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Chapter Text

Something was amiss with Estinien. 

Estinien, as Vrtra knew all too well, was not the most forthcoming of mortals. He acted a stoic, aloof part, and thus concealed his true emotions from most others of his kind, though Vrtra could generally ascertain his inner temperament if he put in the effort. 'Twas a rare occasion upon which Estinien put voice to a personal matter, and normally, Vrtra would not have pushed him to do so, regardless of how obvious his facade. 

However, he had become close enough to the man in the course of their companionship to know that the mood that had gripped Estinien on a particularly warm Thavnairian day was not an ordinary one.

It had all started earlier in the day, when Vrtra had used the adult simulacrum to walk about the crafter's quarter, proud as always of the artistry and skill displayed by his children. Though he could no longer move about with quite the same impunity as when he had kept his true nature hidden, the Hannish citizenry had grown used to his presence, and greeted him with the same smiles and waves as always. 

He had come upon a group of his alchemists deep in discussion, with dark looks upon their faces. Vrtra politely inquired as to what was the matter, and after a moment of startled silence at his sudden appearance, the group all began to talk at once over one another. 

"Your Excellency, you really must have a word with that Estinien–" 

"--uncalled for! A full day’s worth of labor, spilled on the ground! And he did not even offer an apology–”

“--must impress upon him the necessity of his cooperation in your radiance’s service, the same as all of us!”

Vrtra raised his hand, palm out, and waited until they had all stopped their squabbling. “Please, my friends, I cannot help you if I cannot understand what you are saying. Speak in turn and tell me what is the matter.” 

The alchemists looked at one another for a moment, shifting and clearing their throats, before one woman, who Vrtra knew by the name Darti, spoke at last. “It has to do with that dragoon, Satrap– Estinien. We are all aware he is a busy man, but his aetheric signature is so unique, and the samples he has provided have proved invaluable to our research. Especially when it comes to the development of your excellency’s mammets.”

The auri man beside her– Jalrahd– stepped forward to chime in. “He came ‘round this morning, and we asked if he might not stay a bell to assist with a test we’ve been planning. I swear, my lord Satrap, we were nothing but polite and cordial to the man, and he had the gall to swing his lance at poor Vishaaba and make her drop her bottle of reagent!”

The other woman, Vishaaba, wore a pouting frown upon her face. “It won’t be easy to make more of that reagent– I’ve got to import the ingredients all the way from Kugane and pay a mountain of taxes before I can even begin the distilling process, but when I tried to tell him how important it was to my work, he stormed off without a word! Please, Satrap, you must speak to him!”

Vrtra crossed his arms. It was almost certain that his alchemists were embellishing the details of the events of the morning to paint themselves in a better light, but he had already learned the most relevant details of the encounter, and what his children needed was not an interrogation but a gentle hand of guidance. While Estinien had never particularly enjoyed the alchemists' interest in the unusual state of his aether, he typically allowed a small amount of prodding so long as it did not disrupt his schedule overmuch. His lashing out in such a violent manner was a clear signal that something had gone awry. 

“I will speak to him, my friends.” Vrtra began in the calmest tone of voice he could muster. “Most certainly, he owes you an apology, especially you, Vishaaba. But at the same time, you cannot rely so heavily upon him that if he one day decides he no longer wishes to be a subject of research, you find yourselves lost. Perhaps it would be prudent to form some sort of appointment schedule with him rather than accosting him in the street, so as not to draw his further ire?” 

The three alchemists shared a look between them. “I suppose that makes sense,” said Darti. “Though I fear he may not be amenable to the idea were one of us to ask, after such a display of animosity towards the idea of a simple set of aetheric readings.”

“Do not worry. I shall bring up the matter with him as well. I owe all of you a great debt for the fine construction of my simulacra,” Vrtra soothed. “Now, before you return to your work, might you tell me where he might have gone after you last saw him?”

“Oh, I’ve no idea…” Jalrahd pondered, running a thumb over the tip of his horn. “But wait, yes, I do remember him muttering something under his breath about training, so perhaps he has gone to the Host?”

Vrtra nodded. “I shall endeavor to find him and speak to him about this matter without delay.”

After one last round to check on the rest of the alchemical projects, Vrtra left the Great Work and turned in the direction of the training grounds, pondering the likely causes of Estinien's poor mood. The two of them had spoken only the previous night as Estinien took his dinner, and Vrtra had not detected any turmoil in the man's heart then; therefore, this uncharacteristic reaction was a recent development. There was a possibility that he had simply lost his patience in the moment and was otherwise well, but some instinct of Vrtra's told him that he should at the very least investigate the situation further.

As it turned out, Estinien was not with the Radiant Host, nor was he at Mehryde's Meyhane, his two preferred haunts within Radz-at-Han. The concern brewing within Vrtra's heart began to come to a boil as he steered the simulacrum back in the direction of the palace. Estinien was certainly one to follow his whims like a bird wheeling on the wind, and did have a noticeable habit of poor communication, but surely if the Scions had suddenly called upon his lance, the man would have made some mention of it? 

His concern was somewhat abated as he approached the building. The simulacrum’s body was built for mobility and combat, not to fully experience the heightened senses of a dragon, but as it drew closer to his true body he began to also feel the familiar presence of the very man for whom he was searching. At the very least, Estinien had not left him to untangle the mess of his fleeing the city without notice. 

Vrtra knocked on Estinien's chamber door a mere moment after his arrival, waiting to receive an acknowledgement before entering, though the entire building was technically under his purview. Many, many years ago, he had learned his lesson when it came to walking into mortals' rooms without a warning to their occupants. He now took extra caution when it came to closed bedchamber doors, not because of any embarrassment on his part, of course, but they got awfully upset with him should he be a witness to their unclothed bodies, or the ways in which they gave their affections to one another. Nevermind that they, his acting satraps in the past and now more and more of his citizens, saw his true form without balking at its lack of dress. It was simply one of the many strange mortal rules he had taken upon himself to learn, yet even as the nature of his children's ways eluded him, it was the very same strangeness that he found so endearing.

A surge of relief ran through Vrtra when he heard the spoken "Enter" in Estinien's gravelly voice come from the far side of the door. He pushed it open, casting his gaze about the room, and even with its limited field of vision the simulacrum's eyes found Estinien immediately. He was next to his bed, once again in a state of partial undress as he performed a series of squats, so engrossed in the routine that he did not even deign to turn his head to look in Vrtra’s direction. 

"How good to find you well, Estinien," Vrtra greeted him, leaning against the door frame. "I have just come from a visit to the Great Work, and heard an interesting tale involving you." 

Estinien's eyes flicked in his direction for a moment, and he gave a grunt of acknowledgement as he continued his exercises, without a hint of remorse to color his angular features. 

Vrtra watched him for a moment, ascertaining the situation before him. Strength training was a common pastime for Estinien, common enough that the man did not see fit to pause his activities even when there were more urgent matters at hand, until Vrtra made a rather heavy-handed intervention. However, as part of a pattern that included that morning's encounter with the alchemists, he was beginning to get a clearer picture of Estinien's emotional state. There was something that was troubling his mind, something that he was attempting to clear from his thoughts with the physical distraction of his exercises – something that could not be solved with his lance.

“I do not mean to berate you, Estinien. But I must say that the story I was told portrayed you in a rather uncharacteristic light. Is what is troubling you anything with which I might be able to assist?” 

Estinien looked at him, squinting. “What nonsense have you gotten into your head? They refused to leave me be, I responded, and now I am training. There’s naught more to it than that.” He dropped to the floor without another word and began a series of push-ups.

Vrtra leaned back against the wall, contemplating the situation before him. As he looked around the room, searching for the right words to pry open the bars Estinien had so clearly erected around his troubled heart, his gaze landed upon the ornate dresser drawer on the opposite side of the partition. There, scattered across the top, were several pages of what appeared to be a letter. 

"What is this?" Vrtra questioned, only to receive no answer but a grunt of exertion as Estinien continued his training regimen. He hesitated for a brief moment, knowing that prying into Estinien’s personal affairs was like to earn the man’s ire, but found himself unable to suppress his curiosity as to its contents. If the letter had arrived that morning, ‘twas abundantly obvious that whatever message it contained was the most likely cause of Estinien’s poor mood. And with Estinien reluctant to speak plainly on the matter, Vrtra saw only one course of action before him. 

He picked up the first page of the letter, half of a blue wax seal still affixed to the top edge. The paper was thick, its fine quality clear even as conveyed through the simulacrum’s touch, and the script was thin and elegant with nary a crossed-out word or ink blot to interrupt its journey down the page. Before he even began to read the words, Vrtra already had a guess as to the identity of the writer. 

My dearest Estinien,

I trust this missive finds you in the best of health and spirits amidst the streets of Radz-at-Han. ‘Tis with naught but my utmost sincerity that I extend my humble words in the hopes that you may know that regardless of how many malms your feet have traveled down the road from your homeland, you have not been forgotten for even the slightest moment.

As the days lengthen and the worst of the blizzards in the highlands abate at last, Ishgard stands steadfast, ever resilient. When each sunrise and sunset new bricks are laid, new homes are built, and step by step, our people continue to heal. Even as we move forward into a new age, however, the heroes who saved us from destruction have not been relegated to the darkness of the past, and your absence from the streets and rooftops has most certainly been felt. Your unwavering loyalty and the sacrifices you made to usher in the age of peace we now enjoy have left an indelible mark upon all of our hearts.

The next several pages appeared to be tales of mundane goings-on within Ishgard, with many words dedicated to the progress of the great undertaking for the city's artisans and impoverished citizens that was called “the Firmament”. Vrtra could not help but be intrigued at the mention of a young dragonet that was apparently working alongside the local artisans, but he doubted that particular information had anything to do with Estinien’s troubles. Reading through the rest of the letter more quickly, he soon arrived at the final page, where the sender’s signature had been penned with a thicker line and a greater flourish at the bottom.

I know not whether you still pray to the Fury to guide your lance as you once did, but I find that the chapel yet provides a much-needed space for contemplation and reflection when my mind grows weary. In the quiet solitude of Her gaze, I find myself recalling the many days we spent at one another’s side, days that I shamefully took for granted at times. My most ardent prayer is that you face no mortal trials as you continue your journeys, so the day may soon arrive when your return shall grace our shared homeland once more. 

May the winds carry this message swiftly to you, and may it speak true to the sentiments of my heart. If ever your wandering feet turn back upon the road to Ishgard, pray send me your regards that I might open the doors of my manor and receive you with all the hospitality a hero is due. 

Until that blessed day arrives, I remain, as always, your faithful and devoted friend.

Aymeric de Borel

As he came to the end of the letter, Vrtra frowned. Rather than being the answer to his mystery, the letter had only served to raise further questions in his mind about Estinien’s behavior. He knew of Ser Aymeric de Borel, of course– as a key player in Eorzean politics and with his involvement in ending the conflict that had long raged between their kinds in Coerthas, ‘twould have been stranger had he not heard of him – and he knew that he and Estinien shared a history of friendship, but beyond that, he knew little of the man himself. For correspondence from him to have stirred up such turmoil in Estinien’s heart, Vrtra had expected to find some form of demand or perhaps anger at a past slight within its pages, yet the letter had contained naught but warmth. Without the presence of some secret message of which Vrtra was unaware, he found himself at a loss. 

“Vrtra. What are you doing with that?” Vrtra looked up at the sound of Estinien’s gruff voice to find him rising at last from the floor, the effect of the glare in his stormy eyes somewhat ruined by the way his exertion had left him with flushed cheeks and sweat running down his neck. Unmoved, Vrtra only looked at him coolly. 

“I was reading it, of course. Surely you cannot fault me for my concern over your well-being.” 

Estinien scowled. “That is private correspondence.” 

“There is naught amiss about it to mine eyes, Estinien– and that is the trouble. By all of my reckoning, this letter is the cause of your irritability with my alchemists this morning, and yet I have found no obvious spark that would serve to ignite your ire. Has there been some quarrel between you and Aymeric de Borel of which I am unaware?”

“You would not understand, dragon.” Estinien crossed his arms.

Vrtra set the letter back down upon the table where he had found it. “Then explain it to me, if you would. ‘Tis ever my aim to deepen my understanding of your kind.”

Estinien shook his head. “What is there to explain?”

“For one, while I am aware of Ser Aymeric’s military and diplomatic exploits, I know little of him personally. Perhaps you would be willing to tell me of the relationship between the two of you– when did you first come to know him?” 

Though it could very well have been another quirk of the simulacrum, as he spoke the word “relationship,” Vrtra could have sworn he saw Estinien’s muscles tensing. Estinien stared at him for another heartbeat before he looked away, his long, white bangs falling into his eyes. 

“We were soldiers together– Temple Knights, if you are familiar with the name. I was a foolish youth with naught in my head but thoughts of my vengeance, and though Aymeric is a mere two moons my senior, he was already much wiser than I. When we found ourselves the only survivors of an ill-fated ambush, he took pity upon me and extended his hand in friendship.”

“How long ago did this occur?” Vrtra asked. Though his temperament was like that of an older brother, and his aether was somewhat colored by that of a much more long-lived being, he was aware that Estinien was still rather young for a mortal. 

“Some twelve summers ago now, I believe. I spurned him at first, but he persisted in following me about like a shadow until I had no choice but to tolerate his presence. Few others have ever attempted to do so, but Aymeric has always been a man willing to reach out in such a way, even to such a fool as I. It is such qualities that will allow him to shepherd Ishgard into her new age of peace – this I have known for many years, though I did not imagine I would live to see it as well.” Estinien shook his head. “Mayhap you should take the time to call upon Hraesvelgr or one of his brood and ask after him yourself – there is much and more I do not have the time nor eloquence to convey.” He looked down at his lap, huffing a breath from his lungs as to punctuate his statement with finality.

