He smiles faintly, and for the first time since Ms. Callae had taken the humble crest from his suit jacket, his breathing slows to a relaxed, comfortable calm pace. He sets aside the box and the loosened ribbon - of course, delicately removed without any cutting - and stares at them. There was still a twinge, looking at the insignia; the three points, one for each member of the family, and the tree itself.
A part of his mind told him that this should hurt. Even just seeing the emblem brought back memories of happier times, and the abrupt conclusion of them. As for donning them... Lady Deneith's sentiments were kind, but biased by experience. The Aerstorns had been the tree, and he himself was merely a leaf.
Even despite all that... he removed his gloves, and shakily took one of the cufflinks in hand. Golden, but certainly not gold. Sturdy metal, rigid and unbending. Somewhat worn and dappled with imperfections from their time away from the young master, but then again, the same could be said for him. There was a familiarity to them that, he reflected faintly, he would be unlikely to find in anything yet whole. It seemed almost disloyal to not feel that same ache, but when he held them between two fingers, he heard crackling fireplaces, smelled the faint sharpness of the young master's evening nightcap, felt the dense scratchiness of Limsa-woven blankets as he made the young master's bed...
He held onto them, passing them from hand to ungloved hand, staring faintly up at the ceiling. What was starlight itself, but a way to take comfort from things out of reach?
A part of his mind told him that this should hurt. Even just seeing the emblem brought back memories of happier times, and the abrupt conclusion of them. As for donning them... Lady Deneith's sentiments were kind, but biased by experience. The Aerstorns had been the tree, and he himself was merely a leaf.
Even despite all that... he removed his gloves, and shakily took one of the cufflinks in hand. Golden, but certainly not gold. Sturdy metal, rigid and unbending. Somewhat worn and dappled with imperfections from their time away from the young master, but then again, the same could be said for him. There was a familiarity to them that, he reflected faintly, he would be unlikely to find in anything yet whole. It seemed almost disloyal to not feel that same ache, but when he held them between two fingers, he heard crackling fireplaces, smelled the faint sharpness of the young master's evening nightcap, felt the dense scratchiness of Limsa-woven blankets as he made the young master's bed...
He held onto them, passing them from hand to ungloved hand, staring faintly up at the ceiling. What was starlight itself, but a way to take comfort from things out of reach?
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