gurabad | 034 » your weary widow marches on

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034 » your weary widow marches on

[it is common knowledge that lord francel goes hunting once a week, and does not return until he has slain at least one karakul.

this was not a habit he had when lord haurchefant was still alive. the house haillenarte knights at skyfire locks (and those that trickle up towards camp dragonhead) speak of it often; they whisper in their barracks, behind closed doors and beneath the din of conversation in the mess hall. lord francel perseveres, they say, but he has not been the same, no, not been the same at all. the young lord they used to know was more squeamish, hated hunting, hated to see things die. now it seems to be the one thing that sates his grief.

the appointment and subsequent arrival of honoroit and emmanellain as knight-captain replacements does not change francel's routine. again, on windsday, early morning, francel dons a pair of thigh-length hunting boots and takes up his bow and quiver. stephannot has accidentally fallen asleep at his post; francel does not wake his knight as he saunters out into the snow.

the world is cold and quiet and unforgiving.

it is not unlike francel's heart.]

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[ Ser Emmanellain would be on Emmanellain's tongue, strange though it feels even to him, but the look in Francel's eyes stifles all bluster and noise for a time. Inexplicably, Emmanellain has some vague sense of intruding upon a private moment, as if he has jarred Francel from reflection beside Haurchefant's memorial, the Steel Vigil another memorial at his back, instead of walking up to him while he sneaks about Dragonhead.

He watches Francel fidget, concerned. ]

You did. What are you doing out here at this hour? [ Besides looking so haunted, and somehow wraithlike himself. ] The sun has barely risen...

[francel coats his feet in snow. he does not meet emmanellain's gaze. he turns his boots this way and that, fidgeting and shuffling in the snow. perhaps it makes the sounds of his footsteps quieter; perhaps he merely wants to freeze. the look on his face betrays nothing of his thoughts.]

...I am hunting. Beasts wake when men sleep, Lord Emmanellain.

[ Hunting explains Francel's bow and quiver, if not his burying his feet in the snow. It surprises Emmanellain because this is Francel, and what Francel intends is not a nobleman's hunting for sport.

But then, this isn't Francel's first week of living in central Coerthas; the years since he made these slopes and plains his home must have hardened him. ]

Since when do you go hunting of your own will?

[ Emmanellain asks it without expecting an answer, glancing about at rime-coated trees and shrubs. ]

Let me keep you company, then, as your lookout. On my watch, no interloper shall distract you from your quarry!

[at that, francel looks up, and fixes emmanellain with a long, uncomfortable gaze that is somehow neither hard nor gentle. plainly, he has no need for a lookout; if he had wanted one, he would have woken stephannot, or else marched into any one of the skyfire locks and summoned a house haillenarte knight to do his bidding.

still. emmanellain is no house haillenarte knight, and francel is in no mood to issue commands.]

...Do as you like.

[with those carefully-chosen, too-cool words, francel turns and begins marching deeper into the white highlands, keeping his eye out for telltale black.]

[ The morning air's chill turns chillier. Regardless, Emmanellain counters with a smile, quickly falling into step with Francel. He watches for so-called interlopers in the form of wild beasts, but none disrupt Francel's hunting plans yet, and his attention drifts to what exactly Francel seeks. A karakul? A goobbue? ]

Rather different, this... Invigorating, I imagine. A lone hunter, stalking his prey!

[ Bunny-rabbits? Suddenly, Emmanellain wriggles his fingers at Francel, despite his gauntlets. ]

By the by, allow me to assuage your concerns: only Honoroit took notice of my injury.

[in reality, it would not matter if interlopers dared to cross francel's path. for a moment, the young lord hovers on the verge of whirling around and hissing at emmanellain to shut up — but mention of honoroit stays his hand. francel pauses imperceptibly, a second's hesitation in his steps, as he tries to remember the face of the small, green-eyed boy that trails after emmanellain like a shadow.]

...You are fond of him.

[ They haven't bonded over popotoes into the best of friends in those few bells, but to Emmanellain's surprise, Francel actually engages in conversation with him. Francel's expression is unreadable; his remark might be astonishment, or acknowledgement, or any number of things. ]

Well, of course I am. Hardworking, that boy. Clever, loyal...

