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samsaurwrites · 1 year

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Captivate (Aymeric x Reader x Estinien) - Chapter 2

You don’t know what tales the conspirators in Ul’Dah are spinning. What prices they’ve posted for your head. You don’t know if they’re hunting you—if they’re gaining on you. You don’t know how many they are or how long you can keep going. All you know is that you are alone. Horribly and unspeakably alone.

After the death of the Sultana of Ul'Dah, you seek out sanctuary in Ishgard, in the Lord Commander of the Temple Knights. But Aymeric de Borel hides a dark secret, one that will bring you to your knees.

Tags: Heavensward Expansion, Cannon Adjacent, Mentioned Scions of the Seventh Dawn, Obsessive Aymeric de Borel, Dark Aymeric de Borel, Kidnapping, Emotional Manipulation, Rape/Non-con Elements, Extremely Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content (eventually) , Stockholm Syndrome, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Other Additional Tags to be Added

Read here or on AO3.

Chapters: 1 | 2

They leave you in that wretched darkness for days.

Days.

Days you see and speak to no one. Days you waste away in your own filth.

Days your stomach cramps and growls and shrivels up in your belly; days when the chains feel so heavy around your wrists that you don’t bother lifting them, don’t even try yanking on them anymore.

Days where you don’t try at all.

Days you spend floating somewhere between wake and sleep, seeing phantom horrors that manifest in the dark—disfigured creatures, with hunched backs and long, bony arms that creep in the corners; eyes, staring from you from the mortar in the walls, cold and leering and primal; a ringing in your ears that sounds like whispers.

Like—they’ve forgotten you.

Like—they’re never coming back.

Then, when your lips are so chapped you can’t get rid of the taste of blood; when your stomach is howling so loudly you think your skull may split in two, Estinien returns. The noise, the sudden opening and closing of the door, startles you; the clank of his armor, his boots on the cold stone floor startles you.

You bolt upright. Chains rattling. Barely fighting back a wave of dizziness, of nausea.

The torch he slots into the wall nearly blinds you; straining your eyes, filling them with tears that trickle and burn. You shrink away, shrink into yourself because looking at it, looking at him—it hurts.

He walks closer, approaching you slowly, the way you would a wounded animal, and only then do you notice what he carries. Instead of his lance, a small bucket and ladle. Sloshing. Filled to the brim.

Water.

You swallow thickly, shifting onto your knees, fingers twitching into fists.

Want it, want it, want it—

He sits on the edge of the bed. Beckons you closer.

“Here,” he says, voice rough and low and like velvet against your ears because it’s the only thing you’ve heard besides your own breathing, your own muffled crying in what feels like an eternity. He ladles out a scoop of water. “Drink.”

You do. Scooting as close to him as you dare. Slowly, he brings the ladle to your lips. Tilts it towards you, and cool water flows into your mouth. Once you start drinking, you can’t stop. Drinking frantically. Sloppily. Gulping it down as quickly as you can, as quickly as he’ll refill the ladle and let you drink again.

Your fingers wrap tentatively around his wrists. Squeezing tighter when he doesn’t pull away. Water rolls down your chin, your neck. You drink and drink, clinging to him, drinking until there’s nothing left. Until your panting, shoulders heaving up and down and up and down, breath ragged in your throat.

Then, he starts to stand and—panic.

“Wait,” you croak, voice hoarse from neglect and disuse. “Estinien, please—”

You try to hold him. To grab him and keep him there.

But you’re so weak.

He pries your fingers from his wrist with ease. Retreats from your reach before you can make another grab at him—too weak, too weary, too slow.

You watch him. Dread weighing down on your shoulders, squeezing your chest tighter and tighter and tighter. Your fingers fist in the soiled sheets. You’re breathing fast. Too fast, and it makes you dizzy. Makes you woozy.

Makes you sick.

“P-Please,” you beg. You don’t even realize you’re crying until tears fall from your cheeks onto the backs of your hands. “Please don’t—”

Please don’t leave me here.