Vrtra stood still as he pondered what Estinien had told him, and a sense of familiarity began to rise up in the back of the dragon’s consciousness. Many of the ways of mortals were yet foreign to him, though he had become adept at mimicking certain gestures so as not to betray the artificiality of his simulacra, but the closeness of two beings that Estinien described was something mortals and dragons shared. Though dragons cultivated their companionships carefully over the span of centuries, Vrtra was all too aware that a mere decade was a significant fraction of a man’s lifespan. All of a sudden, the fog that had obscured the picture of Estinien and Aymeric in his mind began to clear.

“I believe I understand now,” he said. “Aymeric is your consort.” 

Estinien, who had picked up a glass bottle of water from the table beside his bed and begun to drink in the midst of Vrtra’s thoughtful silence, choked violently. Water spilled over his still-bare chest and the lap of his loose pair of linen breeches. Vrtra blinked. “Estinien? Have I spoken wrongly?”

“I knew you would not understand. Has piloting the mammet day in and day out muddled your mind as well?” Having finally caught his breath again, Estinien wiped his mouth and scowled. “Aymeric has never been my… he has never been aught but a friend. And now that I have not set foot in Ishgard in moons, I imagine I may no longer even be in his closest confidence. Put your ridiculous notions out of your mind.”

Vrtra could not help but rankle at Estinien’s dismissal. “I have walked among the children of Thavnair for a millennium, as well you know. Do you presume that you are the only mortal to have ever felt affection for a close companion? What word you choose to employ to describe the precise situation between the two of you means naught. Were I to read such a letter from anyone in this city, or if one of my kind described another in the same manner, I would say the same.”

Defeated, Estinien sank onto the edge of his bed, leaning back on his hands and crossing his legs, his body slumping like a cut thread. “Unless your kind truly work so differently, dragon, you surely understand that both parties involved must agree to become… consorts.” 

Vrtra had, indeed, seen his share of mortal couples in the course of his days as their Satrap, his simulacra even being the object of one of his children’s affections at times, yet there was little he truly understood about the way they went about their courtships. As they hid their bodies behind layers of concealing fabric, they also hid their hearts behind imprecise and ever-shifting words and customs, the resultant misunderstandings causing no small amount of tragedy to which Vrtra himself had borne witness. In his eyes, there was little reason to behave so strangely – a dragon could simply call out to their closest companions, singing their sentiments for all the star, though as often as not such closeness would simply be known and acknowledged by those involved before the need for any public declaration arose. Clearly, Estinien and Aymeric were both aware of the bond between them, and if they had been dragonkind, there would be no uncertainty in the matter.

Alas, despite the traces of his brood-brother's aether that yet clung to him, Estinien was yet a mortal soul, and thus burdensome words were necessary for his understanding. Vrtra put out his palms in a gesture of peace. “You clearly desire it. Does he not share the same sentiment?”

Estinien’s mouth twisted in a grimace and his fingers curled to clutch at the blanket beneath him, as though the words in his throat were as bitter as a mouthful of gysahl greens. Vrtra stood silent as he swallowed his nerves and spoke once more. “Aye, ‘tis something I have desired of him in the past, but I was in no state to say aught to him while the war raged on, and now his arms have been piled high with honors and titles, while I have cast mine into the wind. There are countless others who would be far more deserving of a place at his side.”

“You assisted in preventing the certain doom of the star,” Vrtra pointed out. 

“I ran away and cast myself adrift until I happened to find myself entangled in the Scions’ net. If I had not been a convenient target, those Lalafellin women would have certainly been able to hunt down another with equal capabilities to mine own. Besides, ‘twas the Warrior of Light who truly performed the greatest deeds, in the end.” He shook his head. “Your arguments shall not sway me, Vrtra. I have made my choices, and now I must needs accept that our paths have diverged.”

“And why should mere time and distance affect your companionship with Ser Aymeric? It has been only a little more than a turn since your Dragonsong War was brought to its end– even for a mortal, that is hardly long.” Vrtra shook his head. “And though he cannot hear your heart as a dragon would, as a song borne upon the wind, you mortals have a serviceable enough substitute in the form of the very letter he has just written to you. I am more than certain that your view of his opinion of you is not accurate, or what reason would he have to say such things?”

Estinien shot him another glare before turning his head and hiding his eyes behind his hair once more. “‘Tis foolish to allow my hopes to rise from a few strokes of a pen. He sends them out of politeness. It means naught.”

With fresh eyes, Vrtra picked up the letter once more, scrutinizing the elegantly-formed words upon the pages. Despite Estinien’s determination to cast them off as falsehoods, he could sense no insincerity from Aymeric. Everything he had written in regards to Estinien was something Vrtra already knew to be true about the man.

Nay, it seemed that the problem lay not within the letter, but in Estinien’s own heart– and whether it belonged to one of his mortal children or the man he had come to regard as a brother, Vrtra had never been one to ignore a troubled soul within his domain. 

He held out his hand, gesturing to Estinien with the papers still clasped tightly between his fingers. “Have you written a response to him already?”

Estinien looked up, his brow furrowed, clearly skeptical of Vrtra’s motives. “No.”

“Good. I shall fetch you fresh paper and pen, and task you with doing so before the next sennight passes.”

Estinien sat up straight, his eyes narrowing. “Vrtra… what are you playing at?” 

Vrtra placed a hand over his chest. “I would like to invite Ser Aymeric to Radz-at-Han as a representative of the Holy See of Ishgard, that we might discuss diplomatic matters between our two nations.” Estinien continued to stare at him, too bewildered to respond, and Vrtra smiled. Behind the mask of the simulacrum, the dragon’s mind churned, a plan for ensuring his companion’s happiness coming together piece by piece. “You have told me much, Estinien, and brought me to a certain level of understanding, but I should like to ascertain this particular mortal for myself.”

Chapter Text

Vrtra's first impression of Ser Aymeric de Borel was one of poise. Despite the several hours he had just spent aboard the airship from Ishgard and the set of heavy ceremonial armor he wore, the city's most esteemed Lord Speaker looked none the worse for wear as he made his way from the airship into the landing, his only reaction a slight squint in the brief moment he was exposed to the glare of the Hannish morning sun. 

"'Tis my honor to make your acquaintance at last, Lord Satrap," Aymeric greeted him once he passed the gates. Despite the fact that Vrtra had taken the child’s simulacrum to greet him, Aymeric wore no look of confusion or contempt upon his face as he looked the mammet directly in the eye and gave a respectful bow. 

“Follow me to the palace, Lord Speaker, and pray do not hold back from taking in the sights of the city if you so wish,” Vrtra told him, beckoning with his small hand. “We can commence our trade discussions upon our arrival– in matters of state, I would prefer to speak with my true form. I traverse the city in this body so as not to cause any undue disruption, though I am given to understand that you are no stranger to riding dragonback.” 

Aymeric smiled as they made their way down the colorful hall side by side and exited into the city. “You understand correctly, your Excellency, though truth be told it was merely for ceremonial purposes. The entire experience lasted naught but twenty minutes.” He shrugged, and the heavy pauldrons and metal neckpiece of his ensemble caught the light of the sun. “Incidentally, Vidofnir and Hraesvelgr send their regards. If you ever wish to pay a visit to Dravania, know that Ishgard will also be glad to receive you.”

“Mayhap when Ahewann’s young nephew has been fully trained in matters of state, then I should be glad to take you up on that offer,” Vrtra responded. “As of yet there is far too much for me to do here to chance leaving the city in my true form, so I am most thankful that you were able to make the journey from Ishgard.” 

“‘Tis my pleasure, truly,” Aymeric said, and Vrtra, hearing his voice and seeing the smile on Aymeric’s lips, knew that they had not been said as meaningless pleasantries. His clear blue eyes were shining too brightly for his words to be a facade.

Vrtra fell silent as they continued to make their way to Meghaduta, allowing Aymeric the space to freely observe his surroundings. Out of the corner of the simulacrum’s eye, he watched as Aymeric’s head turned this way and that, taking in the sights and sounds of Radz-at-Han. Vrtra himself had never been to Ishgard, but from the little information Estinien had volunteered regarding his homeland, he understood that there was little color to be found in the place, and even less since the Calamity had blanketed the entire region of Coerthas in snow. Vrtra felt a little swell of pride in the face of Aymeric's awed reaction to his city: truly, his children had done well to fill their land with great works of beauty. 

Blessedly, no supplicants accosted them as they continued through the gardens and crossed the bridge to Meghaduta. As they entered Vrtra’s chamber, followed closely behind by a servant with a tray bearing a teacup and a pot of chai, he at last allowed himself to relax the strain of maintaining the simulacrum. When Aymeric settled onto one of the chairs and gratefully accepted the steaming cup, Vrtra stashed the mammet away in the corner of his own chamber, and regarded the highly esteemed Lord Speaker of Ishgard with his true form. 

As all he had known of Aymeric before his arrival in Radz-at-Han had come from tales of his deeds as a leader and a lawmaker, Vrtra had formed a sense of his personality, but had harbored no prior expectations as to what the man would look like. Mortals, he knew, put a great deal of importance on physical features when it came to their partners, though their preferences were fickle and the features that were preferred in a mortal man or woman changed too rapidly for Vrtra to follow. Beautiful features were never a quality he had asked of his alchemists when it came to creating his simulacra, though there had been times when by happenstance his features had chanced to overlap with those his children favored, which made staying inconspicuous rather more challenging. 

Vrtra knew from hearsay that Ser Aymeric was considered a beauty in Eorzea, though he appeared as any other mortal to his eyes. Idly, he wondered if the man at the helm of the newly-fledged Ishgardian state faced similar trials to what Vrtra had endured himself in his too-fair simulacra. Of course, Aymeric took on an additional challenge in that respect, as he could not escape to the refuge of a newer, less exceptional body. What intrigued the satrap more than the appearance of Aymeric’s face or his body was his eloquent speech and his continued poise, his spine held straight and attentive even as he relaxed into his chair. Estinien, too, possessed a certain grace of movement from his years spent fighting and riding the wind, and despite his insistence that his own skill with words was non-existent, was nevertheless capable of astute speech in his own right. It was gratifying to know for certain that Estinien's feelings were not bound to shifting, shallow aesthetics, but to a man who was clearly his match in more ways than their shared homeland and ancestry.

“Pray share thy tidings from Coerthas, Lord Speaker,” Vrtra said once the doors had shut again, relaxing into his more natural mode of speech. “I would know how farest relations between the children of my brood-brothers and thine own people.” 

"Of course, Your Excellency. Full glad am I to be the bearer of hopeful tidings as we relegate the shameful animosity between our peoples to the past, and step forward to greet this new dawn together." Aymeric took a delicate sip of his drink before continuing. “While not all Ishgardians have quite grown accustomed to the presence of dragons as allies rather than enemies, I am pleased to report that great progress has been made on that front, in no small part due to the assistance of Vidofnir herself. In fact, we have just begun a training program for dragonets who wish to become artisans, after the efforts of one pioneering young lady caused a surge of interest among her kind.” 

“Ah, young Ehll Tou of the Firmament. She must be one of Hraesvelgr’s brood, or mayhap even Ratatoskr's, I presume,” Vrtra said before he could think to conceal the information. 

Aymeric paused with his teacup halfway to his lips. “Forgive my curiosity, your Excellency, but from whence have you heard tell of Ehll Tou?”

Vrtra shifted in his chamber, his claws clicking against the tiled floor. He hadn’t meant for Aymeric to know that he had read his correspondence to Estinien, but now that he had allowed his tongue to slip, there was little point in denying it– though he certainly did not have to share all of the context behind the encounter. “From thine own missive to Estinien that contained the tale did I hear of her, Ser Aymeric, and thus did I also come to learn of the Firmament. Forgive me for causing thee confusion." He lowered his head and fixed Aymeric in his eye, wishing to monitor his reaction for any hints he might glean from the mortal himself on how to proceed with facilitating his and Estinien's relationship.

“Estinien spoke of my letter?” Aymeric set his teacup down. “How fares he, if I may ask?” The Lord Speaker fixed his eyes upon Vrtra, and stilled in his seat with not only his gaze but his entire torso turned towards him in anticipation of his answer. 

"He is well," Vrtra was only too happy to relay to him truthfully. "He rises early each morn to lead drills with my Radiant Host, where I am told he is a strict but fair instructor. He eats well, and though he is wont to keep to himself, he has nonetheless earned a positive reputation with my citizens. For his invaluable assistance with mine affairs, Radz-at-Han strives to provide him with naught less than the warmest hospitality." 

"Very good. That is all… most welcome to hear." Aymeric's poise slipped then, just a fraction of an ilm for an even slimmer fraction of a heartbeat, but Vrtra witnessed the cascade of emotions in his eyes all too clearly. Any small doubt Vrtra yet held as to whether Aymeric harbored similar affections as Estinien did for him was scoured away before the flood. 

Vrtra could not help but feel sorry for the plight of mortals. Aymeric and Estinien's bond, shaped from a long history at one another's sides, burned so brightly between them that Vrtra nearly had to turn away lest he be overwhelmed by the intensity of emotion it contained, yet the two of them walked about with naught but their own thoughts for company, blind to what was so clearly present before their eyes. It pained him to have to resort to the clumsy speech and concealed intentions that yet remained somewhat foreign to him, but such things were a delicate matter among mortals. Just as a blossoming flower could not be coaxed open by force, so did Vrtra know he should keep from revealing the long-hidden affection Estinien had confided in him, as much as he wished to simply clear the air himself. Luckily, Aymeric's current physical presence in Thavnair created a much simpler opportunity to bring the two Ishgardians together. 