[ Honoroit may remain appointed in his service, but to Emmanellain, the boy once his ward to rescue from poverty has become his friend, his confidant, almost a younger brother (an exceptionally sensible and capable younger brother). The risk of losing him, that shameful day at Falcon's Nest, was unthinkable.

Any who observe the boy awhile perhaps rightly believe him wasted on his master — yet Honoroit has never expressed a wish to serve another.

And what would Emmanellain do without him? ]

Ah, but you haven't seen much of Ishgard in some years, have you... Why don't you come back to Camp Dragonhead with me later? There'll be time to properly make Honoroit's acquaintance over breakfast.

[the prospect of meeting with honoroit, speaking with him, sends a kind of cold fear down francel's spine. he shakes his head vehemently. it is only pure self-control that keeps the panic out of his voice; his response is carefully devoid of emotion.]

No.

[he cannot meet honoroit now. it would remind him of too many things. it was not long ago, he thinks, that he, too, was a little boy shadowing haurchefant — but if haurchefant ever called him hardworking or clever or loyal, francel can no longer remember it.]

Only... only treat him well. That is all I ask.

[ The Francel before Emmanellain is a closed book. His reaction to a harmless, friendly suggestion is so odd in Emmanellain's view that the young lord stares in clear consternation for so long a moment that he nearly walks into a tree, and then into Francel.

That was all he wanted, from the beginning, to see Honoroit treated well. Of course, it could only make a small, shortsighted difference to attempt to change one boy's life for the better, as if there were no other children like Honoroit, trapped by their circumstances despite their potential, while boys like Emmanellain had everything, but did nothing, were nothing.

But Honoroit seems content. ]

What sort of man do you think I am? I've even offered him my advice and my assistance, should the distance keeping him from his love left in Ishgard become too much to bear! I am, after all, well versed in such matters.

His love...

[this is, of course, where the similarities end. honoroit is not francel: if emmanellain is to be believed, honoroit has loves and interests outside of the old he serves. which is a good thing, really, for the boy. honoroit is and should be his own person.

francel only ever had haurchefant.

his breath is white on the breeze as it leaves his lips, as he tries not to think of snow on green gauntlets, on the hearty booming laugh that used to warm his heart to its very core.]

...I am sorry. I did not mean to imply that you would mistreat him.

[ Emmanellain could speak at length of the friendship that has blossomed between Honoroit and young Saulette, the way that Honoroit took the girl under his wing when she began her service — though Honoroit tends to be rather tight-lipped on the entire subject. Instead, he studies Francel's gloomy profile, and shrugs. ]

I know, old boy.

[ And he knows that a careless master can inflict harm, no more blameless than an intentionally cruel one. ]

In any case, I merely think that the two of you would get along quite well. He took up the bow — did I tell you? Oh, and he positively devoured everything there was to read around him, as soon as he could.

...I am in no mood to speak to boys or men.

[this implies, of course, that francel is not in the mood to speak to emmanellain, either. yet he makes no moves to dismiss emmanellain from his "service" as he plows on through the snow, moving closer and closer to the observatorium with each step.]

[ That prompts a thoughtful hum from Emmanellain, in complete understanding. ]

I suppose you must grow rather weary of it... But there are women at Camp Dragonhead.

[ Their route takes them to trails unfamiliar to Emmanellain, but he pays them little attention, focused on Francel's strange mood. ]

[in response, francel shoots emmanellain a look of complete and utter disgust, though a very mild disgust — more unimpressed than anything else.]

That's... not at all what I meant.

[the wind howls. it sings the melody of francel's heart: forlorn, lost, desperate, groaning. ordinarily, during these early coerthan mornings, with the snow falling all around him and the promise of death between his hands, francel knows peace. today, the off-note of emmanellain's voice sours his soul's concerto.]

Are women all you think of, Emmanellain?

[ Emmanellain's ears perceive nothing mournful in the wind's howling, only how unpleasantly cold they feel. Rubbing them briefly crosses his mind; he grimaces at his gauntlets. ]

Really, there's no need to look at me so! You, my dear Francel, are speaking in riddles, and I thought to make you aware of one remedy for your mood.

[ Which likely has absolutely nothing do with men, boys, or women, and everything to do with grief. Even so, Emmanellain waves one hand at Francel. ]

The Fury won't strike you down over an innocent conversation. It might do you some good.

[wearily, francel shakes his head and continues marching down his chosen path. like as not their voices carry on the winds, alerting any karakul to their position. his own ears are already painfully numb.]

