about, across different parts of the camp. Estinien hears orders being given, voices through the screaming winds. He tries to follow, tries to help somehow, though the stormy dark clouds his focus.
A familiar shape is among them, of course. The young commander of Camp Dragonhead. He converses with other shadows, other blobs rushing about in the cold darkness. Estinien approaches him slowly, mechanically. He tries to say something, but only an uneven grunt leaves his lips. It's enough to draw the attention of the shadow, the knight and commander of Dragonhead. The man turns to him, briefly halting his orders to the other knights. His smile is so brilliant, even in the storm.
"My friend!" Haurchefant says. His voice so easily reaches through the winds with invincible warmth. "What a delightful surprise!"
Estinien grunts again. Haurchefant quickly issues the rest of his commands, and the other knights disperse. He turns to Estinien with his full attention. He easily takes one of Estinien's hands and dislodges it from his spear, holding his hand in both his own instead.
"Ah, let's not talk here, of course. You look cold as death, Estinien!"
The dragoon almost laughs. Haurchefant nearly drags him to the main hall. Estinien loses track of his steps. He blinks. He breathes. He thinks about being in that nice warm bed with Aymeric wrapped around him.
"Here you are, my dear."
Estinien finds himself seated in a chair (or, rather, very gently but firmly pushed onto it) before a steady fire. Hands swift and gentle move to his helm, and it's removed without the dragoon's protest. His white hair spills free from the helm; Haurchefant, after a moment's pause, pulls off a glove and idly runs his hand through it, settling the strands upset by his helm.
Estinien's eyes close briefly. When he opens them again, he gazes up at the man before him. The hearth casts him in soft silhouette. His smile is bright and gentle as his voice.
"Ah, that's quite a dreamy look in your eyes, friend." A quiet chuckle, a playful hesitation. "Having yourself some fantasies about you and me, perhaps?"
Estinien blinks and suddenly jerks awake. He jerks upright in his chair and grunts, looking away from Haurchefant at once. The knight laughs and shakes his head. Before moving to dismiss himself, he sweeps some snowy strands into place. Estinien's eyes fall closed once more. He leans into that brief touch and -- quickly pulls back when he realizes what he's doing. Haurchefant flashes him a wry grin before stepping away from him.
"We're less some hands than usual, so pray give me just a bit longer to settle things around the camp. I'll be back as soon as possible to discuss those fantasies of yours, friend. I'll love to hear them all!"
"And you'll hear all of none of them!" Estinien nearly roars in the knight's wake, though Haurchefant only gives him another hearty laugh in return. He thinks to help him, especially if he's in need of assistance... but the thought evaporates in the warmth of the steady fire.
The dragoon barely stifles a groan. His aches and bruises from the long hunt across the highlands are catching up to him. He likes to keep moving. He likes to work alone. He likes to be left to himself to get his work done and wallow in the dark that follows by himself. It's how he's survived for this long. The fires of vengeance dwell deep inside him, sure to keep the pain fresh and the need to hunt, to kill, to move forward ever present. The Eye of Nidhogg is woven into his being, always seething, breathing hate and--
"Ughhh."
He's so tired.
His attention wanders back to him, finding the lance still clutched in one hand. How could he have nearly forgotten about it? He lays it across his lap. It's just as much a part of him as his hands. At least the storm has washed away the blood from his hunt. The same goes for his armors, as he looks over himself some. At least he can save himself the effort to clean it. The days-long hunt is slowly catching up to him; he feels heavy, weighed further down by his armor, but he can't quite bring himself to remove it.
If Haurchefant is low on men, he thinks, he really should help him. But when he resolves to stand, a hand on his shoulder pushes him back down.
"Ah-ah, I'll not have you running or jumping off, now."
Estinien grumbles as Haurchefant appears once again at his side. The knight greets him with that smile once more, approaching the fire. He takes the nearby iron and prods the mass of wood in the fireplace. Another couple pieces of firewood feed the flames, crackling with delight. In Haurchefant's other hand is a well-worn kettle, which he places on a rack over the fire. He pulls off his drenched overcoat with an enormous sigh.
"There's simply nothing better than a nice warm fire on a cold night like this."
The hall, Estinien realizes, is quiet. Some knights linger at the map table, and Haurchefant dismisses them with an easy wave of his hand. The gentle crackling of the fire fills the hall. The biting winds beat at the closed door, but is given no invitation. The storm rages, but the hall stands invincible in the dark.
Haurchefant pulls off his gloves, his cuirass -- it's only a second before he's topless, his gear cast to a nearby table. Freed of his heavy attire, the man stretches. He straightens the length of his back, and his shoulders. A quiet crack from one bent elbow, and then the other. The fire radiates upon his skin.
Estinien's eyes follow the line of his abdomen, his broad chest, the strong physique of a well-trained knight. There are scars embedded in his skin, a delicate mapwork of battles won. A particularly dark scar along his side. Another of notice upon his arm, a deep wound from, Estinien briefly wonders, a long time ago. His gaze unwittingly finds Haurchefant's silvery hair, glittering in the fire's light. The knight catches the dragoon's stare and offers him that wry grin of his.
"You're staring, friend. Would you like some help removing your armors as well?"
Estinien grunts, tearing his eyes away, at which Haurchefant lets a hearty laugh. The knight gives him another pat on the shoulder as he moves to find a chair of his own. Estinien looks down at himself, and his spear, and he still feels so heavy. He closes his eyes before the fire. He can hear the raging winds outside, far, far away, but it's so warm here before the fire...
A quiet whistling. Estinien's eyes open and he finds something handed to him.
"Here you are."
