Chapter Text
H'ella had spoken often of his family to pass the time on their long trek through Dravania, and had spent countless nights breaking the silence of their camp with the sounds of his scribbling, quiet mutterings drifting through the air as he drafted letters and observations in a weathered old journal. The two that shared space with him were thus familiar to Estinien in passing: the eldest brother, H'elan, and the little brother T'mimi, fellow adventurers come to lend aid to the war effort.
H'ella had described them with the rosy fondness of a well-loved sibling, declaring in that abrupt way of his that he thought Estinien might get along with them. When Estinien had looked at him askance—Ishgard's current and most infamous Azure Dragoon was not known for being particularly sociable—H'ella had laughed, ears twitching, and said something or other about how he would fit right in.
"Come to Thanalan someday and see for yourself," he had said, "I'm sure I can wrangle everyone into one place long enough for introductions at least."
H'ella was not conscious to do any such thing and the Alliance camp at the edge of the Ghimlyt Dark was certainly not what he'd had in mind, but Estinien supposed it was near enough, all things considered. The odds of something either going to plan or going awry were hard to determine when the Warrior of Light was involved, after all—matters usually turned out well enough in the end, but there was no accounting for what mishaps occurred in the meantime. He had glimpsed at least one or two more of H'ella's family somewhere hereabouts, but the healers would only allow so many to lurk at a man's bedside.
Estinien would rather not be one of them—let that task fall to Aymeric or his aide, the Alliance commanders, the Scions, or the man's own brothers. The Warrior of Light was stable for now, in seemingly good health aside from his inexplicable fainting, and as far from danger as any of them were likely to be at this point in time. There was little use to idling about for long; surely Estinien could find something that needed doing elsewhere.
But when Estinien had handed H'ella off to the chirurgeons for treatment, the older brother had been among them. And when Estinien had finished with his brief report, H'elan had barred his path, dragging him back with magic and steering him through rows of tents with the iron grip of a healer who would hear no objections. At that point confirmation of Zenos' retreat had begun to spread by linkpearl, rendering Estinien's most pressing concern moot. And so he had thought it would be easier to follow along for now, allow this medic to make whatever examination he thought necessary when Estinien had nary a scratch on him, and take his leave when the man had said his piece.
It quickly became clear that this was not an intervention of a medical sort, for as soon as Estinien passed through the partitioned section of the infirmary and saw the figure laid out on the cot, he found himself besieged by paper.
H'ella had described his younger brother T'mimi as a shy and quiet lad, reserving all his boldness for the battlefield or the hassling of hapless older siblings. Estinien saw no such timidity in the man staring him down; indeed, with his black hair and blue eyes, he looked rather like a much smaller Aymeric facing down a soldier that crossed him in the field. When H'elan released him to go examine H'ella again, T'mimi placed himself between Estinien and the entrance as if he and his oversized greatsword would be enough to keep Estinien from leaving if he so wished, lifting his chin as if in challenge.
It looked a little ridiculous given how far T'mimi had to look up at Estinien, but there were shades of H'ella in gesture and tone as he said, "The Lord Commander is busy just now, so I said I would bring you your mail before you disappear again. If you've any complaints, I'd like to remind you you wouldn't be getting them all at once if you just went home sometimes or told anyone where you were going so they could actually get to you." His tail gave a firm swish, ears tilted back as he gestured to the bundle he had pushed into Estinien's hands, much more than Estinien might have expected to accumulate in his absence.
Aside from Aymeric, he could not think of anyone in Ishgard who would write to him outside of official business, and that sort of thing should have stopped when he gave up the mantle of Azure Dragoon. Aymeric also knew what Estinien's preferences were for written correspondence and would keep his letters limited in number if not in length; they were thus easily identified by thickness, as well as by his distinctive seal and handwriting. Upon closer inspection he found one missive from Lucia, one from Count Fortemps, though Fury only knew why; and one from Alberic, which—he moved this missive to the bottom of the stack. The remaining letters were addressed by unfamiliar hands. However, given his brother's sense of entitlement it was easy enough to guess: one of the unknown letter writers was H'ella and the other—Alphinaud, most likely. If he were to guess, the two of them made up a good two-thirds of the total with what he expected was their usual exuberance.
