Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Lucia knows there’s no good outcome to this.

She may never have shared Aymeric’s optimism but she at least understood it; had things gone differently, she doubts she could have raised a blade against her own blood. However, the moment he didn’t return from the Vault, their options became limited to ‘bad’ and ‘worse’.

With every empty cell she passes, the scales tip further in favor of ‘worse’.

She hears the clash of steel far behind her, indicating Estinien has run into resistance in his half of the gaol, but she presses on without stopping to check his progress. She doubts a single knight here could out-fight the Azure Dragoon on their best day, even less so when Estinien is more single-minded than she’s ever seen him.

There are a cluster of loyal Temple Knights guarding the exits, but she and Estinien divided the main gaol between themselves in a wordless agreement to spare Aymeric any further scrutiny should they find him alive. The north wing is hers, and as she sends a banneret clattering unconscious to the ground, she can just make out quiet voices up ahead.

When those voices crystallise into cruel laughter and a muffled cry, she starts running.

She sees Ser Paulecrain first, leaning against the bars to a cell and watching something inside with a grin. The look of stunned panic on his face when she charges towards him is deeply satisfying, but the distance is too great for her to cover before he slips inside the cell and tugs the door shut behind him.

“We have company, my friend,” Paulecrain calls as Lucia lobs her shield at the lock of the cell door, to no avail. “I suggest you finish up with all haste.”

“Coward,” Lucia snarls, coming to a halt in front of the now-closed cell. Paulecrain’s lance bars the door but when she raises her sword to drive at him through the bars, she freezes at the sight of the cell’s other occupants.

Even in the dim light, there’s no mistaking the two people on the floor.

Aymeric is barely conscious. He’s stripped bare, head bowed and wrists shackled to the floor as he struggles to support himself on trembling limbs. Ser Grinnaux kneels behind him, gripping Aymeric’s hips tight enough to bruise while he fucks into him like a rutting beast.

Rage surges through her, fury at the knights for their cruelty and at herself for being stupid enough to be surprised, but before she can find a response, Grinnaux looks up with a breathless grin. “First Commander. How kind of you to join us.”

Aymeric tenses beneath him, head dropping lower in shame, and Lucia hates herself for making this intolerable situation worse by her presence.

“Your defenses are overrun,” she warns Grinnaux. “You won’t take him from here. Let him go.”

“And be the only member of the Ward not to finish my turn?” He scoffs. “I think not.”

Lucia’s eyes widen at the implication and Grinnaux laughs. “If you were hoping to preserve your commander’s virtue, you’re here far too late, sweetheart.”

Lucia would slaughter the entire Heavens’ Ward right there if she could.

“You’re pathetic,” she spits. “I knew you were weak but I hadn’t thought you disgusting too.”

Grinnaux’s pace slows but his smile doesn’t fade. “Bold words from the lapdog of Ishgard’s most successful whore. We just wanted to understand for ourselves the skill with which the Lord Commander earned his position. Isn’t that right, heretic?”

His hand inches down Aymeric’s thigh to rest against a wound Lucia can’t make out, and Aymeric lets out a choked scream when Grinnaux squeezes hard. He writhes away as much as he can but is promptly hauled back as Grinnaux lets out a greedy moan.

A retort sits on Lucia’s tongue, a reminder that Aymeric gained his position despite the attention of lecherous highborns rather than because of it, but she swallows it down. Aymeric’s body catches more of the light, no longer cloaked in Grinnaux’s shadow, and Lucia forces herself to take a breath and to do what she’s trained for, and assesses the situation as objectively as she can.

If her grip on her sword tightens when she looks Aymeric over, she figures that’s the only objective response.

He’s a wreck. The dim light in the cell illuminates the curve of his back, showing him beaten and burned and bloody, but there’s no blood pooling on the stone beneath him and, as best she can tell, none of his injuries look deep enough to be fatal.

Coupled with the fact that he isn’t missing any limbs, it’s solid proof that the archbishop wanted him kept alive, either for execution or forced conversion, and she adapts her approach accordingly (although she wishes persuasion came as naturally to her as it does to Aymeric.)

“Your master is on the run,” she says. She aims for matter-of-fact rather than taunting; she daren’t goad Grinnaux any further when he has Aymeric at his mercy. “My knights carve a path to him as we speak. Surely he expects the Heavens’ Ward to stand at his side, not to indulge themselves with his enemy?”

With his son, she thinks, stomach turning. Did Thordan permit this?

Paulecrain hesitates, looking towards Grinnaux for guidance. “Should we—“

“His Eminence has ten of Ishgard’s finest knights protecting him,” Grinnaux says, cocky as ever. Aymeric’s hands curl into helpless fists when he fucks in harder. “He’s in no danger from Temple Knights too foolish to know where true power lies.”

Above them, the Vault rumbles with an explosion of light.

Even down in the depths of the gaol, Lucia feels the burn of holy magic. Grinnaux looks at her smugly, still holding Aymeric in place. “You see? Nothing Ser Adelphel cannot handle.”

“Ser Adelphel must far exceed your own skills in that case,” she says, icy. “I remember how much trouble the Warrior of Light gave you both during your duel.”

Grinnaux stills. Lucia can’t read the glance he gives Paulecrain but she can take a guess.

“They’re up there now,” she warns. “The Warrior, the Leveilleur boy, Ser Haurchefant, all raising steel against your fellow knights, while you cower down here to sate your urges like drunken swine.”

It’s the wrong approach to take. Lucia fights to keep from cursing in frustration when, rather than the expected outrage, Grinnaux’s response is a derisory laugh.

“Is that jealousy I hear, First Commander? I’m sure we can arrange for you to take a turn.” One hand slips between Aymeric’s legs, groping his soft cock, and Lucia averts her eyes with a grimace. “I doubt he’ll be able to perform as expected but from what I hear, his mouth is more than adequate. Is that not so, heretic?”

The question is accompanied by a sharp tug on Aymeric’s hair and Lucia’s hand curls around the bars of the cell when he’s hauled up to his knees to face her.

His injuries look no better from this angle, marks from fists, whips, and worse marring his torso, and when she sees the violent bruising around his throat, Lucia is once again thankful to have found him alive.