The door slams shut, plunging you back into darkness, and you can’t smother the broken wail that crawls out of your throat. The sobs that wrack your shoulders. You scream and cry until you can’t anymore. Until your voice has shriveled up into nothing, leaving you empty, empty, empty.

Please don’t leave me here.

You rock back and forth, arms wrapped around your knees. Dig your fingernails into your skin and pray to Hydaelyn, to anyone who will listen, to help you. To save you. To free you.

To kill you.

You fall asleep to the imagined sounds of claws scraping against stone.

A day later, Estinien comes back. No lance, but no bucket and ladle either.

You don’t bother sitting up. Just shut your eyes against the blinding brightness he brings.

The water had made it worse. Made you acutely aware of how thirsty you were, how dry your throat felt. How much your mouth tasted like dirt and dust and blood. Made you weaker. Listless.

“Come with me,” he says, crossing the room in long, brusque strides. “You’re filthy.”

He kneels down next to you, and only then do you pry open your eyes. Only then do you watch blankly as he unbolts your chains from the wall and takes them in hand.

“Up,” is all he says before he’s pulling you, stumbling, from the bed.

Standing, being upright, after so many days confined to a bed feels wrong. Your legs tremble and shake, unused now to supporting your weight, and your knees threaten to buckle. Your arms hang limply in front of you, held together by the manacles encircling your wrists, by Estinien’s iron grip.

“Do not fight me,” he warns lowly, before releasing your chains and drawing a long strip of cloth from his belt.

For the briefest instant, you imagine it. Imagine what would happen if you drove your shoulder into his stomach. What would happen if you managed to catch him off guard long enough to bolt out the door. You wonder how far you would make it before he caught you. Before he cornered you in a dead-end hallway. Before you ran into someone or something worse.

But you’re tired. So, so tired.

Instead of fighting, instead of running—instead of trying—you let him tie the cloth over your eyes, let him blind you. You cling to your bonds, breath heavy in your lungs, fingers wrapping around the chains, the only thing anchoring you to reality, to him. And then he pulls, tugging you towards the door.

The stone is cold against your bare feet, causing involuntary shivers to race up and down your spine. The clanking of chains is the only sound between you as he drags you forward, sightless, and you start to wonder why he hasn’t gagged or silenced you. Then, you realize, with a sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach.

That you must be somewhere where it doesn’t matter how much or how loudly you scream.

Because there must be no one around to hear you.

No one around to help you.

You choke on your next breath.

Estinien leads you onwards, and you quickly lose track. It slips from your memory like sand through your fingers. You can’t remember how steps you’ve taken, how many corridors you’ve turned down, how many lefts or rights you made; can’t remember what order you made them in either. Too tired to focus on anything other than putting one foot in front of the other, struggling to keep up with his long strides.

Eventually, he stops, and you hear a door open in front of you.

Warmth billows out from it, washing over you, dewing on your skin, and you shiver.

A gentle tug on your chains is all it, and you follow him into the room.

Steam wraps around you like a blanket, heating your skin, your fingers and toes. The gentle scent of lavender, of vanilla and oil and soap, invades your senses, and you inhale deeply, sinking down in it, drowning in it.

Hands—not gauntlets or gloves—but warm, calloused hands lift your own, raising them in front of your chest, palms up, like an offering. You don’t recoil, don’t flinch, not like you should. You savor it, the contact, the presence of another being, of something other than the monsters that dwell in the corners of your prison.

You hate that you do.

Then, you hear a soft clanking, feel keys brush across you palms while he undoes your manacles. Removes them from your wrist and—and you feel like you can breathe again.

“Take this off,” he murmurs, voice flat, fingering at the sleeve of your sleeping dress.

Your shoulders tense, breath turning to ice in your lungs. Shake your head. Lower lip trembling, heart pounding—THUD THUD THUD THUD. Eyebrows pulling together, tears burning behind your closed eyes. You cradle your wrists against your chest. Take a half-step backwards.

