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.