Chapter Text
It starts when they return from Ultima Thule.
All of the Scions are exhausted and bloody, pieced back together atom by atom by the gods themselves. G’raha has a jagged gash down his side where the Endsinger’s blade caught him; Alphinaud’s fingers are charred from casting healing spells at fever pitch, and Urianger can barely stand, his aether reserves are so depleted.
Their Warrior lies bleeding in Thancred’s arms, her warm skin slowly dulling to corpse grey. No one’s said much since she appeared back on the Ragnarok, the tiny transmitter at her side. Y’shtola’s in her element, ordering everyone around and grabbing Estinien’s hand and telling him to put pressure on the wound and don’t let go. When he snaps at her that isn’t she a “sorceress,” and why can’t she just magick the hideous, pouring laceration on Susa’s torso closed, she gives him a dead eyed stare and tells him unless they stop the bleeding first, there won’t be any point forcing the site to close.
When they land, Estinien sits dazedly outside the medical hub, staring down at the dried blood on his hands. Shouldn’t he be doing something, like getting clean rags or bowls of water for the healers to use? He’s never been any good at sitting and waiting, and he’s not injured enough to warrant anyone’s attention. They’re stitching up Alisaie’s sword arm right now, and affixing an IV line to Urianger’s veins with a bag of wicked-coloured fluid hanging on the other end. As tired as Estinien is, he wants to avoid that by any means necessary, so he’s not complaining.
Susa is nowhere to be seen. Apparently she needs surgery, the barbaric kind he’s only used to seeing in Ishgard with spiked instruments and chirurgeons wrist deep in gore. Aren’t they scholars, in this godsforsaken place? What good are they if they can’t fix these messes in a way that doesn't look like the back room of a butcher’s shop?!
She’s barely seen twenty one summers. She only comes up to his elbow. She hardly looks any older than the twins, for Halone’s sake. If Estinien had his way none of the children would be near a battlefield, no matter how many sodding prophecies there are. Alisaie would undoubtedly bite his head off if she heard him call her that, but he can’t shake the image of small broken bodies lying crumpled in the dirt. Children aren’t supposed to die.
He says all of this in a rambling rush to Krile and realises he probably shouldn’t have when the other woman fixes him with a worried look and asks if anyone’s checked him over yet. They haven’t, but he’s not the one bleeding. A few scrapes, some bruised ribs, undoubtedly a few small bones fractured in his feet, but that’s nothing new. He’s not the one haemorrhaging on a chirurgeon’s table a few fulms away. No one’s worrying that there might not be enough blood left in his body to keep his brain alive.
Tataru brings him a cup of tea after that, and finds him a quiet corner to sit down. Thancred soon finds him and brings over a damp cloth to wipe the worst of the gore off his hands, which he appreciates.
‘Shouldn’t you be with… with him?’ Estinien manages to say, nodding in the direction of the hospital ward. He can just about make out the bed where Urianger slumbers, and Thancred follows his gaze.
‘He’s quite alright. Very used to being scolded for pushing himself too far and being hooked up to one of those ghastly tubes; Urianger’s the only person I know who can sleep through aether transfusions, so I’m doing the rounds. Thought I’d get to you before Alphinaud did.’
There’s a reason Estinien likes Thancred. To look at them you wouldn’t think they had much in common at all, experiences wildly diverging from each other, but there’s certain things Thancred understands. He’s seen the darkest things humanity has to offer and filed it away in a little corner of his brain, putting on that mask to swiftly distract and stop others from worrying.
Thancred also knows what it’s like to be the responsible one, the adult in a situation that no one should ever find themselves in, to try and preserve that last bit of innocence Alphinaud has for a little bit longer. The boy doesn’t have nightmares yet. Estinien wants it to stay that way.
‘I’m fine,’ is all Estinien says, waving a hand at the soiled cloth. ‘’Tisn’t like the blood is mine.’
