Admittedly, he'd not given it much thought, himself, but still, Estinien had expected...more.
Color. The way every maid and mother, every old man and young soldier -- even Alberic -- prattled on about it, grayscale should've given way with a splash to something euphoric, ecstatic, life-changing. Like the first real spring day after a long, long winter, or a hard won victory after endless battle. Estinien hadn't expected even that much, but since opening his eyes again after that dreadful battle, he has seen little more than gray.
The wintry Coerthas landscape, gray. The morning sky, ever gray. Ishgard itself, gray, gray, gray.
It's not that he's disappointed -- it doesn't really matter, anyway -- but... where he'd first found color, well. It'd been red, mostly. Dark crimson smears on snow, on his armor, on the bodies of fallen comrades. A rich color to match a rich smell.
All that horrid red... and a hint of blue. Blue, like an early winter morning, like a dip in a river on a hot summer day.
He's looked for its like since, but, confined mostly to a hospital bed, has had little luck finding it. He's discovered green in poultices and plants, and orange in flame, and earthy browns near everywhere, but no sign of that silver blue.
There is only one place to find it, though that is absolutely not the reason he'd agreed to a drink with that Aymeric fellow. It is a kindness repaid, is all -- the knight had requested a drink in exchange for a life saved, and Estinien was not so boorish as to reject him. It's nothing to do with those eyes, nor the fact that color had only happened once Aymeric had roused him on the battlefield.
Estinien tells himself all that as he sets foot in The Forgotten Knight. And he believes it, because Estinien is not given to doubt. What he is given to, though, is tardiness. He finds Aymeric already seated at a lone dark wood table and joins him without ceremony.
"You're here, Aymeric," he says by way of greeting, showing off that he has, in fact, finally committed the knight's name to memory. "Recovering well?"
Aymeric tries to pretend he is pragmatic and duty-bound and ambitious, and truly he is all of those things, but he's also idealistic and friendly and something of an incurable romantic, so he has been waiting for the moment his world filled with colour practically since he was a child.
He tells himself the reason he makes a point of noticing the people around him and at least trying to be kind to them is that he refuses to overlook anyone for the circumstances of their birth, that he knows he needs to acquit himself well and prove himself and getting people on his side is part of that, that you never know when a kind word or a friendly smile might completely change somebody's day... or any number of a dozen other reasons he could come up with if somebody asked, that didn't involve admitting the truth that really, truly, he was just looking for them.
He'd come up with half a dozen idle fantasies over the years, of how it might happen, but none of them had involved a group of temple knights sparring on a muddy training field and one perfect cheekbone smudged with rich, earthy brown. The colour has blossomed from there and it seemed to fill the world - even the chainmail shifted from grey to shining silver - but what had caught Aymeric's eye the most was the way one knight's hair remained snow-white, just as it had been before everything changed.
That knight, he later learned, was Estinien, who seemed to eschew company in all its form whenever he got the chance. Aymeric thought he was breathtaking, and found himself hoping against hope that he was the one who had sparked that explosion of colour, although it could well have been any one of half a dozen knights who had been fighting that day.
He'd been trying to make cautious enquiries ever since, slowly adding potential names to his list and then crossing them off one by one - in between training, of course, there was no way he was letting that slack.
He'd hoped to catch Estinien alone when they were put in the same unit, but the mission to Ever Lakes had come up before he had the chance and then... well, then he had to deal with all of that.
It hadn't seemed like the right time, when the dragon was defeated, so he'd made his invitation for a drink and hoped that soon enough he'd have his answer.
When the evening comes - once Estinien is fully recovered from the experience - he finds himself staring into his tankard and wondering if perhaps he should have paid closer attention to all those lone wolf allegations, until he catches movement out the corner of his eye and looks up to see Estinien - late, but here, and that's all that matters.
He smiles warmly in response to his name and nods.
"Estinien," he greets in return "Yes, thank you, though my injures were naught compared to yours. 'tis good to see you on your feet again, my friend."
Whether or not Aymeric considering him a friend so soon, even after what they went through, is welcome or not, it's happening. He motions for Estinien to sit and waves for the barmaid to bring him a drink.
Estinien knows better than to trust little lordlings, especially ones with striking smiles and easy offers of friendship. Such a waste of time, all this social protocol, alliances and subterfuge when there is a perfectly worthwhile war against a perfectly evil enemy just beyond Ishgard's walls. It puts him ill at ease at the best of times, but now everything's gone all vivid on top. All that warmth in Aymeric's demeanor is only further highlighted by the lush pink of his skin, expertly framed by his raven hair. He is utterly impossible to ignore. How irritating.
"Aye, 'tis good to be on them again. I do not care to sit idle," Estinien replies as he slides into the offered seat, acutely aware that the charismatic knight has him at a disadvantage.
He does not frown, but neither does he make an effort not to look gruff. Rather, he levels his own storm cloud gaze at Aymeric, and instantly finds that silver blue he'd been hunting for, lit to sunset color by the Forgotten Knight's dim firelight.
Though he thinks he should, he cannot break Aymeric's gaze. "You're handy with a bow."
"I have heard as much," Aymeric admits with a tilt of his head. No sooner are the words out of his mouth than he's wondering if he should have said them - he thinks, perhaps, he can pass it off as the result of idle gossip among the other knights and not an admission that he'd gone asking around about Estinien. If asked, anyway, he may not be an entirely polished diplomat but he's at least learned the value of not volunteering information when he doesn't need to. Mostly.
Then Estinien meets his eyes and his breath catches. There's something nigh on religious about being subject to Estinien's full attention - he's an unfairly beautiful man who is notoriously stand-offish, of course it's going to feel good when he looks at you, but Aymeric is not prepared for the way it feels like a blessing from the Fury herself to be subject to that inscrutable gaze.
(It's not even the first time it's happened, now, and yet.)
He tilts his head in a silent thank you for the compliment - he is, he thinks, doing a remarkable job at keeping his expression friendly, but neutral, and entirely hiding the fact that his heart is doing backflips in his chest right now.
"I intend to master the sword as well, of course, but I confess it is a comfort to have a bow in my hand against an enemy that flies." He admits.
"Though you certainly have no need of a bow, your skill with a lance is... truly something special."
A faint smirk dances its way across Estinien's features. Were he not already studying the way the nearby firelight turns Aymeric's sharp features almost gold, he might not've noticed that little hitch in his breathing. Ah, a fissure in the Borel boy's otherwise perfect composure. Passingly, he wonders what might make it crack, though the thought sits sort of awkwardly in his head once he's had it. A little red. Like all that blood. But... like fire, too.
Estinien arches a brow, wondering, "Asking around about me, are you?"
He is teasing, but the skill is a rusty one, left by the wayside in the ruins of Ferndale, and it leaves him sounding too serious. His gaze, still fixed and focused on Aymeric, does not help to more honestly convey his intent.
"Then, you'll already know that I learned from the best." He doesn't elaborate. If the temple knights are already gossiping about his day-to-day habits, then surely they know he is the ward of the Azure Dragoon. The noble houses love that sort of thing.