He catches your arm, and you yelp.

“To bathe,” he bites out, and you can hear the scowl on his face.

A pause. One stuttering heartbeat. Another.

Still trembling, still leaking tears, you nod once. Again, when you still can’t find it in you to move. Then, you’re grabbing the skirt of your dress and pulling it up, up, up. Over your head. Leaving you naked, shivering, as goosebumps break out along your skin.

He takes your hand and leads you forward, guiding you towards the sweet smell, into a deep tub filled with heated water. He helps you slide down into it, placing your hand on the porcelain rim. And—

It’s bliss.

“Estinien,” you start, breathier than you mean for it to be, fingers prodding at the bottom edge of the blindfold, just barely slipping underneath—

But he stops you. Fingers wrapping around your wrist, pulling your hand away from your face.

“Leave it,” he says, then guides your hand down to a washcloth, to a small glass bottle arranged on top of a small table next to the tub. “Use these to clean yourself.”

He stands again, and your head follows the sound, chin tilting up.

“Leave it on,” he says again, and slowly, you nod. “I’ll return soon.”

You hear him leave. Hear the door shut and click. And then, you’re alone.

But it doesn’t feel like it.

You feel watched. Feel eyes roaming down the length of your neck, across your shoulders, sliding down over your spine, over every inch of exposed skin. You sink down deeper into the water, until the water touches your chin.

Your breath comes out fast. In short, ragged puffs that just barely disturb the surface of the water. Despite the heat of the water, despite the way it wraps around you and seeks to soothe the ache in your muscles, in your bones, you still feel cold.

You shiver and quake and don’t dare think about why you haven’t ripped off the blindfold.

Why you haven’t dared to stand up.

Why you haven’t snatched your soiled dress and yanked open the door and run yet.

Trembling, you reach for the washcloth, patting around blindly for it until your fingers brush soft fabric. You take the bottle. Uncork it and pour sweet smelling soap into the cloth, rubbing it between your palms until it warms and suds.

You drag it along your body. Over your arms and legs, hissing when the cloth catches against the scabs that still litter your skin. You scrub at your shoulders, at your hips, rubbing at the dirt and blood and filth that’s caked there. Rub and rub and rub until your skin feels raw.

You discard the cloth, leave it hanging over the side of the tub. Slowly, you lean backwards, dipping your head into the water, back arching, breasts just barely breaching the surface of the water. You let the heat and the wet soak into your hair, your scalp. Lowly, almost without realizing it, you hum.

Gods, how you’ve missed bathing.

Sitting up, you reach again for the soap. Pour it into your hands and lather it into your scalp, working your fingertips around in gentle circles, scrubbing at the oil and the sweat. Again, you lean back. Hold your breath and submerge yourself completely. Try to rinse the suds out from your hair, as best you can, before resurfacing. Before sitting up. Before the water starts to seep from the blindfold, from your hair, to roll down your skin in tiny rivulets.

The silence stings. In the empty expanse of the bathroom, your breath seems to echo. To reverberate and bounce and ring in your ears. You pull your knees up to your chest, wrapping your arms around them. Curling in on yourself because you still feel eyes on you.

Still feel like you’re being watched, like you’re not alone.

“H-Hello?” you whisper, to the silence, to the steam.

You swear you hear an answer, an exhale—a laugh. Your head jerks towards the sound, breath catching in your throat. You almost rip off the blindfold. Almost shatter the bottle on the tub and wield it, jagged and broken, like a weapon. Almost stand, almost fight, almost run.

Almost.

Fear keeps you still. Rigid. Keeps you quiet.

You don’t dare whisper again.

Instead, you wait, shoulders tensed, fingernails digging into your legs. Wait for Estinien to return. Wait for the eyes to come closer. Wait for the breath to whisper across the back of your neck, to float past your ears. Wait so long the water around you grows still, grows tepid, then cool. Shivers wrack you. Tremors shaking you from head to toe, but still you do not stand. Still you do nothing, do not even dare to adjust the blindfold that has gone frigid against your skin.