"If thou wishest to speak with him thyself, I can arrange to have Estinien join the two of us for dinner tonight," Vrtra proposed. "That is, if thou art amenable to such an invitation as well. As the purpose of thy visit is a matter of state, I shall take no offense if thou desirest to spend thy personal time elsewhere." 

He had scarcely finished speaking before Aymeric was nodding, firmly rejecting the alternatives Vrtra had so diplomatically added. "I accept, Satrap, and my sincerest thanks are yours. I would enjoy nothing more than to spend my evening with the both of you," he said, his eyes nearly glowing. 

If Vrtra had been in the form of his simulacrum, he would have smiled with self-satisfaction. With Aymeric so clearly eager and forthcoming with his feelings, mayhap the process of enlightening the mortals to their own feelings would not be so fraught with difficulty on this occasion. "Very good, Lord Speaker. We shall have a feast prepared for thee by the seventh evening bell. In the meantime, however, I should like to hear more of thy Firmament."

"Yes, of course," Aymeric said, picking up his cup of tea once more, taking a long drink and settling himself back into his chair. His posture had slipped, his shoulders dropping with relief (or perhaps with the weight of his pauldrons,) yet rather than take offense, Vrtra could only feel a swell of goodwill toward the man. His mortal companion had chosen very well indeed– now it was only a matter of time before the two of them lifted the veils from their sight and recognized what they already had. 

To his credit, Estinien did not shirk the summons to dinner from Vrtra’s messenger, nor was he late. He arrived precisely at the seventh evening bell, pushing open the door to the satrap’s chamber with little fanfare, only to stop in his tracks as he spied, first, the platters of local dishes spread across the extended dining table, and then Aymeric himself, now changed out of his heavy armor in favor of a formal shirt and high-waisted trousers; he had arrived nearly a quarter of a bell early. Vrtra watched him freeze in the doorway, his own heart lifting with the anticipation of seeing Estinien and his dearest friend speak at last, though he was careful not to make any movement that might draw Estinien’s attention and give himself away.

"Aymeric. You're here," Estinien managed after a moment of looking like a hamsa caught in a spotlight. He glanced at Vrtra, eyes narrowing in a suspicious glare, to which the dragon did not react in the slightest.

Aymeric smiled, and in his true form with its full range of senses, Vrtra could hear as Estinien’s heart began to pump rapidly within his breast. “Estinien, my friend, how good of you to join us! Surely, though, you had not forgotten my arrival today? After all, was it not you who penned my invitation to an audience with His Excellency?”

Estinien shook his head, his gaze falling to the patterned rug beneath his feet. “Of course I did not forget. I simply had not expected you to take your dinner in Meghaduta as well.”

“Wherefore? His Excellency is fine company, as are you, my friend. I would not squander one of the few opportunities the two of us are afforded to share our respective tales with one another before duty steals us both away once more.” Aymeric’s face was placid, and there was no accusation in his tone, yet the tightening of Estinien’s lips did not escape Vrtra’s notice. “Besides, I have no knowledge of the fine cuisine of Radz-at-Han, but I am given to understand that you have been enjoying it very much indeed. I was rather hoping you would serve as my guide to this lovely repast the Satrap has prepared for us,” the Lord Speaker continued, gesturing to the heavily-laden table. 

"I… suppose," Estinien said, hesitating for another moment in the doorway and glancing between the food and Vrtra. Squaring his shoulders, he pressed his lips together and strode forward at last, lowering himself into a chair and promptly crossing both his arms and legs. 

A slight furrow appeared between Aymeric's brows. "Forgive me, my friend. If you had plans elsewhere, 'twas not my intention to keep you." 

Vrtra tapped his claw against the tile to interject. Even though Estinien had already answered his summons, and Vrtra knew full well that he had a known weakness for a hearty meal and was unlikely to abandon them at this stage, he did not need to be offered an excuse to avoid his friend further. "Worry not, Lord Speaker. Even were Estinien to have another obligation, I would relieve him of it myself." 

Estinien shot him a rather affronted look, but Aymeric only smiled. "And what of your supper, Your Excellency? Do you intend to partake?" 

Vrtra let out a huff of air through his nostrils in lieu of shaking his head, as he would in his mortal form. "Though the simulacrum is capable of ingesting food, I take mine own sustenance elsewhere. The pleasure of thy company is all I seek this evening." 

"Hmph. This is far too much food for the two of us, Vrtra." Estinien grumbled.

"The excess shall not go to waste, I assure thee. 'Twas simply mine intention to provide an appropriate welcome for our honored guest." 

"I, for one, am most grateful for your hospitality thus far," Aymeric assured him. "Now, Estinien, if you would direct me to a dish you enjoy? I hardly know where to begin."

Estinien stared at the food platters for another moment before Vrtra heard his stomach growling beneath his leathers, and the impetus of his bodily needs appeared to alleviate some of the tension in his posture. He leaned forward, plucking a piece of naan from its tray and tearing off a chunk for Aymeric. "Begin with the bread, then. That should be familiar enough. Then simply dip it in the plate that most appeals to your sensibilities." 

Vrtra looked on as Estinien explained the flavors and spices of each dish upon the table, the dragoon's countenance relaxing ilm by ilm as he hit his stride with the familiar subject. From the tales he had told on the late nights the two of them had spent in one another's company, Vrtra knew that for over a decade Estinien had subsisted on naught but soldier's rations, his sense of taste dulled even further by the burden of his brood-brother's eye upon his aether. Little satisfied the great wyrm more than being able to provide the delicacies of his land to a man who was all but starving, and see them so appreciated. 

"My, Estinien, you have become rather knowledgeable in the area of foreign cuisine." Aymeric raised his eyebrows incredulously, though his eyes sparked with fondness. 

Vrtra leaned forward on his forelegs, no more than an ilm so as not to draw the attention of the two elezen at his table. Surely, even a man like Estinien could not miss the meaning of a gaze like that… if he had been looking in the right direction, that is. 

Estinien scoffed, his eyes fixed on his plate. "If I have, 'tis only due to repetitive exposure." He pushed a bit of palak paneer about on the plate with his own piece of bread.

"I am glad, Estinien, that you have had such opportunities," Aymeric said softly.

Estinien did not respond with further commentary, only a noise of acknowledgement in his throat, and soon the two of them had fallen into silence as they ate. Aymeric, at least, appeared to be genuinely attentive to his meal, taking small tastes of each dish with a thoughtful expression on his brow, but Estinien merely picked at the feast before him, even as his stomach growled and gurgled with yearning. 

Nay, Vrtra thought, this shall not do. The entire point of the shared dinner was to get the two of them to speak, and if they refused to do so on their own, it was up to Vrtra to assist them. But how to restart the conversation? Vrtra searched his memories for a topic that might appeal to the both of them.

"A growing number of spice merchants hath set sail for Eorzea and Ishgard as of late," he ventured. 

"Ah, indeed. Thavnairian spices are becoming a usual sight among the sundries of the Jeweled Crozier as of late," Aymeric replied, wiping the corner of his mouth delicately with his napkin. "Though as of yet the cost is such that they are only available to the culinarians on retainer to nobility." 

"Such is the way of things, at least in the beginning of trade with a new nation, as Thavnair has experienced many a time over the centuries," Vrtra said. "In time, as thy nation continues to welcome our goods, 'tis likely that availability increases."

Aymeric nodded. "Indeed. Alas, with increased trade presence we have also faced an increased scourge of counterfeiting among the merchants who pass our gates. Not only Thavnairian goods are affected; all manner of foodstuffs are subject to unscrupulous tampering or even outright false advertising as to their contents. As you can imagine, with as much food as Ishgard must needs import to sustain her citizens as the Calamity caught her in its frozen grip, this is a grave concern. In fact, upon my return to the city, I am to sit on a committee to address this very issue.”

"Sounds maddening," Estinien offered as he swallowed another mouthful of curry. 

Aymeric sighed. "As you can no doubt imagine, many of the more conservative lords oppose the import of foreign goods on principle, and this spate of counterfeits only serves to strengthen their voices. After the issue began to be more widely publicized, they have gone so far as to call for a halt to the issuance of vendor's permits to outsiders. However, I believe our citizens deserve to experience the world beyond our walls, and thus I have been spending much time as of late contemplating a compromise that may appeal to both the Houses of Lords and Commons." 

"'Tis a worthy experiment thou hast undertaken with thy reborn system of government," Vrtra said. "Thavnair shall follow thy progress with great interest." 

Aymeric and Vrtra continued to discuss various matters, and the dragon's heart was lifted by the ease of speaking with him. 'Twas little wonder Estinien had developed such a long (for a mortal, of course) and close bond with the man despite his own solitary and reticent nature.

With his thoughts on Estinien, Vrtra chanced to glance at the man himself. He had fallen silent after his few brief comments, finally ceasing to pick at the dinner feast and piling his own plate with food. Too far away from the table to physically nudge him into joining his and Aymeric's conversation, Vrtra settled for a verbal prodding. "Estinien, dost thou have any thoughts on the matter?"

"Hmph. I know not why you bother to ask me. Unlike Aymeric, I've no head for politics." Estinien punctuated his statement by taking a large bite of his tandoori raptor leg, as if to forcibly prevent himself from being made to give an opinion. 

Vrtra let the matter slide, and turned back to Aymeric to continue their discussion. If ever he had held any doubts as to whether the Ishgardians had chosen the right man to lead their nation into the age following their war with his brood-brother, they had now fled thoroughly before the mortal's eloquence and intelligence. 

Speaking with him was so engaging, in fact, that Vrtra had little idea how much time was passing until abruptly, their spirited conversation was interrupted by the sound of chair legs scraping against the tile. Estinien, his plate clear, had risen from his seat, and without any fanfare nor a farewell turned in the direction of the door. 

Aymeric put out a hand as if to stop him, though the distance between them was far too great for him to have a hope of succeeding without leaping from his chair himself. "Where are you going, Estinien?"

"My chambers. I am retiring for the evening." 

"I take it you cannot be persuaded to stay any longer?" Aymeric's voice was hopeful as he slowly lowered his hand back to rest in his own lap.

Estinien shook his head. "Nay. I've drills to prepare for at dawn." 

"Thank you for joining me for this past bell, then. 'Tis a pleasure I have sorely missed of late– your company at dinner, I mean." Aymeric smiled. "Shall I have the chance to speak with you again on the morrow?" 

Estinien froze in place, and his lips parted as if he were about to respond, only for him to turn abruptly away from the dinner table.

Aymeric and Vrtra both watched Estinien's back as he made his way across the hall with long, purposeful strides, only to hesitate once he reached the doorway. Turning his head just enough to make the angle of his cheek and the downturned corner of his mouth visible, but not enough to make eye contact with either of them, he cleared his throat. "Good night, Aymeric." 

When the door closed again, Aymeric turned back to Vrtra, the soft smile that had been present on his lips throughout the evening turned wistful. "I see the delights of Radz-at-Han have done naught to diminish Estinien's willfulness." 

Vrtra bowed his head in acknowledgement. "Estinien is most certainly a man who follows where the wind blows, though I am certain Mihleel of the Meyhane would also attest that the promise of a fine meal is often sufficient to temporarily change its direction."

Aymeric laughed. "Mayhap I should push for increased Thavnairian imports from the committee after all, if it might entice him to return to Ishgard more often."

Vrtra and Ser Aymeric made pleasant conversation for another bell, until the Lord Speaker had finished a full plate of his own and the fatigue of the day’s travel began to slip through his careful comportment and show upon his face. After he bid Vrtra farewell and made his way to his own chambers for the night, leaving the dragon to rest alone in his great hall, Vrtra once again pondered how well the two mortals were suited to one another. Their closeness was all too apparent with every word they shared, the expressions Aymeric had made when looking at Estinien nearly palpable as they hung in the air, tragically unacknowledged. Yet even with a feast before him, Estinien had been unable to relax enough to allow much to slip from his guarded heart. 

Mayhap it had been Vrtra's presence that discomfited Estinien, or the confined space of the hall that boxed him in, but it was obvious that the situation Vrtra had crafted for the potential couple had not been quite right to facilitate the expression of their feelings. 

Clearly, further intervention would be needed.

Chapter Text

Aymeric arrived at Meghaduta just as the sixth bell chimed the following morning, his punctuality undiminished by the early hour. The rising sunlight streamed through the windows, and an equally bright smile appeared on his lips when he espied the tea tray that the Satrap’s attendants had procured in advance. 

“Thavnair certainly treats its diplomats well,” he remarked, taking a long sip from his cup. “The breakfast fare at Mehryde’s Meyhane was most lovely. Alas, though I endeavored to arrive early so that I might greet Estinien, we seem to have sadly missed one another.” 

“Alas, Ser Estinien often riseth before the dawn in order to prepare for the lessons he leads with the Radiant Host, and doth consume his morning meal on the road,” Vrtra explained. 

Aymeric let out a soft laugh. “‘Tis good to know that all the moons away from home have not dampened his willfulness.” He set his empty teacup down carefully and leaned back in his chair, looking Vrtra over with the familiar appraising eye of a politician. “Now, shall we move on to business?”

All told, it was a productive morning. Ser Aymeric consumed several more pots of tea as the two of them discussed the matter of trade and military alliances between their nations. The matter of counterfeit goods was at the forefront of Ishgard's concerns, and so Vrtra offered a solution: an invisible aetheric signature applied to genuine goods by an alchemist, that could be easily read by anyone trained in the arcane arts. Aymeric readily agreed with the proposal, and in exchange for the additional labor on the part of Radz-at-Han, agreed to waive a portion of the tariffs incurred by imported goods. By the time the two of them decided to adjourn, Vrtra felt more than satisfied with the proceedings, and by Aymeric's relaxed countenance and unfurrowed brow, his new Ishgardian friend and trade partner felt the same. 