Aymeric’s face, in contrast, is unharmed. Somehow that only makes it worse when she sees the white trail of fresh spend dripping from his hair and smeared across his skin, coupled with faint tear tracks down his cheeks.

In all the years she’s known him, Lucia can’t remember the last time she saw Aymeric cry.

Aymeric finally meets her eyes, hands still bound in front of him and body trembling with the force of Grinnaux’s thrusts. Lucia’s seen enough victims of torture over the years to know what to expect — dead eyes, spirit hollowed out in an attempt at self-preservation — but she blinks in surprise when, far from the empty stare she was anticipating, his gaze is exhausted but alert.

It’s an immense reassurance, knowing that after days of the brutality of the Heavens’ Ward, Aymeric isn’t fully broken, but it also means she can see every flicker of pain and humiliation across his face when Grinnaux drives in deep with a guttural groan.

“Gods, I’ve been wanting to do this for years now,” Grinnaux says with a sigh. His grip shifts from Aymeric’s hair to his jaw, forcing him to face Lucia, and she grits her teeth when Aymeric squeezes his eyes shut. “Watching this wretched whoreson swan around like he’s Halone’s gift to Eorzea… It’s past time someone put him in his place.”

Grinnaux’s breathing quickens, sweat beading on his forehead as he approaches his release, and Lucia fights down the roll of nausea at the sight.

She looks away, trying to spare Aymeric what ignominy she can, but the sound alone tells enough of the story.

Grinnaux comes with a loud grunt, armor clanking as he chases every last onze of his release, and Lucia blinks back tears at the whimper of disgust that escapes Aymeric’s lips. The shackles rattle as he struggles, pinned back against Grinnaux’s body, and she only looks up again when Grinnaux throws him back to the cell floor with a chuckle.

Aymeric doesn’t move from where he lands, head lowered and body wracked with silent shudders, and any solace Lucia takes in Grinnaux finally finishing is replaced by dread when Paulecrain strolls over to land a half-hearted kick to Aymeric’s ribs.

“No gratitude, Lord Commander?”

Aymeric doesn’t answer, doesn’t even raise his head to look at him, and Paulecrain crouches at his side. “You should enjoy the attention while it lasts, friend. Even if you leave here alive, there isn’t a single person in Ishgard who would touch you after this.”

He cards his fingers through Aymeric’s hair, mockingly gentle, before he wrenches his head back and spits in his face.

Aymeric flinches like he’s been slapped, lips pressed together and cheeks reddening in shame as Paulecrain laughs. “You’ll find no quarter for heretics here, whoreson.”

Every moment paints a clearer, more horrendous picture of what Aymeric’s time in captivity must have been like, and Lucia can’t hold back any longer. She knows she ought to keep talking, to use some of what she’s learned from Aymeric over the years for his benefit, but when she drops her sword and reaches for the knife on her hip instead, the movement comes as easily as breathing.

It flies true, catching Paulecrain in the shoulder on his blind side, and she smiles grimly when he rears back with a yell of agony.

“You fucking—“

“Easy,” Grinnaux snaps. He finishes refastening his breeches and moves over to wrench the bloodied dagger out of Paulecrain’s flesh. “It’s your own swiving fault for taking your eyes off her. She’s been waiting to throw that since she got here.”

Paulecrain glowers at her as blood trickles down to stain his white plate. Grinnaux just flashes her a grin, every ilm the obnoxious showman. “Enjoy the show, sweetheart?”

“Hardly,” Lucia snarls. “Although I hear you’re no stranger to disappointing people.”

Grinnaux’s eyes narrow and Lucia tries to conceal her relief when he moves away from Aymeric and towards her.

“Perhaps the Lord Commander isn’t the only one who needs to learn his place,” he says. “Between you and the rabid dog calling himself the Azure Dragoon, it’s clear he’s allowed weakness and depravity to flourish in his ranks.”

It’s a poor jest, the Ward criticising depravity after what she just witnessed, but before she can bait Grinnaux into a further confrontation, the boom of Ser Adelphel’s magic far above them ceases abruptly.

Grinnaux and Paulecrain exchange glances.

Lucia twists the knife. “So much for Ser Adelphel being able to handle things,” she presses. “I’m sure the archbishop will thank you for staying down here to finish your turn while your fellow knight falls.”

“Silence!” Grinnaux bellows, and for the first time, she sees fear in his eyes when he looks to Paulecrain. “Ensure His Eminence has departed safely. I’ll deal with the so-called Warrior myself.”

Lucia longs to watch the Warrior’s party cut him down, to see them inflict on him even a fraction of what he’s made Aymeric endure. However, her duty is to her commander, not her revenge, so she stays quiet when both Grinnaux and Paulecrain disappear in a blinding pulse of light.

When it fades, the darkness of the gaol is suffocating.

Silence hangs heavy over them but Lucia can’t find the words to break it when she hauls the cell door open. Aymeric flinches at the thump of her boots against the stone before catching himself and going still, and Lucia’s heart sinks at the sound of his shallow breathing when she approaches.

“They’re gone,” she whispers. Were she in his place, she thinks she would want to know that first. “Can I—“ She gestures. “Your shackles.”

Aymeric’s movements are tight and pained but he spreads his bound wrists apart as Lucia retrieves her sword. The chain of the manacles loops beneath a hook in the stone floor, preventing him from rising any higher than his knees, and Lucia tries to ignore the way his hands are shaking when she brings her sword down to crack through the chain.

Aymeric exhales through clenched teeth, holding his aching arms to his chest with a hiss of pain, and silence threatens to swallow them up once again when Lucia hesitates.

In all the years they’ve fought at each other’s side, she has nothing to tell her how to make something like this any better, and so she falls back on what she knows.

“Can you breathe freely?”

There’s the faintest hint of relief in Aymeric’s posture when he nods. “Aye.” His voice is rough and Lucia hates that screaming is now the most palatable reason why. “Bleeding and broken bones are minor.”

There’s comfort in the routine questions of triage — are you breathing? are you bleeding out? is anything broken badly enough to keep you from moving? — and she passes him her flask of water as she tries to plot out the next step: get out of danger.

