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Sid tries to mind his own business. For Aymeric's sake, if naught else. His winters of standing in the corner of the Forgotten Knight ought to count for something, even in the presence of the most irritating excuses for people he's ever had the displeasure to share oxygen with.
Unfortunately, as a guard, he cannot drown his inhibitions with drink. He's been expressly forbidden – by himself. If aught were to happen to Aymeric while he was off stuffing his face with canapés (whatever those are; those perfumed carpet stains won't shut up about them) he'd never forgive himself.
“ I hear he slew his own father.” A man's voice pierces his peace of mind like a knife into flesh. Sid grinds his teeth. Ignore it, Orl.
The cacophony continues.
“Oh, how terrible,” gasps a woman who looks as though she's never so much as lifted her own fork off of a table. “To hurt such a feeble old man…”
“And so pious!” A second harpy, cheeks so rouged her makeup may as well have been done by an undertaker, takes up the banner.
They could be speaking of any pious old man slain by his son , he tells himself. Naught of his business.
“If you ask me, he's been biding his time for years,” the first buffoon continues, elongating every other word like the only conversation he's ever had is with his own reflection. “Rather pitiful that he hadn't even the patience to wait for him to die of his own accord. He was getting rather up there, you know.”
If you ask Sid , he's been rather gracious not to run the arse through, but no one asked Sid.
“They say he's taken on rather savage company,” the oaf continues. ”Allowing Garleans to serve at his side? That mongrel and her riffraff?” His voice drops to a whisper, though he does a poor job lowering his volume. “And what of that thing he's got lurking in the corner?
Cue the chorus of scandalized gasps.
Could be any savage beast , Sid tells himself. His tail curls in, wraps around his leg.
“If you ask me, he's positively reveling in our downfall. Why, come summer, he'll have all of us civilized folk on our hands and knees scrubbing the streets, with that beast cracking the whip!” Fury above, allow him to quit this. He hasn't the strength. He's exhausted every benefit of his doubt.
Though he cannot say that if Aymeric handed him a whip for these dogs, he'd not revel in it.
Canapés. Swive. Rielle is right: He's a tendency to fly off the handle when he's hungry. The snack table will be those vultures’ salvation. A shame he'll have to pass them to get there.
He counts his steps: one, two, three, four, five. Swive, it feels a malm. Deep breaths, dark knight. Six, seven–
“If you ask me, Lord Aymeric ought to be cast into the Witchdrop with the rest of them.”
Sid's fist strikes pampered, powdered cheek and the pompous arse’s head cracks so hard to the side it pulls the rest of him down with it.
“Keep his name out of your mouth,” Sid says.
One of the harpies, the scrawny one, claps her hand over her mouth. The other shrieks, shrill enough that even Sid flinches.
“You–” The insect on the ground has the gall to gawk at him, his jaw still crooked as though stuck in place from the punch.
Shite. He's begun what Lucia likes to call “an incident.”
“P-please!” whimpers the one who shrieked, blonde and weeping, large rubies dangling from her pointed ears. “I'll give you anything! Anything you wish!”
“You've naught that I want .” Sid should know by now that there is naught he can do to appease these people. And yet he tries.
That woman shrieks again . “Halone protect us! He means to kill us!”
“What?” he asks as his fingers brush Deathbringer’s pommel. Shite. He drops his arm. “I do not –” But Fury, is he starting to wish he did. How would Aymeric reason with these people? He settles on, “You misunderstand–”
“Guards!” The smug bastard hasn't even pushed himself to his feet, surely to make himself appear all the more the victim. Sid hopes he pisses himself.
He doesn't fight the guards who seize his arms, one on either side, nor does he pay any mind to the saber pointed at his throat. If they were any serious threat, they'd have been on him sooner – he could have killed their master in the time it took them to arrive. They're lucky he's so merciful.
Funny. In all of his imaginings of how he may go, “execution at the hands of a mildly scorned noble” had ranked very low on his list of possibilities. He's grown careless, it seems. Overconfident. ‘Twould have been nice to kill the bastard first, at least. He prays his execution is apology enough for ruining Aymeric's ridiculous party.
“ Enough .” A voice like a gale cuts through the clamor and hits Sid like a sedative. Aymeric. “What is the meaning of this?”
The slime on the ground finally pushed himself to his feet, brushing himself off with an air of satisfaction. “Your dog attacked me,” he hums. Sid growls and thrashes. His captors tighten their holds.
“Perhaps you should not have provoked him, Lord Dumanche,” says Aymeric, voice steady and cool like a glacier, “This man is my guard. Release him.”
The shock on that pellet of chocobo shite’s face is almost more satisfying than his death would have been.
“Lord Speaker!” He says the name as though he’s calling him “dog” or “bastard” instead. Were Sid not presently restrained, he might have decked him anew.
“I said,” says Aymeric, and Sid remembers that his partner did not come into his position by chance, “release him.” The hands on Sid's arms obey. In spite of himself, Sid shivers.
“Lord Speaker –”
Aymeric bows his head in placating farewell. “Enjoy the party, Lord Dumanche.” Then, nodding to Sid, he turns on his heel.
Sid follows, though not without a final glare at the noble whose name he hasn’t bothered to process… and his three lackeys, for good measure.
