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the stem of the tide
Characters: Aymeric de Borel, Estinien Varlineau
Summary:
Estinien whips his head around, from the campfire along to Aymeric’s body, affirming to himself the mail of a brother, an Ishgardian, as though he has just heard Aymeric nock an arrow in his direction. He is, then, quite still, like an animal in underbrush, wary of the hunter’s boot. A different species. At first, Aymeric thinks Estinien will not dignify the question with a response, but then he watches the words wrestle within Estinien’s closed mouth. Estinien seems disappointed in himself for succumbing to it even as he speaks. “No,” he says.
Estinien’s face is awful in a way that suggests he doesn’t realize it, with this distracted sort of discomfort, an abstract agitation. Aymeric asks him, “Why are you looking at me like that?”
Caught, now, the creature in the underbrush. Estinien is more deliberate about frowning. “Because it was a stupid question, and you do occasionally bewilder even me.”
“Occasionally?” Good-natured, Aymeric laughs. “My friend, I am as familiar with the perplexed crease of your brow as I am with your smile.” Once he’s said that, he is glad that he did: Estinien rears back and an ugly, patchy, charming flush overtakes his face. Endeared, Aymeric agrees to be a little gentler now. “I did not ask if you intend to have them. Just if you would like to.”
“No.” What a unicorn. He’s refusing to be stabled. He turns down the bit, the reins, any semblance of a saddle. He is tossing his head. But then he is tentative—he is accusatory, full of acerbic suspicion, as if he is being mocked somehow… but he is tentative when he asks, “Would you?”
“I would,” says Aymeric, right away. He’s forthright about his own vulnerability. He says it like he’s offering the side of his neck to Estinien, the best angle to the vein. Not gladly, perhaps, but willingly. To confess this without shying from it is an act of trust. “I would like that, yes.”
Stooped over his own bent knees, Estinien lifts his chin and looks at Aymeric head on, examining him like his face is footprints in the snow. His eyes are here and here and here. They aren’t a different color, but the color isn’t steely. Same eyes, separate part of creation. Now, while they’re here and here and here, they’re instead as the bottom of a shallow pond, just slate beneath cool water. Then he says, grim and firm, “That’s a shame.” Through cool water—clear water—potable, fresh from the spring melt—Aymeric sees it for what it is. Estinien is acknowledging the loss. He is acknowledging the choice Aymeric made to be here with him—here with any of their comrades—here with the shadows of dragons and the risk of their teeth. He is acknowledging that this place is an altar, and upon it lies the sons and daughters Aymeric has chosen not to father. And in these acknowledgments, Estinien doesn’t try to make it sound any better than it is. He doesn’t dare to suggest that Aymeric could abandon his duty in favor of a family. He wouldn’t do that.
It’s this which Aymeric values most of all. Estinien lets the loss be what it is.
“Yes, it is,” Aymeric says. “Thank you.”
—
It’s the same night, a measure colder. Aymeric and Estinien have said no more to one another, but the speechlessness is its own comfort. At first, there was the song of insects, though their chorus has faded while the chill’s set in. Now there is only the crackle of fire, and Aymeric’s arrowheads over a whetstone as he touches up the arrows he’d earlier shot and then salvaged. Now there is only Estinien’s whittling—something useful, no doubt. Now there is only…
“Why?” Aymeric asks. He doesn’t use his words for this: Why don’t you want to be a father? It leaves room for Estinien to pretend that he was never asked it.
Estinien makes a few more cuts with his knife, ridding his wood of its last bits of bark. He smooths his thumb along its grain, then blows the dust away from it. He examines it for long enough that Aymeric thinks he won’t reply. But he does. “I have nothing for anyone else,” he says. He tucks his whittling into his pocket. Then he stands and sweeps his boot against the soil to smother out the campfire. Even the embers are quick to die out. And he likewise kills the subject just like this: “Good night, Aymeric.”