Aymeric winces as he reaches for it, the severed chains still hanging from his shackles, and Lucia is glad for something to focus on besides the livid mess of his wounds. “Keys?”

“Left from here,” Aymeric says. “The gaoler’s room. They— There may be armor too.”

She feels like she’s failing when she hurries from the cell. If Estinien had been the one to find him, or the Warrior of Light, or even Sers Handeloup or Haurchefant, she has no doubt that they would be carrying Aymeric directly to the chirurgeon by now, but her stomach turns at the thought of letting anyone else see him like this, no matter how good their intentions.

Aymeric has always treated her with dignity, even when she was an enemy to him and his city; she owes it to him to returm the favor.

She pauses long enough in the hallway to tear a length of fabric from the corpse of an ostiary and, thinking of the spend splattered across Aymeric’s face, she retrieves a waterskin too before running back to set them at Aymeric’s side.

“I’ll return with the keys,” she promises. “I just thought...“

It’s a sentence she can’t voice the end of — I just thought you would want to clean yourself after being brutalised and humiliated — but Aymeric nods, covering himself with the cloth even as he struggles to sit upright. “Thank you, Lucia.”

She takes off again in search of the keys.

There’s almost no noise in the depths of the gaol, save the quiet clink of metal against stone from Aymeric’s cell, but Lucia’s chest tightens when she hears the sound of Aymeric vomiting.

She presses forward rather going back. The gaoler’s storeroom is a dismal little room, heavy with the stench of blood and lined with cruel implements Lucia would rather see put to the torch. The ring of keys is easy to locate, thankfully, and she’s halfway to retrieving a set of banneret armor when she catches a glimpse of blue fabric poking from a chest.

Aymeric’s clothes are intact and unsoiled, a small mercy in a place thus far devoid of that virtue, and as she gathers up the familiar coat and armor, she’s glad to be able to offer him that much at least.

By the time she makes it back, Aymeric is partially upright. After seeing the vicious welts criss-crossing his back, she knows his position leaning against the wall is down to pride rather than comfort, but she isn’t about to deny him that small amount of dignity. His face is freshly scrubbed, water still dripping from his hair, but based on his ragged breathing, even that act required no small amount of effort in his current state.

His flinch is smaller but still present when she crouches carefully at his side to unfasten the shackles, and Lucia tests the waters. “You need a chirurgeon. You risk infection, if not worse.”

“The bulk of the wounds were cauterised,” Aymeric says, and despite everything, he almost sounds like himself when he meets Lucia’s eyes. “I can only assume the archbishop ordered me left alive.”

She notes the phrasing — archbishop, not father — but ignores the old, gladly-neglected instinct to file it away as future leverage.

Instead, she tries again. “You know Captain Whitecape would want you brought directly to him.”

“Abel is well used to disappointment.”

For a man who’s been beaten half to death, he’s impressively stubborn, but the mask slips for a moment when Lucia finally finds the right key for his shackles. A violent tremor runs through him as she peels the metal away from torn skin, and he sways, lips pressed together in an effort to stay quiet.

The second wrist is no better. When she leans across him to pry it free, Aymeric’s forehead comes to rest against her shoulder as he fails to stifle a cry.

He shivers with each breath, fighting to get himself under control, and Lucia rests her cheek against his head as she murmurs, “None of this will leave this room, I swear.”

Another trembling breath. Lucia’s hand hovers over his shoulder, ready to draw him in for some kind of hug, but he looks up before she can commit to it. “Y-You have my thanks.”

Rationally, Lucia knows starvation and sleep deprivation are basic components of torture. She would have been more surprised if the Ward didn’t employ them but that makes it no easier when, at this distance, she sees the bruise-dark circles under Aymeric’s eyes or the gaunt hollows of his cheeks.

“You need to rest,” she says, almost pleading. “The Warrior can handle the archbishop.”

Aymeric’s head snaps up. “The archbishop is still here?”

Lucia curses her choice of words. “I— He may have departed by now,” she tries but doesn’t bother to conceal her disapproval when Aymeric reaches for his armor. “Be reasonable, Lord Commander. You’re in no shape to confront him.”

“Not to fight, no,” Aymeric says, “but I am well enough to speak with him.” As much as she wishes for him to rest, there’s a deep comfort in the knowledge that even the Ward’s heinous tactics have failed to crush out that desperate sense of hope that first won her to his side. “I have to try. He will lead the city to ruin if he continues on this path.”

He sounds more concerned about the fate of Ishgard than about anything that’s been done to him and Lucia knows she’s admitting defeat when she reaches for the two syringes in her pouch.

Aymeric exhales at the sight of them. “I am beyond fortunate to have you at my side.”

“You are,” she agrees, and is pleased when the comment draws a weak smile. “Although I doubt Captain Whitecape will share that verdict if he learns you’ve died of heart failure in my care.”

The analgesic is common enough, albeit typically administered in an infirmary rather than in the field, but the stimulant took the full reach of Lucia’s authority to acquire. While it’s brutally efficient at getting soldiers back on their feet, it’s equally efficient at putting them in their graves when they demand too much from their broken bodies.

Aymeric holds his arm out without hesitation but Lucia pauses. She loves him as much as he loves Ishgard; while he may be willing to sacrifice himself for the city, she refuses to let that death come by her hand.

“I shall endeavor not to let it kill me,” Aymeric promises. Even after days of torture, his charm hasn’t fully deserted him. “You have my full permission to subdue me should you have any concerns.”

Lucia arches an eyebrow. “Oh, well, if I have your permission…”

Her teasing is interrupted by a bellow from elsewhere in the Vault and her hand goes to her blade before she even parses the words.

“Lucia!” Estinien shouts. “Did you find anything?”

Aymeric jolts at the yell, pressing back against the wall as his eyes go wide with fear. The look in his eyes morphs to a different type of terror when he realises who’s speaking, and he looks up at her, wordless and pleading when Estinien calls again, impatient, “Lucia!”

She hardly needed any convincing but she wraps her hand around Aymeric’s in reassurance before she shouts back, “Nothing so far! Ensure the south wing is clear — I still have cells to check here.”