"And if you know that, then perhaps I should be paying closer attention to you. To keep us on even footing."
Aymeric dips his head just slightly, he has just enough composure to keep from blushing, but it's a close thing. Instead, he manages a slightly rueful smile.
"Well, you caught my attention." He says easily, more easily than he actually feels. Being this close to Estinien, firelight shining in his silver hair, makes him feel like there's lightning under his skin, like all his calm confidence has decided to vanish for the evening and he's left wondering where his arms are supposed to go.
He tries not to think about it too hard, focuses instead on what Estinien's saying, inclines his head in agreement - he does know where Estinien learned all his tricks, but that doesn't make him any less impressive.
He laughs softly at the comment.
"Ah, I am not so terribly interesting." He says dismissively - in direct contrast to the overwhelming amount of gossip that he knows is constantly flying around him. It seems to dog his steps everywhere he turns - in truth, it was almost a relief to find somebody who knew so little about him they didn't even know his name.
Though, now that Estinien has actually learned it, he could stand to hear it fall from those lips again, in any number of wonderful tones...
Admittedly, he knows next to nothing about Aymeric de Borel. Hadn't paid much mind to any of the long list of lord's sons and brothers and wards that had once filled their unit's ranks. Another pretty face in the gray sea of them. Before Ever Lakes, to look at any one of them would've been but an unnecessary distraction. There were loftier goals to be pursued, more righteous causes to champion.
But then, Ever Lakes had happened. And now, their unit numbers just two. Two, and of them, it is not Estinien who had left the field of battle unscathed. Two, when there had been so many more, and somewhere between those numbers, many and few, color had seeped into Estinien's world. Soft peach, raven black, crystalline blue.
A distraction, utterly impossible to ignore, but perhaps earned.
Finally, Estinien lets his gaze fall. He studies the mottled browns in the wood, the pale rings where ale and cheap wine had been spilled. Tries, stubbornly, to find something even half as interesting as the color in Aymeric's eyes. "You outlasted the rest of us at Ever Lakes. Tracked me to that ravine. However you did it--" and he is curious "--such dedication to the cause is...commendable."
Aymeric smiles slightly, tilting his head to concede the point - and accept the implied compliment.
He wouldn't mind so much, he thinks, being subject to Estinien's attention. It would feel like a victory he never expected to crave, for one, but more importantly everything he's learned about Estinien implies that he would care more about who Aymeric is and what he can do than he'd listen to petty gossip or familial reputation. He'd like to be measured on his own deeds and not where he came from.
(It's a desire shared by a lot of knights, he knows, and yet despite that so many of them will still judge each other for the very thing they don't wish to be judged for themselves)
Estinien looking away is at once a relief and disappointment. He felt caught by those eyes as surely as if they were a lance pinning him in place, it was an intense feeling... but he didn't hate it.
(He shouldn't let his mind linger on the idea of Estinien pinning him into place, it brings other thoughts that are rather difficult to ignore)
"Stubbornness, I think," he admits with a faint smile "and a certain determination. Traits you clearly share, given your single minded pursuit of our foe..."
That coaxes a laugh out of Estinien. Just a single, coarse huff of air, like it's a sound he's not accustomed to making. One that needs the dust shaken off before it's of any use.
"We have something in common?" he wonders, amused but unsure. Estinien's stubbornness has never been hailed as a virtue -- at least, not 'til now. Charmless obstinance, a tutor had called it that once, and that had been one of the nicer descriptions.
No teacher, no master, would ever call Ser Aymeric's own stubbornness charmless or obstinate -- that much is obvious from a glance.
Aymeric, Estinien thinks to himself, tipping his gaze up to examine him through his lashes, has the makings of a classic Ishgardian hero. Estinien may not have known him before, but Ever Lakes had shown him to be steadfast. Just foolhardy enough to be courageous instead of stupid. And, looking at him now, fine featured and carefully composed, with that mysterious smile--oh, yes, the bards will be singing of him.
So, it feels strange to have their qualities compared favorably, and by the man himself even. Is it idle flattery? Probably. In the city proper, it so often is, but Estinien doesn't really care. No, as he tips his chin back up, he decides that he would not at all mind being idly flattered by Ser Aymeric for an evening.
The bar maid returns with a flagon at just that moment, stopping Estinien from getting annoyed with himself for having such useless thoughts. He accepts the drink with a nod of thanks, doing his best impression of even composure, then turns his attention back to Aymeric.
"Aye, perhaps we do." They call him a lone wolf for a reason. Why form attachments when it seems the fate of soldiers and common folk is to die in fire? Why worry about anything but stopping this war? He is not given to putting names to faces, let alone forging bonds. So, he isn't sure why he decides to add, "Grounds enough to me. Even if our superiors see fit to put us in separate units, I would not mind training with you from time to time. Lance against sword?"
Aymeric's lips quirk into a slight smile at Estinien's musing - he doesn't sound convinced, but Aymeric is. He's a little - or a lot - more diplomatic than Estinien is, he can already tell that much, but that doesn't make him any less determined to see his goals realised. He just does it in a slightly different way.
Then Estinien is looking up through his lashes and Aymeric is struck by just how impossibly beautiful he is. All cool shades and sharp edges like he's been carved from marble, or ice, but there's nothing cold about him at all - no, Estinien is heat and fire and passion that draws Aymeric in like a moth. It should make him just as untouchable, but against all good sense Aymeric finds himself more than willing to get burned.
Estinien has to be the one, surely, his soulmate. Aymeric has never wanted anyone like this, not ever.
His smile grows a little wider at the offer and he nods with a barely a moment's hesitation.
"I would be delighted to go a few rounds with you... in the training field." He says smoothly. The pause is brief, brief enough that one might be forgiven for thinking they imagined, or for missing it altogether. It's definitely there, though.
He is not given to noticing little pauses, to picking up on implied meanings, or bothering to acknowledge them on the rare occasion when he does. But this one? This one he notices, like grasping hot metal.
It's the color, he decides in that moment. This is what happens to everyone. You see a person, and suddenly you're mad with little distractions -- midnight dark hair, impossibly blue eyes, and slender shoulders that belie what must surely be a strong form.
What an absolute waste of time. Estinien takes a drink, hoping the ale will cool some of the heat building under his skin. It does not. So in the next second, he resolves to solve this insistent feeling by satisfying it.
...After a bit of fun.
Estinien's faint smirk pulls into a grin, "And if you can best me there, perhaps elsewhere, as well."
It had seemed like such a good idea at the start. Travel throughout Coerthas, visit the various Ishgardian strongholds and see how things were outside of the city - but do it incognito. Speak to the real people, not the commanders and officers rolled out to represent camps for proper inspections, actually understand what's going on in the country he's supposed to be leading.
He should have known it wasn't going to work. He'd tried it in the city first, taken off his distinctive armour and dressed more plainly, but he'd become too recognisable, even in the Brume, people still watched what they said around him and treated him like the Lord Speaker. He barely even managed to introduce himself with the alias he'd come up with before they'd be greeting him.