Aymeric leads him onto the balcony, air chill but sky uncharacteristically clear for this time of year. A waxing moon spills their shadows across the floor, a figure grasping the railing and his companion, still looming despite his hunch. The companion shadow's tail flicks idly.
The stars shine brightly as ever, welcome companions after his company inside.
“What happened?” The question leaves Aymeric's mouth, so soft Sid wonders if he imagined it.
“The arse deserved it,” says Sid.
Aymeric shakes his head. “I didn't ask whether he deserved it. I asked you what happened.”
Sid has never been more aware of Aymeric's position than he is now, formulating responses like he's on trial with Aymeric as his interrogator.
In a battle of wills, Aymeric will always win. “I couldn't hold myself back. He'd naught but scorn for Ishgard’s allies. For you.” A huff. “I punched him.”
Closing his eyes, Aymeric sighs. “ Sidurgu –”
“I know what you're going to say. You needn't.”
“I must ,” the lord speaker insists.
His guard desists. “Aye.”
The lord speaker softens, his shoulders drooping like ice at the tail end of a sunny day. “You cannot carry on this way.”
Sid's tail thwacks against the railing. “If you'd heard the shite pouring from his mouth–”
“I've heard it before, Sidurgu.” He halts another protest with a sharp look. Then, exhausted, his eyes fall back to the city below. “Aught that you have heard in one night, I have heard tenfold.” Softly enough that the words might not be intended for Sid at all, he says, “If I do not bear that brunt… then someone else will.”
Sid's not seen such exhaustion in a man's eyes since he glimpsed his own reflection the week after losing Fray. He sidles in close, just enough not to draw the suspicion and further ire of the party’s esteemed guests.
Through grit teeth, he says, “Aye.” The railing clangs against another slap of tail.
To Sid's surprise, Aymeric smiles. He's always been rather taken with his tail, like a child with a toy. “But if I may confess something to you… It was rather gallant of you to defend my honor so.”
Another clang, followed by a huff. The guard rests his elbows on the railing.
“You needn’t tease,” he says.
The lord commander chuckles. “I believe I am entitled a tease after you ruined my party, ser knight.”
A scoff is the guard’s only protest. “Aye. I allowed my anger to get the better of me.”
“Perhaps. But ‘tis as you said…” The lord speaker chances a glance behind them. Then, though they're the only two souls on that deck, he leans in to whisper against his guard’s horn, “He was due for a smack.”
The murmur sends a shiver down Sid’s spine that branches into his limbs. His tail stands upright.
“I held myself back for as long as I was able,” says Sid.
“I am certain that you did, my heart,” hums Aymeric, before sighing, “But I must insist that you restrain yourself in the future… lest I need to uninvite you from these things entirely.”
A huff. “Aye. I'll behave.” He aches to take that hand on the rail beside his own. With those vultures at the party behind them, he suffices with a brush, border on border. “I'm sorry for the grief.”
“You're already forgiven.” Aymeric smiles, soft, taking in the stars one final time. Would that he could stare at them forever, but those vultures inside have begun casting their shadows again. “I suppose my absence will have been noticed by now.”
Sid cannot keep the sigh from his voice. “Aye,” he says.
Aymeric must hear it, because he turns to Sid with a scheme in his eyes. “When I've the time to spare… After the party, that is…” Sid waits for him to get to the point. “I think that I could use a drink.”
Sid's tail flicks. “Is that my assignment? Procuring a bottle of Rolanberry Red?”
“If it isn’t too much for you to handle, dark knight,” says the lord speaker, who cannot hide his smile long enough for his lord master act to pass muster.
Sid snorts. “Aye, I’ll try not to start any trade wars.”
“ Sidurgu !” A scandalized laugh is still a laugh, in Sid’s eyes.
Looking over the city below, Sid waves him off. “I’ll exercise discretion,” he says. “Go clean up your diplomatic incident.”
The pause that follows stretches on long enough for Sid to peek over his shoulder, only to find Aymeric staring back at him with an expression he can’t read.
“Thank you,” Aymeric says at last. And then, turning on his heel, he slips back into the warmth of the party.
Sid watches him through the glass until he’s exhaled enough fog to cover the entire Holy See.
There was once a time when Sid envied the ease with which Aymeric could insert himself into a conversation. But now, watching him through the glass, Sid is struck by how utterly wooden he looks. There are none of those earnest smiles to be seen, no crinkled eyes or open-mouthed gasps. Only a neutral, pleasant face.
An even-handed figurehead and his beastly dark knight bodyguard. They’ve their roles, and they always shall. It aches like losing his parents. Like losing Ompagne. Like losing Fray. Rielle’s making a life for herself in Gridania with the Seedseers, far from this place, and it aches like her absence, too. Perhaps she, at least, will be free of all of this.
An elezen couple bursts onto the deck, giggling and tangled together like vines. Sid takes his leave. He’s been out here for long enough.
Swive finding a bottle of Rolanberry Red. He’ll find them a cask. And when they’ve drunk their fill, Sid will hold Aymeric more tightly than any of those vultures have clutched aught but the gil they carry in their pink-scrubbed hands.
Pitiful creatures. He’s a richer man than they will ever be. And Aymeric will know his worth.