Vrtra was not done with him yet, however. “Pray allow me to introduce thee to the manufacturers who shall be most affected by our agreement,” he said. “Afterwards, we shall pay visit to the training grounds of the Radiant, so that thou may rest assured in the strength of the soldiers that may one day fight alongside thee.” 

Aymeric rose from the chair, an eager sparkle in his eyes. “So you are to give me the grand tour, then? Your hospitality truly knows no bounds, Satrap.”

Privately, Vrtra felt a heady surge of triumph and satisfaction. Calling upon Estinien and the Host was meant to help bring the two friends closer together, of course, but not all of his plan to present his city to Ser Aymeric had such an ulterior motive. The prosperity of Radz-at-Han was his life's work, its mortal populace dear to him in a manner akin to the way his siblings cared for the broods born from their own aether. Any opportunity to show the city's bounty to another was one he cherished deeply. 

The adult simulacrum’s longer legs were more suited to keeping stride with an Elezen man than the child’s, and the two of them walked side by side down the path from Meghaduta. It was a pleasantly sunny day, and the Thavnairian heat had already begun to settle over the city like a thick blanket. Aymeric said naught at all to betray any dissatisfaction with the weather, but no sooner had they crossed the bridge near the hamsa farms than Vrtra noticed the deepening reddish tone of Aymeric's face and the sheen of sweat that covered his exposed skin. 

The simulacrum’s artificial flesh felt neither excessive heat nor cold, such senses having been deemed superfluous to the body's function, and Vrtra's senses were primarily attuned to the condition of his true body in its chamber. However, even in his true form, the Thavnairian heat had never troubled him. Dragonkind had settled themselves all over the star and the strength of their aether meant that they were unbothered by even the most extreme conditions. 

It was easy to forget at times that mortals were greatly affected by such things– as Aymeric clearly was– though it was just as clear he had no wish to voice his discomfort. As Vrtra was playing the host, however, he had no intention of allowing his guest to sweat overlong beneath the sun's unforgiving rays. 

“Forgive me, friend, but might you have a set of clothing more suitable to the Hannish clime?” he asked delicately. “I shall take no offense should you take leave of me for a moment to change your attire.” 

For all he had tried to hide his discomfort, the smile on Aymeric's lips was visibly strained. “I fear I have little clothing for this weather even in my drawers back in Ishgard,” he said. “Even in the days before the Calamity, ‘twas rare for Coerthan summers to exceed a mild warmth. As the climate stands now, of course, every Ishgardian who owns summer clothing has long since bundled it into a storage chest.” He drew a pale blue handkerchief from his pocket and wiped at his brow before straightening and smiling at Vrtra once more. “Pray do not trouble yourself over my condition, Satrap. I feel perfectly well, I assure you. Shall we continue our tour?” 

Vrtra appraised the man before him. He had donned his ceremonial robes again for their meeting; though only the two of them were in attendance, Aymeric valued decorum in his diplomacy. The heavy pauldrons and metal neckpiece gleamed in the bright sun, throwing oblong shapes of reflected light across Aymeric's flushed face. Even as Vrtra watched, a bead of sweat rolled down the curve of his cheek and dripped onto the road. 

It was plain that his honored guest was in great discomfort, and Vrtra simply could not abide such a thing within the walls of his beloved city. There was an obvious simple, quick solution to the matter– Vrtra himself would procure Aymeric a new set of clothes. 

He strode decisively ahead of the Lord Speaker, leading the way to the Ruveydah Fibers workshop. Even though the simulacrum's senses were inferior to those of Vrtra’s true body, he could still hear the bustle of the weavers from some distance away. The artisans were as lively as usual, discussing everything from their current projects to their children's antics to petty gossip from the other side of the city, but when Vrtra pushed open the doors with a sheepish, profusely sweating Aymeric in tow, the ambient chatter ceased nigh-immediately. 

Vrtra stifled a small sigh at the reaction. Now that every man, woman, and child in Thavnair knew the true identity of their Satrap, it had become difficult to interact with his children on an equal level. In the past, if anyone began to grow suspicious of his identity or sought to give the “Satrap’s assistant” greater status, it had been a simple enough matter to send the persona off on a ship for a “trading voyage” or “diplomatic placement” and remake his identity anew. But his alchemists had put a great deal of effort into Varshahn’s adult form, and there was no need to maintain such secrecy any longer. He would simply have to endure the discomfort until his dear children learned that he was no different at heart than he had been before they knew a wyrm’s soul resided within his breast. 

The head of the shop, an Arkasodara woman named Kamala, leapt from her chair at the sight of him. “Your Excellency, what brings you to the guild? Is there a problem? We had no idea you would visit today, so pray forgive the untidiness…” She began to frantically scoop up stray bobbins of thread that had been scattered about the nearest table, sending a few of them bouncing across the floor in her haste. 

“There is no need to worry, Kamala. Far be it from me to criticize the way you run your workshop.” Vrtra put on a smile, and showed his palms in a calming gesture. “If I may trouble you momentarily, my guest is in need of a proper set of Thavnairian clothing. Have you aught to spare? You will be duly compensated from the Satrap's coffers for every expense, I assure you.” 

“Spare? Yes, yes, of course!” Kamala all but sprinted across the room, skidding to a halt next to a rack upon which hung a veritable rainbow of fabrics. “All of these are finished, ready for the shops, but Your Excellency’s guest can pick out whichever one he likes. We can do any alterations necessary on the spot, of course, if sir will allow us to take his measurements.” 

“Please, call me Aymeric,” said the man in question, placing a hand upon his chest and bowing to the excitable guildmaster.

Kamala blinked, seeming startled by Aymeric’s desire for familiarity as she shifted from foot to foot and twisted a length of thread between her thick fingers. “Is there a certain style sir would prefer?” she eventually managed to force out.

“Might I recommend this?” Vrtra interjected. He removed the royal blue bolero he had been eyeing from the rack and held it up for Aymeric’s appraisal. “The style is commonplace in Thavnair, and I believe Ser Estinien once mentioned that you were fond of this color.” 

In truth Vrtra had heard that information indirectly, via an offhand comment from the Warrior of Light, but Estinien had been the one to say it in the first place. The reason why he was so reticent about the man he clearly cared a great deal for eluded Vrtra. There seemed to be little benefit to the games mortals played, expressing their feelings only via indirect words and statements to others. When a dragon saw something beautiful, their partner would simply feel their joy, and the reflection of their mutual happiness would resonate through their bond without ever requiring a word to be spoken aloud. Telling Aymeric what Estinien had said about him was only setting things right, the way they were meant to be. 

Aymeric's lips parted slightly as he looked at the article of clothing, a question floating clearly in his eyes, but then he merely smiled and shook his head. “Indeed, I am fond of that shade, but I confess I am surprised to hear that Estinien mentioned such a thing.” 

Vrtra opened his mouth to confirm his statement, only to be interrupted by a small voice piping up from the finishing tables. “Are you talking about Ser Estinien the dragonrider?” 

Vrtra and Aymeric turned in unison to meet the sparkling eyes of a young Auri woman– Rhulshahn, Vrtra recalled. She wore an expression of awe that Vrtra had come to recognize in many of his children after the events of the Final Days in the city– a heady blend of hero-worship and exotic curiosity. Though the Hannish trading networks had grown ever larger over the years, many of the common citizens had never met an Ishgardian Elezen before, and Estinien’s presence had steadfastly remained a novelty despite his extended residence.

“He comes in here often and just looks through the bolts,” Rhulshahn continued. “Never buys anything but thread but he's always wanting to know what we're making on the looms. I tell him, of course, since he's asking politely and he saved our lives, but I've never seen a soldier care for weaving like he does.” 

Now it was Vrtra's turn to be surprised. Aside from the Warrior of Light's anecdote, he had never heard a word about Estinien having any sort of interest in fibercraft, even as a passing curiosity. His very own chambers were replete with colorful Hannish rugs and pillows, yet the only time Vrtra had ever heard Estinien speak of his living conditions, ‘twas to scoff at its opulence and “unnecessary clutter.” 

Aymeric, on the other hand, betrayed no surprise at all, and instead wore a wistful smile. “Ah, he does not often speak of it, but as a child his family dealt in wool textiles,” he explained. “I imagine spending time in a weaver's shop serves to remind him of his youth.” 

He smiled at Rhulshahn and bent at the waist in a deep formal bow.“Thank you for making him feel welcome. As his friend, ‘tis comforting to know that he has found a place in this city.” 

His words conveyed nothing but warmth and sincerity, but as Vrtra closely watched the expression on his face, his gaze caught upon the pinched corners of his mouth and the slight line crossing his forehead beneath his thick black locks. In the next moment, though, Aymeric had straightened himself, and any tells he might have let slip had vanished. 

The sight gave Vrtra pause. Aymeric’s words regarding his friend had been so warm, so sincere, yet it seemed that something about Estinien’s presence in Radz-at-Han was troubling to him. Of course, missing the presence of a close companion was not an unknown emotion for dragonkind, but Estinien had dwelled in the city for a mere few moons. Surely, even for mortals, that was not long enough to cause such consternation in the man who would be his consort. 

But alas, now is not the time to dwell on the matter, Vrtra thought, shaking his head. There were only so many bells in a day, and there were still many stops along the grand tour he had planned for the conflicted Lord Commander.

The fiber workshop was only the first of the artisans and merchants to which Vrtra wished to introduce his newest Ishgardian ally. Vrtra knew well how war affected the hearts of mortals, and he had seen with his own eyes how his own children had begun to truly flourish after their peace was brokered and their minds freed from the burdens of the battlefield. Having spent a full millennium mired in a war with his brood-brother, he surmised that the Ishgardians would similarly long for the same material comforts as his own people– and as he watched Ser Aymeric converse excitedly with shopkeeps and broker deals with guildmasters over the next several bells, he only became more secure in his assessment. 

With the morning well spent, Vrtra and a freshly outfitted Aymeric took their leave of the city for the next stop on their tour. The sun bore down upon the Thavnairian desert from its position at the sky’s apex as they embarked on a rather leisurely stroll through the Thavnairian countryside toward the Radiant Host’s waterside encampment. 

Initially intended as a temporary outpost to monitor the Ascians’ fell tower, it had settled into permanency after the location had proved useful for training exercises and field operations. Most importantly, it was where Vrtra had stationed Estinien as an instructor for newly-fledged lancers. He was only substituting for the usual drillmaster, a guard-captain who had recently given birth to her first child, but Estinien had taken well to the work and carried it out (mostly) without complaint. 

Aymeric’s complexion was already looking much improved from the bells prior, which Vrtra noted as he glanced sidelong at his companion. The weavers had exceeded his expectations, measuring and tailoring the azure bolero and a set of loose trousers as if they were equally as designed and programmed for efficiency as their mammet assistants. The resulting outfit fit him perfectly, with no awkward pinching or gaping to mar the surface of the luxurious Thavnairian silk. 

Clothing was a mortal institution that, even after thousands of years, Vrtra still found beyond his comprehension at times. Dragons had never had any need for the stuff, nor indeed any manufactured object (though, if Aymeric's description of young Ehll Tou had been accurate, perhaps even that fundamental constancy of their natures was beginning to change). What the mortals called “style” was fickle, and the immortal mind of a dragon struggled to keep abreast of its shifting and changing. Vrtra had often deferred to his acting Satrap when it came to the matter of dress for his simulacra, not wishing to betray his disguise with an obvious error such as wearing a style that had fallen out of common use hundreds of years prior, or mixing up clothing meant for male and female wearers. 

The matter of discerning what clothing mortals enjoyed seeing upon the bodies of their consorts was even murkier. Generally, it seemed as if less clothing was more appealing, except as was often the case during formal events, when greater amounts of fabric and impractical decoration was used to enhance a person's beauty, and of course the opposite extreme of too little clothing was most often embarrassing rather than alluring. Combined with the ever-shifting nature of styles and fashions, it was a daunting element of mortal courtship for Vrtra to attempt to engineer alone. 

However, he felt confident about his choice of clothing for the Lord Speaker. The man was less covered than when he had donned his ceremonial outfit, with his arms and neck entirely bare, but the simple bolero design was not so revealing as to appear gratuitous or indecent. It was currently a common enough style among the Hannish citizens so as not to draw undue attention, but Estinien had likely never seen such a garment on Aymeric before. 

Estinien, though, was a man Vrtra had come to know well, and he could predict the man's habits with a good degree of accuracy. Estinien misliked the tactile sensation of sweat-soaked cloth sticking to his skin, and more often than not discarded his shirt when he planned to engage in vigorous training. He had done so at certain times when even Vrtra had known that such a lack of attire was inappropriate, but in this situation, his plan had taken that very habit into account.  

Of course, Vrtra had not invited Aymeric to the Radiant outpost entirely out of selfless pride in his children's strength, or solely to assure Ishgard of their new military alliance. Estinien did not shirk his duty, so he was unlikely to attempt an escape as he had done during the previous night’s dinner. Out in the sunshine, in the calming presence of the sea lapping at the shore, the two mortals’ feelings for one another could flow freely.

The clothing was the key. According to his own estimation of the principles of mortal courtship, the mere act of viewing the object of his affections in a state of partial undress could be a strong enough impetus for Aymeric to act further on their unspoken, mutual desire. And with Aymeric dressed deliberately as well, Vrtra believed that Estinien could be motivated to reciprocate. 

The training session could be heard even by the simulacrum's inferior ears when they were yet several yalms away from the flattened stretch of sandy soil that served as the drillyard. Vrtra had often observed his Radiants in many forms over the years, though it was only of late that his alchemists had developed a body that was capable of standing alongside them in battle, and the great combined sound of boots hitting the dirt, shouts of exertion, and the clanging of wooden training weapons against armor plates was a familiar one. 