Surely outside the city's walls it would be different.... right?
Apparently not. Aymeric was beginning to suspect somebody had warned the camps in advance that he was coming, because surely he wasn't so recognisable that everybody knew who he was, did they?
(Of course, most of the people in the camps were or had been temple knights who knew him as the Lord Commander, and he hadn't really accounted for that)
He'd stopped at a tavern on the road, almost ready to give up. Nobody here immediately seemed to recognise him in his travelling clothes, which buoyed his spirits more than he cared to admit.
(He'd been so pleased with his plan that it was a disappointment to have found it so ineffective. Well, that and maybe he just wanted to be the one off playing the adventurer for once...)
Once he's settled with his ale he decides to give the whole thing one more last-ditch attempt, and leans over to the patron at the table beside his.
"Well met, friend." He offers in a friendly tone "Do you live around here, or are you a fellow traveller on these roads?"
He prefers the taverns outside the city walls. Here, the patrons are simply people, not actors on a stage. The posturing and carefully considered backbiting in some of the 'finer' establishments in Ishgard is exhausting. Gwyneire is a Haillenarte by birth, but certainly not by upbringing. It brings his uncle no end of exasperation, he is sure; not that the man protests, these days.
This tavern, though, he likes. The patrons are largely masons and carpenters and laborers, far from the politics of the Pillars. With his station in the Diadem and work in the restoration, many of them know him by name. Tonight, though, he is content in silence and his own thoughts, mulling over reports. A voice drags him from his thoughts, and he would swear that he knows it - and that the voice does not belong here. Pale, blind eyes turn to the Lord Commander, and Gwyneire's brows raise in surprise; first, because the Lord Commander is here, well out of the way and seemingly with no escort; and second, that the man does not recognize him. Though, Gwyneire reasons, he is no Warrior of Light - and his work has kept him far from the grand salons and soirees of the High Houses. And, he looks a little different these days than the last they met after Nidhogg's defeat.
"In Ishgard—" he almost adds on 'my lord,' though as he takes in the lines of aether that make up his vision these days, Gwyneire realizes the shape of the man's clothing is not the armor he usually wears. Something about the situation gives the elezen pause, so he only smiles in return. "Though my work keeps me in the Sea of Clouds, most days." It would be polite to ask in return, if he did not know the man, but he does... though Gwyneire is not entirely sure he wants to be known. So he smiles, still, inviting, but does not venture anything else to allow Aymeric to steer the conversation.
Edited (Thats what I get for rushing a tag before work) Date: 2024-08-03 08:37 pm (UTC)
There is something vaguely familiar about the other man but Aymeric can't quite place his finger on it, and he's too swept up in satisfaction to examine it too closely; there's no immediately indication that the other knows him, and if Aymeric is any judge of those pale eyes there's a chance he won't recognise him - not by sight, anyway.
He puts the initial surprise down to the fact that he struck up a conversation out of nowhere, wilful ignorance perhaps but he's had a long and unsuccessful journey and he'll take whatever win he can manage.
"Oh? What work is that?" He continues - it's a suitably generic question just in case he's getting carried away and he has somehow been recognised, but he's hopeful for the first time since leaving the city.
The elezen leans forward, folding his hands and setting elbows on the rough-hewn table. He leans one cheek against his fingers, empty gaze cast - perhaps surprisingly accurately - in Aymeric's direction. He smiles, as though sharing in some private joke, or secret, but he answers as though nothing is amiss.
"I manage soldiers and carry out patrols in the Diadem, that we might keep the gatherers safe as they supply the craftsmen in their restoration of our fair - if battered - city."
He thinks to leave it at that, but Gwyneire finds himself curious as to Aymeric's purpose here, so far (relatively, anyway) from the city. What he knows of the Lord Commander, he appreciates and respects, so it seems perhaps a rare chance to get to know the man better, without other immediate demands on his time (from what he has heard, there are usually nigh constant demands on his time). The elezen straightens, gesturing to the empty seat next to him.
The accuracy of that gaze does give him pause, but he reasons that he must be well practiced turning towards the sound of voices when having conversations with another, or perhaps he can see enough to make out the shape of another sitting there, and doesn't think much more on it than that. There's something warm and inviting about the other man's smile, something that makes Aymeric wish he was in on the joke. Mostly, he's just pleased his subterfuge seems to be working.
"Important and valuable work, then." He comments, tone genuine, and the offer earns a smile.
"I'd be delighted," he agrees, lifting his cup and shifting across to the other table. Once he's settled he turns the conversation back to Gwyniere's job.
"How fare the patrols? Do they see much action?" He's aware of the reports and he suspects they're probably accurate, but it's a place to start before he digs into the information that isn't covered in anything official that crosses his desk.
The elezen adjusts as Aymeric settles with him, listening: no clink of chain mail or metal filigree, no rustle of silk. His vision - such as it is - does not deceive him, then. The question that follows, though, is no less than he would expect of the Lord Commander.
When Gwyneire answers, he does not stiffen or affect aught less than that warm, soft tone, but still there is something in the cadence of his speech that speaks to a man reporting to his superior. He wasn't bred into it, perhaps, but he has had plenty of experience of late. "They see regular action, though little outside of the norm," he answers. "The number of sky pirates have dwindled with the increase in laborers on the isles; I can only assume they've decided if aught of value were to be dug up, either it would have been found by now, or the pirates would be discovered ere they found what they sought. Mostly, now, it is curtailing beast- and vilekin that overpopulate and wander beyond their territory, thus threatening the miners and botanists."
It's a comprehensive report and Aymeric is left wondering if this man has given such before - perhaps the affliction with his eyes is a recent one, and he was a soldier of some kind previously. A good man, then, to manage to strike up a conversation with.
"That is often the case when civilisation increases in an area," he muses thoughtfully "do you think they're manned well enough to handle the problem? Or supplied?"
If manpower or gear is a problem, it doesn't always make it as far as him, there are so many people between him and what's really going on these days, it would be nice to know if the reports he's been getting are as accurate as what people are actually seeing.
"I see to it that it is so," answers the elezen, and his voice is not defensive, but neither does it brook accusation. There is a little pride underlying it all, despite himself, a satisfaction hard-earned. He does concede, "As much as can reasonably be spared. Granted, providing protection to the gatherers supplying Ishgard's restoration has been wisely deemed of paramount importance, so I wouldn't consider it a difficult task. What little the soldiers of the Diadem lack, Ishgard herself lacks, as I understand it."
He smiles faintly, sightless eyes flickering elsewhere as though in a brief daydream, or memory. "We have come a long way in such a short time." His attention seems to return to his new companion. He would ask questions in turn, but he finds himself thrown off-balance. The Lord Commander is well out of place here, especially alone, and whatever dress he has donned, it is a far cry from his normal finery. Gwyneire cannot parse the situation, and wishes neither to offend, nor to jeopardize aught - if something might be jeopardized to begin with.