T'mimi was scowling thunderously, eyes narrowed and tail bristling, though he seemed content to hold his tongue and stew in whatever it was for the moment. Estinien ought to respond, perhaps ask him to have out with whatever he had left to say, but Estinien found himself unable to form the words. He knew that he was counted as a friend by both Alphinaud and the Warrior of Light, and he knew of H'ella's tendency to write, at length, to his other friends and family. Alphinaud was no slouch in the business of scribbling either, as a scholar and the sort of odd little fellow that took a keen interest in the political sphere. That they would thus address some of their scribblings to him was predictable in hindsight; they weren't ones to be put off by his reticence even at the beginning of their acquaintance. And yet somehow it was as if Estinien had missed a step somewhere, an unexpected swoop of gravity pulling at him as he made a quick tally of just how many letters he held in his hands. He would need to open them to be sure, but he wouldn't be surprised if some of these dated all the way back to the end of the Dragonsong War, just after Estinien had left on his journeys.
Aymeric had all of this in his possession, did he? Was he just carrying the lot around all this time on the off chance that they would cross paths eventually? Estinien also wasn't sure what to make of the fact that his mail was going to Aymeric in the first place—although it made a certain amount of sense, given how Estinien had removed himself from Ishgard with little word, and indeed, his travels would have made him difficult to track down. He didn't know whether they really had tried to forward his messages and failed, or whether they had simply let it go, deciding instead to leave these lying in wait for his possible return. He could not explain what about that was nagging him so—whether they tried or not made little difference when he hadn't given much thought to it until now. And one way or the other, who better a keeper than Estinien's oldest friend? Aymeric knew Estinien well enough to understand his absences, his need to wander and reflect in solitude, and only ever wished him well. Awkward as they were of late, Alberic had still watched over him those many years. Lucia and Count Fortemps knew him through proximity to Aymeric, and as for the remaining two—
He could puzzle over it later, when a stranger's gaze wasn't trying to burn a hole through his head. Estinien crossed his arms, tucking the letters against his side and returning T'mimi's glare with a flat stare of his own. "Is this all you needed of me?"
T'mimi's ears and tail flicked upwards as he sputtered. "Is this all—are you not—if you're not going to look, at least tie them back up! You're going to drop one if you carry them like that!" He held out his hand, taking a step towards Estinien as if he was thinking of snatching the letters back. Estinien was almost tempted to let him try, seized by the childish impulse to hold them over his head and make the lad jump for it. Perhaps he could shake loose whatever grudge T'mimi was holding onto.
"Mimi," H'elan said, appearing at Estinien's elbow. He tapped his brother over the head with a wooden box, making T'mimi's ears and nose twitch, before holding it out for Estinien to take. "Here, just stick the lot of them together."
H'elan was described as a prickly, fretful older brother, who struggled to rein in his temper and sharp tongue but nevertheless had the sort of soft heart that led to raising his own brother and more than half a dozen adopted children together with his husband and their comrades. He was calm now, waiting patiently for Estinien to take the proffered box and resettle its contents, with only a slight furrow in his brow left to hint at the ferocity with which he had seized Estinien and dragged him along. His ears flicked, one and then the other, mouth quirking as if he could sense the direction of Estinien's thoughts.
"I didn't bring you here just for a mail call, though the Twelve know you're overdue for it." H'elan moved to stand by T'mimi, their tails swinging in idle unison. He tilted his head to the side, light-streaked reddish hair falling over one green eye, and crossed his arms with his staff leaned against his shoulder. "Trying to find you was a right pain, and Ser Aymeric might be content to let you pop in and out as you please but I wanted to meet this friend I've heard so much about. Besides, I thought you might like to see Ella." He shrugged, somehow giving the impression of looking down at Estinien despite being near half his height. He and T'mimi looked nothing alike, but the resemblance between them was undeniable, united as they were in irritation.
"I've seen him." At that very moment, Estinien saw him, for all the good that did. H'ella seemed—not well, perhaps, having fainted, but as hale as could be hoped for of any soldier on the battlefield. Lighter than expected without the full plate armor H'ella had worn when last they met, but heavy enough with muscle and dead weight that Estinien could only assume the man was in good health, leaving aside his cuts and bruises. Which made it doubly strange that he was not already recovered, or at least conscious: cleaned of grime and soot it was clear that H'ella lacked any indication of the exhaustion that must have taken him, and although he had made some small attempts to learn, he was no spellcaster who one might expect to exhaust their reserves of energy. At the Steps of Faith, it was said that H'ella had to be sedated by magic to get the man to finally lie still; he had taken the full brunt of Nidhogg's fury, bones fractured, shield and armor warped and melted, and yet he had stumbled along with his useless arm, trying to assist with the rest of the walking wounded as if he himself did not require extensive healing, after. That he could still hold a shield as well as he ever did was a minor miracle. He was one of the most blessedly stubborn, tenacious fools Estinien had ever known.
