Chapter Text
“De Borel! De Borel! By the Fury, Borel, if you’re dead, I swear—damn!”
With a mighty yank at his scruff, Aymeric jerks awake just as the air rings with an ear-splitting, terrible scream. Aymeric chokes out his shock as a plume of white-hot flames erupts from the sky and scorches the earth where he had been moments ago. He could feel the blistering heat pricking his cheeks.
As fast as the fire appeared, however, it disappeared just as fast. Hastily, Aymeric looks upwards to find a single dragon roar and beat its great, leathery wings to ascend into the sky before circling, preparing for its next attack. Aymeric feels his heartbeat pick up speed. A dragon. He’s never seen one before—not one this close, certainly—and now his life is at stake! He’s suddenly acutely aware of a sharp ringing in his temple, and his shield arm is throbbing.
His shield. Where is his shield? Frantically, Aymeric casts his gaze over the landscape, but cannot see anything through the smoke.
“Back among the living are we?” a voice says dryly. “And not a moment too soon, I’d say.” Abruptly, the grip on the back of his mail disappears, and Aymeric falls back into the snow with a yelp. He frowns as he sits up, then jumps as his shield is unceremoniously dropped between his outstretched legs. He takes a moment to inspect the damage—blackened with scorch marks, but the metal still holding thanks to the spells casted on it—before glancing up.
Standing over him, with fine, long, white hair whipping in the wind, is Estinien. His mouth is set in a severe frown, and his brows are furrowed, but there is a fire in his eyes that Aymeric is not sure he’s ever seen before.
“By the Fury, De Borel, get a hold of yourself,” Estinien practically snorts.
“I—yes, of course,” Aymeric blinks and shakes his head in a vain attempt to rid of the ringing in his ears. “Forgive me, I—”
Estinien audibly clicks his tongue and seizes the underside of Aymeric’s arm. “By the Fury,” he says as he pulls Aymeric to his feet. “I need you to focus, De Borel.” As if on cue, another piercing scream echoes through the sky. Grimly, Aymeric straightens and nods.
“You’re right,” he says. “The others?”
“Dead.” Estinien’s delivery is direct and to the point, and the news appropriately hits Aymeric like a punch in the gut. Dead? It’s Aymeric’s responsibility to protect them! Where are their bodies? What will he tell their families?
“Borel!” Estinien shouts as he hefts his spear in his hand. “Are you with me or not? The beast is coming around!”
Aymeric looks at Estinien, then, and sees that same spark he noticed before: a furious, righteous light that at last brings Aymeric back to reality. There is nothing to be done for their comrades now, but Aymeric’s duty to protect Estinien remains.
The dragon roars again, closer now than before, and this time, Aymeric steps in front of Estinien, shield up. “I’ll cover you. Find your opportunity to strike it down!”
“At last,” Estinien says into Aymeric’s ear, voice full of anticipation.
The dragon begins to round on them just as Estinien puts a hand on Aymeric’s shoulder and crouches behind him. The speed at which it approached is almost unbelievable to Aymeric—how can a creature so large move with such agility? In seconds, its shadow looms over them, and it opens its monstrous maw. It’s so close, Aymeric can see the tell-tale glow at the back of its throat as it prepares its attack.
“Here it comes!” he shouts and ducks behind the shield.
Not a moment later, white-hot flames rain down upon them. Despite Ishgard’s frigidity, he immediately breaks into sweat. The heat is engulfing—almost suffocating—and the pure pressure of the blast itself threatens to dislocate Aymeric’s shoulder. It’s all he can do to stay conscious enough to keep the shield erect—but his resolve is bolstered with the knowledge he’s already failed once. He will not fail again.
Thankfully, Aymeric as well as the magic on the shield hold. What feels like eons ends in but seconds, and the beast’s flames relent at last. Aymeric pants and grunts as he lowers his shield and reaches for his sword still sheathed at his hip. Perhaps he can get a good strike in before—
Suddenly, Aymeric feels a weight alight on his shoulder, then leave just as quickly. Soon after, having pushed off of Aymeric, Estinien reenters his vision with his spear aloft and vaulting straight towards the dragon. For a moment, as Estinien floats in the air, time seems to suspend. His armor glitters underneath the cold Ishgardian sun, and his body itself seems likened to a weapon, deadly and carefully constructed.