Then, the door clicks open, and you nearly shriek.

Your head whips towards the sound. Towards the footsteps that approach you.

“Estinien?” you croak, releasing your hold on your knees in favor of the edge of the tub.

“Aye,” he answers. He pulls you up onto your feet, fingers firm around your wrists. Helping you climb out of the tub. Keeping you steady when you sway, when you nearly move your balance. He pushes a towel into your trembling fingers. “Dry yourself.”

You do. Wringing out your hair, wiping away the droplets that cling to your skin.

“Here,” he says, and hands you another dress, a soft, wispy feeling thing that you pull over your head immediately. You feel your breath even out; feel the unease ebb, feel your bones settling back into place; feel less of the burning gaze roving over your body, dampened by the gauzy fabric obscuring your skin.

Fingers touch the edge of your blindfold—and then you recoil. Then you jerk your head away; then the back of your thighs bump the edge of the bath, clattering into the side table. Sending the bottle crashing to the ground. Shattering. Tiny glass shards skittering across the tiles.

The sound is deafening.

You catch yourself. Barely. One hand behind you, braces on the opposite side, the other clasped tight in Estinien’s punishing grasp. He curses and yanks you forward, towards him, so that you sit upright on the edge of the bath.

“I told you not to fight me,” he snaps, tearing off the blindfold. Throwing it to the floor. And for a moment—you glimpse him. A flash of silver hair, of high cheekbones and a strong nose. Eyes the color of slate, of shadow and fog and smoke; eyes outlined with dark, heavy circles.

Then, another cloth is being drawn over your eyes. Cinched tight behind your head with no regard for the hair that pulls and twists within the knot. You wince, but say nothing, focusing on the nettling sting in your scalp instead of the shame that twists and squirms in your belly.

Without warning, Estinien scoops you up into his arms, and you bite back a yelp; arms shooting around his neck, clinging to him as he carries you over shards of broken glass that pop and crunch underneath his boots.

You hear the door open. Hear it swing shut behind you. Hear the sounds of Estinien’s footsteps echoing in the halls as he carries you back through the winding maze of cold, unfeeling stone.

You don’t hear Aymeric rise to his feet, standing from the chair sitting in the far corner of the bathroom. Don’t see the smile that still lingers on his lips as he takes in the scattered glass, the soiled dress, the sopping blindfold. You don’t see the dark satisfaction that ripples behind his eyes, don’t see the desire that smolders and burns there. You hadn’t fought, hadn’t run. You had listened.

Had obeyed.

When your feet once again touch the cold stones, somehow, you know that you’re back. Back in your prison, in your cell. Back to darkness and filth and hunger and thirst. Back to madness. To clawing and crying and begging for an end that won’t come.

Helpless.

You can’t stop the whimper that bubbles up from your throat, strangled and wet and desperate.

“Please,” you whisper, hardly even audible.

Estinien holds you still, hands firm. Unwavering. Slowly, he binds your wrists together, wrapping them in cold bands of iron that burn against your skin. You hear chains. A cacophonous sound that makes you dizzy. Makes sick. You feel the weight of them as he attaches them to your manacles. Gently.

Carefully, he unties the blindfold. Softly, he removes the cloth from your eyes.

Careful, gentle, soft, slow—

“Please,” you beg again, louder this time, voice laced with panic, with fear. Tears sting in the corners of your eyes, in your nose. Breath speeding—uneven—sharp, jagged, like glass skittering across the floor. “Let… Let me go, please. I… I—”

He merely watches. Doesn’t say a word as you clutch at him.

“Tell him I escaped,” you breathe, clutching at him. Trembling. “T-Tell him… Tell him Hydaelyn saved me. O-Or that the Scions did. Tell him… Anything—just… just please—” your voice breaks into two. “—I can’t take it anymore.”

Silence. Then, “you must.”