H'elan rolled his eyes towards the heavens as if asking the gods for strength, his shoulders heaving with a sigh. "Yes, fine, but I thought you might like to see him when you weren't both in mortal peril. And if you have the time—"
"If he has the time—!"
"If there's nowhere else you need to be," H'elan said, voice raised over T'mimi's hissing, "I know Ella would like to actually see you when he wakes up."
Estinien's gauntlets creaked, fingers digging into his arm. Tucked against his side, the corners of the letter box prodded at him just enough to make its presence felt, even through his armor.
Whatever it was that T'mimi read in Estinien's silence had the lad puffed up in an instant, trembling like a balloon prepared to explode. T'mimi had odd eyes like his brothers, in his case one a brighter blue than the other; it almost seemed to glow in the lantern light, flashing from beneath his messy black hair like a signal flare.
"Are you some kind of ghost?" he snapped, voice cracking. "Will it kill you to let your friends talk to you? They are your friends, right?"
H'elan made a sound like he would interject, but T'mimi spoke over him in turn. Words poured out of him in a rush, his voice rising and falling sharply at odd intervals; were they not in a tent, Estinien was sure T'mimi would be shouting as he said, "Ella and Alphinaud and Ser Aymeric always have such nice things to say, they're so cheerful about how you just disappeared on them! Oh haha, that Estinien, that's just like him!" He bared his teeth, more a grimace than a laugh.
"And you know—Ella mightn't say anything because he's your friend and he's too stupid nice, but he's had some really bad luck with, with losing people lately—dying or going missing or choosing to—" T'mimi cut himself short with a hiss, shaking his head. "The others trust you to be fine even when no one knew anything of your whereabouts, but you almost weren't! You almost died! I don't know if you remember me but I remember you!"
Like a spark lighting kindling, Estinien recalled suddenly: other adventurers on the Steps of Faith, tiny dots of color scattered amidst the swarm of dull Ishgardian knights that rallied around the Warrior of Light like moths to a flame; insects all, in Nidhogg's eyes. Whether T'mimi was truly among them that day was beyond Estinien's grasp, his memories strange and stilted, but the sharpness of T’mimi’s gaze left little room for doubt. Estinien's debriefing had mentioned the assistance of a third in pulling the Eyes from Estinien's body; given the state of H'ella's arm at the time, if anyone had done it, perhaps it was T'mimi. He certainly spoke like it, his voice rising as he went on:
"You were possessed, you, you asked him to kill you, Aymeric had to carry you back through the gates in that gods-damned blood soaked armor and after all that, you just left without a real goodbye! If Alphinaud and Ella didn't have the gods' own luck you'd be dead and Ella would've been the one—even if it was supposed to be the right thing, have you thought of what that might feel like? And!"
T'mimi stomped his foot, his face fully red. "Maybe Aymeric is used to you going off on your own and never talking to anyone and thinks it's funny that you're like this but that doesn't make it okay—not everyone is Aymeric! And even then, just because he says he's fine with it doesn't mean you shouldn't try—he's too—they're all so—" T'mimi sputtered and screwed his eyes shut, hands balled into shaking fists.
"Just. You don't have to be a whole different person, but you have people that care about you so maybe let them hear from you once in a while so they know you're really still out there and not dead in some gods-forsaken ditch or—or worse." T'mimi blinked rapidly, his nose wrinkled, his mouth a thin line; for a horrifying moment Estinien wondered if he would cry, for whatever reason.
