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Estinien found them on the Misery, and the skies portended rain.
It had taken time—but he had once found them on an open battlefield amidst the chaos of war; there was no sea vast enough to prevent him from doing so again. The hardest part had actually been boarding a ship that tried its damndest not to be.
"You look well."
Montblanc did not bother to look at him; they stared at the open water, past the railboard. "And you're a poor liar,” they said, their voice neither warm nor cold—but dreadfully weary, the dragoon soon realized.
Estinien chuckled, the sound dry. "Aye, 'tis true."
He came close, not quite touching the bard—he ached to, but knew better.
They surely would not let him—not when they had fled to the ever-indifferent comfort of the ocean. Would that it did not sting as much; for not so long ago Montblanc had seemed all but dead in his arms, in Aymeric’s—their soulless weight the cause of many a nightmare, and so many more sleepless nights—the forlorn, agonizing silence drowned in tons of work and battle far and wide, both unable to find rest when all that had greeted them behind closed eyes was a body pale as the moon, bereft of life.
And yet they had come back to life—and fled. Moss had visited him, in the in-between—ere all the Scions of the Seventh Dawn came back, and the bard with them—and had told the dragoon of that other world, once flooded by light. Neither the anguish that had sunken in his ageless, tired eyes nor how his jaw had tensed at the mere mention of Montblanc—still trapped there at that time—did escape Estinien’s notice.
In all their time together, never had he seen the Warrior of Light and their Shadow disagree on one single thing. Where one went, the other followed; not out of duty, for the care and gentleness they had ever shown the other bore witness to a deep, enduring bond.
“You don't have to talk, if you’d rather not,” the elezen started in his ever brusque manner. Then, his voice catched in his throat. “I just—I am glad to see you back.”
They offered a weak, dropping smile. “He knows,” A pause, pregnant. “About the Vault.”
Here and now, the dragoon could have told them many, many things—that, on that fateful day, he had not seen the horror on their face and Alphinaud’s, nor how fast they were to cover the lifeless body of Haurchefant Greystone with a jacket they have never worn since. He could have told them he had not guessed what truly happened, Moss’s blood yet warm and clinging to him like a second skin.
Estinien could have lied—and chose not to. His silence, and the subtle manner with which he avoided the bard’s searching eyes were evidence enough, to one such as Montblanc.
“For how long hav’ you known?”
What was left to him then, but to say the truth?
“‘Twas only a guess,” he corrected, yet the miqo’te’s stare seemed inflexible. “Upon seeing the…aftermath.”
Montblanc scoffed, the sound not devoid of affection—tenuous as it was.
“Why, of course. What can’t the fabled Azure Dragoon see.”
Indeed had Estinien seen the sharp teeth past the false, honeyed smiles—the assassin concealed under fragrant silks and a comely voice—and the truth of the gruesome death of one who the minstrels yet sing about, claiming in ballads he died protecting his love.
Would that the dragoon knew if Montblanc ever resented him for his discernment; or welcomed it, as he himself felt towards the bard. Would that were he to ask, they would sincerely answer.
“They all know. ‘bout that, an’—an’ all the rest.”
Fury take me, he thought, and reached out at last. He had tried not to but could not help it—and expected for the bard to recoil from his touch; instead, they desperately leaned into his calloused hand, cold and rough against their cheek, as he wore no armor.
In a heartbeat, Estinien locked them in a tight embrace—he could feel Montblanc melting into his arms, grasping at his hair, his attire, like a man parched would at a water source. Forthwith did the dragoon realize how tied up in knots his breast had been since their disappearance—how he had not taken a proper, calmer breath in such a long time.
“We thought we lost you,” came a whisper at last.
“We?” Glassy eyes stared at him, vulnerable and muted—as if the light had been forcefully plucked out of them. At once Estinien perceived the numerous strands of white in their hair; how they appeared much, much paler than afore.
What had transpired afar to diminish them so, he wondered.
“Word has it Aymeric hasn’t slept for more than two hours a time since you vanished.”
It came from Lucia—he himself had not dared visit the Borel manor but once, only to find it empty. A chuckle escaped Montblanc’s lips—barely a sound at all, yet none could mistake the fondness it carried for anything else.
“What a fool.”
“Aye, a damn fool he is,” Estinien offered a comforting grin. “You should go to him, and tell him everything that has happened. I’m most certain it would ease the burden you now seem to carry.”
There were doubts and fear to behold on the bard’s face—they had talked about it many months ago, on the moonlit rooftops of Kugane, stirred by strong spirits—how they both felt terribly unworthy of Aymeric’s affection, their bloodied hands fit for naught but to wield a blade. How could they love, let alone be loved, when the stench of death would stick to them so? Neither seemed to have found a definite answer yet.
And for his part—he remembered Aymeric’s plea to come back alive all too well, yet it could not ease his doubts. How long till he tired of his silence, now that he had made room for another in his heart?
“Won’t you come with me?”
By the Fury, Estinien would rather not go—how could he, he who had once turned lance and claw against both Ishgard’s walls and its people, he who had been and was now Nidhogg, sworn enemy of the Holy See—however the bard’s imploring eyes spur him to be brave, at long last.
“Aye, I’ll come,” he said, his lips brushing against their temple.
They stayed awhile unmoving; soon did Montblanc let out a heavy sigh—one second the very picture of exhaustion and the next their ever-charming, dazzling self. Their smile still did not quite reach their eyes, but their voice sounded a bit brighter nonetheless.
“Hey, Val! Mind gettin’ us home?”
The answer came with a fond smile and a ‘Finally!’ excitedly escaping Jasper’s mouth—the Misery’s navigator and one infamous sibling of the Warrior of Light themselves, who the dragoon had the pleasure to run into a couple times afore.
“Anythin’ for ye, handsome,” replied Carvallain, ere long steering the ship towards better horizons.