She holds her breath for a long moment, half-expecting to hear the clatter of drachen mail approaching, but both she and Aymeric exhale in shared relief when Estinien accepts the lie.

“Thank you,” Aymeric whispers, face tight with agony. “He— I…“

She wouldn’t demand an explanation on his best day and she gives his hand a soft squeeze before readying the first syringe. “As soon as we deal with the archbishop, you’re to rest and see a chirurgeon. These aren’t wounds you can simply walk off.”

“Understood,” he says and barely reacts when the needle pierces the skin. “I know my limitations.”

Lucia doubts Aymeric would recognise his limitations even if they marched through the street outside Borel manor chanting his name but she sets that argument aside for later. His eyes flutter closed, his fingers flexing as the analgesic works to numb the pain, and she pauses as she readies the second needle.

“Did they give you anything that could react poorly with the stimulant?” she asks, “Any potions or antidotes?”

Aymeric shakes his head. “Little beyond bread and water, if I was fortunate. I—“ He swallows, eyes darting away from hers. “They used a blinding potion, early on,” he says with careful dispassion, “but it wore off days ago. It should cause no ill reaction.”

Fresh rage blossoms at the thought of Aymeric trapped down here, blinded and defenceless, and she concentrates on the second syringe to direct her attention onto something more helpful.

“If you had hopes of bringing the Ward to justice before the courts, you may need to reconsider,” she says mildly, sliding the needle into his arm. “I can offer no guarantee of their survival should I meet them in battle. Even less should Estinien be the one to do so.”

Aymeric smiles a little. “You have already done far more than I could have asked. I’m beyond grateful for the rescue, my friend; you need not do battle with the Ward on my behalf.”

He says it as though it’s an imposition, as though bludgeoning Grinnaux to death with his own axe isn’t something Lucia would dearly love to accomplish, and so she settles for a non-committal noise in response.

He gasps as the stimulant takes hold, skin growing warm to the touch where Lucia holds his arm, and she watches carefully for any sign of overexertion. Color returns to his cheeks, although it does nothing to lessen his injuries, and while he’s hardly able to spring to his feet, there’s a slight ease in the way he holds himself.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, his voice almost back to its usual smooth pitch. “Truly.”

Lucia has never been good at being on the receiving end of gratitude, too many memories of teary-eyed thanks from people she would later go on to betray, and she reaches for a diversion. “I doubt donning your armor will be a pleasant experience in your condition.”

“Aye,” Aymeric agrees, eyeing the stack of clothes, “but it must needs be done. I can manage alone, you needn’t—“

Rolling her eyes, Lucia reaches for his leggings before he even finishes his sentence. They’ve helped each other dress before — there’s little room for modesty amid the after-effects of the jaws and talons of the horde — and she aims for that level of clinical necessity when she eases him into his armor.

It doesn’t take long for her to realise how foolish the comparison is.

On the battlefield, it had been a case of working around one or two injuries, of pulling a tunic over cracked ribs, or adjusting a cuisse to sit beside a thigh wound, but there is no such leniency here. Aymeric’s wounds aren’t down to an unlucky swipe of a tail or an error in positioning, but a cruel, sustained effort to inflict as much agony as possible.

No matter how careful Lucia is, there’s no accommodating for that kind of injury.

He bears it well, jaw clenched tight as together they complete the slow process of donning his usual garb. Up close, Lucia learns more of the Ward’s treatment of heretics than she ever wished to, from the angry brands on Aymeric’s shoulder and thigh to the marks of rough hands down his arms, and she bites her tongue to keep from asking questions she knows he has no desire to answer.

His coat seems an impossibly heavy burden for his too-thin shoulders but he accepts it gladly, and she steps back as he works his long gloves into place.

“Is the armor too much strain?” she asks, looking him over. Even the dark bruising around his throat sits beneath the rise of his collar; if not for the unsteadiness in his gait, he would look almost presentable. “Your injuries are well-concealed.”

“Aye,” he says, and doesn’t quite cloak the bitterness in his tone, “the Ward were diligent in their placement.” Even with the analgesic to dull the pain, he lets out a sharp wince when he steps forward, reaching up to cradle his left shoulder and resting his weight on one leg. “I can’t move at the pace I would wish but the strain shouldn’t be excessive.”

Lucia doubts he’d tell her if it was but she offers her arm for support as Aymeric limps from the cell.

“I’ll have the chirurgeons on stand-by,” she says. “As soon as the archbishop is dealt with, you’re to obey their instructions — I won’t have you sitting at your desk reviewing reports in this state.”

“I’m sure I can review reports while on bedrest,” he says.

Lucia looks up, full ready to impress on him the importance of the ‘rest’ part of that remedy, but he gives her a little smile as he yields, “I jest. I will comply with the healers’ orders, you have my word.”

“Hmm,” Lucia grumbles, skeptical. “I shall believe it when I see it.”

They push onward, Aymeric gradually taking more of his own weight as the medicines work to cloak the pain, and Lucia thinks again of the myriad of welts beneath his armor when she says, “I’m sorry it took so long to reach you.”

Aymeric blinks in surprise, and she elaborates, “Many of the Temple Knights remained loyal to the archbishop and the Ward. It took longer than it should have to arrange for the support of reinforcements.”

It feels worse now, the days the Warrior and their allies spent tracing the minutiae of heritage across the Brume while Aymeric languished in the depths of the Vault, but there’s a comfort to be found in the confession of her failures.

“The apology is mine to make,” Aymeric says firmly. He sways a little as he comes to a stop but his gaze is steady when his eyes meet hers. “I knew I staked my life on my father’s mercy but it was never my intention to risk the safety of others. Not least that of my friends. I—“ He swallows, cheeks darkening with shame. “I’m thankful for the rescue, truly, but I’m sorry that you were made to witness what you did. I’d hoped the consequences of my failures would be mine alone.”

His words settle heavy in Lucia’s chest. There are too many knots there for her to untie — had he expected her to just leave him to his fate? how can he stand to apologise for the Ward’s actions? does he truly believe he earned this treatment somehow, rather than it being unjustly inflicted? — but before she can seize on one to work at, she hears footsteps approaching at speed.

