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Entry tags:
hiraeth (bad weather)
Characters: Estinien Varlineau, Alberic Bale
Warnings: Canon-typical child endangerment
Summary:
After Ferndale burned, Alberic took Estinien to the Dawn Vigil. They stayed there in the fortress for half a moon, uncertain of whether Nidhogg’s brood would retaliate for the battle with their father. Alberic spent much of the time in bed, recovering from his encounter with the wyrm. Estinien spent much of that time staring at the sky, waiting for the dragons to come and kill him. Knights would stand beside him. They watched the sky, too. But nothing came, and when it was deemed safe, Alberic took Estinien to Ishgard. Estinien held onto Alberic’s waist as they rode a unicorn. It was a clear day, and while they were departing, Estinien looked over his shoulder. He saw the Vigil, and beyond that, he saw mountains. There was no glimpse of Ferndale, not its ruin nor what it had been. It did not cast a silhouette; there would be no lights to swear by in the night. It would never resemble a legend.
They crossed the Steps of Faith on foot. The wind felt like a dinner knife, sharp and in service of a hungry mouth. Alberic did not offer his hand, and Estinien did not ask for it. He was frankly sick of being left cold on the plate. Let the chasm have him, if it had an appetite. ‘Any moment now,’ Estinien thought stiffly. But he wasn’t blown away; he didn’t die. He and Alberic entered Ishgard.
That night, they stayed in the barracks of the Congregation of Our Knights Most Heavenly. For heavenly knights, they spat and cussed and played cards an awful lot. Estinien was loaned the bunk of an absent soldier. It was the bunk on top.
Alberic picked him up to get him there. He helped pull the blanket up toward Estinien’s chin, absently, like he didn’t realize he was doing it. “Well, here she is,” he said. “Ishgard. What do you think?”
“It’s ugly,” Estinien said. Nearby, an old knight laughed.
And it’s as ugly now as it was that day. Today, moons after his arrival, Ishgard boasts the same shattered pride, the busted stone and ruined statues. There’s still as much grime tarnishing her dignity. The people all have faces comprised of different shades of grey. It is summer, and the weather has been bad. If Mam and Da were still alive, they would share hushed worries between themselves about Ferndale’s summer crops, and how much they’d have to stretch for winter. Estinien would take his brother out to play, away from the tension. But Mam and Da are dead, and they have nothing to worry about. There is no more little brother, no ignorance to protect.
Estinien wipes the summer sweat out of his eyes.
Alberic is renting the top of floor of a little building close to a little market--room enough for a kitchen, space for them to sleep, an outhouse down the alleyway shared with the other buildings--and Estinien can hardly stand to be there. Most days, he leaves without saying anything. Alberic either will find him or he won’t.
Alberic always finds him. Today is just the same.
“Ah,” says Alberic, and then, “Ahem.” He sounds uncomfortable; he’s come upon Estinien while Estinien is again wiping his eyes.
“It is sweat,” grumbles Estinien, now scrubbing his face with his sleeve. He’s being honest. “This bloody heat.”
Alberic doesn’t say anything about him cussing. Instead, he tells Estinien, “You didn’t eat that bacon I left out for you.”
“Not hungry,” Estinien says. That’s honest, too. He’s already thought about it, how strange it is that he is so empty, so empty, but hardly hungry at all. The hardest winter he ever had was after his sixth summer. For turn after turn of the moon, there wasn’t enough to eat, and his mam even had trouble making milk for baby Hamignant. Some of their neighbors died. Estinien eats less now than he did during that winter. He is so empty, but he’s just not hungry. Maybe he’s ill and will die soon. Maybe it’s something else. Anyway, how could somebody want to eat when the streets smell like a privy and the weeks-dead porket he once found while climbing around the hills of Hushed Boughs?
Alberic nods. He talks more than Estinien, but still not much, so Estinien reckons that it’s all right when Alberic sits down beside him here. This was once a granite wall, probably knocked down by a dragon’s tail, though long since picked free of any lost scales, for money or for good luck charms. It was a wall and now it is another ugly heap, like so much else in Ishgard. It had looked an awful lot nicer when…
It wasn’t long ago that Estinien would flinch at thunder. The last spring storm he weathered in Ferndale, he jumped and bit his tongue when the thunder came loud and suddenly. Now, as it cracks in the sky above him, like an act of violence, Estinien does not have it in him to jump or flinch or feel afraid. He could be struck by the weather. He could be hearing what’s actually a dragon, and he could be crumbled like this old wall. All he does is tuck his face against his knees, and he doesn’t bother to move once the summer gives up on its torment and lets loose the fiercest rain. It’s instantly cold.
Alberic clucks his tongue and mutters some oath. “Can’t well leave you out in this,” he says. He hasn’t gotten up to leave, but he adds, “This isn’t the best place for us to brood, now.”
Estinien breathes in deeply. It shakes; it shudders; it’s the ruined foundation of a home, his shuddering. It’s imminent collapse. This isn’t what rain should be like. It should bring up dust from the cliffs and the earth should smell like a blessing. The grass should smell like the promise of a safer winter. The sheep should smell rank but Estinien should be laughing whilst they lick the rainwater from his cheeks. The stone should smell like heat and relief.
Into his knees, Estinien tells Alberic, “It smells like shite.” It’s the first time he says that word. His mother doesn’t come to pull his ear.
Warnings: Canon-typical child endangerment
Summary:
That night, they stayed in the barracks of the Congregation of Our Knights Most Heavenly. For heavenly knights, they spat and cussed and played cards an awful lot. Estinien was loaned the bunk of an absent soldier. It was the bunk on top.
