Archive of Our Own ^beta

When Alphinaud excused himself from dinner, neither the Warrior of Light or Count Edmont kept him from leaving. Perhaps they were used to it by now, buying his excuse that he didn't have much of an appetite. And as much as Alphinaud detested being seen as weak and hopeless, it was pointless to deny that they were right in suspecting that he was hit particularly hard by Estinien's disappearance. Not knowing what torment Nidhogg was putting him through haunted Alphinaud's thoughts all through the day, prompting him to work ever faster for a way to save him. The Warrior knew plainly of his resolve and seemed to think his behavior a product of the mental strain. 

That was not why he excused himself early each night, however.

Quietly, he closed the door to his private chambers and turned the lock just in time for him to start coughing. The unbearable itch came from deep within his chest, pushing up his throat insistently all evening until he could no longer swallow it down.

"Koff! Koff! --Hck!" Alphinaud ran to the washbasin, a shower of bile and blood hitting the bowl. Accompanying them were several small white rosebuds and their petals.

Alphinaud kept close to the basin until he was sure the worst had come to pass. At least he could breathe a little easier now. With a deep, shaking breath, he made for his travel bag, rummaging through it until he had pulled out several items: a knife, a bloodstained towel, and a roll of gauze. Staring at his array of supplies with a grim sort of acceptance, he began to remove his upper clothing.

For the past two weeks, he’d done well to ensure that the gauze wrapped around his body and the scars marring his once fair and unblemished flesh were hidden away from the others’ eyes. If any of them knew...

A spider’s web of roots protruded beneath the paper-thin skin of his wrists and along the length of his arms. Swollen rosebuds and thorns tore open the flesh along his sternum, leaves and stems that had managed to break free from his insides curling along his collarbone. A full-bloomed blood-red rose was planted right over his heart. From his wounds, blood both old and fresh dripped down. He cursed; he'd have to wash his clothes discreetly yet again.

Gods, he hated this. Hated that he could be betrayed by his own self yet again, and at such an inopportune time as when they were trying to end a war that had gone on for centuries. When they were striving to save Estinien--

His heart gave a painful squeeze thinking of the Azure Dragoon and he cursed again with a pained yelp as stems and roots writhed and slithered under his flesh, thorns audibly tearing him open along the way. He curled within himself, crumpling to the floor from the burning sensations scorching him from within. 

Every time he thought of Estinien, every time his heart reached out to him with yearning, every night that he dreamed of him resulted in the growth of the roses. They grew relentlessly from within him, seeds planted from the feelings that had steadily bloomed in his heart throughout their shared journey. Alphinaud was no stranger to this phenomenon, he'd read about it in passing before, of having an unrequited love for another so great that one's body became a veritable garden of flowers. The flowers could be of any species and shape, said to reflect the emotions of one's one-sided romance. 

A small, cynical part of Alphinaud thought of course it would be roses, sharp and thorny roses that would overtake him. If having his unrequited love for Estinien was painful enough emotionally, why not just destroy his flesh as well? It fit the dramatic flair his sister was so fond to tease that he displayed. 

Dizzy from the pain, Alphinaud blindly felt over the bed and grabbed the knife. He couldn't let the others know about this. Not for any embarrassment regarding his feelings, but he knew that if the Warrior caught wind of this, they'd never let him continue with their mission. There was too much at stake for him to be held back by some persistent flora. 

I can't give up. I can't give up. I have to save him, I have to, I can't let him go!

He cried out. Thorny stems burst from his forearm, curling around his arm. More buds sprouted from them, blooming fully within seconds, and his pained noises were taken by coughing up more petals, more blood.

Hastily, he cast a Physick, though he knew he was only delaying the inevitable. He'd have to work fast. Holding steady to the knife, Alphinaud searched for where several stems grew from his arm and sliced them away. Bloodied roses and their parts began to splatter onto the floor. Alphinaud snatched the stained towel and placed it beneath him. He had to leave as little evidence of this as possible.

The knife tore apart the roses one by one, but nearly as soon as they fell, more buds and vines twisted out from the open wounds, coming out as fast as his own blood. Alphinaud stuffed his discarded top into his mouth, muffling his screams born from pain so intense it was as if his body were trying to turn inside out. Biting into the cloth, blinking back tears, he continued to cut and cut and cut. Neverending, the roses pushed back out in bunches, as if forcing him to surrender to the despair of his heart.

There were methods to getting rid of the flowers. Surgery, for example, where the root of the first seed could be extracted. If it were removed, the growth, the pain, the agony -- it would all stop. But so too would the love that bloomed die. 

Alphinaud could be called selfish for not desiring that. Or stupid. Foolish. Naive. Any number of names would do. At the end of the day, there was so much that he wanted to save -- and if it came down to his life or his love, well, he was going to fight like hells for both.

As if challenging his resolve, the flower petals pushed up his throat once more, forcing him to remove the gag before he choked. 

"Hck! Argh, y-yes! That's right!" he all but growled at the persistent roses. "That's right, I do love him! I love him and I have no intention of pretending that I do not, that I could possibly forget this feeling! I love him and I will sooner die myself before I ever stopped trying to save him!"

He dug the tip of the knife into the open wounds, cutting and pulling out roots where he could, cursing out Physick after Physick whenever he knew he was losing strength and blood. The spell would do nothing to get rid of the flowers -- at best, it could staunch his bleeding so that his flesh could begin to mend, but the deep cuts remained. Already his body was riddled with lacerations at various stages of healing, the perfect soil for more roses to bloom. 

Eventually, he collapsed on the floor, the growth of the flowers finally stilled. He couldn't even feel the bed of discarded thorns stabbing into him, his flesh burned to numbness. 

