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033 » they bowed to us like kings

[even the thirteen most powerful men in ishgard need to hone their skills from time to time.

ordinarily, the knights of the heavens' ward are given their partners. zephirin and vellguine plan assignments in advance, pairing the members of their ward according to their strengths and what weaknesses need to be addressed. last week, vellguine correctly surmised that francel found it difficult to evade spells; he spent bells dodging haumeric's conjured icicles and boulders, and still has bruises where the conjurer's volley found its mark.

today, however, practice is lax. the knights have been given free reign to choose their partners as they please; unsurprisingly, they all fall back upon old friendships. ser ignasse gravitates towards ser vellguine like a dog to its master; sers grinnaux and paulecrain pair off against one another, and fill the air with their deep-throated shouts. sers adelphel and janlenoux, as always, clash swords and dart around the room as elegantly as lovers engaged in dance (francel has long suspected that janlenoux would place higher than the eleventh seat if only he could bring himself to unleash his full fury upon adelphel). surprisingly, ser hermenost seeks out ser guerrique, perhaps hoping to imbue some calm and wisdom upon the younger axe-bearer. their mages congregate in a corner, heatedly debating the finer points of magickal theory.

that leaves ser francel with ser zephirin — the thirteenth and the first.

upon reflection, they make for an excellent match. both are shieldless swordsmen, unlike adelphel and janlenoux, but where zephirin wields a two-handed greatsword, francel prefers a one-handed rapier. francel holds it before him, drawing his fingers slowly along the dull edge of the blade.]

It would seem we are both unencumbered.

[it is a delicate jab towards their shieldlessness.]

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[ As Francel's feet slip on the tub's tiles, Zephirin's free arm darts out, meaning to prevent a fall and a collision between Francel's head and the edge of the tub. Ilms of water separate their bodies, shrinking further with Zephirin's efforts, for he stops short, positioned over Francel and suddenly all too aware of the problem plaguing the young knight.

Francel's fearful behaviour, tensed for censure, is explained.

Once more, Zephirin's brow creases slightly. His fingers uncurl from around Francel's wrist; his other hand slowly descends to his side. He gives Francel more room to breathe.

Their lives are not their own, their existence pledged to their duty, but they remain men, earthly creatures who must consciously choose a commitment to stifling all personal wants. Even some in their position will falter, indulging in the forbidden.

Zephirin's eyelids lower. His expression smooths out. ]

...Have you done aught to negate your desire to serve His Eminence and the Fury?

[zephirin's expression betrays nothing of disgust, of hatred, of disappointment. francel wonders, nevertheless, if this is proof that he is unfit to remain in the ward. he trembles like a leaf in a coerthan blizzard, still too afraid to meet zephirin's gaze. he shakes his head: his words are distracted thoughts.]

I — that — there is n-nothing — I desire more, but...

[if he were thinking more clearly, francel would curl up again, the better to hide himself from view — but his limbs refuse to move and his body aches with need, and the young knight is too afraid to even move.]

Please... please, Zephirin, I'm sorry...

[ Zephirin does not open his eyes. Desperation is a strained note in Francel's voice; it plucks at something dormant within Zephirin, and he, too, shakes his head, raising his hand above the cooling water to hush Francel's pleas. ]

Then there is no need to seek forgiveness. [ A beat, and then he repeats: ] Calm yourself, Ser Francel. You are no less loyal a knight of the Heavens' Ward than our brothers.

[ And no one will hear of this incident. ]

But I...

[francel shifts in the water, pressing his thighs together in a vain effort to hide himself. he finally musters the courage to look at zephirin's face, but his own eyes droop, half-lidded, lingering too long on the way zephirin's lashes fan out against his cheeks.]

Am I not... abhorrent? Lustful, s-sinful... even towards mine own brothers of the Ward...

[he shakes his head once more, suppressing a hiccup.]

Please, Ser Zephirin, keep your distance. E-Even now, I want... your praise, I want... to be close to you...

Edited 2017-07-06 04:08 (UTC)

[ Francel is not the first man in Ishgard's history to grapple with sinful desires, but his confession is the first made to Zephirin. Finally his commander's eyes open, bearing no judgment, no revulsion. Mild curiosity keeps them from a look entirely neutral as they regard Francel, the numerous persisting signs of his shame.

Social mores make Francel abhorrent, though he objectively does no wrong. Were he a woman, or women his weakness, the question would never arise; lustful thoughts would be the call of natural temptation.

Yet his sinful desires torment only the sinner, plunging him into turmoil and self-loathing while he resists. ]

You have my praise for a number of reasons. What do you propose in its stead? Punishment?

[the thirteenth seat withdraws still further into the cooling water. his arousal is beginning to ebb, but his body refuses to comply with his mind, and he can still feel himself, sickeningly hard against his own belly.]

No...

[punishment will not drive desire from his heart, though his heart and mind yet remain in disagreement. his reply is full of still-jumbled thoughts.]

But it isn't... enough. Nothing is ever enough. This is all just... hopeless avarice...

[he heaves a trembling sigh, closing his eyes in self-disgust.]

Why...? Why would the Fury allow me to join the Ward, so... so flawed?