What was there to say? Where to begin with all of that? The boy's presumption was grating, and yet it was true that Estinien had withdrawn from the others, keeping a very deliberate distance. And just as his friendship with the others was a mystery to T'mimi, Estinien had only guesswork as to how T'mimi fit in amongst their shared friends in his absence. Although he had heard tell of the arrival of a fourth, belated guest of House Fortemps, they hadn't met properly before Estinien's fall from grace. There just wasn't time. He had never been one to regret his own unsociable tendencies, but the sudden blind spot was—irritating. Tempting though it was, Estinien could not simply dismiss his words out of hand as the distressed ramblings of a stranger looking for an outlet. There was being H'ella's friend and there was being his brother; and there were Estinien's reasons for his absence and then there were the results. And as for the rest…
From the moment Nidhogg wrested control of his body from him, from the moment he first donned his Drachen armor, Estinien had expected to die—such was his lot as a dragoon, such was his duty. His life, in exchange for an end to the war that had consumed his world: a fair exchange, one could say. That death might come at the hand of a friend—selfishly, in what was left of him through that haze of desperate, howling rage, Estinien had been glad. Awake and aware enough to see, one last time—
But Estinien had lived. The war was ended and with it, the purpose which had defined Estinien for so many years. What was to become of him, then, in this new era?
Estinien had not been idle these many months, tracking Nidhogg's eyes and the monstrosity birthed therefrom. He did his part to clear the way in Ala Mhigo, but his comrades were not so fragile that they could not carry on without him; indeed, they had ended a war and freed two nations despite him and the repercussions of his weakness endangering them all.
They didn't need him, and then they did, and Estinien hadn't been there, was very nearly too late. That the Warrior of Light would escape his latest mishap without another grisly scar for his collection was more a testament to his elder brother's tenacity and skill as a healer than Estinien's timeliness.
A letter or two—if he had not assiduously avoided contact, perhaps he could have been called upon for this battle; would have already been by H'ella's side instead of racing against that flash of falling steel in the distance.
If he could hear Estinien, H'ella would probably laugh in that way of his, grimly optimistic or else foolishly bright, and say that all had ended well enough. What was another close call between friends? But H'ella was quiet and still, and his brothers were watching Estinien, waiting on a response that kept slipping just out of reach. Silence fell over them all, thick as smoke, until T'mimi let out a harsh breath. T'mimi kept his gaze lowered as he excused himself to H'elan, the fall of his hair hiding his eyes from view, his voice hoarse but steady enough. He ducked out of sight without waiting for a response, the flap of fabric loud in his wake.
H'elan sighed, dragging a hand over his face and tugging at his own hair. "I could apologize for Mimi," he said, expression twisting in a grimace, "But I'm not sure I would mean it. Not that we aren't grateful for what you did, but, well." H'elan shrugged, his tail swishing restlessly. "Gods willing, Ella will wake up sooner rather than later and then Mimi will calm down." In the corner of his eye, Estinien saw H'elan turn to him.
Estinien did not want to meet his gaze, sharp and prickling with undue familiarity. Looking at H'ella was easier, if no less pleasant for the reminder of his present state. The way that was said…was this to be a matter of days, rather than hours? Estinien frowned as he asked, "Is he truly so exhausted?"
"I wouldn't be surprised, but—ah. No one's told you the current situation with the Scions, have they? We didn't even know you were here." H'elan gave a soft hum as he gathered his thoughts, sounding very nearly like H'ella. Or perhaps it was that H'ella was like him, down to the way he would tilt his head just so, pursing his lips as he searched for the right words. "Several of the Scions have fallen unconscious and will not wake. From what we can gather, it's as if their souls have been pulled from their bodies, and the victims have been those Ella was, is, closest to." H'elan paused, then added, almost gently, "Alphinaud is one of them."
"I see." Estinien had noted Alphinaud's curious absence—the boy would delegate if needed, but he did so enjoy being in the thick of things, working alongside his friend and hero. "So this is more of the same, then."
H'elan nodded, tapping his staff against his shoulder. "Ella was being affected as well, but he hasn't actually collapsed until now. He can be an idiot but he knows how to pace himself, and I can't find anything else wrong with him, so." H'elan's tail lashed as his frown deepened, almost comically puffed out with displeasure. "The Elder Seedseer says he's still in there for now—we think he should recover."
Estinien frowned, narrowing his eyes. "You aren't sure."
H'elan bristled, the end of his staff hitting the ground with a dull thunk. "We've never seen anything like this before. Do you want to know how many people have tried—" He tsked, cutting himself short. "He should wake up but we aren't sure when. It could be today. It could be next week." H'elan sighed, glancing at his brother and then looking at Estinien sidelong. "Look. I won't force you to stay—"
Estinien raised his eyebrows and inclined his head, pointedly not mentioning that perfectly timed spell which had sent him flying backwards, undignified, and saw him scruffed like a kitten in H'elan's grasp even with the vast difference in height.
