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035 » talking a hornet out of its nest

[aymeric is a very, very busy man. that much is undebatable regardless if one asked a supporter or detractor. but he would never let his tight schedule insult someone, especially when he's trying to curry favor. especially when he's about to ask an awful lot of a house that, by all means, is still extremely important to ishgard. even if their wealth is in decline.]

[aymeric ties his bird up in the stables. He gives her some greens and a pat on the beak before he makes his way towards the door. by all means, a man of his station would not need to knock here.]

yet...

knock-knock.

[by force of habit, he knocks loudly enough to cut through coerthas' ferocious winds. though, this evening, the night is dead quiet save for the intermittent howling of a wolf. it is likely enough that aymeric will be interrupting lord francel's dinner, though he sent a message through camp dragonhead for lord francel to expect him. he is a bit later than he inteded. a basket of goodies hands from his arm- packed with wine, confections, cheeses and meats from far less unusual sources than he figures he is used to by now. not even a hint of eft.]

Pardon my intrusion this evening. 'Tis I, Ser Aymeric, come to speak with Lord Francel.

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[the man who answers the door is not lord francel, but rather ser stephannot, francel's right-hand man. behind his customary iron mask, the knight smiles, eyes curving ever so slightly in greeting. "we are delighted by your presence and honored to receive you, ser aymeric," he says, quite stiffly and formally.

from behind the friendly knight comes another voice — softer, yet colder.]

He may enter, Ser Stephannot.

["but of course," the knight says, stepping swiftly aside. he closes the door behind aymeric with a gentle deftness.

past the store-room which serves as francel's entry hall, the young lord himself stands at his kitchen, slicing popotoes. he does not look up at aymeric's approach, nor does he seem perturbed by the sounds of chainmail clinking and armored boots against his floors.]

Edited 2017-07-07 18:23 (UTC)

[he nods to the knight with a smile. it's odd to see a lord fixing his own dinner. he does it plenty himself, yet it's stranger still to think of a high born man needing to do such things. camp dragonhead had a cook, after all. he sets the basket of goods upon francel's table.

this is a colder reception than he anticipated. though while he used to be well enough loved by most high born men, his reputation had entered murky water. murkier than being bastard born, of course. best not to be so assertive of his presence.]

Would you like a hand?

[he glances around his kitchen at his ingredients, trying to guess at what he's fixing.]

No, thank you.

[francel continues to keep his back to aymeric. it is odd to see him in the kitchen: dressed in last summer's fashions (still no less fine), pure white socks and sleeves, gloves set aside. his knife is sharp. a length of popoto skin hits the bottom of the sink.]

...Stephannot, you may take your leave. I imagine your dinner is already prepared.

[stephannot looks up, blinking in surprise. "but, my lord —"]

The snows are gentle this evening, and I will be fine.

["...very well, my lord," stephannot relents, picking up his things to go home. by francel's implication, he must have a family awaiting him at skyfire locks. besides, what use would a common sentry be in the presence of ishgard's vaunted lord commander and azure dragoon?

stephannot takes his leave. the door of francel's cottage is pulled gently shut.

francel goes on peeling popotoes.]

On my honor, Ser Stephannot.

[aymeric gives the knight a reassuring smile with his promise to keep lord francel safe. though... the young lord was a harder nut to crack than he had anticipated. and... he couldn't help but think that francel's popoto peeling was rather threatening. no matter. they were alone now, and he knew he was best one on one. ]

I brought you gifts, Lord Francel. May I pour you a glass of wine? They are from mine own cellar, a very fine vintage. Do you like red or white?

[aymeric will not relent so easily, lord francel. he keeps his smile intact, though lord francel apparently refuses to look upon it.]

[perhaps aymeric's previous experiences have left him with some trauma regarding culinarian's knives...

regardless, francel does not need to turn around to know that aymeric is smiling; he can hear the smile in the man's voice, and it irritates him. hospitality dictates that francel only has so many direct refusals to give, so he cautiously accepts aymeric's proposal.]

...I prefer white, in general, but I imagine red would pair better with mashed popotoes.

[his move made, francel retaliates with an attack of his own.]

We received notice of your arrival, Ser Aymeric, but your missive did not state the purpose of your visit.

Ah, pray forgive my obfuscation. I merely thought that this matter was best discussed in person over refreshments. [Where you would have to refuse me to my face] I come to ask a favor and give at least double in return. [though he quickly slides into the next thing.]

Then we shall start with the white. [he pulls a clever little knife from his person. it has a few different tools in it, and looks suspiciously like a skysteel original. he efficiently cuts the wax from the bottle and pulls up the cork. it seems ser aymeric has had some practice with the little gift. he sidles up alongside him to pull a pair of cups from a shelf. hardly a suitable vessel, but no matter. from his vantage point- his shoulder nearly touching francel's, he's finally able to look him in the face. he smiles again, charmingly, the put-on of it so perfectly masked from diligent practice. he pours a couple glasses-worth into each. ]

[suddenly, francel is caught by aymeric's gaze; the too-long amount of time he spends lost in it is telling, but eventually he breaks the eye contact, turning his face back to his peeled popoto. suddenly the movements of his knife seem that much less certain.]