She raises her shield, putting herself between Aymeric and whichever member of the Heavens’ Ward has come to finish the job, but she blinks when the first thing that comes around the corner is a familiar curved helm. “Estinien?”

Estinien straightens, setting his lance on his back as he looks past her to Aymeric. If not for the comment aimed in her direction, Lucia would have doubted he even knew she was there.

“You found him, then?”

“Well observed,” she says. She’s all too conscious of the stench of the gaol, the smell of sweat and sex mingled with that of blood and fire, and she moves towards the exit to dissuade Estinien from lingering.

Aymeric follows, still with a heavy limp, and Lucia stays on alert when Estinien falls into step beside him, voice low, “You look less like shite than I expected.”

Lucia smiles in spite of herself. From the hint of amusement in Aymeric’s voice, she isn’t the only one. “I am ever grateful for your honest counsel, my friend.”

“The chirurgeons are outside,” Estinien says, as if Lucia had somehow forgotten to make Aymeric aware of that fact. “Whitecape was too cowardly to set foot in this bloody place but if your leg is…” He pauses, awkward. “I can seek to persuade him.”

Lucia answers on Aymeric’s behalf. “We ascend in search of the archbishop. I’ll have the chirurgeons at the ready once our business with him is concluded.”

Estinien is quiet for a long moment, and Lucia finds herself holding her breath.

She likes Estinien — he’s a good soldier, worse than her at almost everything involving social graces, and possibly the only person who cares about Aymeric as much as, if not more, than she does — but she desperately does not want to get into an argument with him in the middle of the Vault about the extent of Aymeric’s injuries.

His response is thankfully quiet, directed to Aymeric rather than her. “Is this wise?”

Lucia doesn’t need to look back to know Aymeric is doing his best to appear unharmed and unaffected by his imprisonment. (She doubts it will fool Estinien any more than it fooled her.)

“I understand the risks,” Aymeric says. By his high standards, it’s a clumsy non-answer. “I’m sure your lance arm will be needed elsewhere, should you prefer not to accomp—“

“We both know you’re not fool enough to finish that sentence,” Estinien cuts in, and Lucia hides her smile. “To the archbishop it is. Lead on.”

Lucia complies, tracing a path back through hallways strewn with bodies until the sound of steel trickles down from the Vault high above them. Aymeric’s pace is faltering but persistent, with no requests to slow or pause for rest, but Lucia mentally catalogues every wound that is likely to worsen the longer it goes untreated.

They just need to make it out, she reminds herself as they begin their ascent.

Aymeric can be treated by chirurgeons, given space and security, and allowed to heal, just as soon as they all make it out of the thrice-damned Vault alive.

Chapter Text

Estinien’s lance is still wet with dragonblood by the time he makes it back to Borel manor.

He’d stayed at Aymeric’s side on the journey back to the Fortemps mansion, Haurchefant’s body in tow, but he’d taken his leave once they’d broken the news to the Count. He doesn’t know whether it’s an after-effect of slaying Nidhogg or merely a natural consequences of being at war for decades but his grief curdles more strongly into rage in recent days, and he hunts across the snowy peaks of Coerthas until the worst of it burns itself out.

For that which lingers, he struggles to know where to direct it. Thordan is an obvious target but Estinien’s anger sparks equal bright at the thought of all the others: Zephirin, for striking the killing blow; the rest of the Knights Twelve, for daring to lay hands on Aymeric; Aymeric, for being foolish enough to walk into danger; Haurchefant, for doing the same…

The Warrior of Light, for doing naught to stop either of them.

Blood drips from his lance to the fresh snow lining the rooftops as he perches above the city street. For all his gnawing worry, Aymeric was in better shape than Estinien expected when he emerged from the Vault’s gaol, clothed and moving under his own power (albeit with a limp and a weakness in one arm) and not missing so much as a finger, let alone a limb.

Perhaps Aymeric’s faith in the archbishop’s mercy had not been fully misplaced.

However, there are few people he trusts less to be honest about Aymeric’s health than Aymeric himself and, by extension, Lucia.

He likes her — she’s a good soldier, not prone to needless chatter, and cares about Aymeric almost as much as he does — but Estinien has not forgotten the time when he returned from a lengthy deployment to find that Aymeric had been briefly abducted by heretics months earlier and no-one had thought to inform him.

With that in mind, he drops down to land on Aymeric’s doorstep and knocks loudly.

It will be a brief visit, just to ensure he is truly as well as he seemed, and then Estinien can find his rest in drink or sleep, whichever comes easiest.

He’s met by the familiar face of Aymeric’s family steward, who looks almost relieved at his presence. “Ser Estinien. Are you—“

“Here to see Aymeric, aye.” He takes a step forward, knowing full well the man is too polite to close the door in his face, and shivers a little as he steps in out of the cold.

The foyer is clear of knights, which is both a relief and a concern — what if the Ward returned before he got here? — and he strides over to where Lucia is waiting at the base of the stairs. “How is he?”

She doesn’t bat an eyelid at his lack of pleasantries. “Alive,” she says, sounding exhausted. “Resting.”

Before Estinien can head up to Aymeric’s room, another voice chimes in from somewhere to his left. “He’d be resting better if you didn’t keep letting visitors in, you know.”

He looks over and then down to see a dark-haired lalafell woman scowling up at him. She’s not the Taru girl Alphinaud is so fond of but beyond that, Estinien is at a loss.

He looks back to Lucia. “Who’s this?”

“This?” the lalafell echoes. “This is a person here in the room with you, who you could address directly. Were you raised in a barn?”

Estinien looks down at her. “Yes.”

She scowls. “Komimi Mimi. A pleasure to meet you.”

That tells him nothing about her presence in Aymeric’s house and so he turns back to Lucia for an explanation.

“She’s a healer,” Lucia says with a sigh. “Works mostly in the Brume and the lower levels of the city. Given the extent of his injuries, I thought the Lord Commander would appreciate discretion.” She holds Estinien’s gaze. “Komimi has helped me with head injuries a number of times.”

Estinien nods. It’s a ringing endorsement of the lalafell’s subtlety; Lucia’s heritage is a well-kept secret even in a city that thrives on gossip.

