Time passes, as it always does. You're still not much for keeping time, though Aymeric doesn't seem to mind, gods bless him and his patience – his letters arrive regularly, yours back to him are a little more sporadic. But, with everything going on, such a thing is expected.
Your heart lifts at one point when you turn and see him charging up the stairs of the occupied palace with a group of Temple Knights – he's more elegant in battle than you by far, quite beautiful actually, those clanging trappings you hate so flashing in the sun. He takes your breath away for a few beats, and something quivers within you: Maybe … after, you think to yourself, before setting in motion again to join your small group.
Ishgard remembers, another knight later says to you as you dash by – your heartbeat is pounding in your ears so you hardly catch it. But you do catch it, and it cheers you: you remember Ishgard, to say the least. It is pleasant to be so supported in times like these. You need more pleasant things in your life. It has been an all too terrible past few weeks, past few months.
After the final, bloody, overwhelming – completely overwhelming, more than that, utterly astonishing - confrontation you are exhausted, dirty, blood-stained, and not much in the mood for celebration, despite the encouragement of your comrades. They all seem so happy, and indeed, you are gladdened to see so many people so happy, but you can't bring yourself to join them: your heart aches for reasons you can't quite discern. Instead, you make your way to where your chocobo is picketed, alongside the big, stout cavalry birds, and settle down in the cool evening air. It's mostly quiet, though you can still hear the faint sounds of revelry from the city itself, and the occasional fireworks bursting above your head make you shudder.
Still, the absence of people and the sounds of the line – chocobos shifting on the straw strewn for their beds, low fires crackling and popping – sets you at ease. Even the grooms seem to have been let off for this night – a special night, you should be celebrating, you know – save for one or two that are keeping themselves well out of your sight.
You burrow up against the soft feathers of your bird while you take out your journal, for lack of knowing what else to do. You sketch idly, listening to the ambient sounds around you. You can't bring yourself to write anything.
I have no idea what to say, you write finally, and can pencil in nothing more, at least not tonight. Flipping back through the pages of the little worn book, you ponder how it all culminated in this – so many moments, little and big, shouldn't you have seen this coming? But maybe not …. - your eyes begin to droop as you let yourself be lulled by the rhythm of your bird's breathing. You skim words you wrote not so long ago, in times that seem long ago. You fall into a comfortable rhythm, and you are both so warm ….
You hear your name called softly, and it takes you a few sleep-addled seconds to shift yourself so you can see whoever it is. Your chocobo gives an unhappy kweh in response to your movement, as you throw an arm around its neck to haul yourself up – you were both warm and sleeping, apparently, and it is a little rude to use sleeping companions as ladders, you suppose. But you get to your knees nonetheless and peer into the darkness.
Pale blue eyes meet yours, and he is smiling his inscrutable half-smile.
Aymeric? – you are astonished, not sure if this is just a dream. You were sleeping, after all. You stand up slowly, showing yourself. In the name of the Twelve, what are you doing here?
But he is no apparition, and gives a gentle laugh. The answer to that, he responds, is rather obvious, is it not?"I came to see the champion of the day,' he says, "only to find you sulking with your chocobo."
You huff in irritation – and, you realize in a searing flash, hurt. You are not sulking, you tell him, temper rising despite being thrilled to see him so close. Your peculiar anger in this moment overwhelms anything else. You point out that you are tired and sore and don't feel much like celebrating, which – your voice reaching a sharp pitch you're rather certain you've never used with him – seems completely reasonable considering the hell you've been through on this day.
You know his gentle teasing is simply because what else could one say in this moment, he doesn't know how to broach the quiet of the night and your unexpected isolation, and your response is outsized. He's right, it is an odd place for the victor of the day to spend an evening. Still, his comment cuts you to the quick on this evening, offhanded as it might have been; for tonight you are fragile, feeling like you'll shatter into a thousand pieces if someone breathes too noisily. No one ever thinks of you as fragile, of course, but it's a state even you have some familiarity with.
Your face falls. You just want him, and don't want to talk about the day's proceedings, or why you're here on the picket lines instead of toasting friends in the city. You're tired, in no mood to be teased, however lovingly. You just want to – be.
He asks you not to look so – you're not even sure what your expression is at the moment, you guess it's probably somewhere in between horrifically depressed and disappointed – and thus you try not to look so. But it's hard: you are tired, and dirty, and your heart is aching - so you stand there like a statue, unable to move. You probably still look so, despite your efforts. He is on you soon, and even with his clanging trappings on – the ones you so dislike – you fairly collapse against him, just happy to feel him against you once again, as he pulls you into an embrace and apologizes for his comment. You murmur an acknowledgement into his chest. It's fine, fine, you say. It's not fine. Nothing is fine. Except this feeling of him against you.
You've missed him. And the feel of him; beneath the armor and the regalia, you can feel him, and it makes your heart leap a bit. You just want to dissolve into tears – you are wound rather tightly after the events of the day – but you breathe, in-out, in-out, against him, and feel your heart beat slowing, your breath slowing.
He asks if you'd like to retire to his quarters - or yours, he offers hastily. Does he realize, you wonder, that yours are little more than a dirty closet, hence why you'd prefer to be out with your faithful companion in clean straw (it's yet another bit of salt in your wounds, as if you needed any more: you don't expect palatial, but gods be damned, how hard would it be to quarter you in a place that didn't compare unfavorably to a picket line for chocobos? Haven't you earned at least that?). Probably not, and there's no reason to air this particular grievance at the moment – it's not his fault, in any case. Hard to imagine Aymeric overlooking such a detail, or being thoughtless in such a way. You mumble a yes, yours into his chest, still trying not to cry. He whispers to you, asking you to look at him – so you do. Does he see how much your heart hurts? You don't know – but he looks on you, strokes your face, apologizes again.
Apology accepted, you respond while trying to tell him through your touch that you've missed him. This reunion makes you sad, though: does no one realize the toll all this takes on you? Can't anyone just admit this is all too much for any one person to bear, whatever their blessings? You know Aymeric recognizes it, he's said as much before, but why then is it a surprise you want to escape the rowdy celebrations? Can't someone just say I'm sorry for once, even if the offense is not theirs, understand why you make your way to the quiet of the temporary stables instead of the celebrations?
He takes you by the hand - you let him - and leads you into the darkness. The temporary darkness, before the city bursts into light - until you can escape into quiet halls and dark rooms.