‘Mhmm. Want a hand getting your armour off?’
‘... Aye.’
It’s a quiet, mechanical process, one Estinien is used to doing himself, truth be told. He used to catch hell for it in the early days because he never did care about snapping a few buckles or clasps to get the sodding thing off faster. Sometimes the armour felt like a second skin, welded to his body like dragonscale, more familiar to him than his own body. Oddly comforting; he knew who he was when he wore the armour. Sometimes it feels constraining, like it’s choking the life out of him, turning him into one of those infernal Garlean machines that walk and fight with no mind of their own.
He isn’t sure how to feel about his own skin, nowadays. That’s a headache for another time.
The mammetts scuttle in to take Iceheart back to his quarters, and he only makes a half-hearted protest. He’s left to crumple to the floor in his mesh shirt and thermals, and Thancred takes a seat next to him without a word. The other man knows better than to touch, but the presence of another person is grounding, stops Estinien’s mind from scrabbling in frantic circles and preventing him from standing guard outside the operating theatre’s doors like a crazed wolf, threatening to rip the throats out of any that come near.
By the time Alphinaud shows up Estinien’s actually able to speak relatively coherently, and lets the boy check him over, if only to keep him quiet. Estinien doesn’t miss the way his hands are shaking, and apparently neither does Thancred, because he invites Alphinaud to join them in their little corner and it doesn’t take long before he breaks down into tears because his twin is having her arm put back together and their leader could very well be dead. They went to the end of the universe and all of them ceased to exist yet somehow they’re back here in the harsh lights of Sharlayan’s hospital wards and it all feels far more surreal than ghost dragons and talking machines and the giant man in the mask who lives on the moon.
He settles for putting an arm around Alphinaud, letting the boy cry against his shoulder and pretend he isn’t. Thancred’s far better with the words, the false, cheery reassurance that Estinien has never been able to summon on to his face or voice, pointing out that G’raha should be along in a moment and Y’shtola is limping but still bossing people about, that they’re all here and home and safe.
‘Forgive me, it just-just doesn’t feel real. Like this is all some illusion the Endsinger has lured us all into before I awaken alone in that desolate place.’ Alphinaud scrubs at his eyes, attempts to put his politician mask back on, but his face is tearstained and he’s lost his hair tie at some point so his hair is falling about his shoulders like fresh snow. Estinien’s often thought that the boy might resemble Hamignant if he had lived, and the look of worry and grief on Alphinaud’s face is too much to bear.
So he does what any older brother would do and pinches the boy’s arm.
‘There,’ he says flatly, trying very hard not to laugh at Alphinaud’s undignified yelp. ‘You’re awake. No more silly talk of dreams and fancies, all right?’ If it had been Alisaie she would have undoubtedly returned the favour or perhaps suckerpunched him while Thancred laughed himself sick, but Alphinaud just chuckles and leans his head against Estinien’s shoulder.
‘True,’ he says, a fond smile on his face. ‘They oft say not to borrow grief from tomorrow. Mayhaps it should be true for one’s imagination too.’ He sounds exhausted, Estinien taking his entire weight. He has to resist the urge to curl himself around the boy, hug him tight and swear that anything that tries to harm him again will have to go through Estinien first, which is doing the rest of the Scions a bit of a disservice, he supposes.
There’s also the fact that he failed. The twins might have escaped with minor injuries but Susa drifts closer to the aetherial sea with each passing minute. Hamignant lies dead in the ground. He should not be worthy of the title of guardian-
This is another pattern he recognises, and one he’s actively working to stop. The spiral of depressive thoughts, the panic seizing his chest like a hand about his throat, his vision tunnelling to black. He needs to sleep. Needs to soak in a bath until his bones don’t ache, needs to collapse in Aymeric’s arms while his partner strokes his hair, breathe the scent of him in and feel the warmth of his skin. Aymeric is usually the best remedy for these dark moods, but Aymeric is thousands of malms away, reassuring herds of panicky nobles that they can handle the end of days for the second time in five years. Tataru will send word, he knows, but Aymeric will still worry until Estinien appears on his doorstep, hale and whole. It’s just in his nature.