Despite how much it hurt, despite how pitiful it was, Alphinaud couldn't blame Estinien at all for any of this. He couldn't bring himself to force hatred on the man for the hold he had on his heart. Estinien didn't owe him a thing.

Breathing ragged, Alphinaud's consciousness slowly slipped. 

In the morning, he'd only wake up inside another garden.

Kill me.

"--ien!"

Just put an end to me. Put an end to all this!

"Fight him! Hold o--!"

"--ove you, please! Estinien!"

...Why. Why do you keep fighting for me? Why won’t you kill me? Why is my life worth it? 

"You can't die here like this! I won't let you!"

"Estinien--”

--I’m sorry, boy.

“--I love you!"

"...Again. Say that...again…" When Estinien opened his eyes, he couldn’t immediately recognize where he was. The red of unbridled rancor and endless black of rage was no longer the scenery around him. He could breathe -- albeit his throat felt bruised. He turned his head.

Aymeric was by his side, relief plain on his face when he noticed Estinien stir. “My friend, you’re awake,” he said, eyes warm. “Don’t try to move too much; you’re still recovering.”

As welcome sight as his friend was, Estinien asked, “The Warrior? The...the boy?” 

“They’re...alive.” Aymeric lowered his gaze, stepping to the side. Behind him was another bed, one where the Warrior hovered over, their back turned to Estinien. But just beyond them, he saw a criss-cross of white bandages, white hair…

Estinien’s eyes widened and he attempted to sit up, but his muscles were as if they were made of lead. 

“Boy,” he called. “Alphinaud!” Halone have mercy on him, had he harmed the boy during his possession by the dreaded wyrm? He searched his memories of his last moments before losing consciousness -- there had been swaths of blazing ruby energy, the pain of fighting to keep control. He remembered small, pale hands pulling upon one of Nidhogg’s eyes, remembered the Warrior’s face and-- 

Roses. He remembered red and white rose petals flying among in the raging wind. In between flashes of that clash of wills, he’d been blood on Alphinaud’s lips, a choker of roses around his neck. He remembered--

“Estinien--

--I love you!”

Damn him. Fury damn him to all seven hells.

“He’s fine,” Aymeric said gently. “He’s merely recovering from his wounds. He...has quite a number of them. The healers have taken a look at him and cleaned up and bandaged what they could. Worry not, his condition is not due to any physical harm from the state you’d been in.”

“Then how in the name of Halone did he end up in this state?” As if he didn't already know. He'd heard the tales before, heard his mother speak to the other women of the village about the latest victim coughing up flowers, the next person to head to the city for surgery to uproot a parasitic seed...

“I think he could tell you himself once he’s woken up,” murmured the Warrior at last. They turned around, looking quite well except for the look of tired worry in their eyes. They brightened up a little at seeing Estinien, giving him a smile. “I’d ask you not to bombard him too much though when he awakes. Though with Alphinaud’s personality, he might be the one doing that to you.”

Aymeric gave a small laugh. “Just make sure you both get your rest. You’ve endured quite the trial.”

“Yes, how do you feel?” 

Although Estinien wanted to continue asking about Alphinaud, he recounted his experience through his possession, as well as express to Aymeric that with his lifelong goal achieved, he would retire from being Ishgard’s Azure Dragoon. Once he was done, he found his sore throat tired and his energies spent. Exhausted to his limits, he closed his eyes.

When he awoke from this slumber, the infirmary room was dark, the candles and lanterns glowing brighter from the night. Estinien shifted, stretching his aching limbs. When he turned, his eyes fell onto Alphinaud’s slumbering form. The bandages wrapped his entire arms and around his throat. That choker of roses and thorns... Estinien wondered just how much of the boy’s body had been damaged beneath the blankets and his infirmary gown. 

Estinien’s chest squeezed. To think Alphinaud has been enduring such a painful battle with his body, his own heart... Why? Why hadn't he simply had the surgery? Knowing Alphinaud though, he would not give up any kind of battle -- not one on the field, and not one inside himself.

Not minding the tidings Aymeric and the Warrior had given him before, he urged his body to move, dragging his legs over the side of the bed before steadily stepping towards the boy’s bed. There was a small frown knitting his brow and Estinien reached out and rubbed his thumb between his brows to ease the tension there. 

“You’re supposed to be sleeping soundly,” he murmured. He took a moment to more properly take in Alphinaud’s slumbering countenance, now more peaceful. His plush lips were marred with cuts, and Estinien thought again of the words the boy had bellowed when petals and thorns had spilled from his mouth.

“Love…” Estinien closed his eyes. He sat on the edge of Alphinaud’s bed, sighing deeply. If his body were in better condition, he’d jump right out the window and hide among the snowy rooftops to think. This head and chest were a messy swirl of emotion and he hadn’t the faintest clue to parsing it all. 

Shaking his head, he looked at Alphinaud again. “What are you doing, boy, loving someone like me? Risking your life for me in more ways than one? Were you even going to tell me?” He wiped a hand over his face. “And what am I doing, thinking that I also…” 

Alphinaud was stubborn in his own way. Estinien once thought him as just a kid, a kid with a big mouth and enough naivety to fill Witchdrop. And yet… Gods, the boy was braver of heart and stronger of will than he’d given him credit for. He fought for the weak and the helpless, strived for unity and hope… 

Estinien reached out, softly stroking the side of Alphinaud’s face as if to praise him for how well he’d done. As if to tell him that he…

He lifted Alphinaud’s bandaged hand, kissing the knuckles. The mixed scent of medicine and roses clung to his skin. 

“My heart is also yours,” he murmured, so soft that his voice might’ve even been imaginary. 

For the first time in fourteen nights, a garden of roses did not bloom from Alphinaud’s flesh.