They rounded the makeshift barracks of colorful tents, and the training exercise came into full view. There were the young trainees, half with lances and half with shields, going through repetitions of their latest maneuver in pairs, just as Vrtra had expected from the many past occasions on which he had observed Estinien at work. While every instructor in his Host had their own methods, Estinien had always stressed repetition of the fundamentals. They had discussed the matter over chai and curry on previous occasions, but Vrtra now found himself curious whether his opinion stemmed from another shared experience in his and Aymeric's days as knights in their homeland. Perhaps if his plans proceeded well, Vrtra mused, the three of them could discuss the matter over another dinner in Meghaduta. 

Estinien himself was just as Vrtra had expected: his shirt discarded, his arms crossed, and sweat running down his jaw and collarbones. His expression was placid as he observed the trainees, and he stood as still as a sentinel amidst the commotion– indeed, he was so focused upon his task that he completely failed to notice Vrtra and Aymeric’s approach.

The two of them stood just far enough from the trainees to not be caught by an errant swing of a lance or caught in the hazy cloud of disturbed soil. While Aymeric was thoroughly distracted by the spectacle before him, Vrtra began his own covert observation of Aymeric. The Lord Commander of Ishgard stood as though he were inspecting his own men, hands clasped behind his back in a posture Vrtra had witnessed many a time before. 

His face, however, betrayed his heart quite obviously. Rather than the usual analytical stoicism of a leader reviewing his troops’ performance, a sweet smile instead bent his lips and pinched the corners of eyes. Those eyes, in turn, were firmly fixed on Estinien, and fairly blazed with naked adoration. 

Yes, it was the very same emotion that Vrtra had witnessed in the words that made up the letter he had sent to Estinien. Vrtra found himself suddenly tense with anticipation, the empathic channels of his true body thrumming with restless energy as he waited for Estinien to notice his friend awaiting him. Surely even he would not be able to ignore such a display. 

Eventually, the majority of the trainees lay panting in the dust, and Estinien was walking between the remaining men and women and waving them in the direction of the campground. “That’s enough,” he called out, clapping his hands to be noticed above the sound of clinking armor and shuffling feet. “You’ve got half a bell to stretch and get some water. Tomorrow you’ll be doing four score repetitions, so you’d best stretch and look sharp.” 

The final words were met with a series of groans, but Estinien remained impassive as he stretched his arms over his head. The soldiers began to shuffle off, and when Estinien turned to wipe some of the sweat from his brow, his eyes fell upon Vrtra and Aymeric at last. For a moment he froze, his arm awkwardly bent, but in a few scant moments he had recovered himself and was striding purposefully towards them. 

“Have you need of me?” Estinien asked once he was within earshot, his arms recrossed in front of his chest the moment he ceased his walking. 

Vrtra shook his head. “We had no intention of disrupting your plans. I only wished that Ser Aymeric witness the skill of our Host for himself.” 

“And what a fine host it is,” Aymeric effused, smoothly taking over the conversation. “Estinien, you have led these Hannish soldiers as finely as any field marshal in the Temple Knights could hope to achieve, and your efforts have done Ishgard proud.” He beamed at Estinien, his expression fairly glowing. 

“Hmph. Soldiers are soldiers, no matter from whence they hail. I’ve only given them the same training that you and I received when we were green knights.” 

Estinien's tone as he countered Aymeric's comment was dismissive, but even as his stormy gaze remained steadfastly turned away from the source of the praise, Vrtra noted the slight reddening of the tips of his ears and the flat line of his lips, as if he were physically biting back a smile. 

Once he had recovered his composure, Estinien gestured towards Aymeric. “You’re certainly making yourself at home here. Since when did you own a set of Hannish clothing?” 

“Since the tenth bell this very morning,” Aymeric replied with another bright smile. “I’m afraid my usual robes do not well agree with the climate. His Excellency was kind enough to escort me to the local weaver’s guild and made a generous gift of this lovely shirt and set of trousers.” 

Estinien paused. His eyes flicked back and forth between Aymeric and Vrtra as he pressed his narrow lips together. 

It was all Vrtra could do to keep his simulacrum standing still, and not accidentally betray his anticipation by raising up on its toes or making a suspicious facial expression. Estinien had noticed the clothing, and it was plain to see that it was having an effect on him. Would he finally allow the emotions that churned beneath his stoic veneer to surface? 

At last, Estinien looked away and let out a huff of a breath. “...A gift? The Satrap truly is generous.” 

“He is indeed,” said Aymeric warmly, “but even more valuable than these clothes are the opportunities His Excellency has afforded to all Ishgardians. Imagine if the luxuries you have been enjoying here in Radz-at-Han were available to be bought and sold by all the patrons of the Crozier!” 

Estinien remained silent for a moment, his eyes closed as if in deep thought, yet his shoulders remained strangely stiff. At last, he spoke, yet did not look at either his friend or Vrtra. “Hmm. His Excellency is sure to be as popular in the Pillars as he is among his merchants.” 

Aymeric continued to converse with Estinien about the new trade agreements he had made for Ishgard, but something in the atmosphere had changed. The moment had been lost, but no matter how much Vrtra scoured the words that had passed between them in his mind, he found himself completely unable to determine the cause. 

When they parted from Estinien at last and began the trek back to Radz-at-Han, it required all of Vrtra's focus to not allow his disappointment to show in the simulacrum's countenance. Two steps forward and one step back, or so the mortals would say. Powerful, vibrant emotion fairly radiated from the two of them, and yet they remained oblivious – or mayhap they were simply inclined to privacy in their intimate matters, as most of their kind tended to be, and it was Vrtra's presence that was making them reticent. 

Yes, that must be the final problem remaining , Vrtra pondered as he maneuvered the simulacrum back up the stairs to return to the Meghaduta later that afternoon, once Ser Aymeric had taken his leave for his supper. Reliant as they were on fallible language to communicate with one another, the would-be pair of consorts likely wished him not to overhear the vulnerable murmurs of their hearts– nevermind that their unspoken desires were already shouting so loudly as to be deafening to the attuned empathetic senses of the first brood. 

Vrtra would have to contrive a way for the two of them to be alone– or at least, seemingly alone. At this point, he was far too invested to risk missing the long-awaited culmination of his plan.  

Chapter Text

From a rooftop in Kama, the little Auri boy’s ruby eyes gazed out over the city. It was a favored spot for Vrtra– not only was the roof a convenient place to hide the smaller simulacrum when he did not wish for it to be easily noticed, but his dragon's heart also felt more at ease with naught but the open sky above his head. 

His chambers at the Meghaduta had always been made as comfortable for him as Ahewann and his other satraps could manage, of course. He would always be grateful to his children for the care they had given him over the centuries. Still, no mortal enclosure could ever compare to the fresh air, warm sunshine, and starry night sky, diminished as such sensations were when his consciousness resided in the mammet. 

The city below was especially lively at the moment, though: the coming nightfall would herald the festival celebrating the favored colors of the Sisters that served to mark the beginning of the spring season. After the tragedy of the Final Days, the Hannish people were especially eager to grasp every possible moment of joy to be found. Laughing children ran through the streets, their skin already coated in gulal of all hues, while their families chatted, rushing from their homes to the bazaar and back, cooking festival treats and generally enjoying themselves.

Conspicuously absent from the city's bustling streets, however, was Estinien.

Vrtra leaned forward, resting his small elbows against the parapet. Ser Aymeric was due to conclude his diplomatic visit on the morrow, and still, perplexing, Estinien persisted in avoiding him. 

There was no doubt that he felt deeply for his friend: like a current of aether catching his wings as he soared through the skies, the depth of emotion Estinien experienced whenever he laid eyes on Aymeric resonated through Vrtra’s heightened perception. Beholding the truth of the matter required little more than attuning to that most fundamental sense, and though mortal powers of empathy were much weaker than those of dragons, Vrtra was inclined to believe that Estinien was not wholly ignorant of the bond that simmered between him and the Lord Speaker. 

For whatever unfathomable mortal reason, he had averted his gaze from it; he feared to acknowledge it. Even now, he was like to be in his private chambers once more, eschewing both the festival and his beloved friend. 

Vrtra could not allow him to continue in his folly. 

Before he returned to the world of mortals and their incomprehensible affairs, he took one last moment to indulge. He rose from the rooftop's edge, stretching the mammet’s small arms toward the sky, marveling in his alchemist's talents as he felt the light tingling of sunlight on its skin and opened its mouth to take a deep breath. 

A sweet herbal fragrance laced the edges of the breeze as the gulal in production across the city began to mingle with the air. The festival’s timing was fortuitous, indeed: Vrtra hardly had to plan an outing for the mortals at all. His children had already performed the necessary work in brightening the city with color and preparing delights for the people. All Vrtra had to do was set Estinien and Aymeric into motion. 

A short while later, Vrtra once again found himself standing outside of Estinien's quarters, hand raised to knock while various guttural noises issued from the opposite side of the brightly painted wood. ‘Twas a far too common occurrence when it came to Estinien, he thought wryly, and he was never quite certain whether or not his precautions were necessary. 

“Estinien? Are you quite alright?” he ventured, giving the door a warning tap. “I have important business to discuss.” 

A pause, then a clatter. “Enter,” Estinien called out after a moment, and Vrtra wasted no time in complying.

Estinien was absorbed in his exercise again. This time, his skin nearly glowed red as he dropped his entire body into a deep lunge, grunting with the exertion of it and entirely ignoring Vrtra’s presence. 

Vrtra looked about the room. Little had changed since his previous visit – even Aymeric's letter still lay upon the dresser, where anyone at all could read it – except for the way Estinien was exercising. Every movement held a certain tension, as if he was using the training routine to work some unwanted toxin out of his system. 

He made no move to pause or acknowledge the additional presence in his room, and Vrtra cleared his throat. “Have you no interest in tonight's festivities?” he began. “Surely your training will serve you just as well on the morrow as it would tonight.” 

“Do you have business or are you merely here to interrogate me?” Estinien said while holding another lunge, his powerful legs showing no signs of strain. “Out with it, Vrtra.” 

Vrtra crossed his arms. “Ser Aymeric should see the festival before he returns to Ishgard. Would you accompany him?” 

For a moment, Estinien's stance faltered. His extended leg trembled briefly, just long enough for Vrtra to take note of it, before he abruptly rose to his feet and scowled. 

“Why do you ask me to accompany him? Would you not rather play tour guide?” 

Vrtra blinked. “I fear I do not understand your meaning. If I wished to accompany Ser Aymeric myself, why would I bother hunting you all over the city in order to ask this of you?”

Estinien stared at him. “Never have I asked you to do such a thing.”

Vrtra sighed. “I was under the impression that the two of you were close, and there is no better time to strengthen the bonds of friendship than the festival of colors.” He smiled, spreading his arms in a gesture of benevolence. “There is to be a bonfire and a grand dance performance at Kadjaya’s Footsteps upon nightfall. I am certain that both you and the Lord Speaker will enjoy the spectacle.”

“Hmph. Fine, I'll go with him… but only because I know full well you are unlikely to leave me be until I agree.” Estinien wiped his brow with a towel, discarding it onto the bed. “It ill befits a satrap to meddle in a diplomat's personal affairs, Vrtra. Surely you know this.” 

“Ser Aymeric is more than a mere diplomat, as you well know,” Vrtra said. “I do not intend to meddle, as you say, only to grant the two of you an opportunity to speak. Though I myself have seen many centuries, I understand that your time apart has been long by mortal reckoning. Surely you have missed your closest friend's company?” 

“You understand nothing.” Estinien sighed. “I have already agreed to your proposal. We need not continue this conversation.” 

“As long as you will go with him, I am satisfied.” 

Estinien dropped to the floor and began another set of push-ups. “Hmph.”

Vrtra was halfway out the door when the man spoke again. “If I catch any hint of your meddling, I’m leaving.” 

The satrap smiled to himself. He had won. “As you say.” 

Evening fell, and the young Auri boy once again stole out from the palace’s servant's door and into the humid tropical night. He squinted at the lights of the city, searching for the silhouettes of the two tall, lean Elezen men who had left several minutes prior.

Of course Vrtra had always intended to follow them. If Aymeric and Estinien at last came to their senses, he could not risk missing the moment of emotional catharsis for which he had worked so diligently. If the outing went poorly, he also wanted to be able to intervene. 

So long as he used the child’s mammet and kept his distance, ‘twas unlikely that Estinien would sense his presence. The mortal possessed only traces of his brood-brother’s aether, enough to discern Vrtra's nature at close proximity through a weak version of a dragon's innate empathetic senses, but at a distance it quickly diminished – which served Vrtra very well in his plan.

Of course, even when using the simulacrum via his eye, Vrtra’s true body could wield a much greater measure of his abilities. He had given the Ishgardians a slight head start, so as not to make them suspicious, but he could clearly sense that they had not yet left the city. 

In the child's form, he found it rather simple to navigate the festival crowds. As soon as night had fallen, the people had turned out of their houses to dance and toss gulal at one another in the streets. The flickering light of many bonfires brightened the streets, and musicians could be heard from all directions, playing different songs that nonetheless managed to harmonize into a lively background to the festival. 

Hawkers called out to him above the general chatter and commotion: “Every color of gulal! Best prices in all of Radz-at-Han, guaranteed!” “Get your gujiya here, straight from the oven!” “Little one, have your mother and father given you some coin? I've got all sorts of mammets that will walk, talk and dance!” 

Though he dared not approach any stall out of caution for being recognized, Vrtra still smiled at the shopkeepers’ eagerness. Thankfully, the veil he had thought to wear across his face did its job in concealing his identity, and he escaped any undue notice as he walked down the road, though he did occasionally have to dodge stray sachets of gulal tossed by careless revelers. 