“It’s a shame I couldn’t make that head of yours any less thick,” Komimi mutters to Lucia. “Next time you need me to tend to one of your friends, how about you try not to do anything to actively make them worse, okay?”

Lucia rolls her eyes.

Estinien is struggling to keep up. “Worse?”

He gets the sense Lucia is choosing her words carefully when she says, “Ser Aymeric was in bad shape when I found him. With his agreement, I gave him an analgesic and a stimulant to get him back on his feet.”

Komimi gives a derisive snort. “Lady, those potions you gave him would’ve got a dead cart chocobo back on its feet.” She knocks her hand against Lucia’s wrist. (It’s a stretch.) “You got arms, don’t you? You couldn’t have carried him out of there to a medical professional?”

After all his time spent with Ysayle, Estinien has developed a good sense for when an argument is about to drag on and so he heads towards the stairs. “I assume he’s in his room?”

“He is,” Lucia says. She then adds, pointedly, “Resting.”

It isn’t an instruction to stay away and so Estinien ignores it, taking the stairs two at a time as Komimi’s voice follows after him, “Do none of you tall types know what resting means? Should I be readying my clinic to deal with this wave of selective deafness sweeping Ishgard? Honestly—“

Estinien tunes out. The upper floors of the Borel manor are quiet and cold, the rooms that were designed for guests or social functions going unused after the passing of Aymeric’s parents, but after their years of private trysts, Estinien needs no guide to find his way to Aymeric’s bedchambers.

He hears no movement inside, no splashing of water or sounds of discomfort, and so he doesn’t bother to knock as he cracks the door open a fraction.

The scent hits him first. He’s spent time in enough infirmaries to recognise the smell of tinctures and unguents, but from the strength of it, the lalafell has applied an entire medicine cabinet’s worth of remedies to Aymeric’s wounds.

The smell of blood lingers beneath it and Estinien flexes his hands in his greaves, still feeling the phantom warmth of Haurchefant’s blood against his skin.

Aymeric doesn’t stir when Estinien closes the door behind him.

Usually so controlled, even in sleep, it’s odd to see Aymeric sprawled out on his stomach on the bed, but the steady rise and fall of his breathing is a comfort. He’s stripped down to his smalls, part of the sheet draped over his lower back and thighs, but otherwise his skin is bare in the dim light of the bedroom, the full extent of his injuries on hideous display.

“Seven Hells, Aymeric…”

The quiet rebuke isn’t enough to wake him and Estinien unfastens his gauntlets as he approaches. This will not be the brief visit he anticipated.

Had he been in Lucia’s place, had he known just how extensive the injuries were, he likes to think he would have put Aymeric’s health above his pride and seen him straight to a chirurgeon, but when he looks at Aymeric’s face, unmarked and peaceful against the pillows, doubt winds its way through his resolve.

He and Aymeric have spent years doing foolish things for each other; he can’t say with any certainty that this time would have been different.

He does his best to separate the body from the man, to assess Aymeric’s injuries with a clinical eye, but he can’t stop the swell of rage when he sees the bruises from fists and boots along Aymeric’s ribs. The welts are legion, from sharp cuts of whips to ragged tears where Estinien can’t even identify the implement used, and he discards his helmet to scrub a hand over his mouth when he sees them extending down to line the backs of Aymeric’s thighs too.

For a mercy, there’s no telltale swell of infection. The majority look to have been burned closed with chilling precision — Estinien recognises Charibert’s handiwork by reputation, if not experience — and while the healer’s salves are laid on thick, he knows Aymeric will be left with scars.

With sick curiosity, he reaches out towards the angry brand on Aymeric’s shoulder.

He breathes past his anger as he holds his hand ilms above it, as if to feel the searing heat even now. The mark of the heretic is familiar to all sons of Ishgard but he can think of few men who deserve that burden less than Aymeric.

For all the healer’s efforts, it sits defiant against Aymeric’s skin, the brand wrought with magic so as to prevent removal, and Estinien glowers at the sight of a new enemy to defeat.

“I will ask Alphinaud for his guidance,” he murmurs, just in case Aymeric is conscious enough to hear him. “The boy has yet to meet a form of magic he will not interrogate incessantly.”

Aymeric stirs, fingers digging into the pillow, but he doesn’t wake as Estinien unhooks his spiked pauldrons and settles on the stool beside his bed. He longs to touch him, to feel tangible proof of his safety in the warmth of his skin beneath Estinien’s palm, but between the bruises dotting his arms and the bandages wrapped around his wrists, there’s nowhere he dares reach out to.

Aymeric’s brow creases, a tiny frightened sound escaping his lips, and Estinien moves in, desperate to help however he can.

“Hush,” he whispers and reaches up to tuck Aymeric’s hair behind his ear. “The Ward are gone; you’re safe here.”

He doesn’t know if it’s the words or the touch (or simply the passing of the dream) but Aymeric calms. He turns his head, pressing into the heat of Estinien’s hand, and Estinien leans in to drop a careful kiss against his forehead.

Aymeric’s brow smoothes out and Estinien finds himself holding his breath when Aymeric’s eyes open a fraction.

Whatever he’s expecting, it isn’t the surprised smile that touches Aymeric’s lips and the drowsy murmur that follows. “Estinien…”

Aymeric tilts his head up, closing the gap between them with a sleep-clumsy kiss, and despite the spike of nerves, Estinien returns it. It could almost be mistaken for a kiss between lovers after awakening together in the morning, were it not for the taste of healing potions lingering on Aymeric’s tongue (and the fact that Estinien has rarely managed to stay overnight to receive such affection).

He feels it the moment Aymeric realises, jolting to alert in a heartbeat, and his cheeks are flushed with embarrassment when he pulls back. “Estinien, I— My apologies.”

His voice is gravelly for reasons far worse than sleep, and Estinien sits back as he attempts a smile. “No apology required. I shall take it as a sign of your improving health.”

There’s no smile in response from Aymeric, just a wince as he turns gingerly to lie on his back. The injuries to his front are no better — Estinien has to force down a fresh rush of anger when he sees the bruise of a leash around Aymeric’s throat — but he reaches out to steady him as Aymeric pulls the sheets up to cover more of himself.