Edited 2017-07-07 01:30 (UTC)

[ The water grows still colder, and the layer of foam floating atop its surface thins. Zephirin is silent, but his thoughts occupy themselves with Francel's self-reproach voiced aloud; he elects to treat it as a genuine question, offering his answer in the end. ]

Again I ask you, Ser Francel: do your flaws hinder you in your duty?

[ Above all, the archbishop's expectation is that his knights are faithful, that their conviction in his vision does not waver. His instructions were not to gather Ishgard's most virtuous, and the Heavens' Ward is now a broad collection of talents, irrelevant flaws pardoned. ]

Your oaths sworn are unbroken.

...Please... do not be so kind.

[francel's voice is taut as a dancer's tightrope. even with his eyes closed, his expression is pained; he pulls his hands in toward himself, clasping his palms around his elbows.]

You... you would hate me if you knew my thoughts, my... my sins...

[ Each reminder fails to take effect. In his current state, Francel seems beyond hearing sense.

Zephirin folds his arms, gradually finding it difficult to ignore the water's temperature, the longer they sit as they are. ]

What makes you so certain?

Because I... I think...

[francel seems determined to stay in the cooling waters until they turn icy enough to wash away his impure thoughts. he does, however, lift his face to properly meet his commander's gaze. if zephirin must hate him, he thinks, then francel should at least receive his look of revulsion, of scorn.]

I think of being close to you, and... kissing you, and being in your embrace...!

[by the broken tone of his voice one would think these all irredeemable sins.]

From time to time, I... I even dream of... of pleasuring you with my mouth, and...

[ By rights, these are thoughts that should not be, thoughts to stamp out for Francel's sake, but Zephirin's reaction is reserved — the slightest movement upward of his brows, a tightening of his grip on his arms. Francel's sins appear to be fantasies that he shares with the Ward's undeterred admirers. However, where Ishgard's ladies have their virtue to guard against gossiping tongues, Francel must fear his very soul at stake.

His wants are foreign notions to a man who made his personal vows long ago to love only Ishgard herself.

And yet, Zephirin feels no disgust. As if Francel has caught his interest anew, this time not for his accomplishments, he holds the young knight's gaze, contemplating his ongoing confession.

The words come haltingly, fraught with misery. They leave a prettily small mouth in a youthful face, its lower lip fuller than the upper, which curves gently into a bow's shape. Francel's dark blue eyes are stormy with the same pain.

His sinful thoughts are laid bare, but they incite no hatred in Zephirin. Rather, Francel's plaintive honesty makes them enticing.

Doubtless the combination of his soft features and his bittersweet rise draws its share of admirers, but in truth, Ser Francel endures daily torture. ]

And I do not hate you. Your sins are but thoughts, and they shall remain behind these walls.

...Truly...?

[fear and self-loathing mark francel's every movement, but he seems incapable of tearing his eyes away from his commander. his stormy eyes trace the lines of zephirin's collarbones, the slope of his jawline, the curves of his muscles. he lingers too-long on the minute drops of water on zephirin's skin; he stares like a man intoxicated into the emerald depths of zephirin's deep-set eyes, drowning in all his sinful thoughts, all those desires that should not characterize a knight sworn in service to the archbishop, to the fury. nothing of zephirin's expression betrays his inner thoughts.

francel's small tongue, pink and catlike, peeks at the corner of his mouth like a trapdoor spider, then flicks to wet his plush lips. and again, that strange desperation, that pleading...]

I... I could not bear it if you lied to me, Zephirin... please...

Edited 2017-07-08 14:23 (UTC)

[ Zephirin's eyes follow the movement of Francel's tongue.

Perhaps Francel should not imply that his commander's reassurances are lies, and there should be no need for Zephirin to repeat himself until Francel's doubts are dispelled. He attempts no such thing, neither rebuking Francel, nor insisting that Francel believe him.

Words alone, it seems, lack the power to convince the young knight.

Unfolding himself, Zephirin stretches his hand out to Francel, as he did during their training matches. Nothing has changed. Francel will not lose his seat. ]

I stand by every word.

[this, it seems, has rather more of the intended effect. francel reaches out and takes zephirin's hand, rising from the cold bath to stand on shaky legs. water drips down his thighs, his knees, his calves; all sensation returns to him at once, and he shivers involuntarily, suddenly all too aware of how cold the air in the vault has become. he breaks eye contact — he stares resolutely at the waters on the other side of the tub, where grinnaux and paulecrain were playing their game of drown-or-be--drowned.]

...I'm sorry...

[again with these apologies...]

[ With Francel's hand clasped, Zephirin's fingers tighten around Francel's, pressing them once. It is a wordless effort to ground Francel, and it is Zephirin's approval for the younger knight's willingness to accept the gesture and move away from his self-flagellation.

A small step away.

As Francel's gaze slips downward, Zephirin's hand lightly grips his chin. ]

[though zephirin does not tilt francel's chin upward, the younger knight lifts his gaze anyway. his night-sky eyes are stormy no longer — surprise renders them clear, pupils wide and framed by blond lashes. francel falters, but he does not jolt from his commander's grip. he blinks; his lips part ever so slightly before he speaks.]