The elezen wonders if he isn't growing too used to the politicking of the High Houses, to be so suspicious. Maybe even the Sea of Clouds is not far enough from the spires of Ishgard.
Aymeric nods along with the explanation, increasingly pleased. He does wish he was able to gather more such stories, to truly confirm that things were as he hoped, but he's glad at least to have achieved this one. The understanding that supplies are scarce all over is reassuring too, he had often worried that people thought their requests ignored when Ishgard simply didn't have the means to fill them.
"That we have." He agrees softly, to the comment about coming a long way. It's easy to forget, sometimes, when it seems there's so much more still to do, but they really have made great progress.
"Are you on your way there again, then? Or is this a journey back to Ishgard?" He asks then, not wanting to get too deep into important questions about troop movements and supply, lest he give himself away as anything more than a curious fellow traveller.
Gwyneire cannot help but marvel - this is certainly the longest conversation he has ever had with the Lord Commander. It's... oddly nice, even if the elezen feels off-kilter for being unable to quite read the situation. Gwyneire has never doubted Aymeric is a man for the people, but having personal confirmation is reassuring.
(And, perhaps privately to himself, Gwyneire must admit he likes the cadence of Aymeric's voice, and the warmth to it.)
"Neither, actually," he answers, and his smile might easily be mistaken for something flirtatious. "I'm staying here, tonight. —Though tomorrow, yes, I will be on my way back to the Diadem. I just like the atmosphere, here, so I go out of my way, sometimes." A momentary pause, and then, "and what about yourself?"
The smile might be mistaken for something flirtatious, but Aymeric only really sees the warmth in it and he smiles back, encouraged by the other man's friendliness.
"I was simply travelling," he admits "exploring, if you will, it's been a time since I was able to see more of this land and I wished to take it all in."
It's a vague excuse but he thought it would be better to avoid specifics and risk giving himself away.
"I had thought to stay here tonight as well, I should see about a room."
The administrative burden of being both Lord Commander and Lord Speaker is extensive, and though Lucia and Handeloup are being a great help in slowly taking over the former, there are still significant requirements on Aymeric's time and attention. He feels as though he spends each day drowning in paperwork - when he is not listening to people complain, extensively, about everything he is or isn't doing - and each night dreaming about paperwork. He is near exhausted with it.
So of course his second cousin just had to get married and demand his presence at the wedding. Oh there had been a lot of noises about providing people with something to celebrate, and how they would just be devastated if Aymeric wasn't able to make it.
(Never mind that said cousin spent a significant chunk of their childhood pushing Aymeric in the dirt and making disparaging remarks about his parentage. At least until Aymeric was strong enough to push back, then he only made those kinds of comments when he had friends around)
Aymeric knew it was nothing to do with him and everything to do with the prestige of having the Lord Speaker as a guest, as though he did not have more important things to do.
Not to mention that particular side of the de Borel family had an annoying tendency to ask him about his love life whenever they saw him, because they seemed to think that all his achievements were for naught if he didn't have someone to share them with. It had been annoying enough before, when he and Haurchefant had been keeping things quiet for the sake of their respective careers, though he'd had a blessed reprieve for a handful of events when they felt they were both in stable enough positions to be more public with their relationship.
But now.... he knows they'll ask again. He knows they won't think about how much it will feel like a knife to his heart, and he will have to grit his teeth and smile politely and endure their faux-sympathetic clucking about how he'll meet someone soon.
That problem, at least, is theoretically resolved. He's still not entirely convinced it's the best idea in the world, but Handeloup had been very insistent that a friend of his would be excellent company and would definitely keep the relatives off his back, and in truth he'd been too tired to argue.
So here he is, in his office, trying to get as much paperwork done as possible before he has to leave and waiting on the arrival of this mysterious friend so they could actually meet one another before they had to go to the wedding as partners.
That Adelard is invited to a Borel wedding is not surprising. He had, after all, invited the house in its greater and lesser names to his own all those years ago. That he is invited to attend on a Borel's arm by a man other than the Borel in question... Well...
Handeloup, as he so often does in a great many matters, acts as though the suggestion is utterly prosaic. The lord commander, now the lord speaker, is beleaguered on all sides by the politics of his work. His cousins are little exception while he grieves, although Handeloup makes no such appeals to Adelard. True, in meeting lords and ladies in the other's efforts to relieve the Brume's poor, Handeloup had borne witness to Adelard victim of the thoughtlessly cruel. But the two are friends well enough, now, that the pretense is unnecessary.
Adelard Vauquelin loves to cause a stir.
He writes at once to his seamster (and then, Handeloup), returning late to Ishgard for errands in Ul'dah— business on his father's behalf, the coffers which keep House Durendaire strong, and the search for an appropriate wedding gift, delivered while Adelard meets his supposed lover as though an apology to consider the matter forgotten. In the days to follow, few will speak of the wedding, or the poor bride, but as little more than pretense for the ensuing gossip.
(Had he felt anything less than kinship for Aymeric Borel's circumstances, Adelard might reconsider the farce.)
In the heart of the Congregation of Our Knights Most Heavenly, Handeloup receives Adelard only with mild exasperation. "For your daughter." "She will be delighted, of course, but if this is anything like the last..." 'Tis a noisemaker of some sort, Handeloup notes. The package jingles softly. Handeloup escorts Adelard to the lord commander's office— or rather, the door to the lord commander's office —where Adelard playfully waves him away. Handeloup agrees the two meet best privately. Adelard raps gently on the door and enters when bid.
"Lord Commander," he greets; his smile, easy and warm, the lingering mirth perhaps intended for Handeloup. "Although I admire your dedication..." Adelard closes the door behind him. He turns to the man before him. "I do believe we have a wedding to attend."
In ways, Adelard appears little different than usual for a meeting of highborn; his hair, gathered prettily but simply, artfully loose pieces falling more to the left side of his face than the right. Beneath the fur collar of Adelard's cloak, however— the wool, a feathery grey lighter than the silver of his hair —the neck of Adelard's evening gown sits high: a deep velvet blue, equally visible beneath the cloak's hem whenever Adelard shifts just so.
When the knock on his door comes Aymeric calls for them to enter without even thinking about it, only realising as the door is opening that it's likely to be his intended date and he should have at least taken a moment to steel himself, instead Adelard enters to the sight of Aymeric still looking slightly harried, hair a little bit of a mess from running his hand through it in frustration and pen still poised over the latest piece of nonsense from one of the other high houses.
Which happens to be the exact same position Aymeric stay in for a long moment as he stares at the man in his doorway. Surely it wasn't... surely Handeloup wouldn't have... and yet, there he is. Adelard Vauquelin, stunningly beautiful as ever, easy smile and - if the glimpses of velvet beneath his cloak are anything to go by - almost certainly dressed to kill.
No big deal, just his teenage fantasies brought to life and standing in his office, waiting to be his date.
Aymeric snaps out of his, clearing his throat and setting his pen down, his smile slightly sheepish.