H'elan's answering bark of a laugh had a strange knowing edge to it, his mouth hitching to one side. "From what I've been told you're the type that needs something to do or else go stir-crazy, so if you're planning to go you can just go. You're a grown man, I can't exactly stop you forever. But like I said, if you've the time, well, the fighting isn't going anywhere right now." H'elan tipped his head towards the cot, eyes on Estinien with that calm almost-familiarity, tail flicking behind him. "And you've got a fair bit of reading to catch up on."
Estinien took a deep breath, in and out. The places where the Eyes had been itched, and he wanted—to run, to stay, to hunt down Zenos or the monster wearing his skin, to take to the air and rain down destruction on whichever Garleans dared remain, to find a nice, quiet corner and put his head through a tent post. He had long since been trained out of the impulse to fidget and was glad of that now, because H'elan's gaze was too sharp, like the man recognized something in him beyond what was known through hearsay. Just as he said, Estinien was not much for bedside vigils—there was little that could be accomplished through fretting; surely there was still work to be done even now that temporary peace was falling over their camp. Just moments ago, Estinien had been waiting for an opening to take his leave. The Warrior of Light would recover; even with those that were lost in inexplicable slumber, he yet had allies; he was not truly alone even if Estinien left him behind. He was safe, he was healing well, and Estinien could do nothing more for him for the time being.
But his feet were rooted to the spot, his mind both buzzing and oddly blank, and after a long pause, H'elan nudged a chair towards him with his foot. Estinien dragged it to a far corner, his line of sight on the entrance, and took a seat.
Words swam before his eyes and he struggled to focus, long-ago reading lessons dragged forth with an iron grip and revealing page after page: Estinien, to Estinien, my friend, my dear friend—
Aymeric's letters were as expected, an accounting of this and that regarding Ishgard's current affairs and every little thought that passed through his head, good or bad or petty: whatever responsibilities he had to be the well-mannered Lord Commander and now Lord Speaker, he could at least be honest with Estinien. Lucia spoke as if making a report to a fellow solider, updating him on Aymeric himself and filling in whatever details Aymeric might have forgotten or deemed unnecessary to share. The letter from Count Fortemps turned out to be penned by the younger, H’ella’s somewhat awkward sworn brother checking in on the friend of a friend; where Haurchefant had made an effort to know just about anyone who came near him, Estinien and Artoirel were not particularly close. Alberic was even more awkward than that; they had not parted on the best of terms, but even so he tried. The Warrior of Light was a common thread throughout, appearing here and there, his status, his myriad small achievements, his aid with the restoration effort.
Were you aware, Aymeric wrote, of H’ella’s skill with a needle? H’ella wrote it off as one the necessary skills of a traveler and a bachelor, but that didn’t explain the soft, comically large toys created for the children of the Firmament. Estinien was not surprised by the sewing—with the number of hostile encounters they stumbled through on the road, it was learn to mend rips and tears or appear before the enemy in tatters, or perhaps die of exposure to the cold. H’ella had laughed as he said it, deft hands making quick work of the cloth in his lap.
Alphinaud’s letters were a mix of anecdotes and sketches, a sight more skillful than H’ella’s attempts—as one might expect, they were lengthy and full of chatter, and Estinien could just about hear the lad’s voice as he went on and on about their objectives for the day, the results, the progress made and the things they had yet to do and the rather fascinating idiosyncrasies of their new or potential allies.
His letters were sometimes folded together with H’ella’s—no surprise there, given how often the two traveled together. H’ella’s letters were likewise unsurprising in their contents. They were as Estinien might have imagined them, for the most part, were he given to imagining such things: varying wildly in length and seriousness, scattered with whatever bits and bobs the other man might find of interest, full of light but without shying away from hard times. In his experience H’ella was not one to dwell overlong, nor was he optimistic to the point of willful naivety; the man’s good cheer came naturally but was reinforced by a hero’s stubbornness knowing, as most experienced warriors did, the harsher ways of the world.