Can't I simply be left in peace? I want no conversation. I just...

...Very well. But if ever you change your mind, know that you have friends to turn to, a short walk away.

[ At last Emmanellain falls silent, and the melancholy quiet is restored. The only sounds are their footsteps as they trudge through the snow, and the wind's lament.

It goes against Emmanellain's nature not to talk at all whilst in another's company. The silence is uncomfortable, stretching on and on — it makes room for far too much thinking. ]

[francel, for his part, is content to let the silence stretch on. this is better, he thinks, even if the sound of emmanellain's footsteps crunching behind him still present a distraction. silence. he wants silence.

he wants silence up until he sees a karakul on the horizon — and then all he wants is for his arrow to hit its mark.]

Soft.

[he says this over his shoulder, at emmanellain. it is kinder than saying shut up. quietly — deadly quiet — francel deftly grabs an arrow between his fingers and nocks it to his bow, without dry-pulling the string. he crouches low to the ground, creeping past bramble and branch, slowly approaching the unsuspecting karakul as it bounds through the snow.]

[ Had Emmanellain brought a bow of his own, they might have made a contest of this, so he thinks — not that he has a single kill under his belt — but Francel's self-appointed lookout is relegated to the position of a spectator. He follows Francel needlessly.

This Francel, the determined hunter, is a new sight.

Oblivious to its impending fate, the karakul goes about its business. Emmanellain holds his breath. ]

[with a few more shuffling steps francel achieves the vantage point he was hoping to get — high on a hill above the karakul, partially obscured by a tree's branches. the karakul settles lazily in the snow — peaceful, for its last moments alive.

the perfect shot presents itself to francel. he seizes it.

pull — release.

francel's cruel arrow finds the karakul's breast. it ceases to breathe ere it can even react.

francel looks at his job well done and closes his eyes, breathing almost as if in relief.]

[ Death claims the karakul swiftly and silently, without disturbing the peaceful scene. In death, the beast simply lies motionless, a dark lump atop a pristinely made bed of white.

Emmanellain steps back from peering over the side of the hill, turning to Francel. The task is done, and neatly so, not violently, and the look on Francel's face is not one of revulsion.

Again it seems a glimpse of something private.

Emmanellain clears his throat. ]

...An excellent shot, old boy. And now? Shall we carry it back together?

[there is a distant, faraway quality to the look in francel's eyes now, as if he is no longer entirely here, in dragonhead. he is somewhere else, someplace where betrayal and death and unanswered love can no longer hurt him.]

...Yes.

[with a vacant stare, francel slowly walks down the hill towards the front of the still karakul. truthfully, he should shoulder the entire beast himself, but with emmanellain at hand, it makes more sense for him to take the front legs while the other lord takes the hind. he waits for emmanellain's call.

the truth is, hunting doesn't make him feel better. it just takes him away — away to the halcyon days when coerthas was green and he was a boy with a falcon loyal only to him.]

[ Francel's odd behaviour grows unsettling before long. Paces behind the young lord until they reach the foot of the hill, Emmanellain ignores the dead karakul for now, his eyes on Francel, searching. ]

Are you... er...

[ Years ago, little Francel de Haillenarte somehow grew several ilms taller than Emmanellain in so short a span of time that it could well have happened overnight. Emmanellain raises himself onto his tiptoes to look Francel directly in the eye. ]

Francel?

[francel blinks. his eyes seem to refocus upon emmanellain's face. for a moment, he was a boy of eleven, riding through the woods by clearwater lake, and nothing ever hurt him, and no bandit's club ever came — he claimed his kill and rode triumphant to his father — and haurchefant, then seventeen summers and somehow more beautiful than he ever was at twenty-and-eight, haurchefant smiled at him from a distance, proud of the lordling he dared to call his friend —

slowly, francel returns to coerthas.]

...Emmanellain.

[he looks at the karakul.]

...We were going to move this.

[ How often does Francel do this, make a solitary early morning hunting trip out into the wilds? Later, perhaps, Emmanellain will ask those like to know and yield the answer.

Much has changed of late, and Francel is no exception.

Emmanellain's heels sink back down into the snow. His gaze follows Francel's. ]

So we were, yes...

[ Crouching beside the karakul, he eventually seizes its hind legs. ]

What will you do with it?

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