Estinien wishes he could keep him safe too. He wants to twine their bodies together so his dragonscale can be both their shells, to hide Ishgard’s Lord Commander away from the world so Estinien can claim him as solely mine. Vrtra has taught him dragonspeak, and there’s a few sibilant words for lover that roll off Estinien’s tongue so naturally it feels like his first language, murmuring them to Aymeric when they’re alone together. It may not be dragonsong but the words feel as elegant and beautiful as Aymeric himself, something to tattoo on to his lover’s skin and mark him out as the most treasured thing Estinien has in his life.
… he really, really needs to sleep.
Thancred clearly notices his weary look and quietly says they’ll wait for Alisaie to be finished up before they’ll get the kids to bed.
‘You should sleep too,’ he adds. ‘Don’t think I haven’t noticed those dark circles under your eyes, ser.’
‘But… the girl.’ Estinien’s too tired for eloquence, for nuance. Thank the gods Thancred’s the most observant person he knows.
‘Sitting here exhausted won’t make the chirurgeon’s blade any steadier,’ Thancred says kindly. ‘It shan’t make a difference if you’re camped out here or in a room down the hall.’
‘It does to me.’
‘None of them will let you sit in the operating theatre; not that you would want to anyway.’ Thancred pulls a face. ‘You’ll only be in one of the observation rooms. Well within yelling distance, at any rate. And keeling over from exhaustion will only take a healer’s attention away from her.’
‘But if something goes wrong- ‘
‘Then what will you do?’ Thancred skillfully interrupts. Has he been talking to Aymeric, who has the wonderful habit of doing that too? ‘Azure Dragoon or no, you can’t stab a laceration to death.’
‘I could help,’ Estinien insists. His relationship with Susa is something he can barely name, a soft, glowing flame nestled deep in his chest, warming him from the inside out. Much like Haurchefant, truth be told. Aggravating, childish, entirely nonsensical. A pest with no common sense or self preservation instinct. Easily distracted and prone to doing dangerous things, all for the promise of some fleeting amusement or perhaps another glittery bauble to add to her collection.
A girl who had looked him in the face at his worst moments and never flinched, who reached out a tiny hand to poke at the scales that litter his body and stare in wonder at their iridescent sheen. Someone who had seen him in that blood soaked armour and just laughed when he’d come striding out of that nest, signed something about needing to teach him to properly dye his gear. Susa puts herself between the whispers, the stares, always quick to tease and laugh like Estinien hadn’t killed legions, like he hadn’t plunged into the deepest abyss of his own soul and come out irrevocably changed.
The last shred of normality, one of the few remaining pieces of humanity that his mind has. If Aymeric has his heart, the twins and Susa have his soul. They’re the siblings he never got the chance to have, the parts of him who never got to be a normal boy and teenager, laughing and rescuing Alisaie from trees or pretending to understand when Alphinaud starts explaining complicated arcane theorems. Alphinaud looks up to him; Alisaie begrudgingly respects him, and Susa has somewhat complicatedly assigned him the role of “the weird guy who teaches me to do backflips,” but none of them are afraid of him. He’d tried to distance himself a few times, and Alisaie had marched right up to him and demanded to know why he was avoiding them and was she going to get that sparring match or not?
To lose any of them would snuff out that small flame entirely, drown it under a river of mud and snow and slurry until he was just that lonely boy again, curled in Ferndale’s ashes waiting to die. ‘Tis unthinkable, impossible, the star without the people he loves in it. Aymeric and danger are regular bedfellows, but Estinien would be lying if he said his chest didn’t hurt every time Aymeric marched into battle. He knows every single one of his lover’s scars, likes to trace them idly with the pads of his fingers when they lie in bed together, a silent promise that if he ever finds those responsible his rage will be so great it will leave ash in its wake.