“Easy,” he soothes. “The shrill lalafell is correct; you need to rest.”

Aymeric shakes his head. “My father—“

“Is gone,” Estinien says. “I will join the Warrior in pursuit — we’ll put an end to him and his swiving knights.”

Aymeric’s eyes snap up to his, almost panicked, but he looks away again before Estinien can intepret his expression. “Ser Haurchefant. I should—“

“You already talked to the count,” Estinien cuts in, as gentle as he can manage. He knows well the sense of disorientation after an injury, particularly when strong medicines are involved; he doubts Aymeric can remember half of what happened after their exit from the gaol. “You spoke well, as always. The count is grieving but he understands.”

“That his son died because of me?”

There’s an unfamiliar sharpness in Aymeric’s tone and Estinien holds his gaze when he looks up, bitter guilt written across his face. “How many knights died in the assault on the Vault?”

Estinien doesn’t know. More than that, he doesn’t care.

“As many as necessary,” he says flatly. There’s no way to soften this blow and so he doesn’t try. “They knew what they fought for. You’re the city’s best hope.”

Aymeric laughs, hollow and curt. “What a poor hope I am.” He looks down at his shaking hands, at the thick bandages wrapped around his wrists. “My words failed to sway my father from his course and then when the Ward—“ He presses his lips together. “I couldn’t even raise my sword.”

After years of Aymeric’s idealism, it hurts more than Estinien expected to see him struggling beneath the weight of despair.

It doesn’t help that raising people’s spirits is hardly one of Estinien’s strengths.

“You lived,” he offers. “In the circumstances, that alone is a victory.”

Aymeric doesn’t look up. “One which too many others did not share. I ought—“

He’s cut off with a sharp gasp of pain. Estinien is on his feet in an instant, already reaching for his lance, but he sets it aside when Aymeric grasps at his leg with a cry. From the shudder than runs through him, the movement alone does no good for the rest of his wounds, and Estinien pushes against his shoulder to guide him back to the pillow. “Don’t strain yourself any worse. Where’s the pain?”

“Calf,” Aymeric grits out, face tight with agony. “The nerves were damaged. I can—“

Estinien doesn’t let him finish as he moves to lift Aymeric’s lower leg, carefully massaging the spasming muscle of his calf. His leg is no less injured than the rest of him, with bandages around his ankle where shackles tore the skin and deep bruises from kneeling on a stone floor, and Aymeric’s head falls back against the pillow as Estinien works.

Estinien has seen him in the same position dozens of times in this very bed, head tipped back and dark locks spilling against the pillow, but there’s no pleasure in his voice this time, just faint relief as the pain slides back towards something manageable.

By the time he sets his leg back down, Aymeric’s breathing is ragged and Estinien scans the array of bottles on the dresser in frustration. “Tell me one of these blasted things will aid you somehow.”

“There’s an oil,” Aymeric says. “I can handle—“

“I will ignore you every time you tell me not to help,” Estinien informs him. “Consider not wasting your breath.”

Aymeric sighs. There’s an admission of defeat in the way he slumps back against the pillows, and Estinien takes no small amount of pride in being the most stubborn man in the room. (At least until Aymeric is well enough to regain the title.)

The bottles of potions and tinctures are labelled in a scrawl, if at all, but he finally settles on one which looks sufficiently oil-like. Aymeric tenses when he moves back to his side, hand curling in the sheets as though there’s anything Estinien hasn’t seen before, but Estinien is careful not to deprive him of his modesty as he coats his palms in oil. “Anything I should know?”

The way Aymeric’s eyes widen sends a ripple of unease through him, and Estinien tries to clarify his question. “Any hidden injuries? Areas to avoid?”

Aymeric hesitates a moment too long. “No.”

Estinien pauses. “I can summon the healer if you wish?”

It would sting his ego a little, to be unable to help with something so simple, but equally he knows that a small lalafell may be a more welcome presence currently than a grown elezen.

He suspects it’s Aymeric’s own ego which answers rather than his good sense. “No. No, I’m well.” He tries for a smile. “I would hope to be less feeble by morning but I’m grateful for your assistance in the meantime.”

Never one to agonise over hidden meanings, Estinien reaches again for Aymeric’s leg. The oil prickles against his palm, suffusing his hand with heat, and from the little groan that escapes Aymeric, it’s having a similar effect on his calf.

Estinien is careful as he works, digging his thumbs firmly into tense muscle. Thin scars blossom out across Aymeric’s skin, pale spiderwebs coating his shin and thigh, and Estinien frowns as he traces them to disparate sources.

“Levin burns,” Aymeric says, in answer to his unvoiced question. “I’ve been assured the scars should fade quickly.”

Estinien swallows, remembering the smell of searing flesh from the wound in Haurchefant’s chest, but he doesn’t stop massaging when he asks, “Zephirin?”

At Aymeric’s nod, Estinien narrows his eyes. “I hadn’t thought him a mage.”

“The Ward appear to have learned many new abilities under my father’s command.”

It’s the type of careful wording he reserves for truculent nobility rather than for Estinien, but the mask soon slips when Aymeric says, determined but exhausted, “They have to be stopped. I don’t know the full extent of my father’s plans but we cannot risk the harm they’re sure to cause.”

The proof of the harm they’ve already caused is laid out beneath Estinien’s hands; he needs no further incentive to inflict the retribution the archbishop and his Ward so rightly deserve.

“The Warrior will stop them,” Estinien promises. “New abilities be damned; they’re still the same group of preening cowards they’ve always been.”

“They were good men,” Aymeric says, almost inaudible. “Or rather, most of them were.”

Estinien has lived in Ishgard long enough to know that few people here could honestly be described as good — Aymeric is in very limited company.

“I’d struggle to find virtue among men who would do this,” he mutters, gesturing vaguely to the mess of Aymeric’s wounds. “They’ll be fortunate if the Warrior grants them a quick death.”