L-Leave — you may leave it there.

[he swallows audibly on a dry throat.]

What is this... favor you speak of?

[ah. something to use to his advantage, then.]

Pray forgive my concern, but I tend not to ask favors of men with a knife in hand.

[he wraps an arm easily around francel, placing his right hand upon francel's, easing the knife from his grip to place it upon the counter. he takes the cup of wine in his left, nudging it against his now-empty hand. this intrusion is over in a flash. he steps back, leaning his hips against the counter and facing the room. he takes a sip of the wine, seeming to really enjoy it.]

I would ask you to dissolve Skyfire Locks, as it no longer provides a tactical advantage. With our allies needing my knights in the south, I would ask House Haillenarte to redistribute her knights to Ishgard and Dravania. I have already asked the same of Lady Laniaitte with her cooperation. In return, I can offer you a seat in the House of Lords to speak upon House Haillenarte's behalf.

[the young lord is easily disarmed, his knife and popoto set aside; his fingers twitch around the mug of wine placed into his hand. he does not know where to place his feelings: a rush of anger, a quickening of his pulse. he bristles.]

You would ask me to dissolve —

[the mug of wine wobbles dangerously in francel's hand. fortunately, as it is no glass, it does not upend its contents into the sink.]

You know not what it is you ask, Ser Aymeric!

Lord Francel, you must feel it yourself. You and your knights are hardly using your potential out on this hill. [he wraps a hand around his mug as if it were a warming drink. In a way, as the wine slips down his throat, it is.]

[he is briefly glad for the mugs as he watches francel's wobble. It was very expensive wine, and while a mug was not a suitable vessel, the bottom of francel's sink was even less so.]

I believe I do, but I would have you speak to me so that I may allay your concerns. [sip]

[shaking — out of anger or nervousness he does not know — francel sets the mug of fine wine aside, closing his eyes and taking a breath. he keeps his face turned away from aymeric.]

...And if I accept your proposal, what do I tell the commonfolk that live here? That we can no longer defend them from the Coerthan wilds? That they must relocate to Camp Dragonhead, or else the Observatorium? What do I tell my knights? That now they fight for a foreign cause and die on foreign soil?

[the young lord shakes his head.]

I already... I already have no words for those to whom I promised vengeance. You ask me to betray my people when I have already disappointed them!

Edited 2017-07-07 20:14 (UTC)

There will be uncomfortable change with aught that occurs, Lord Francel. We will find new homes for the commonfolk. Their living is meager as it is with this unending winter. [aymeric holds his own wine still, trying to pull the sense that this is a conversation up from the depths. it wouldn't do well to betray that he was on guard.]

Your anger clouds your ears, milord. I will not send House Haillenarte's men to aid the Alliance, though I think it not inappropriate.

[aymeric's brows furrow.]

Do you still promise your men vengeance in a time of peace, Lord Francel?

No, I meant before all this talk of peace —

[though aymeric is correct that he did not say house haillenarte's knights would be stationed with the eorzean alliance. sighing, francel pushes his wine aside, washing his hands briefly in a basin of water before turning to another part of the kitchen.]

What sort of man would I be if...

[this is, apparently, an unfinished thought. francel trails off as he takes up a towel to dry his hands.]

Why do you consider this a betrayal, Lord Francel?

[aymeric casually slides into where francel was just a moment ago, taking up his knife to finish his work of peeling and cubing the popotoes. his knifework is exemplary.]

Did you intend only to eat this, milord? I brought you summer sausage and fresh bread. It needs only to be warmed in your oven.

[as he inserts himself just a bit deeper into francel's kitchen, making himself impossible to ignore.]

[aymeric's seductions are varied and sundry, but francel wants none of them. somehow, it takes him all he has just to stop shaking. his guardedness from before is left behind; now he is oddly vulnerable, and does not think to merely sidestep aymeric's questions.]

Because I — because we —

[how could he possibly explain it? to aymeric, an outsider? no one could understand unless they were there: how the wreck of the steel vigil had burned for days, how chlodebaimt's men — those that remained, that were staunch of spirit and not too craven — yes, chlodebaimt's men had welcomed their new, fresh-faced lord with somber looks and bowed heads, and the words we are yours to command, my lord, as your brother's before you...

and what was it francel had said in response? may the fury bless his soul, and those of all our fallen brethren.

his purpose was clear, then, and so was theirs. to avenge the fallen, avenge ser chlodebaimt, their most beloved commander...]

...All this now to snow and nothingness...