A headache is starting to form behind his eyes, a shiver running through him like fever chills. It unnerves him sometimes, what he is capable of, this elite warrior with a lance forged in dragon blood, the stern cut of his face and the haunted look in his eyes. If any others had survived Ferndale’s burning, would they recognise him?
(would Hamignant be afraid of him?)
It’s a blessing that Alisaie comes over at that moment, looking just as ragged and weary as the rest of them do. Her usual snark is dimmed, her fire dulled to embers, simply looping her arm through her twin’s and saying she’s dragging him down the hall to find somewhere to rest if necessary. Alphinaud makes a token protest that’s quickly drowned out by the adults who pretend they know what they’re doing.
‘We’ll be getting some sleep soon enough,’ Thancred promises. ‘Once they’re done with Urianger, I’ll head back with him.’
‘And what about you?’ Alisaie asks, giving Estinien a pointed look that’s almost as sharp as her rapier. ‘You look dreadful.’
‘Thank you.’
‘I’m serious. You’re shaking. Are you alright?’ Alisaie puts a tentative hand on his arm and suddenly pulls back with a start. ‘You’re freezing cold; are you hurt? Losing blood?’ She lets go of Alphinaud to start poking and prodding Estinien, darting around him and standing on tiptoes to press her hand against his forehead. ‘Did the medics even check you over?!’
‘Just the shock,’ Thancred says, gently pushing her back. ‘I’d be surprised if even this one could maintain a stoic face after a day like today.’ He elbows Estinien like Haurchefant used to do, eyes teasing with no malice in sight. ‘Get some rest, now. I’ve asked the healers to wake us should anything… when they’re done.’
The headache is coming back, seeping into his sinuses and making his head spin. The thought of rest is alluring but the other half of him recoils from the idea of sleep when Susa could be dying, waging her own war that he can’t help with. Is this how Vrtra felt while Nidhogg screamed through the skies, howling his dirge for anyone to listen? Stuck in a hell he can’t climb out of, wishing he could block off his senses so he doesn’t have to sit under these harsh hospital lights and smoke of villages burning-
‘Aye. Sleep,’ he manages, scrubbing a hand over his face. ‘I expect the chirurgeons won’t be pleased to trip over me should I decide to camp outside the ward doors.’
‘Not that it would stop you from doing it anyway,’ Alphinaud says, but he’s smiling. ‘Susa is stronger than all of us. She’ll pull through. I’m certain of it.’
Estinien finally pulls himself away from them and stumbles back to his room, stripping out of his sweat and blood-soaked clothes until he is huddled on the bed under a deep layer of covers. The bitter cold seeps into his skin, a jarring contrast to the balmy nights of Radz-at-Han he’s become so used to. It scrapes against his bones with teeth like needles, burrowing into his marrow and making him freeze from the inside out. The lights are far too bright even with the lamps snuffed out, the harsh glow from the city just outside the window, the hallway sconces searing through the gaps in his door like holy fire.
No matter how small he makes himself, Estinen cannot get warm. He cannot switch off enough to sleep, his mind full of blood and a small Auri girl and a burned out village carpeted in bones. He needs to sleep. He needs Aymeric. He needs the world to stop for five minutes so he can tear Zenos’ throat out. He needs Susa to wake up and complain about hospital food and laugh at his pyjamas and ask if he stole them from Aymeric (yes). To scream into the wind until his voice gives out. To bury his head in Aymeric’s shoulder and cry until he can’t anymore, for his partner’s arms to be wrapped around him like a pair of wings, a shelter that’s warm and safe and lets him hide away for just a little while so he forgets that the Endsinger turned him to atoms and scattered him into the void.
When he drags himself out of bed the next morning, Estinien isn’t sure if he’s slept at all.