Finally, he spotted them: two Elezen figures, standing in front of a gulal stall near Ruveydah Fibers. He crept closer until he was within earshot of the stall’s proprietor, concealing his form behind some crates of festival goods so as not to spoil their outing. 

The stall’s owner was calling out exuberantly to everyone who passed by. “Fine gulal, just ten gil an onze! You, sirs, you aren't Hannish, are you? Have you visited our fine city for the festival before? You look as if you could use a good dose of gulal!” 

“What striking colors,” Aymeric said, turning a curious eye to the cart’s wares, piled high in shimmering mountains of blue, yellow, and red. “This shade of blue is especially lovely, I must admit.” 

A small smile flickered over Estinien's lips. “The blue does suit you.” 

The shopkeeper beamed. “Blue, a fine choice! If you've any anxieties or burdens weighing down your heart, a splash of blue gulal will surely put you at ease.” 

Aymeric smiled back. “You are right, it does sound rather fitting. Would you like some as well, Estinien?” 

Estinien crossed his arms. “Are you saying that I appear worrisome?”

“Of course not. Forgive me, my friend. I know little of these Near Eastern customs, as you are aware,” Aymeric said, placing a hand upon his breast in contrition. 

“If your companion cares not for blue, the crimson gulal is said to invigorate the blood and enhance martial prowess,” the shopkeeper interjected helpfully. “That spear on your back certainly doesn't look as if it's for show! Yes, red is the color you need, I guarantee it.” 

Estinien looked taken aback, but Aymeric’s smile only grew. “Three sachets each of blue and red, then, good sir,” he said to the shopkeeper, who was all too quick to produce the requested items. 

Vrtra quickly tucked himself into a nearby shadowed corner as Aymeric and Estinien strode away from the stall, towards the edges of the crowd. Only when he was certain that they were facing away from him, and that Estinien had not reacted to his presence, did he dare to poke his head out once more. 

Aymeric was looking curiously at the merchandise he had just purchased, turning the little sacks over in his hands “The vendors are doing rather well selling this gulal… but… how exactly is it used?” he inquired of his companion. 

Estinien held out a hand. “Here, I'll show you. Hand me one of the blues.” 

Aymeric passed the satchel to Estinien with a bemused smile, only to gasp as it was thrown right back at him, striking him square in the chest and leaving a lovely cerulean starburst in its wake.

Estinien grinned. “There. Now you've enjoyed the true Hannish festival experience.” 

For a moment, Aymeric only stared at the spot where the gulal had hit him. Vrtra stood stock-still behind his crates, ready to spring out of hiding should his intervention be needed. 

“You had best hope that the shopkeepers' words of the color red increasing one's vigor are true,” Aymeric said, “for you have left me with the rest of the gulal.” He grinned, and with a whip-fast flick of his wrist, a bloom of crimson appeared on Estinien's shoulder. 

Vrtra had to move the mammet’s short limbs rather quickly in order to keep up as Aymeric began to chase Estinien through the city streets, gulal sachet held menacingly over his head and a boyish grin on his face. Though the colorful powder held no inherent enchantment of its own, despite the claims of local folklore and zealous merchants alike, it seemed that it had succeeded in lifting at least two spirits after all.

The road leading out from Radz-at-Han into greater Thavnair had been lined with colorful lanterns, alchemical compounds made from various metals lending the flames a variety of hues, and was attended by Radiants at regular intervals to keep fiends away from innocent festival-goers. The rainbow lights led all the way to Kadjaya's Footsteps, where a substantial crowd surrounded the great dais as the city's finest dance troupe reenacted a series of famous stories of the Three Sisters’ triumph over the forces of evil. 

One dancer, a tall, slim Auri woman, was playing Sanduruva in an intricate costume of embroidered green silks and gold jewelry, topped with the signature brightly painted mask of the Manusya. Her bangles and accessories jingled with each of her movements, keeping time with the music as she spun and twirled in an abstract imitation of the goddess's spearwork. The other performer, one of the senior dancers, played the part of a great demoness clad in deep reds and vibrant purples. Magicked lights swirled about the stage, changing color to evoke the elements as Sanduruva and the demoness acted out their great battle.

Vrtra had followed Estinien and Aymeric all the way to the edge of the crowd, sneaking off the lit path soon after crossing the bridge from the city and concealing himself in the thick jungle foliage. 

He could hardly deny that he was feeling hopeful. The gulal Aymeric had purchased had served to lift their spirits and loosen the tension that lingered in the air between them. As they enjoyed the show together, sitting side by side on a blanket spread out on the ground, Vrtra could not help but creep closer. The mood was ripe for a long-overdue conversation, and he wanted to be certain that he would not miss a single word. 

Aymeric sighed in contentment as he watched the dancers and the lights. “What a beautiful performance.”

“The dancers of Radz-at-Han are talented,” Estinien agreed. 

“Not since the last meeting of the Eorzean Alliance in Ala Mhigo have I seen anything of the like. The Near Eastern style is so unlike that of the Ishgardian ballroom, but then again, rarely do we ever dance in worship of Halone. Perhaps we should consider trying it one day,” Aymeric said.

Estinien shook his head incredulously. “Wouldn't that be a sight to see.”

“Would it not?” Aymeric turned and smiled at him. “Of course, different costumes would be necessary so as to ward off the cold, though it does seem to be quite a vigorous dance. Still, some form of levity may serve to raise sorely needed morale in our halls of worship. Now that there is peace in our land, should our worship not also be joyful?”

“Hmph. The inquisitors may not be arresting people for public indecency anymore, but I struggle to believe such an idea will gain traction in that pit of vipers you call high society,” Estinien said with a dismissive huff. “Some old baroness or viscount will surely raise an intolerable fuss the moment their daughter dares to expose an ankle, worship of Halone or no.” 

Aymeric laughed softly. “Much and more has changed since your last visit to our fair city, my friend. The younger generation that now comes of age has proven to be quite forward-thinking and outspoken – you would no doubt be surprised, were you to return and witness it yourself.” 

Estinien crossed his arms. “I've never been one for parties, as you well know.”

“I am well aware, my friend.” Aymeric sighed. “Still, I am thankful for the chance to have witnessed this. I shall have to thank Vrtra for his recommendation upon our return.” 

The joyful sound of the dance and its musical accompaniment continued in the distance, but Vrtra could feel Estinien's mood shift at the innocuous comment, his discontentment curdling in the air around them. Beside him, Aymeric’s eyes were fixed upon the performance, blissfully unaware of the change his words had just wrought. 

Vrtra made to push aside the large leaf that hid his face from view, every one of his diplomatic instincts honed over the centuries telling him to intervene before circumstances worsened, but in the end he only barely stayed his hand. The two men were speaking honestly at last, and he had to allow the conversation to take its course if they were to make any progress. 

“Vrtra,” Estinien mumbled. “I suppose you would rather his company, then?” 

Aymeric turned, and blinked as he took in the black expression on his friend’s face. “I beg your pardon?” 

Estinien scowled. “Don’t play ignorant with me, Aymeric. I’ve seen you talking for hours in your meetings, dining together– Fury’s sake, he bought you clothes!” 

“Vrtra has been an incredibly generous host, yes, but I cannot fathom why–” Aymeric began, bewildered, only for Estinien to cut him off. 

“You and he are the same – ‘tis no great wonder that you would prefer to speak with him. There is no need to pretend otherwise.”

“This jealousy is unlike you, Estinien. Whyever would you –” Aymeric stopped mid-sentence, his lips parted for a moment before he abruptly shut his mouth. 

Vrtra chanced to creep another fulm closer, the dancer's music covering the sounds of the grass and leaves rustling in his wake. Thankfully, neither of the Ishgardians reacted to him at all: they were too busy staring at one another, Estinien’s limbs positioned stiffly and Aymeric bearing a dawning expression of realization. 

Slowly, Aymeric raised one hand to his breast, inclining his head deferentially toward his companion. “I see. It seems I have made a grave error. Pray forgive me, ‘twas never my intention to intrude upon the happiness you have found for yourself in Radz-at-Han. ‘Tis plain to me now why you have no desire to return home– to Ishgard, I mean. Truly, I apologize for my presumption.” 

Now Estinien staggered back, brow knotted in confusion. “Never have I said such a thing. You misunderstand my meaning, Aymeric.” 

Aymeric smiled mirthlessly. “You have not set foot in the city in over a year, Estinien. When I received your letter with the satrap’s invitation, ‘twas the first piece of correspondence you had sent to me in several moons. If anything, I should have realized your situation sooner.” 

Estinien was still, making no move to either confirm or deny what Aymeric was saying. Aymeric sighed, eyes downcast. 

“Your company has been much appreciated, Estinien, but the hour grows late and I must prepare to travel in the morning. Good night, and pray give the satrap my compliments for the lovely festival whenever you return to him.” 

“Wait,” Estinien called, but Aymeric had already risen and turned his back before the word left his lips. He did not pause or turn around, but strode down the path until even Vrtra could no longer see him. 

Estinien scrambled upwards, leaving the rumpled blanket behind as he started after Aymeric – and passed within a yalm of the tree behind which Vrtra was hiding. A puzzled expression crossed his face, his brow furrowing, and Vrtra sensed that it was his cue to leave. As quietly as he could, he crept away in the opposite direction until he was certain that he had left Estinien's earshot. Then, as quickly as the simulacrum’s little legs could manage, he dashed for the road back to Radz-at-Han. 

Vrtra had hardly managed to hide away the mammet before the distant thudding sound of the palace door being opened with unreasonable force reached his ears. He stretched out his true body and waited, and soon enough, the door to the audience chamber swung open to reveal a weary, grimacing Estinien.

He stormed across the room until he came to an abrupt halt directly in front of Vrtra. “You were following us, weren't you? You saw everything.” 

Vrtra could not bring himself to deflect or utter falsehood. Estinien did not even appear angry – merely resigned, his shoulders rigid and his face as haggard as a salt-blown cliffside. 

“Indeed,” he admitted. 

Estinien let out a long, drawn-out sigh. He leaned against the wall, slumping and appearing uncharacteristically defeated. Vrtra simply sat and watched him, feeling the perturbations of his troubled heart as if they were palpable in the air. The time for interference, though, had passed. Now, he knew, he must simply listen and allow his friend to make his own decision on the course he would follow. 

Estinien’s gaze was fixed firmly downwards when at last he spoke. “He won't want anything to do with me now, I expect.” 

Vrtra tapped his claws against the tiles. “I cannot understand thine actions. Thou carest for him and desireth to be his consort. Wherefore dost thou choose instead to rebuff him?” 

“I am no longer certain of that myself.” Estinien crossed his arms. “‘Tis not that I do not wish to speak with him, but… whenever I look upon him in that ridiculous ceremonial armor, with all of his titles and his charm and his eloquent tongue, I find myself unable to think of aught but mine own lack of such things. Once we were equals, but those days have passed. I know not if I can be the partner he deserves.”

“Thou wouldst discount thy past with Ser Aymeric so easily?” Vrtra questioned. “In my estimation of him, he careth not for rank nor title.”

“Our past? I could not even remember his name when first we spoke, yet he both saved my life and went out of his way to invite my companionship. I have never been able to respond to him in kind.” Estinien sighed. “Mayhap it would be better to accept that a… courtship between us is simply not possible… as much as I would wish it to be.” 

Vrtra tilted his head. ‘Twas strange that Estinien, so confident on the battlefield and the training ground, could be so hesitant and doubtful when it came to his closest companion. Stranger yet, however, was his blindness to Aymeric's feelings. Without the benefit of the wordless understanding that dragons shared with one another, he had magicked a version of Aymeric into his mind’s eye that little resembled the man Vrtra had met.

Before Vrtra could respond to disabuse him of his notions, though, Estinien shook his head and turned partially away, closing off his posture further. “I've no idea why I am telling you all of this. You know naught of mortal relations – you've said as much yourself.” 

“Perhaps I still do not fully grasp the nuances of thy courtship,” Vrtra admitted, “but I have learned much of Ser Aymeric during his visitation. He speaketh of thee with the utmost regard, and asketh after thy wellbeing at the slightest opportunity. He desireth thy companionship and careth for thee regardless of thy current circumstances. I have felt his heart’s longing for thee, and how it deepens each time he believeth that thou hast rejected him and thy homeland. There remaineth no doubt in the matter – thy bond and thy desire for courtship are mutual.”

“Fine, you've made your point,” Estinien cut him off. The skin of his face shone strangely red, and his eyes were fixed upon a distant corner of the ceiling. “But what of your opinion of him, Vrtra? Aye, this was a diplomatic visitation, but what possessed you to invite him to dinner and buy him clothes?” 

Vrtra blinked. Were his motives truly so inscrutable? “Thou wert invited to dinner in the presence of Ser Aymeric in order that thou might enjoy his company. Likewise, the clothing he wore was meant to appeal to thee, in that strange way mortals care for such trappings.”

With each word, Estinien's flush deepened until his skin resembled that of a boiled octopus. “Oh.” 

“Thou must know that bonds between dragonkind are vastly different than those of mortals,” Vrtra continued. “My spirit is yet bound to that of Azdaja, and though I have enjoyed Ser Aymeric's company, I understand naught of thy mortal notions of romance.”

Estinien finally deigned to look him in the eye again, though he was still frowning deeply. “Aye, I'm a fool. You need not say it again,” he grumbled. 

“I shall not,” Vrtra said. “But if thou wishest for Ser Aymeric to understand thy actions and thy heart, thou must be honest with him. Thy kind may not possess the ability to read the hearts of thy kin as would a dragon, but already Aymeric feeleth that aught is amiss. He believeth that thy heart lieth elsewhere.” 