"Forgive me, I was completely lost in thought." He says smoothly, standing from his desk - the paperwork, unfortunately, will have to wait - and stepping around so he can offer his hand to Adelard in greeting.
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timeasmymeasure
hitting you with one of those ludicrously big openers
Date: 2024-04-01 04:07 pm (UTC)Color. The way every maid and mother, every old man and young soldier -- even Alberic -- prattled on about it, grayscale should've given way with a splash to something euphoric, ecstatic, life-changing. Like the first real spring day after a long, long winter, or a hard won victory after endless battle. Estinien hadn't expected even that much, but since opening his eyes again after that dreadful battle, he has seen little more than gray.
The wintry Coerthas landscape, gray. The morning sky, ever gray. Ishgard itself, gray, gray, gray.
It's not that he's disappointed -- it doesn't really matter, anyway -- but... where he'd first found color, well. It'd been red, mostly. Dark crimson smears on snow, on his armor, on the bodies of fallen comrades. A rich color to match a rich smell.
All that horrid red... and a hint of blue. Blue, like an early winter morning, like a dip in a river on a hot summer day.
He's looked for its like since, but, confined mostly to a hospital bed, has had little luck finding it. He's discovered green in poultices and plants, and orange in flame, and earthy browns near everywhere, but no sign of that silver blue.
There is only one place to find it, though that is absolutely not the reason he'd agreed to a drink with that Aymeric fellow. It is a kindness repaid, is all -- the knight had requested a drink in exchange for a life saved, and Estinien was not so boorish as to reject him. It's nothing to do with those eyes, nor the fact that color had only happened once Aymeric had roused him on the battlefield.
Estinien tells himself all that as he sets foot in The Forgotten Knight. And he believes it, because Estinien is not given to doubt. What he is given to, though, is tardiness. He finds Aymeric already seated at a lone dark wood table and joins him without ceremony.
"You're here, Aymeric," he says by way of greeting, showing off that he has, in fact, finally committed the knight's name to memory. "Recovering well?"
and responding in kind...
Date: 2024-04-01 05:09 pm (UTC)Aymeric tries to pretend he is pragmatic and duty-bound and ambitious, and truly he is all of those things, but he's also idealistic and friendly and something of an incurable romantic, so he has been waiting for the moment his world filled with colour practically since he was a child.
He tells himself the reason he makes a point of noticing the people around him and at least trying to be kind to them is that he refuses to overlook anyone for the circumstances of their birth, that he knows he needs to acquit himself well and prove himself and getting people on his side is part of that, that you never know when a kind word or a friendly smile might completely change somebody's day... or any number of a dozen other reasons he could come up with if somebody asked, that didn't involve admitting the truth that really, truly, he was just looking for them.
He'd come up with half a dozen idle fantasies over the years, of how it might happen, but none of them had involved a group of temple knights sparring on a muddy training field and one perfect cheekbone smudged with rich, earthy brown. The colour has blossomed from there and it seemed to fill the world - even the chainmail shifted from grey to shining silver - but what had caught Aymeric's eye the most was the way one knight's hair remained snow-white, just as it had been before everything changed.
That knight, he later learned, was Estinien, who seemed to eschew company in all its form whenever he got the chance. Aymeric thought he was breathtaking, and found himself hoping against hope that he was the one who had sparked that explosion of colour, although it could well have been any one of half a dozen knights who had been fighting that day.
He'd been trying to make cautious enquiries ever since, slowly adding potential names to his list and then crossing them off one by one - in between training, of course, there was no way he was letting that slack.
He'd hoped to catch Estinien alone when they were put in the same unit, but the mission to Ever Lakes had come up before he had the chance and then... well, then he had to deal with all of that.
It hadn't seemed like the right time, when the dragon was defeated, so he'd made his invitation for a drink and hoped that soon enough he'd have his answer.
When the evening comes - once Estinien is fully recovered from the experience - he finds himself staring into his tankard and wondering if perhaps he should have paid closer attention to all those lone wolf allegations, until he catches movement out the corner of his eye and looks up to see Estinien - late, but here, and that's all that matters.
He smiles warmly in response to his name and nods.
"Estinien," he greets in return "Yes, thank you, though my injures were naught compared to yours. 'tis good to see you on your feet again, my friend."
Whether or not Aymeric considering him a friend so soon, even after what they went through, is welcome or not, it's happening. He motions for Estinien to sit and waves for the barmaid to bring him a drink.
you love to see it
Date: 2024-04-02 12:40 am (UTC)"Aye, 'tis good to be on them again. I do not care to sit idle," Estinien replies as he slides into the offered seat, acutely aware that the charismatic knight has him at a disadvantage.
He does not frown, but neither does he make an effort not to look gruff. Rather, he levels his own storm cloud gaze at Aymeric, and instantly finds that silver blue he'd been hunting for, lit to sunset color by the Forgotten Knight's dim firelight.
Though he thinks he should, he cannot break Aymeric's gaze. "You're handy with a bow."
Re: you love to see it
Date: 2024-04-02 01:02 am (UTC)"I have heard as much," Aymeric admits with a tilt of his head. No sooner are the words out of his mouth than he's wondering if he should have said them - he thinks, perhaps, he can pass it off as the result of idle gossip among the other knights and not an admission that he'd gone asking around about Estinien. If asked, anyway, he may not be an entirely polished diplomat but he's at least learned the value of not volunteering information when he doesn't need to. Mostly.
Then Estinien meets his eyes and his breath catches. There's something nigh on religious about being subject to Estinien's full attention - he's an unfairly beautiful man who is notoriously stand-offish, of course it's going to feel good when he looks at you, but Aymeric is not prepared for the way it feels like a blessing from the Fury herself to be subject to that inscrutable gaze.
(It's not even the first time it's happened, now, and yet.)
He tilts his head in a silent thank you for the compliment - he is, he thinks, doing a remarkable job at keeping his expression friendly, but neutral, and entirely hiding the fact that his heart is doing backflips in his chest right now.
"I intend to master the sword as well, of course, but I confess it is a comfort to have a bow in my hand against an enemy that flies." He admits.
"Though you certainly have no need of a bow, your skill with a lance is... truly something special."
i swear i don't write exclusively bad characters, it just really really seems like it
Date: 2024-04-02 06:49 am (UTC)Estinien arches a brow, wondering, "Asking around about me, are you?"
He is teasing, but the skill is a rusty one, left by the wayside in the ruins of Ferndale, and it leaves him sounding too serious. His gaze, still fixed and focused on Aymeric, does not help to more honestly convey his intent.
"Then, you'll already know that I learned from the best." He doesn't elaborate. If the temple knights are already gossiping about his day-to-day habits, then surely they know he is the ward of the Azure Dragoon. The noble houses love that sort of thing.
"And if you know that, then perhaps I should be paying closer attention to you. To keep us on even footing."
no but I love them. Also sorry about the formatting fail last post
Date: 2024-04-02 11:31 pm (UTC)Aymeric dips his head just slightly, he has just enough composure to keep from blushing, but it's a close thing. Instead, he manages a slightly rueful smile.