Then, without ceremony, without so much as a battle cry, Estinien brings down his spear.
The wyrm had already been starting its ascent, so Estinien did not strike it in the head or the neck, where doubtless he had been aiming, but he did snag its leathery wings. With a ripping sound, the spear cuts through the dragon’s wing in its entirety, leaving the remains flapping like torn sheets hanging from the bone. The dragon screams and beats its remaining wing, but to no avail. It manages to create some space between it and them, but eventually it crashes some distance away—easily in walking distance for them to finish the job.
Meanwhile, Estinien alights back onto the ground, no worse for wear. His gaze is nothing short of predatory as he stalks towards the creature, which is now screeching and flapping its remaining wing from the ground. It reminds Aymeric like a bird with a crumpled wing as it writhes and squirms. To reduce a beast like a dragon into such a state…Aymeric knew well that Estinien outpaces him—and, indeed, much (if not all) of the Temple Knights—but he did not realize how great the gap really is until now.
Estinien has already traveled half the distance before Aymeric realizes he’s been left behind. Aymeric hastens to catch up. By the time he’s arrived, the dragon’s thrashes have reduced to weak squirms, and Estinien circles the beast with his spear. He tears through the second wing for good measure, then begins to stab it in various places as he moves: its flank, its shoulder, its belly. It cries out in rage and agony at each one and snaps out with its teeth and claws, but Estinien jumps away each time.
“For Sigisbert,” Estinien practically snarls with each stab. Blood splatters and colors the pure snow underfoot. “For Degenhard, and for Renaud, beast.” Aymeric blinks. These are names of members of their patrol that just perished. He had not realized Estinien cared so much about them to react like this—or truly knew their names, for that matter, aloof as he is.
Estinien raises his arm for another strike when Aymeric puts a hand on his shoulder. “Estinien,” he entreats, “enough.”
“Oh, what?” Estinien snorts and snaps around to glare, eyes burning with fury and grief in equal measure. “Would you prefer I show the creature mercy? After what it’s done? What they’ve all done?”
“Some basic decency, perhaps,” Aymeric suggests quietly. “Come, Estinien, the beast is defeated and the battle won. Why prolong its suffering?”
“‘Suffering’,” Estinien repeats scornfully. “You speak of suffering? What of our suffering?” Now he rounds his spear tip to Aymeric’s chin, but Aymeric does not flinch. “For generations, the dragons have plagued us day and night without cease! You should know what they’ve taken from us! Why should I show them any measure of respite? Any ilm of sympathy? Did it show us any decency? Our comrades? This is naught but a beast, a monster!”
“Aye,” Aymeric agrees, “but we are not beasts, my friend.”
Estinien’s expression remains stony, but after a few moments, he lets out a hmph. Then, in one artful and vicious motion, he spins around and brings down the full weight of his spear into the dragon’s eye.
The dragon lets out a final scream and, despite its wounds, thrashes with renewed vigor in the face of death. Its voice sounds through the bare white landscape and pounds against Aymeric’s already aching head. Despite this last burst of defiance, however, it at long last slumps, dead. Wordlessly, Estinien wrenches out his spear and flicks off the excess blood onto the snow.
“Well,” Aymeric says after a moment of silence, “I believe congratulations are in order. I am assuming this is your first dragon kill? Very well deserved, if I may presume to say so. Your skills are impressive—much more so than even what I have heard.”
Estinien gives another lighter snort, apparently unmoved by the compliments. “Our kill” is all he grunts, and Aymeric feels his chest swell. Then, Estinien looks up, eyes dark. “And the first of many.” It is more than a promise. It’s a threat—an omen.
“I have little doubt,” Aymeric replies. “Now come. We must put our friends to rest.”