As weeks turned to months in his hands, Estinien could picture H’ella—not quite as he was in Dravania but perhaps near enough, edged in gold by firelight, the turn of his mouth softer as his thoughts wandered. If he was bothered by Estinien’s silence, it did not show in his letters, which carried on as if it was perfectly fine to write and write, and expect no reply. But H’ella was well-practiced in one-sided correspondence, Estinien recalled suddenly. Dying, or missing, or choosing to go away, T’mimi was about to say: G’raha Tia, the friend for whom H’ella kept a separate journal to chronicle the little day-to-day things that would otherwise be lost to time. His was a strange tale, though not unbelievable with the Warrior of Light involved, and the end result—it was not unlike losing someone to death, though this G’raha yet lived, slumbering on into the distant future. Estinien could almost understand, when H’ella’s smile tipped nearly the wrong way. Even with how often he grasped the impossible, H’ella did not expect to see his friend again in this lifetime.
Estinien was not sure what to make of it, the strange feeling that H’ella might be coming to think that Estinien, too, would not appear before him again. He gave no indication, even as time wore on in his letters, the battles and the losses and the monotonous grind of war weighing heavy between the lines. H’ella even apologized once or twice, though for what Estinien wasn’t quite sure; if the man wanted to confide in letters that he wasn’t sure anyone would read, well, that was no skin off Estinien’s nose. It was no trouble at all, Estinien thought sourly, when he hadn’t even been aware that these existed.
Estinien blinked hard, squinting in the dim light: dusk was falling. He realized abruptly that he was alone at H’ella’s bedside; H’elan must have slipped away while Estinien was preoccupied. He was free to go, then. If they were comfortable leaving H’ella’s side, he truly was fine. As H’elan said, they could not stop Estinien. And why would they?
Paper crinkled in his grip, Estinien’s mouth pressed into a thin line.
Night fell. Familiar armored footsteps sounded nearby, accompanied by Aymeric’s low, soothing tones: the Lord Commander making his rounds of the wounded to bolster their spirits. Then he ducked through the partition separating H’ella from the others, and drew up short.
Aymeric blinked at him, a smile blooming on his face. He was as weary as Estinien had ever seen but showed no signs of pain as he stepped towards him, his voice warm as he said, “Full glad am I to see you, my friend. Have you been here this whole time?”
Estinien snorted, looking away. “As if you didn’t know. I expect the whole camp saw that man dragging me along behind him.” When it was not a matter of life and death, soliders were consummate gossips. He was morbidly curious to hear what embellishments might be made in the telling, if nothing else came along to entertain them.
Aymeric laughed. “Perhaps not the whole camp…you know,” Aymeric said, not unkindly, “I half-expected you to have left by now, but I’m happy to be proven wrong. It’s been far too long, and rumors of your good health aside, seeing with my own eyes—thank you, Estinien.”
Estinien gave Aymeric a look askance, crossing his arms, something akin to guilt squirming under his skin. “Why thank me? I would have come and gone if not for those brothers of his.” That Estinien remained even after they had left was not to be mentioned nor explained, and Estinien scowled at the look in Aymeric’s eyes that said he understood, and was laughing gently on the inside.
“They’re a very interesting pair, aren’t they?” Aymeric said. “I’ve had the pleasure of meeting them before in Ishgard, back when—well. At the end of the war.” Aymeric pulled the other chair over to sit beside Estinien, sinking into it with a sigh. “You left quite the impression, as you might imagine.”
Estinien shrugged, the echo of T’mimi’s voice in his ears; Aymeric was, as usual, putting things rather mildly. Aymeric was at least good at being a pleasant and personable fellow, and likely had little trouble making their acquaintance—indeed, H’ella’s little brother seemed ready to adopt Aymeric as another for their motley family, nevermind that Aymeric was a man fully grown.
They sat in familiar, companionable silence for a time. Around them Estinien could hear the distant sounds of a camp settling in for the night, and underneath that, H’ella’s steady breathing. Estinien found himself marking time by the rise and fall of his chest; the bandages that peeked from beneath his collar were cleaner than might be expected, after the day’s battles.
Aymeric cleared his throat, and said, quietly, “With the Garleans withdrawn for now, we plan to move him to Ishgard with our other wounded. I won’t ask you to return to the city with us—I understand if you still intend to wander—but perhaps, if you happen to be wandering in the same direction—” Aymeric glanced at Estinien, smiling in that way of his, like he knew something Estinien did not. “You may leave us at the gates if that be your wont, but why not ride along with us?”
Estinien grumbled without heat. Why not, indeed.