Alberic picked him up to get him there. He helped pull the blanket up toward Estinien’s chin, absently, like he didn’t realize he was doing it. “Well, here she is,” he said. “Ishgard. What do you think?”
“It’s ugly,” Estinien said. Nearby, an old knight laughed.
hiraeth (bad weather)
After Ferndale burned, Alberic took Estinien to the Dawn Vigil. They stayed there in the fortress for half a moon, uncertain of whether Nidhogg’s brood would retaliate for the battle with their father. Alberic spent much of the time in bed, recovering from his encounter with the wyrm. Estinien spent much of that time staring at the sky, waiting for the dragons to come and kill him. Knights would stand beside him. They watched the sky, too. But nothing came, and when it was deemed safe, Alberic took Estinien to Ishgard. Estinien held onto Alberic’s waist as they rode a unicorn. It was a clear day, and while they were departing, Estinien looked over his shoulder. He saw the Vigil, and beyond that, he saw mountains. There was no glimpse of Ferndale, not its ruin nor what it had been. It did not cast a silhouette; there would be no lights to swear by in the night. It would never resemble a legend.
They crossed the Steps of Faith on foot. The wind felt like a dinner knife, sharp and in service of a hungry mouth. Alberic did not offer his hand, and Estinien did not ask for it. He was frankly sick of being left cold on the plate. Let the chasm have him, if it had an appetite. ‘Any moment now,’ Estinien thought stiffly. But he wasn’t blown away; he didn’t die. He and Alberic entered Ishgard.
That night, they stayed in the barracks of the Congregation of Our Knights Most Heavenly. For heavenly knights, they spat and cussed and played cards an awful lot. Estinien was loaned the bunk of an absent soldier. It was the bunk on top.
Alberic picked him up to get him there. He helped pull the blanket up toward Estinien’s chin, absently, like he didn’t realize he was doing it. “Well, here she is,” he said. “Ishgard. What do you think?”
“It’s ugly,” Estinien said. Nearby, an old knight laughed.
And it’s as ugly now as it was that day. Today, moons after his arrival, Ishgard boasts the same shattered pride, the busted stone and ruined statues. There’s still as much grime tarnishing her dignity. The people all have faces comprised of different shades of grey. It is summer, and the weather has been bad. If Mam and Da were still alive, they would share hushed worries between themselves about Ferndale’s summer crops, and how much they’d have to stretch for winter. Estinien would take his brother out to play, away from the tension. But Mam and Da are dead, and they have nothing to worry about. There is no more little brother, no ignorance to protect.
Estinien wipes the summer sweat out of his eyes.
Alberic is renting the top of floor of a little building close to a little market--room enough for a kitchen, space for them to sleep, an outhouse down the alleyway shared with the other buildings--and Estinien can hardly stand to be there. Most days, he leaves without saying anything. Alberic either will find him or he won’t.
Alberic always finds him. Today is just the same.
“Ah,” says Alberic, and then, “Ahem.” He sounds uncomfortable; he’s come upon Estinien while Estinien is again wiping his eyes.
“It is sweat,” grumbles Estinien, now scrubbing his face with his sleeve. He’s being honest. “This bloody heat.”
Alberic doesn’t say anything about him cussing. Instead, he tells Estinien, “You didn’t eat that bacon I left out for you.”
“Not hungry,” Estinien says. That’s honest, too. He’s already thought about it, how strange it is that he is so empty, so empty, but hardly hungry at all. The hardest winter he ever had was after his sixth summer. For turn after turn of the moon, there wasn’t enough to eat, and his mam even had trouble making milk for baby Hamignant. Some of their neighbors died. Estinien eats less now than he did during that winter. He is so empty, but he’s just not hungry. Maybe he’s ill and will die soon. Maybe it’s something else. Anyway, how could somebody want to eat when the streets smell like a privy and the weeks-dead porket he once found while climbing around the hills of Hushed Boughs?
Alberic nods. He talks more than Estinien, but still not much, so Estinien reckons that it’s all right when Alberic sits down beside him here. This was once a granite wall, probably knocked down by a dragon’s tail, though long since picked free of any lost scales, for money or for good luck charms. It was a wall and now it is another ugly heap, like so much else in Ishgard. It had looked an awful lot nicer when…
It wasn’t long ago that Estinien would flinch at thunder. The last spring storm he weathered in Ferndale, he jumped and bit his tongue when the thunder came loud and suddenly. Now, as it cracks in the sky above him, like an act of violence, Estinien does not have it in him to jump or flinch or feel afraid. He could be struck by the weather. He could be hearing what’s actually a dragon, and he could be crumbled like this old wall. All he does is tuck his face against his knees, and he doesn’t bother to move once the summer gives up on its torment and lets loose the fiercest rain. It’s instantly cold.
Alberic clucks his tongue and mutters some oath. “Can’t well leave you out in this,” he says. He hasn’t gotten up to leave, but he adds, “This isn’t the best place for us to brood, now.”
Estinien breathes in deeply. It shakes; it shudders; it’s the ruined foundation of a home, his shuddering. It’s imminent collapse. This isn’t what rain should be like. It should bring up dust from the cliffs and the earth should smell like a blessing. The grass should smell like the promise of a safer winter. The sheep should smell rank but Estinien should be laughing whilst they lick the rainwater from his cheeks. The stone should smell like heat and relief.
Into his knees, Estinien tells Alberic, “It smells like shite.” It’s the first time he says that word. His mother doesn’t come to pull his ear.