A metal mug is placed in his hands. Only some moments later does the kettle begin to whistle, and Haurchefant takes it off the fire, pouring hot water into Estinien's mug. The knight then turns his attention to his own mug. Estinien studies the contents of his cup: a small sachet, colorful leaves peering out through the sheer cloth. The dragoon closes his eyes and, ohhh, it's a bright, summery kind of smell he vaguely recognizes.
"Do give it some time to steep," Haurchefant warns brightly. He sits back down to study his own drink, leaning in to smell the brewing tea. "Hmm, this scent... what does it remind you of, friend?"
"Aymeric." Estinien barely hears his own reply. He only realizes his error upon seeing Haurchefant's careful gaze on him, and his knowing smile, both proof he heard that response too well. The dragoon clears his throat and tries again. "I mean, erm. It reminds me of some tea I had with him. Not long ago."
"Hmmm." Haurchefant tries a sip of his drink, but it's too hot yet. "Our dear friend the Lord Commander was here the other day, in fact. He shared some of this tea with me. Apparently it's a summer favorite from Gridania."
"Aymeric was here?" Estinien asks, trying not to sound too interested, although he can't deny a slight sting at the thought that he may have just missed him. Haurchefant nods, although that knowing smile of his grows a bit more.
"It is supposed to be summer, after all. The trade routes have been a bit more treacherous than usual, although that's nothing exactly new. He was on his way to the Observatorium for their insight into our ongoing weather woes. We were prepared for a storm, but not one quite like this..."
The fire crackles gently before them. A few knights approach Haurchefant, who offers them tea of their own. They discuss matters around the camp, and Estinien tries a sip of the tea. Sure enough, it's the same tea from that too-cold day. He can feel the heat seep in through his armor. He imagines the gray sky, the light streaming in through the windows of Aymeric's study. He hears him humming as he prepares the tea for them both, watches his careful hands, meets his gaze as he hands him his teacup--
"That reminds me," Haurchefant says once he's dismissed the knights. "You wouldn't know anything about our friend's mystery lover, would you?"
Estinien nearly chokes on his drink. He meets Haurchefant's eyes for only a moment before quickly looking away with a scoff. "...why are you asking me?"
"You two have known each other a long while, I supposed if anyone would know, it'd be you." Haurchefant leans back in his chair with folded arms and a playful frown. "He's absolutely refused to tell me anything, leaving me to simply piece together the details on my own. I don't like to speculate, but..."
The warmth of the tea evaporates in an instant. Taking a sip of his tea, Haurchefant lets a small sigh.
"But he looked so happy speaking of them, this elusive lover of his. Apparently, they rarely get to see each other, especially with our Lord Commander's demanding schedule. When he was here, he spoke about the time they had this tea together, and how much he looks forward to having it with them once more..."
Estinien does his best to still his expression. He nearly forgets to breathe. "Ah."
"Friend, pray forgive my directness." Haurchefant's smile makes way for something soft but determined. His brow is furrowed, the fire glittering in his fierce eyes. "But, Estinien, would you perhaps be--"
"No," Estinien returns quickly. Haurchefant gives pause, eyebrows raised.
"...no, what?"
"Just, no," Estinien hisses. He's barely able to find his voice, even less able to meet the knight's gaze. He shakes his head and clasps his mug in both hands. "Whatever you're asking, no."
"At least let me finish my question." Estinien can hear that smile in his voice, though it remains careful. "The one Aymeric speaks so fondly of, it's you, isn't it?"
Estinien's jaw feels tight. Ice to rival the storm outside pools in his stomach. Estinien's own gaze darts around the hall in a panic. The other knights have dispersed, it seems, leaving Estinien to die in this sudden trap of a conversation. He's traveled in storms before, the dragoon thinks. He survived the journey here. Surely he can leave now and race out into the storm and disappear into the darkness forever. It's all he wants to do, especially as the silence drags on, and on, interrupted only by the gentle sounds of the fire.
When the dragoon finally musters any reply, it's a voiceless sound like "hhhhgh." Despite Estinien's obvious mental fumbling for any kind of escape, Haurchefant laughs.
"Alternatively," offers the knight, pausing to take a drink of his tea, "do you suppose he's speaking of me, and I've somehow missed his hints all this time?"
Estinien finally manages to meet the knight's eyes. "What?"
"Is that so strange?" Haurchefant asks, frowning some. "I certainly wouldn't mind if he thought of me so fondly. Perhaps I've thought of him the same way, more than once."
Something gives a violent twinge inside the dragoon. "...what?"
"And you, Estinien." Haurchefant blinks. He chooses his words carefully, though his smile slowly creeps back onto his face. "How would you feel if--"
"My lord!"
Haurchefant's gentle mirth gives way. The concern is plain in the other knight's voice, and Haurchefant stands at once, gathering his gear as he approaches him. The knight leads him immediately outside, and Estinien snatches his helm and spear. Something is wrong.
The storm howls outside. Darkness has fallen around the camp, and the winds whip lashes of snow and ice. Estinien follows Haurchefant and the knight to the small crowd near the south gate. A tall shape takes form as Estinien approaches them -- a black chocobo, complete with Temple Knight's barding. The creature snaps its beak and warbles against the wind, as if to call out for help for its missing rider.
"Oh, hush, little one," Haurchefant tries. He pats the chocobo's snow-covered plumage. "What's happened? Where is your, oh, wait, this is..."
Estinien bristles for the same reason as Haurchefant. The knight gently grasps the blue sash wrapped around the chocobo's neck. That very particular kind of blue. The dragoon grasps his spear. He puts on his helm and races from the open gate. He can't wait for the others to move. There is no time to waste.
Aymeric. Aymeric is out there.