[francel does not realize he has spoken aloud. he feels strangely sick.]

[aymeric knows the look in francel's eye, the shift in his demeanor. he has seen it hundreds of times before. perhaps he was pushing him much too hard much too fast.]

I'm sorry. [he cautiously places his hands on his shoulder. a technique used to ground soldiers suffering flashbacks. he was unsure if it would help him, but it would do no good to lose francel to his mind.]

I... I know there are many things that have been left undone. Lives and places that cannot be repaired nor restored. House Haillenarte has endured much in this war. You have endured much. In my quest for peace, I have perhaps left too many wandering astray. But know that I am here to rectify that now. Pray allow me to help you.

[aymeric's words are soothing — but francel is somewhere beyond even words. he seems to accept the hand on his shoulder gracefully, and does not move...]

...You cannot help me...

[he moves to brush aymeric's hand off his shoulder. the motion is surprisingly nonviolent, surprisingly gentle.]

You especially...

Me especially?

[he lets his hand be brushed off without a fuss. he looks at francel with a mixture of empathy and pity. he turns his attention towards the poptoes that have begun to dry out in the cold air, their starch leaving white marks on his counter.

he sets the food into the pot to boil. he cuts chunks of bread and places them into the heat. it would do no good to make him go hungry for his intrusion.

as he finishes his kitchen fretting, the wind outside picks up with a startling high-pitched howl. snow falls, either blown from the mountains or from the quickly forming clouds.]

By the Fury-

[he would be snowed in at this rate]

[francel no longer cares about dinner. he allows aymeric to move around in the kitchen with cold indifference. it doesn't matter anyway — he isn't going to eat.

the snow sets in with sudden ferocity, as if to mirror francel's heart.

he is perturbed by the implication that aymeric will be stuck in his cottage at least until the blizzard settles, but eventually, francel takes a seat in his usual position by the desk that serves as his workspace and dining room table. he folds his hands loosely in his lap. he seems to have forgotten aymeric's proposal — indeed, he seems to have forgotten everything.]

...There is something I have been meaning to ask you, Ser Aymeric.

[uselessly, aymeric repositions francel's wine to be within his reach. his sits across from francel and takes a sip of his wine as the food cooks. he doesn't like the sound of this. he hadn't considered the possibility of haillenarte's youngest son both disliking him and being less than stable. foolish, now, in hindsight. it should have been obvious.]

Pray, go on. I will answer anything that is within my ability.

[the winds hasten, the snow bears down. there will be a fulm within the hour. the visibility is shot; it would be suicide to leave now.

he is unsure if he wishes that francel would touch his wine. men with great turmoil are often bad drinkers.]

...I was told that Lord Haurchefant died in an effort to save you. That he died in your arms... surrounded by his friends and countrymen.

[francel's tone and blank expression betray nothing of his thoughts. he stares resolutely at the fire.]

[a small pause, his expression softens, saddens. he speaks carefully.] He did die in my arms, and it was during an effort to save me. Though, he was slain by a member of the Heaven's Ward who had made an attempt upon the Warrior of Light's life. He valiantly took the killing blow in the Warrior of Light's place.

His final moments were bold and brave, unimpeachably a hero's death. He passed quickly, smiling, after his final words. Any knight would have been proud to die as he did. May he take his well-earned rest in Halone's Halls.

[aymeric looks appropriately miserable. this entire negotiation was going tits up with no opportunity to escape and recuperate. he should have gone through count haillenarte.]

Edited 2017-07-07 21:42 (UTC)

...And this member of the Heavens' Ward was Ser Zephirin, was he not?

[francel's voice is still dangerously soft.]

The Warrior of Light told me... reassured me... that she had claimed vengeance for Haurchefant's death. That she had seen to Ser Zephirin's demise personally.

[then — a smile slowly starts to spread over francel's lips, but it does not reach his eyes, and he continues to watch the crackling flames...]

...She had no way of knowing... She could not have known...

Aye, it was Ser Zephirin.

[ aymeric was no fool. It was simple enough to put together. there's teally only one reason that an ishgardian, for all his thirst for retribution, would take no solace.]

Ser Zephirin was someone to you.

[ he speaks softly, his voice coming in just a little louder than the fire.] I did not come away unmarked, either. If it brings you any comfort, I will show you my scars.

Edited 2017-07-07 22:10 (UTC)

[francel is silent. if the prospect of seeing aymeric's scars holds any appeal for him, he does not voice that thought aloud.]

...Why?

[ungloved, he scratches oddly at his left wrist with his right thumb.]

Why did you tell Ishgard that you did not know what became of the Heavens' Ward? Why not just tell the truth? The only reason...

[suddenly, francel breaks. at last his voice shatters into a pained sob, tears welling in his blue eyes; he blinks and they spill over, like so many unwanted thoughts...]

The only reason I waited this long was because I thought I could see him one more time...!

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