Summary:
Through cool water—clear water—potable, fresh from the spring melt—Aymeric sees it for what it is. Estinien is acknowledging the loss. He is acknowledging the choice Aymeric made to be here with him—here with any of their comrades—here with the shadows of dragons and the risk of their teeth.Note: A salvaged vignette from a WIP that will probably remain unfinished—but if you see this pop again in a longer work, it’s cuz it is where it is supposed to be!
the stem of the tide
Estinien whips his head around, from the campfire along to Aymeric’s body, affirming to himself the mail of a brother, an Ishgardian, as though he has just heard Aymeric nock an arrow in his direction. He is, then, quite still, like an animal in underbrush, wary of the hunter’s boot. A different species. At first, Aymeric thinks Estinien will not dignify the question with a response, but then he watches the words wrestle within Estinien’s closed mouth. Estinien seems disappointed in himself for succumbing to it even as he speaks. “No,” he says.
Estinien’s face is awful in a way that suggests he doesn’t realize it, with this distracted sort of discomfort, an abstract agitation. Aymeric asks him, “Why are you looking at me like that?”
Caught, now, the creature in the underbrush. Estinien is more deliberate about frowning. “Because it was a stupid question, and you do occasionally bewilder even me.”
“Occasionally?” Good-natured, Aymeric laughs. “My friend, I am as familiar with the perplexed crease of your brow as I am with your smile.” Once he’s said that, he is glad that he did: Estinien rears back and an ugly, patchy, charming flush overtakes his face. Endeared, Aymeric agrees to be a little gentler now. “I did not ask if you intend to have them. Just if you would like to.”
“No.” What a unicorn. He’s refusing to be stabled. He turns down the bit, the reins, any semblance of a saddle. He is tossing his head. But then he is tentative—he is accusatory, full of acerbic suspicion, as if he is being mocked somehow… but he is tentative when he asks, “Would you?”
“I would,” says Aymeric, right away. He’s forthright about his own vulnerability. He says it like he’s offering the side of his neck to Estinien, the best angle to the vein. Not gladly, perhaps, but willingly. To confess this without shying from it is an act of trust. “I would like that, yes.”
Stooped over his own bent knees, Estinien lifts his chin and looks at Aymeric head on, examining him like his face is footprints in the snow. His eyes are here and here and here. They aren’t a different color, but the color isn’t steely. Same eyes, separate part of creation. Now, while they’re here and here and here, they’re instead as the bottom of a shallow pond, just slate beneath cool water. Then he says, grim and firm, “That’s a shame.” Through cool water—clear water—potable, fresh from the spring melt—Aymeric sees it for what it is. Estinien is acknowledging the loss. He is acknowledging the choice Aymeric made to be here with him—here with any of their comrades—here with the shadows of dragons and the risk of their teeth. He is acknowledging that this place is an altar, and upon it lies the sons and daughters Aymeric has chosen not to father. And in these acknowledgments, Estinien doesn’t try to make it sound any better than it is. He doesn’t dare to suggest that Aymeric could abandon his duty in favor of a family. He wouldn’t do that.
It’s this which Aymeric values most of all. Estinien lets the loss be what it is.
“Yes, it is,” Aymeric says. “Thank you.”
—
It’s the same night, a measure colder. Aymeric and Estinien have said no more to one another, but the speechlessness is its own comfort. At first, there was the song of insects, though their chorus has faded while the chill’s set in. Now there is only the crackle of fire, and Aymeric’s arrowheads over a whetstone as he touches up the arrows he’d earlier shot and then salvaged. Now there is only Estinien’s whittling—something useful, no doubt. Now there is only…
“Why?” Aymeric asks. He doesn’t use his words for this: Why don’t you want to be a father? It leaves room for Estinien to pretend that he was never asked it.
Estinien makes a few more cuts with his knife, ridding his wood of its last bits of bark. He smooths his thumb along its grain, then blows the dust away from it. He examines it for long enough that Aymeric thinks he won’t reply. But he does. “I have nothing for anyone else,” he says. He tucks his whittling into his pocket. Then he stands and sweeps his boot against the soil to smother out the campfire. Even the embers are quick to die out. And he likewise kills the subject just like this: “Good night, Aymeric.”