"Well, you caught my attention." He says easily, more easily than he actually feels. Being this close to Estinien, firelight shining in his silver hair, makes him feel like there's lightning under his skin, like all his calm confidence has decided to vanish for the evening and he's left wondering where his arms are supposed to go.
He tries not to think about it too hard, focuses instead on what Estinien's saying, inclines his head in agreement - he does know where Estinien learned all his tricks, but that doesn't make him any less impressive.
He laughs softly at the comment.
"Ah, I am not so terribly interesting." He says dismissively - in direct contrast to the overwhelming amount of gossip that he knows is constantly flying around him. It seems to dog his steps everywhere he turns - in truth, it was almost a relief to find somebody who knew so little about him they didn't even know his name.
Though, now that Estinien has actually learned it, he could stand to hear it fall from those lips again, in any number of wonderful tones...
no worries! in this house we roll with formatting goof ups
Date: 2024-04-03 02:15 am (UTC)Admittedly, he knows next to nothing about Aymeric de Borel. Hadn't paid much mind to any of the long list of lord's sons and brothers and wards that had once filled their unit's ranks. Another pretty face in the gray sea of them. Before Ever Lakes, to look at any one of them would've been but an unnecessary distraction. There were loftier goals to be pursued, more righteous causes to champion.
But then, Ever Lakes had happened. And now, their unit numbers just two. Two, and of them, it is not Estinien who had left the field of battle unscathed. Two, when there had been so many more, and somewhere between those numbers, many and few, color had seeped into Estinien's world. Soft peach, raven black, crystalline blue.
A distraction, utterly impossible to ignore, but perhaps earned.
Finally, Estinien lets his gaze fall. He studies the mottled browns in the wood, the pale rings where ale and cheap wine had been spilled. Tries, stubbornly, to find something even half as interesting as the color in Aymeric's eyes. "You outlasted the rest of us at Ever Lakes. Tracked me to that ravine. However you did it--" and he is curious "--such dedication to the cause is...commendable."
<3
Date: 2024-04-03 12:44 pm (UTC)Aymeric smiles slightly, tilting his head to concede the point - and accept the implied compliment.
He wouldn't mind so much, he thinks, being subject to Estinien's attention. It would feel like a victory he never expected to crave, for one, but more importantly everything he's learned about Estinien implies that he would care more about who Aymeric is and what he can do than he'd listen to petty gossip or familial reputation. He'd like to be measured on his own deeds and not where he came from.
(It's a desire shared by a lot of knights, he knows, and yet despite that so many of them will still judge each other for the very thing they don't wish to be judged for themselves)
Estinien looking away is at once a relief and disappointment. He felt caught by those eyes as surely as if they were a lance pinning him in place, it was an intense feeling... but he didn't hate it.
(He shouldn't let his mind linger on the idea of Estinien pinning him into place, it brings other thoughts that are rather difficult to ignore)
"Stubbornness, I think," he admits with a faint smile "and a certain determination. Traits you clearly share, given your single minded pursuit of our foe..."
lads is it gay to ask a cute boy to sword fight with you
Date: 2024-04-03 07:59 pm (UTC)"We have something in common?" he wonders, amused but unsure. Estinien's stubbornness has never been hailed as a virtue -- at least, not 'til now. Charmless obstinance, a tutor had called it that once, and that had been one of the nicer descriptions.
No teacher, no master, would ever call Ser Aymeric's own stubbornness charmless or obstinate -- that much is obvious from a glance.
Aymeric, Estinien thinks to himself, tipping his gaze up to examine him through his lashes, has the makings of a classic Ishgardian hero. Estinien may not have known him before, but Ever Lakes had shown him to be steadfast. Just foolhardy enough to be courageous instead of stupid. And, looking at him now, fine featured and carefully composed, with that mysterious smile--oh, yes, the bards will be singing of him.
So, it feels strange to have their qualities compared favorably, and by the man himself even. Is it idle flattery? Probably. In the city proper, it so often is, but Estinien doesn't really care. No, as he tips his chin back up, he decides that he would not at all mind being idly flattered by Ser Aymeric for an evening.
The bar maid returns with a flagon at just that moment, stopping Estinien from getting annoyed with himself for having such useless thoughts. He accepts the drink with a nod of thanks, doing his best impression of even composure, then turns his attention back to Aymeric.
"Aye, perhaps we do." They call him a lone wolf for a reason. Why form attachments when it seems the fate of soldiers and common folk is to die in fire? Why worry about anything but stopping this war? He is not given to putting names to faces, let alone forging bonds. So, he isn't sure why he decides to add, "Grounds enough to me. Even if our superiors see fit to put us in separate units, I would not mind training with you from time to time. Lance against sword?"
idk but Aymeric's gonna make it gay
Date: 2024-04-04 12:25 am (UTC)Aymeric's lips quirk into a slight smile at Estinien's musing - he doesn't sound convinced, but Aymeric is. He's a little - or a lot - more diplomatic than Estinien is, he can already tell that much, but that doesn't make him any less determined to see his goals realised. He just does it in a slightly different way.
Then Estinien is looking up through his lashes and Aymeric is struck by just how impossibly beautiful he is. All cool shades and sharp edges like he's been carved from marble, or ice, but there's nothing cold about him at all - no, Estinien is heat and fire and passion that draws Aymeric in like a moth. It should make him just as untouchable, but against all good sense Aymeric finds himself more than willing to get burned.
Estinien has to be the one, surely, his soulmate. Aymeric has never wanted anyone like this, not ever.
His smile grows a little wider at the offer and he nods with a barely a moment's hesitation.
"I would be delighted to go a few rounds with you... in the training field." He says smoothly. The pause is brief, brief enough that one might be forgiven for thinking they imagined, or for missing it altogether. It's definitely there, though.
making it worse
Date: 2024-04-04 01:28 am (UTC)He is not given to noticing little pauses, to picking up on implied meanings, or bothering to acknowledge them on the rare occasion when he does. But this one? This one he notices, like grasping hot metal.
It's the color, he decides in that moment. This is what happens to everyone. You see a person, and suddenly you're mad with little distractions -- midnight dark hair, impossibly blue eyes, and slender shoulders that belie what must surely be a strong form.
What an absolute waste of time. Estinien takes a drink, hoping the ale will cool some of the heat building under his skin. It does not. So in the next second, he resolves to solve this insistent feeling by satisfying it.
...After a bit of fun.
Estinien's faint smirk pulls into a grin, "And if you can best me there, perhaps elsewhere, as well."
worse...or better? (Both)
From:nearby patrons are getting up to leave because the UST is disrupting the vibe
From:they're just jealous
From:me, too tbh
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From:i powerplayed a wee bit for the handwave so plz plz let me know if that wasn't cool and I'll edit!!