Aymeric doesn’t reply, lost in thought as Estinien’s hands move higher to work at a muscle tremor above his knee. The bedsheet slips to the side, pooling between Aymeric’s legs, and Estinien’s motions stutter at the sight of a second brand, red and furious against his thigh. He doesn’t recognise the pattern of it, but from the way it’s already begun to heal, it lacks the cruel magicks used to mark heretics.

Aymeric flinches away sharply at even that brief scrutiny. He fumbles with the sheets, cheeks scarlet as he tries to cover himself, and he shies away from Estinien’s gaze as much as his touch when he whispers, wretched, “I- I’m sorry.”

Lost, Estinien can’t do much more than stand there.

Before he can ask why this particular injury somehow merits an apology, Aymeric speaks again, fingers clenched anxiously in the bedding, “I should have told you sooner. I fought as best I could but they—“ His voice falters. “My best was insufficient.”

Estinien feels like he’s missed a step somewhere, leaving him off-balance and bewildered, and he makes a stumbling attempt to regain solid ground when he says, “You’re hardly at fault for a branding, Aymeric. Why would you think—“

He looks back to his leg, the wound hastily covered with the sheet, but his gaze catches on where the cotton now sits low against Aymeric’s side.

Even amid the myriad wounds, the bruises stand out, the marks of rough hands curled around Aymeric’s hips, and Estinien’s stomach drops when he finally realises that the brand wasn’t what Aymeric was trying to conceal.

“Fury…”

Rage rises up, burning hotter and stronger than he’s felt for months, and Estinien turns to pace across the room as the ire of the Eye bleeds through to stoke his own. The knowledge that Aymeric was tortured was bad enough but the thought of him trapped down there, subject to the Ward’s depraved lusts all while Estinien waited up above, unharmed and utterly useless…

“Estinien.”

Aymeric’s tone is somewhere between fearful and resigned. Neither of those are reactions Estinien considers merited but when he thinks again of Aymeric’s ashamed apology, he struggles to breathe past the suffocating swell of anger.

He shoves the window open, grateful for the chill of cold air as he tries to drag himself back under control.

He’s never been one to shy away from the extent of his failures and his thoughts are on naught but vengeance when he asks, “Who?”

Aymeric’s silence bodes ill, and Estinien turns back to look at him. “Which of them...”

He trails off. Aymeric’s eyes are watery but in lieu of an answer, his gaze is as flat and cold as Estinien has ever seen it.

“Swiving whoresons,” Estinien spits. It’s only when Aymeric flinches that he realises the insult was likely used extensively during his captivity, and he scrubs a hand through his hair in frustration. “I’ll kill them.”

“I believe that was the plan regardless,” Aymeric says. He sounds exhausted, barely keeping himself upright even with the pillows for support, and as much as Estinien aches to hit something, he wants to hold Aymeric even more. “After all the deaths they caused, the Ward have far more to answer for than some simple indecency.”

It’s a horrific understatement but Estinien isn’t cruel enough to force Aymeric into that argument.

He crosses the room in four quick strides, and tries to ignore the way Aymeric looks like he’s expecting to be struck before Estinien draws him into a kiss.

Aymeric makes a surprised little noise against his mouth. Estinien has known him long enough to recognise it as a sign that he’s contravening some kind of etiquette, and while he would typically take that as a badge of honor, he pulls back enough to confirm it isn’t a genuine protest.

“I— You needn’t—“ Aymeric stammers, cheeks flushed. “You deserve—“

Better goes unsaid, but Estinien hears the whispers of Ishgard’s expectations nonetheless. A faithful lover. A Lord Commander able to prevent his own assault. Someone unsullied.

“I will bring you their heads,” Estinien promises and kisses him again.

Aymeric’s breath hitches. He shivers, lips frozen against Estinien’s, but when Estinien’s hand comes up to cup his cheek, he returns the kiss, first tentative and then with desperate gratitude. The trickle of tears where the pad of Estinien’s thumb rests against Aymeric’s cheek is no surprise, and he doesn’t break from the kiss as he wipes them carefully away.

The pieces fit together all too well in hindsight — Aymeric’s initial apology on waking, the tension thrumming through him when Estinien manhandled his leg, his shame at not being able to stop the Ward — and Estinien tries to focus on the soft contact of the kiss instead of the sharp guilt digging between his ribs. It’s more kindling for the fire that has burned since Ferndale, that burns even in the wake of Nidhogg’s death, but as he deepens the kiss, there’s a strange comfort to be found in pursuing vengeance on behalf of the living instead of the dead.

Aymeric struggles to keep his eyes open when they break apart. His forehead rests against Estinien’s, his nervous energy fading to bone-deep exhaustion, and Estinien guides him back down to the pillow as gently as he can.

“Rest,” he orders. “Lucia and that healer are liable to skin me for waking you in the first place.”

Aymeric’s eyes fall closed but his hand stays joined with Estinien’s as he mumbles, “No-one will skin you. I…I didn’t authorise…”

“Ah, that will stop them,” Estinien says, settling back onto his stool. “Can’t skin the Azure Dragoon without the proper permits.”

It’s a half-jest — he wouldn’t put it past the Ishgard bureaucracy to actually have permits to that effect — but it serves its purpose when Aymeric slips into slumber with a soft smile on his lips.

Estinien eyes the open window. It’s instinct to map out the quickest route to the airships in pursuit of Thordan and his men — he is determined to bring Aymeric the heads he promised — but he leaves his armor where it rests on the floor.

A departure would mean extricating his hand from Aymeric’s, however, and as much as he craves his revenge, it need not come at the sake of Aymeric’s comfort. (At least not for the next bell or three.)

With his mind made up, he shuffles the stool in closer, resting his back against the nightstand as he makes himself as comfortable as possible. It doesn’t compare to falling asleep stretched out at Aymeric’s side, limbs tangled together and bodies warm against each other, but it’s hardly the worst place he’s slept.

As expected, his mind conjures fresh horrors as soon as his eyes close, grasping hands reaching out from the darkness of the Vault, but Estinien is no stranger to nightmares. The steady rhythm of Aymeric’s breathing is an anchor and he thinks fondly of coating his lance in the blood of the Ward as he yields to sleep as best he can, Aymeric’s hand still entwined tightly with his own.