“I must make amends for my careless words, at least,” Estinien said quietly. “But I fear it is too late – this was his final night in the city, was it not?” 

“Ser Aymeric departeth not from Radz-at-Han until the morrow. Thou hast ample time to make thine amends,” Vrtra explained. 

Estinien sighed. “I fear that I have even less skill with pretty speeches and declarations of love than I do politics. What if my meager effort proves too tepid a gesture?” 

Vrtra shook his head. “Leave thy mortal notions and customs behind. If thou cannot find the words to express thyself, then simply forgo them.” 

“Forgo them?” 

“Take action. Show Ser Aymeric an unmistakable expression of thine honest heart, and he shall surely be unable to mistake thy meaning.”

“Action… aye, I can manage that,” Estinien said. Slowly, he stood, brushing remnants of gulal from his trousers. “I suppose I should thank you for your counsel… even though you did meddle far too much in my personal affairs.” 

“If thou had not disturbed the work of mine alchemists, there would have been little need to look into thy affairs,” Vrtra said. “However, thy troubles have resulted in a productive alliance between Radz-at-Han and Ishgard, so thou art hereby forgiven for thy impertinence.” 

“Those alchemists have spent more time disturbing me than working,” Estinien huffed. “But truly… it has been good to see Aymeric again, though I have not appreciated his presence as I should. So, thank you, Vrtra.” 

Vrtra could not smile in his true form as he could in the body of the simulacrum, but a warmth in his heart still kindled at the admission. Perhaps, with his weakened traces of his brood-brother's senses, Estinien could feel some faint flicker of it. “Thy gratitude is accepted.” 

Chapter Text

Vrtra did not sleep upon Estinien's departure; ‘twas rare for a dragon of the First Brood to require such rest without suffering an injury to deplete their aether. Instead, as his children continued their revelry in the streets, he had taken his true body to the skies, spreading his wings in the moonlight and soaring over the jungle canopy as he pondered what he might say to Lord Aymeric come morn.

As the cool night air and the light of the stars flowed over his scales, however, his mind had been prone to wandering. The matter of mortals and their notions of partnership gave way to memories, stored deep in the recesses of his soul but no more tarnished for the long years that had passed: years filled up with warmer, simpler days, when Azdaja yet flew alongside him. 

He drifted upon the currents of wind, regarding the celebratory bonfires and colorful lanterns that dotted the landscape below with a wistful eye. The details of the mortals’ traditions were wont to change over the centuries, and there were many more of them living in Thavnair than in the olden days, but he and his brood-sister had once gazed down upon much the same scene together. 

The lights shining from below were mirrored by the sea of lights above. Vrtra had heard the songs of his father's journey through the stars while he yet slumbered within his egg, in memories that now felt more akin to dreams. Many stars, Midgardsormr’s low voice had murmured to him, were shaped out of fire themselves. Unlike other flames, they burned continuously yet consumed naught, and no wave or wind would ever be great enough to douse them. So vast were they, suspended weightlessly in the expanse of the heavens, that they drew humbler stars to their embrace, where they would orbit serenely for eons upon eons, much like dragonkind and their broods, bound eternally close by implacable forces. 

Azdaja was his twin star, his guiding light even beyond the rift between worlds. Could mortals comprehend such a profound bond? She and Vrtra had never known doubt. She had simply been there, a steady chord in the song of his soul, as innate as the beat of his wings. Even as millennia passed overhead with the turning heavens, he could hear her voice and feel the ripples of her presence as though she had only just flown over the horizon, and he knew she yet lived as surely as he knew himself. 

Some mortals strove for such bonds; alas, most of their attempts turned out to be as ephemeral as the wind, and all fell short of the union of spirits that his kind could achieve. Had Vrtra not lived as one of them, had he not walked with their unsteady legs and seen through their feeble eyes, he would struggle to believe them capable of knowing one another at all. The bodily desires that seemed to rule them, urgent and overwhelming, were as mysterious to him as Midgardsormr's tales of vast celestial fires. He and Azdaja, and indeed any pair of consorts amongst his kind, needed no such things, yet their bonds eclipsed those of mortals like the sun's light drowning the lingering morning stars.

There was more, however, to his current mortal’s dilemma than inexplicable physical urges. Aymeric’s heart was outstretched in hope, reaching across the boundless expanse between mortal souls, fingertips searching for the slightest purchase upon the skin of his closest friend. Estinien swallowed his words and had nearly choked on them, but his hope welled up and overflowed from within like a stubborn spring even as his heart and mind warred with one another. Both twisted themselves into knots over what dragons would simply know. 

And yet, Vrtra mused, they try.

‘Twas possible that Estinien knew, more intimately than any other of his kind, the chasm of understanding that separated him from Aymeric. When Nidhogg had claimed his corporeal form, his mortal heart had strained beneath the weight of the agonizing love Vrtra's brood-brother had carried for Ratatoskr. He had seen through Nidhogg's eyes and gazed into the ocean of his memories. How strange it must have been for him to know such a profound thing, and then return to a body of mortal flesh, so fickle and uncontrolled. 

Yet even after his stumble at the festival, Estinien still strove to cross the chasm. Aymeric, though he had endured long years of separation and rebuffing, still reached towards the one he loved. If only they could reach one another, if they could overcome their mortal limitations and allow their souls to touch as those of dragons would, they would succeed. Vrtra was certain of it.

Such thoughts occupied him for the rest of the night as his meandering flight drifted beyond the forests and out to sea. Eventually, he caught a glimpse of the sun’s first rays, reaching over the horizon and piercing his awareness. With powerful wingbeats that scattered clouds in his wake, he turned and sped towards the twinkling lights of the city. 

He arrived at the palace as dawn fully broke, the hour of his final meeting with Ser Aymeric nearly upon him. Outside the palace, clear sunlight was filtered through a shroud of morning mist, falling upon the aftermath of the previous night's festivities. Vrtra himself returned to his audience chamber as the dawn had begun to crest the horizon, settling upon his dais with a scraping of claws and a deep, rumbling exhale. 

He stilled himself and waited as the mortal’s chronometer ticked softly at the edge of his conscious thought. The palace was gradually waking around him, the night shift completing their last few tasks before retiring to their chambers while the daytime guards and servants began to arrive, but not a soul entered to disturb the peace of the satrap’s golden chamber.

Vrtra had, however, expected the presence of one mortal: Estinien. When he had left the Satrap’s chamber the previous night, he had spoken with such conviction that Vrtra had been sure that he would take the first opportunity to make his amends come morning. Yet no matter how intently he focused his awareness, he could not deny that he could not sense Estinien at all within Meghaduta. His essence was strong enough that he had likely not fled the city entirely, for a blessing, but he would almost certainly miss Aymeric's departure from the palace. 

His pondering was interrupted as the door opened, a green Radiant sentry slipping in with a nervous look on her youthful face. “Your Excellency, Lord Aymeric is nearly ready to leave,” she said. “Shall I bring him?” 

Vrtra considered his options. He could certainly interfere – delay Aymeric on some pretense, while he sent the simulacrum to fetch Estinien from wherever he was hiding – but the idea had no sooner formed than Vrtra dismissed it with a shake of his head. His interference had brought the two mortals together, but the time for games and meddling had come to an end. Only Estinien himself could solve the dilemma of his own heart, and rectify his own error in judgment. If Estinien had a plan, it was one Vrtra could not fathom – but he had to trust that he had taken his words to heart, and was prepared to take action. 

A warm memory of Azdaja’s voice surfaced in his mind. Trust the wind to carry seeds where it will, brother, she had said once, when he was but a dragonet impatient to grow horns and soar amidst the highest clouds. 

He closed his eye, letting the comfort of the memory fill him and calm his worried heart. He would trust. But if Estinien let this opportunity crumble to ash, he would put the man in charge of double the training drills and give the alchemists free reign to conduct as many tests as they wished. 

When he opened his eye, the sentry was trembling slightly as she tried her best to stay at attention. Vrtra bowed his head at her. “Admit him,” he said. “I wish to speak with him before his departure.” 

Aymeric entered, his head held high and his expression completely impassive and professional. Once again, he was dressed in his elaborate ceremonial robes, the watery light of dawn glinting from its myriad metal ornamentations. He graciously smiled at the sentry, who quickly bowed to both him and Vrtra before she disappeared back into the hall.

“Ser Aymeric,” Vrtra greeted with a nod, raising his head and stretching out his wings with a quick flutter. “Thy personal effects have been transported to the airship landing. Shouldst thou desire aught at all before thy departure, thou needest only speak and Radz-at-Han shall provide.” 

Aymeric bowed deeply, his arm sweeping in a great arc before him. “I am humbled by Radz-at-Han’s generosity. Though I now must needs return to my homeland, I look forward to our next meeting, whether it takes place here or in Ishgard. ‘Tis my sincerest hope that our alliance will remain strong for many coming generations.”  

“Thou art always welcome in this city, Lord Speaker. Thy prosperity, and thy peace with my kind, is to be cherished and maintained that it may last for many of thy generations, as thou sayest.” Closing his eye, Vrtra focused his being upon the mammet and brought it out from its resting place behind the curtain. “As thy friend and ally, allow me to offer thee a proper farewell and once again accompany thee to the airship landing.” 

“I am honored by your companionship, Satrap. And I must confess that I have not quite learned the roads of this city in my brief stay here, so your assistance in directing me to the airship is most welcome.”

He smiled expectantly at the simulacrum. Vrtra smiled back with the false body’s lips, though his thoughts had once again drifted to Estinien, wherever in the city he was. Vrtra had to trust that he had not forgotten his remorse. He would make his amends and put all to rights… probably.

“Shall we depart?” Aymeric politely asked.

Vrtra blinked his true eye, for a moment viewing Aymeric from a double perspective before he quickly reoriented his focus into the simulacrum’s body. “Of course,” he said. “Please, follow me.” 

Radz-at-Han was slow to wake the morning after a revelry. As Vrtra and Aymeric descended the great steps of Meghaduta and made their way out onto the main road, their feet fell upon countless scattered smudges of colorful gulal, the burnt remains of firecrackers, and dropped bits of food. A few industrious Hannish citizens, who had likely abstained from mulberry wine and firewater during the festivities, were cleaning around their homes, but the dodo farm and street stalls were notably empty of their usual bustling workers. 

Vrtra looked at Aymeric out of the corners of the mammet’s eyes, following the Lord Speaker’s gaze to a pair of women chatting animatedly as they gathered debris into a basket, their young children running about and laughing nearby. Aymeric’s face was wistful, his eyes soft. 

“‘Tis a marvel, is it not?” he said quietly. “To see a people so vibrant, even in the wake of calamity. Would that more of my own could travel here and see it with their own eyes — Ishgard could learn much from this nation of yours, Satrap.”

Pride welled within Vrtra’s breast. “Their resilience inspires me as well,” he said. “The Final Days brought much sorrow upon us, and it yet lingers in the spaces where those of my people were lost, but seeing them yet capable of such joy lifts my spirits.” He turned to look at Aymeric, raising an eyebrow. “Surely your people can find such joy as well, though I am led to believe that your celebrations are more… restrained.”

A soft laugh broke free of Aymeric’s lips. “Mayhap so, were you to stand us side by side, but I assure you that we Ishgardians are more than fond of a holiday celebration. I fear that Estinien’s accounts have painted us dour – gatherings and festivities have ever been a trial to him.”

Estinien’s name hung heavily in the air. They walked in silence for a few more yalms, coming into the shade of the corridor that led to the lower level of the city. The light of the colorful lanterns twinkled in the metal ornamentation of Aymeric’s armor, and even as he maintained his diplomatic countenance, he looked softer than Vrtra had ever seen him before. 

“Estinien did accompany you to the festival last night, did he not?” Vrtra asked carefully. Now was not the time to inform Aymeric of the full extent of his knowledge of what had transpired. “I hope that his attitude did not overly affect your enjoyment.”

“No, no, far from it,” said Aymeric, his smile turning wistful. “Indeed, Estinien accompanied me, and I assure you that your city’s festivities were enjoyable for us both. For a moment, I dared hope –” Abruptly, his posture stiffened and the corners of his lips pinched woodenly. “Forgive me. ‘Tis unseemly of me to raise personal matters. I am glad to have shared in your nation’s hospitality regardless of what may have come to pass in my own affairs. It has been my honor to strengthen ties between our peoples.” A few more steps in silence, then his shoulders dipped and his countenance faltered before he spoke again. “…And of course, Satrap, I wish you and Estinien naught but the best.” 

There it is, Vrtra thought to himself. Finally, Aymeric had allowed his true feelings to come out, putting shape to the invisible bruise upon his heart with corporeal words.

“I am proud to have shaped your impression of my people so favorably, Ser Aymeric,” Vrtra said. ‘Twas the time for truth, his as much as Aymeric's. “But in the matter of my relation to Estinien, I must inform you that you are sorely mistaken.” 

For a moment, Aymeric’s steps faltered as they descended the stairs, but to his credit he recovered quickly enough to prevent an unseemly stumble. “I beg your pardon?” 

“Were you not the one to speak first upon the matter?” Vrtra replied, amused. “But I am already aware of the matter that troubles you. You believe that Estinien desires mine affections as a consort would.” 

Aymeric cleared his throat, and Vrtra sensed the heat of the blood that rushed just beneath the surface of his skin, staining his cheeks and the tips of his ears with red. “Pray forgive me. I assure you that I had no intention of prying into your personal affairs, but… that was indeed mine impression of your relationship.”

“You should know that Estinien has said much the same as you do now. In his eyes, I have been the one courting you since your arrival in Radz-at-Han.” Vrtra snorted, unable to contain his incredulity at the very thought. 

Aymeric blinked. “You have spoken of this with Estinien?”