From:No it's perfect <3
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From:patented "oh no I'm about to feel a feeling" Estinien Exit
From:classic
From:"i have struggled in vain and i can bear it no longer..." but make it AGGRESSIVELY Worse
From:better*
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From:now i reveal that i wanted to do the tie so i could write a litely trashy tag
From:a perfectly reasonable reason XD
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From:need to start writing less bad characters sigh
From:'bad' is a weird way to spell perfect
From:i appreciate that you love this lad
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From:lmk if this skips too much
From:no it is perfect here have some trash also sorry i took so long to reply ;A;
From:worth the wait!
From:i already told you i love that tag but i have to say it again djaklf
From:<3
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From:just letting them have some fun
From:Re: just letting them have some fun
From:probably ftb after this lmaooo sob sorry!!!
From:<3
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From:The mortifying ordeal of being known
Date: 2024-08-03 11:28 am (UTC)He should have known it wasn't going to work. He'd tried it in the city first, taken off his distinctive armour and dressed more plainly, but he'd become too recognisable, even in the Brume, people still watched what they said around him and treated him like the Lord Speaker. He barely even managed to introduce himself with the alias he'd come up with before they'd be greeting him.
Surely outside the city's walls it would be different.... right?
Apparently not. Aymeric was beginning to suspect somebody had warned the camps in advance that he was coming, because surely he wasn't so recognisable that everybody knew who he was, did they?
(Of course, most of the people in the camps were or had been temple knights who knew him as the Lord Commander, and he hadn't really accounted for that)
He'd stopped at a tavern on the road, almost ready to give up. Nobody here immediately seemed to recognise him in his travelling clothes, which buoyed his spirits more than he cared to admit.
(He'd been so pleased with his plan that it was a disappointment to have found it so ineffective. Well, that and maybe he just wanted to be the one off playing the adventurer for once...)
Once he's settled with his ale he decides to give the whole thing one more last-ditch attempt, and leans over to the patron at the table beside his.
"Well met, friend." He offers in a friendly tone "Do you live around here, or are you a fellow traveller on these roads?"
no subject
Date: 2024-08-03 04:17 pm (UTC)This tavern, though, he likes. The patrons are largely masons and carpenters and laborers, far from the politics of the Pillars. With his station in the Diadem and work in the restoration, many of them know him by name. Tonight, though, he is content in silence and his own thoughts, mulling over reports. A voice drags him from his thoughts, and he would swear that he knows it - and that the voice does not belong here.
Pale, blind eyes turn to the Lord Commander, and Gwyneire's brows raise in surprise; first, because the Lord Commander is here, well out of the way and seemingly with no escort; and second, that the man does not recognize him. Though, Gwyneire reasons, he is no Warrior of Light - and his work has kept him far from the grand salons and soirees of the High Houses. And, he looks a little different these days than the last they met after Nidhogg's defeat.
"In Ishgard—" he almost adds on 'my lord,' though as he takes in the lines of aether that make up his vision these days, Gwyneire realizes the shape of the man's clothing is not the armor he usually wears. Something about the situation gives the elezen pause, so he only smiles in return. "Though my work keeps me in the Sea of Clouds, most days." It would be polite to ask in return, if he did not know the man, but he does... though Gwyneire is not entirely sure he wants to be known. So he smiles, still, inviting, but does not venture anything else to allow Aymeric to steer the conversation.
no subject
Date: 2024-08-18 11:15 pm (UTC)There is something vaguely familiar about the other man but Aymeric can't quite place his finger on it, and he's too swept up in satisfaction to examine it too closely; there's no immediately indication that the other knows him, and if Aymeric is any judge of those pale eyes there's a chance he won't recognise him - not by sight, anyway.
He puts the initial surprise down to the fact that he struck up a conversation out of nowhere, wilful ignorance perhaps but he's had a long and unsuccessful journey and he'll take whatever win he can manage.
"Oh? What work is that?" He continues - it's a suitably generic question just in case he's getting carried away and he has somehow been recognised, but he's hopeful for the first time since leaving the city.
Aymeric............ love him lmao
Date: 2024-08-19 12:00 am (UTC)"I manage soldiers and carry out patrols in the Diadem, that we might keep the gatherers safe as they supply the craftsmen in their restoration of our fair - if battered - city."
He thinks to leave it at that, but Gwyneire finds himself curious as to Aymeric's purpose here, so far (relatively, anyway) from the city. What he knows of the Lord Commander, he appreciates and respects, so it seems perhaps a rare chance to get to know the man better, without other immediate demands on his time (from what he has heard, there are usually nigh constant demands on his time). The elezen straightens, gesturing to the empty seat next to him.
"Care to share a drink?"
He's doing his best
Date: 2024-08-19 12:16 am (UTC)The accuracy of that gaze does give him pause, but he reasons that he must be well practiced turning towards the sound of voices when having conversations with another, or perhaps he can see enough to make out the shape of another sitting there, and doesn't think much more on it than that. There's something warm and inviting about the other man's smile, something that makes Aymeric wish he was in on the joke. Mostly, he's just pleased his subterfuge seems to be working.
"Important and valuable work, then." He comments, tone genuine, and the offer earns a smile.
"I'd be delighted," he agrees, lifting his cup and shifting across to the other table. Once he's settled he turns the conversation back to Gwyniere's job.
"How fare the patrols? Do they see much action?" He's aware of the reports and he suspects they're probably accurate, but it's a place to start before he digs into the information that isn't covered in anything official that crosses his desk.
no subject
Date: 2024-08-19 01:22 am (UTC)When Gwyneire answers, he does not stiffen or affect aught less than that warm, soft tone, but still there is something in the cadence of his speech that speaks to a man reporting to his superior. He wasn't bred into it, perhaps, but he has had plenty of experience of late. "They see regular action, though little outside of the norm," he answers. "The number of sky pirates have dwindled with the increase in laborers on the isles; I can only assume they've decided if aught of value were to be dug up, either it would have been found by now, or the pirates would be discovered ere they found what they sought. Mostly, now, it is curtailing beast- and vilekin that overpopulate and wander beyond their territory, thus threatening the miners and botanists."
no subject
Date: 2024-10-20 11:51 pm (UTC)It's a comprehensive report and Aymeric is left wondering if this man has given such before - perhaps the affliction with his eyes is a recent one, and he was a soldier of some kind previously. A good man, then, to manage to strike up a conversation with.
"That is often the case when civilisation increases in an area," he muses thoughtfully "do you think they're manned well enough to handle the problem? Or supplied?"
If manpower or gear is a problem, it doesn't always make it as far as him, there are so many people between him and what's really going on these days, it would be nice to know if the reports he's been getting are as accurate as what people are actually seeing.
no subject
Date: 2024-10-21 03:42 am (UTC)He smiles faintly, sightless eyes flickering elsewhere as though in a brief daydream, or memory. "We have come a long way in such a short time." His attention seems to return to his new companion. He would ask questions in turn, but he finds himself thrown off-balance. The Lord Commander is well out of place here, especially alone, and whatever dress he has donned, it is a far cry from his normal finery. Gwyneire cannot parse the situation, and wishes neither to offend, nor to jeopardize aught - if something might be jeopardized to begin with.