...S-Ser Zephirin?

[ The subtle prompt to encourage Francel to look up has the added result of putting an end to his apologies, and with that, Zephirin could release him, freeing their hands for their towels. His thumb yet rests against Francel's chin, his fingers curled beneath.

A fantasy oft holds greater allure than reality; the unknown tempts curiosity. The Ward's thirteenth seat at peace, his distractions laid to rest, is preferable to leaving him to make demons of the thoughts that haunt him. ]

Do you wish to kiss me? The sin would be mine.

[ The offer, Zephirin predicts, will likely be received poorly at first. ]

I — !

[naturally, zephirin's sudden offer startles francel (and calls other, retreating parts of him once more to attention). at first, the young knight stammers his way through a predictable refusal:]

N-No, I could not bear... to p-profane...

[but the longer he stands, held in zephirin's grip (though he could easily break free) while staring into zephirin's eyes, the more he seems to melt to the idea. francel withdraws into himself, shoulders cringing, his head resting tipped-back in zephirin's fingers; he swallows audibly. a blush rises to his shapely cheeks.]

...

...D-Do you merely tease me? I... I would sin for you, Zephirin, any number of times, and gladly...

Edited 2017-07-09 05:40 (UTC)

[ Francel reacts as expected, flustered once again, believing Zephirin's invitation a cruel jest. In answer, Zephirin brushes the pad of his thumb along the curve of Francel's mouth. ]

Then shall I kiss you?

[ The promise of Halone's halls is but a faint call; of true import is the task that lies ahead in this realm. ]

To lead you into sin abuses your loyalty, Ser Francel. Your assent may make you complicit, but I carry the blame.

[wittingly or not, zephirin has cast upon francel some kind of spell. francel follows the touch to his lips with something like desperation; he turns his head, chasing after zephirin's thumb, kissing it as if it were zephirin's lips, maintaining eye contact all the while.

if lust is sin, it is plain to see that ser francel is already a sinner.]

Yes... please...

[if thordan's blessing was one designed to reinforce loyalty, perhaps it had a rather unintended effect on francel's ideas of loyalty...]

I... I would fall with you into any kind of hell, Ser Zephirin, I...

[ Francel's eagerness is somehow captivating. He welcomes Zephirin's touch the way that a man wandering the distant deserts of Thanalan might welcome his first drop of water tasted, and swears new, fervent oaths.

Zephirin's thumb repeats its motion ere he leans in, repositioning his hand to cup Francel's cheek. Ilms from the young knight's lips, he pauses for a murmured remark— ]

Your devotion belongs not to your commander alone.

[ —and then, touching his mouth to Francel's, Zephirin completes the brush of lips as one would kiss a lady's hand. ]

[the kiss is chaste, perhaps, but francel's reaction is not. he shivers, full-bodied, and leans ever closer to zephirin. they stand in cool waters, knights with no armor to shield their skin, no layers of metal to distance them. francel's lips hover ilms from zephirin's.]

Another?

[his plea is quietly begged, his breath warm against zephirin's mouth. it is true, then, what francel said earlier — nothing will ever be enough.]

Just... just one more, I beg you...

[ Cool air occupies the gap left between their bodies, the warmth of skin to skin contact all the more keenly felt where they touch. The curve of Francel's jaw sits cushioned against Zephirin's palm; Zephirin's fingertips settle near Francel's ear.

A single drop of water does not slake a man's thirst. A filled glass proffered, then withheld taunts him.

Tilting his head, Zephirin seals his mouth over Francel's a second time, pressing one more kiss to Francel's pleading lips. ]

[francel kisses passionately, desperately; his lips are soft and needy, and they nibble and suck at zephirin's bottom lip with a loving persistence. he seals the distance between their bodies, seeking warmth, almost a kind of sustenance. his lust for zephirin is not merely a lust for just one man; it is a lust compounded. it is every single fantasy he has ever had, directed toward just one person.

in a way, it is a heavy burden to bear — the weight of an entire heart.

and yet francel seems all too willing to try to compensate zephirin for his time. he moans, keening, when zephirin's fingertips but delicately brush against his ear; his pleas now take the form of barely-voiced whimpers, shuddering breaths. when he breaks for air he simply leans forward again and plants kisses down zephirin's jawline, making soft, wet mouth-sounds with every greedy kiss.]

Zephirin...

[ Unlike a lady's hand, Francel's lips are responsive and not content to receive without giving in kind. This second kiss appears to unlock the door that Francel fought to bolt shut, and contained no longer, an unbridled need surges into the open, startling in its intensity. Francel kisses as though each kiss is a vital breath of air.

Zephirin's breath catches, audibly rendered staccato as sound and touch sweep over him. His fingers twitch against Francel's skin. The gap between their bodies is no more, and this time, without the layers of their breastplates, sensation is unimpeded.

Zephirin allows their closeness to continue. The placement of his hand changes; at the back of Francel's head, his thumb curiously strokes the ends of the thirteenth seat's golden hair. Steadying his breathing, he slides his other arm around Francel's waist, almost an embrace. ]

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