“We have indeed spoken on the matter,” Vrtra admitted at last. “I assure you that the both of you are mistaken. ‘Tis not my heart he seeks.” He shook his head. “Estinien is a treasured ally, and possesses greater understanding of dragonkind than most mortals, but I assure you, he harbors no such inclinations towards any dragon – and I most certainly harbor none towards him.” 

Aymeric’s mouth twisted, his eyebrows knotting with uncertainty. “How can you be so certain, if you do not mind my asking?” 

Vrtra sighed. “My kind care not for the desires of mortals, nor do we comprehend them. Your understanding of the word ‘consort’ is thoroughly mortal. Between dragons, ‘tis no less than a bonding of spirits, reserved for one soul held closer than any other. As I explained to Estinien, my own soul is yet bound to that of my brood-sister Azdaja. Such a bond cannot be compared to your mortal concepts of romance.” 

“Forgive me for my ignorance,” began Aymeric, “but if you speak true, what of the Lady Shiva and the great Hraesvelgr? Were they not lovers, as the tales say?” 

“I have heard of these Ishgardian fables,” Vrtra replied, amused. “Your history books claim that the lady and my brood-brother engaged in acts akin to mortal reproduction.” 

“I do not personally endorse any such claims,” Aymeric quickly assured him, “but yes, ‘tis what the church teaches – though that interpretation of history certainly has the possibility to be revised.” 

The simulacrum’s tail twitched as Vrtra stifled an exasperated and unprofessional bout of laughter. Mortals! “Wherefore dost thy kind continually conflate companionship with copulation? ‘Twas the lady Shiva’s bold and empathic nature, the boundless spring of compassion that flowed from her soul, that touched the heart of my brood-brother and brought forth their bond.” He snorted again and shook his head. “Her physical form was of no import to him. Our kind may take on a multitude of forms, and none is of greater or lesser value than another. Nay, the tale you have been told was altered to sow animosity toward dragonkind.” 

“‘Tis little surprise, given how much history was altered by my forebears, but our nation has changed,” Aymeric said. His tone of voice remained steady and professional even as a flush of embarrassment swelled over him, imperceptible save for Vrtra's powerful empathy. “I will strive to ensure that your brother's tale is more… accurately preserved for the future generation of Ishgard.”

“These tales are Hraesvelgr’s concern far more than they are mine,” Vrtra replied. “But I thank you regardless.”

Aymeric smiled, though his expression retained a certain somber disappointment. “And I thank you for your counsel regarding Estinien… however, you must forgive me if I cannot fully believe your words so long as Estinien is not here to corroborate them.”

“Ah, yes. Estinien.” Distracted by the turn in conversation, the matter of Estinien’s unknown whereabouts had temporarily slipped Vrtra’s mind. “I am certain that he has not forgotten the conversation we had. He is simply…” The mammet’s eyes closed for a moment as Vrtra drew upon his senses, his awareness flowing outwards from the false body in search of the distinctive spark of blended aether that marked Estinien’s soul. 

There! His eyes opened to the sight of the paved walkway that led to the airship landing’s courtyard. They had nearly arrived at their destination, and Estinien was close. Close enough that, when his consciousness returned fully to the mammet’s physical senses, he realized that he could hear Estinien’s voice – a distinctive rumble rising from an undercurrent of higher-pitched murmuring. Beside him, Aymeric’s spine straightened, his eyes widening: he had heard the voice as well. 

Without saying a word to one another, both of their steps quickened at the same time, and soon they passed under the gilded arch where the courtyard came fully into view. 

The painted bricks and geometric tiling of the surrounding buildings seemed to shimmer in the midmorning light, a few scattered patches of gulal from the night’s festivities further patterning the walls and road. Estinien was there: lance wrapped in linen and firmly strapped to his back, adorned in his dusty traveling leathers, and carrying a modest knapsack of possessions – and surrounded by a group of young Hannish children, tugging at his sleeves, prodding at the crimson haft of his lance, and thoroughly entrapping him in his place. 

“Show us the flying dragon moves!” said a feisty young girl with finlike horns, wildly waving a long stick about in imitation of a lance. “The ones you did when the sky was breaking!” 

“I do not fly,” Estinien said gruffly. “My leaps require considerable aether, and they’re meant for battle, not street shows.” 

“But Abba said he saw you flying with the Satrap!” insisted a boy, nearly tripping over his own tail in his excitement. “He said you stabbed a mountain of monsters in midair!” 

Estinien turned to respond, and abruptly froze as his eyes fell upon the new arrivals to the scene. “Aymeric,” he said, hardly louder than he might voice a private thought, yet the name carried itself all the way across the courtyard over the chattering of the children. 

Vrtra watched as Aymeric smiled, a gentle relief welling up within him that nearly shone from his face. “I see your reputation has preceded you even among the city's youngest, my friend.” 

There was a ripple as the children followed his gaze and turned to behold the newcomer, and a series of gasps and murmurs as their eyes fell upon his fine set of armor and the azure sword gleaming at his waist. Estinien wore a complicated expression as he, too, took in the sight of the one he had been waiting for. 

“Is he a prince?” said a small boy with tousled hair. “From one of the stories?”

“Ser Estinien knows him,” pointed out an older Hyuran boy who stood a head above the rest. “So that means he's probably a hero too!” 

His words sent the children into another clamor. “You have to duel him!” demanded the girl with the toy lance. “Show us that you're the strongest, Ser Estinien!” cried the Hyuran boy, echoed by a chorus of “Pleeease?”

“There’s no time for that,” Estinien said, waving his hands in a futile effort at calming the building excitement. “We have an airship to catch.”

“We?” Aymeric inquired, eyebrows raised. “You don’t mean to say…”

“Aye,” Estinien said. “I’m coming with you, Aymeric – back to Ishgard.” 

Aymeric stood frozen, bright eyes blinking in the morning sun as Estinien's words echoed from the painted tiles, his lips parted as if his words had been stolen away from him. The roil of his heart was nearly palpable to Vrtra's enhanced senses, his shock, affection, and rekindled hope whirling in time with the pounding of Estinien's heart. 

Estinien faltered slightly under that piercing gaze as the silence stretched out just long enough to be uncomfortable, even to a man who cared little for etiquette. “That is, if you will have me.” 

Aymeric inhaled sharply, but before he could voice a word in reply, one of the little girls piped up, her scales shining like pearls on her cheeks. “Are you leaving forever?” She clutched her own hands together, a pleading, heart-melting expression on her youthful face.

Estinien’s expression softened as he glanced at the child and her wide, pale eyes. “Nay, not forever. I've only realized that I've been far too long away from home.” His eyes flicked to Aymeric, lingering briefly, before he turned back to the girl. “You should get along home too, lass. There’s only one airship to Eorzea today, and Ser Aymeric has important work waiting for him there.” 

Vrtra found himself unable to resist his own anticipation any longer, and stepped forward. A new opportunity had suddenly presented itself to him, and he felt ill inclined to let it slip by. A little more meddling surely wouldn’t hurt – and with Estinien having arranged his own meeting with Aymeric to a degree, it hardly counted as interference at all. 

“Ahem,” he cleared his throat to get the growing crowd’s attention. “As Satrap of Radz-at-Han, I could hardly let my honored guest’s airship leave without him.” He nodded to a tall Radiant guarding the entrance to the landing, who quickly stood to attention and saluted an acknowledgement of the order. “I must remind you, Estinien, that I have not yet released you from my service as a combat instructor… but I am willing to forgive the rest of your contract if you give your final lesson to these children here.”

Estinien blinked, an indignant look building upon his face, but even as he opened his mouth to speak, Aymeric shook himself from his startled reverie and stepped forward into the middle of the courtyard. “I agree with the Satrap,” he stated, resting one hand upon the pommel of his blade. “Let us give these children something to remember, Estinien – it has been far too long since I have had a good sparring partner.” 

“How magnanimous of His Excellency,” Estinien grumbled, but even as he spoke he was already unstrapping the lance from his back and removing the linen wrapping that protected unsuspecting door frames and airship balloons from the wickedly sharp point. “It seems I no longer have a choice. You'd best keep up then, Aymeric. We wouldn't want to disappoint them,” Estinien called out once his lance was firmly in his grasp. 

Vrtra beckoned the children away from the center of the courtyard as the cloth was tossed aside, and they obediently joined him beneath the nearby storehouse’s awning. “Have I ever gone easy on you, my friend?” Aymeric teased once the ground before him was clear, drawing his sword to a round of cheers. The azure blade glittered in the sunlight, throwing tiny flecks of color onto the surrounding walls. 

Estinien leapt forward without another word, and Aymeric’s sword parried the thrust of his lance with the casual precision of one who had crossed arms with his friend a thousand times. Bluespirit blade rang against dragon-tempered adamantite once, twice, three times, each of their clashes drawing louder cheers from the group of children crowded around Vrtra’s legs. 

“Not bad,” Estinien called out, after Aymeric had successfully dodged another of his wheeling thrusts. “For a diplomat, that is.”

Aymeric chuckled. “I am still allowed to take the field at times, should I find myself lacking in political obligations,” he replied. He feinted left, then struck at Estinien from the opposite direction, only for his sword to be caught and held by the curving protrusions of the opposing spearhead. Their eyes met between their crossed weapons as the children – as well as Vrtra – held their breath. 

“I missed this,” Estinien admitted at last, his voice nearly too soft for Vrtra to catch. 

Aymeric’s breath came quickly. “There has always been a place in Ishgard for you, my friend.” His words were heavy, laden with overlapping meanings that even Vrtra could not fully grasp. 

“I know that now,” Estinien said, “thanks to the wyrm’s meddling.” 

Aymeric’s lips pressed together. “So, you truly mean to return?”

“Aye,” Estinien said. “I hear that dragonets roam the Firmament now. Mayhap I can teach them a thing or two about how man and dragon can fight together.” He looked Aymeric in the eye with a serious expression. “And I’ve realized that I’d much rather spar with you than continue to fight myself.”

The children murmured amongst themselves, impatient for the duel to continue. “What are they saying?” whined the pale-scaled girl, the end of her question drowned out by cries of “Keep going! Jump up and smash him!” from the boys. 

Estinien wrenched his spear free and performed a graceful backflip to put several yalms in between himself and Aymeric. “There will be ample time for words later,” he said. “We have a match to finish.” 

Aymeric’s eyes nearly glowed with renewed vigor. He lunged forwards, boldly slashing at Estinien, who leapt high out of the way of the whirling blade. The children cheered in delight as he landed behind Aymeric, spinning on his heel for a counterattack. 

But Aymeric was ready for him. As Estinien turned, Aymeric struck out with a levin-quick blow that knocked the weapon from his grasp. In a moment Nidhogg was clattering along the flagstones, and Estinien stood defenseless, hands raised. The blue blade pointed straight at his heart. 

“Do you yield?” said Aymeric. 

“Aye,” Estinien replied, and it seemed to Vrtra that he was not referring entirely to the sparring match. 

Raising one hand, Estinien gently pushed the blade aside. He stepped forward into Aymeric's space, reaching out to him with a questioning hand. Gloved fingertips alighted on Aymeric's shoulder, drawing him in until their faces were but a few ilms apart. For a moment they merely gazed into one another's eyes, then Estinien closed the remaining distance to press their mouths firmly together. 

The children erupted: some cheered, a few gave exaggerated cries of disgust at the “gross kissing”, and the older Hyuran boy even whistled. Vrtra smiled, and back in Meghaduta, his true form let out a deep, rumbling sigh of relief. At last, the mortals had crossed the chasm and found their way to one another. 

After the last of the children scampered away, mollified by the Satrap’s promises to bring apples and candied nuts from the Meyhane at a later hour, Vrtra joined the two Ishgardians on the airship gangplank. The sun had risen high in the sky, its rays only slightly veiled by a scattering of fluffy clouds, and Aymeric had begun once again to perspire in his Ishgardian armor – but no discomfort showed upon his face as he turned to face the mammet. Even Estinien, his hand resting lightly upon Aymeric’s waist, could not muster any amount of false gruffness into his expression. 

“My friends, ‘twas my great honor to welcome the both of you to Radz-at-Han,” he said, bowing deeply at the waist. “May the Sisters guide you safely home to Ishgard.”

“I suppose I should thank you,” Estinien said wryly. “Though I maintain that you meddled far too much. For all your bluster about the strange ways of mortals, you seem to enjoy sticking your snout into our business.” 

“I concern myself with the welfare of all of my children,” Vrtra said. “And as Satrap of this city, I would be remiss if I allowed one of the heroes who delivered us from the Final Days to wallow in his own self-pity.” 

Estinien scoffed, but Aymeric only smiled. “I must thank you as well, Your Excellency. Not only have the people of Radz-at-Han been instrumental in bringing much-needed trade to Ishgard, but you have also brought me Estinien, and for that, I will ever be grateful.”

He bowed in return, just as the airship’s attendant sounded the all-aboard whistle. Estinien hitched his meager knapsack over his shoulder; Aymeric's luggage had already been loaded into the cargo hold by the Satrap’s attendants. 

“Pray bring tidings from Radz-at-Han to my brood-brothers’ and sister’s descendants,” Vrtra said to Estinien. “There will always be a place in Thavnair for them, should they wish to claim it – as there is for you.”

Estinien nodded. “Aye, I will.” He turned and walked up the gangplank, Aymeric following close behind.

As he watched the airship ascend into the clouds, Vrtra suddenly remembered the alchemists who had initially alerted him to the muddled state of Estinien's heart. No doubt they would be distraught to learn that he had spontaneously chosen to leave the nation before they were able to obtain their samples – but he would find some way to placate them. 

After all, Estinien would not be gone forever – he had merely realized that the road of a traveler ran both ways.