The elezen wonders if he isn't growing too used to the politicking of the High Houses, to be so suspicious. Maybe even the Sea of Clouds is not far enough from the spires of Ishgard.
no subject
Date: 2024-10-23 11:49 pm (UTC)Aymeric nods along with the explanation, increasingly pleased. He does wish he was able to gather more such stories, to truly confirm that things were as he hoped, but he's glad at least to have achieved this one. The understanding that supplies are scarce all over is reassuring too, he had often worried that people thought their requests ignored when Ishgard simply didn't have the means to fill them.
"That we have." He agrees softly, to the comment about coming a long way. It's easy to forget, sometimes, when it seems there's so much more still to do, but they really have made great progress.
"Are you on your way there again, then? Or is this a journey back to Ishgard?" He asks then, not wanting to get too deep into important questions about troop movements and supply, lest he give himself away as anything more than a curious fellow traveller.
no subject
Date: 2024-11-06 06:37 pm (UTC)(And, perhaps privately to himself, Gwyneire must admit he likes the cadence of Aymeric's voice, and the warmth to it.)
"Neither, actually," he answers, and his smile might easily be mistaken for something flirtatious. "I'm staying here, tonight. —Though tomorrow, yes, I will be on my way back to the Diadem. I just like the atmosphere, here, so I go out of my way, sometimes." A momentary pause, and then, "and what about yourself?"
no subject
Date: 2024-11-08 12:24 am (UTC)The smile might be mistaken for something flirtatious, but Aymeric only really sees the warmth in it and he smiles back, encouraged by the other man's friendliness.
"I was simply travelling," he admits "exploring, if you will, it's been a time since I was able to see more of this land and I wished to take it all in."
It's a vague excuse but he thought it would be better to avoid specifics and risk giving himself away.
"I had thought to stay here tonight as well, I should see about a room."
My Big Fat Ishgardian Wedding
Date: 2025-03-24 12:25 am (UTC)So of course his second cousin just had to get married and demand his presence at the wedding. Oh there had been a lot of noises about providing people with something to celebrate, and how they would just be devastated if Aymeric wasn't able to make it.
(Never mind that said cousin spent a significant chunk of their childhood pushing Aymeric in the dirt and making disparaging remarks about his parentage. At least until Aymeric was strong enough to push back, then he only made those kinds of comments when he had friends around)
Aymeric knew it was nothing to do with him and everything to do with the prestige of having the Lord Speaker as a guest, as though he did not have more important things to do.
Not to mention that particular side of the de Borel family had an annoying tendency to ask him about his love life whenever they saw him, because they seemed to think that all his achievements were for naught if he didn't have someone to share them with. It had been annoying enough before, when he and Haurchefant had been keeping things quiet for the sake of their respective careers, though he'd had a blessed reprieve for a handful of events when they felt they were both in stable enough positions to be more public with their relationship.
But now.... he knows they'll ask again. He knows they won't think about how much it will feel like a knife to his heart, and he will have to grit his teeth and smile politely and endure their faux-sympathetic clucking about how he'll meet someone soon.
That problem, at least, is theoretically resolved. He's still not entirely convinced it's the best idea in the world, but Handeloup had been very insistent that a friend of his would be excellent company and would definitely keep the relatives off his back, and in truth he'd been too tired to argue.
So here he is, in his office, trying to get as much paperwork done as possible before he has to leave and waiting on the arrival of this mysterious friend so they could actually meet one another before they had to go to the wedding as partners.
How did he get himself into these situations?
no subject
Date: 2025-04-29 07:07 am (UTC)Handeloup, as he so often does in a great many matters, acts as though the suggestion is utterly prosaic. The lord commander, now the lord speaker, is beleaguered on all sides by the politics of his work. His cousins are little exception while he grieves, although Handeloup makes no such appeals to Adelard. True, in meeting lords and ladies in the other's efforts to relieve the Brume's poor, Handeloup had borne witness to Adelard victim of the thoughtlessly cruel. But the two are friends well enough, now, that the pretense is unnecessary.
Adelard Vauquelin loves to cause a stir.
He writes at once to his seamster (and then, Handeloup), returning late to Ishgard for errands in Ul'dah— business on his father's behalf, the coffers which keep House Durendaire strong, and the search for an appropriate wedding gift, delivered while Adelard meets his supposed lover as though an apology to consider the matter forgotten. In the days to follow, few will speak of the wedding, or the poor bride, but as little more than pretense for the ensuing gossip.
(Had he felt anything less than kinship for Aymeric Borel's circumstances, Adelard might reconsider the farce.)
In the heart of the Congregation of Our Knights Most Heavenly, Handeloup receives Adelard only with mild exasperation. "For your daughter." "She will be delighted, of course, but if this is anything like the last..." 'Tis a noisemaker of some sort, Handeloup notes. The package jingles softly. Handeloup escorts Adelard to the lord commander's office— or rather, the door to the lord commander's office —where Adelard playfully waves him away. Handeloup agrees the two meet best privately. Adelard raps gently on the door and enters when bid.
"Lord Commander," he greets; his smile, easy and warm, the lingering mirth perhaps intended for Handeloup. "Although I admire your dedication..." Adelard closes the door behind him. He turns to the man before him. "I do believe we have a wedding to attend."
In ways, Adelard appears little different than usual for a meeting of highborn; his hair, gathered prettily but simply, artfully loose pieces falling more to the left side of his face than the right. Beneath the fur collar of Adelard's cloak, however— the wool, a feathery grey lighter than the silver of his hair —the neck of Adelard's evening gown sits high: a deep velvet blue, equally visible beneath the cloak's hem whenever Adelard shifts just so.
no subject
Date: 2025-05-02 07:59 am (UTC)When the knock on his door comes Aymeric calls for them to enter without even thinking about it, only realising as the door is opening that it's likely to be his intended date and he should have at least taken a moment to steel himself, instead Adelard enters to the sight of Aymeric still looking slightly harried, hair a little bit of a mess from running his hand through it in frustration and pen still poised over the latest piece of nonsense from one of the other high houses.
Which happens to be the exact same position Aymeric stay in for a long moment as he stares at the man in his doorway. Surely it wasn't... surely Handeloup wouldn't have... and yet, there he is. Adelard Vauquelin, stunningly beautiful as ever, easy smile and - if the glimpses of velvet beneath his cloak are anything to go by - almost certainly dressed to kill.
No big deal, just his teenage fantasies brought to life and standing in his office, waiting to be his date.
Aymeric snaps out of his, clearing his throat and setting his pen down, his smile slightly sheepish.
"Forgive me, I was completely lost in thought." He says smoothly, standing from his desk - the paperwork, unfortunately, will have to wait - and stepping around so he can offer his hand to Adelard in greeting.
"It has been some time since last we met."
(Oh gods, would Adelard even remember that?)