"Aye, give me your all," says Estinien, locking his eyes with Aymeric for just a second, then shoring up every inch of his willpower to turn and leave, because the alternative would almost certainly jeopardize their little bet.
Even two days is almost too much, now. Estinien spends them in training, because it's the only thing he can do to keep that blue-eyed knight from haunting his mind. A part of him does still thinks himself bewitched, thinks this infatuation a madness that he will be cured just as soon as Estinien's had him. But... the thought settles uneven in his chest. Melancholy would be a word for it, were Estinien the sort to put names to his feelings. This must end, but does he want it to?
Want doesn't really figure into it, though. Whether it carries on or not is, he supposes, in Ayemric's hands, now. House Borel's ward is more than adept enough to best him at this point.
And, naturally, he does.
It is their longest and fiercest battle yet. Estinien may be relentless, peerless with lance in hand, but Aymeric is by far the greater tactician, the cleverer fighter. And when Aymeric finally knocks the lance from Estinien's hands and points his blade at his chest, the would-be dragoon can't help but grin. Panting, breathless, he moves to the side just enough to let the blade slip between his arm and torso, very nearly up to the hilt and certainly into Aymeric's space, a little like play fighting.
"You've won me, Ser Aymeric," he observes, the fire in his eyes not even slightly dimished for his exhaustion.
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Even two days is almost too much, now. Estinien spends them in training, because it's the only thing he can do to keep that blue-eyed knight from haunting his mind. A part of him does still thinks himself bewitched, thinks this infatuation a madness that he will be cured just as soon as Estinien's had him. But... the thought settles uneven in his chest. Melancholy would be a word for it, were Estinien the sort to put names to his feelings. This must end, but does he want it to?
Want doesn't really figure into it, though. Whether it carries on or not is, he supposes, in Ayemric's hands, now. House Borel's ward is more than adept enough to best him at this point.
And, naturally, he does.
It is their longest and fiercest battle yet. Estinien may be relentless, peerless with lance in hand, but Aymeric is by far the greater tactician, the cleverer fighter. And when Aymeric finally knocks the lance from Estinien's hands and points his blade at his chest, the would-be dragoon can't help but grin. Panting, breathless, he moves to the side just enough to let the blade slip between his arm and torso, very nearly up to the hilt and certainly into Aymeric's space, a little like play fighting.
"You've won me, Ser Aymeric," he observes, the fire in his eyes not even slightly dimished for his exhaustion.