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067 » lost in this mournful refrain

[ It should have been yours, voices too loyal insist, in the wake of the election, but Zephirin denies it, firmly polite, however many times he must. It was never anything so certain as a given, never a right assured him. Rifts and rumours of rivalries do Ishgard no good, besides, and no matter the whispers of strings pulled, Ser Aymeric is hardly unworthy of his new post. Sers Handeloup and Lucia have likewise earned the ranks bestowed upon them, though some think their appointment another slight against the lord commander's so-called rival.

It is no such thing, nothing born of spite. For his part, Zephirin merely offers his congratulations, succinct but sincere, and adjusts his ambitions: much of Ishgard's weight now rests upon Ser Aymeric's shoulders, and the lord commander will oft serve as the nation's face and voice henceforth, removed from the front lines to sit behind his desk and at plotting tables, to heed high society's summons — it falls to the rank and file to risk life and limb for Ishgard. It falls to their commanders to lead them home, or else to Halone's halls.

A true victory — deliverance, peace — remains all too distant.

When Houses Fortemps and Haillenarte request aid in central Coerthas, close on the heels of fresh misfortune to befall them both, the Holy See deigns to answer, sending what reinforcements may be spared within the day. Perhaps, whilst Camp Dragonhead and Skyfire Locks mourn Lord Haurchefant's passing and Lord Francel's disappearance, bands of heretics and the Horde alike perceive weak points in Ishgard's defenses to seize upon.

Zephirin's unit arrives early the following morn, just as dawn dyes the horizon in coppery hues. Joining Camp Dragonhead's forces at the garrison, the Temple Knights are to bolster patrols; Zephirin himself, meanwhile, soon rides on across the northern slopes, towards Providence Point.

One lone knight — or indeed even the knights of the Congregation and those of the high houses combined — will not succeed where search parties failed, moons prior, when any trail was not yet lost to the snows, and House Haillenarte spoke only of closure through vengeance. Svara, Naul. Zephirin goes as a scout, if not as bait. There is no need to assign others to the task.

Ahead, a sobering sight, the Steel Vigil's broken remains darken the landscape. The world is deceptively quiet, here. ]

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[ The question is a direct response, albeit one uttered as though Francel now stirs awake, much of his mind left elsewhere yet, held there in a daze. One step at a time, then, slow and careful: Zephirin presses the bag into the young lord's hands, that Francel might feel its shape, and its texture, its weight, all to ground himself somewhat. Not overly heavy, it is nevertheless a solid, real thing, part of the waking world.

After a moment, taking Francel by the arm, fingers set against the boy's nearest elbow, Zephirin guides him towards the Steel Vigil's gates, to the alcove along the south wall. With a soft squawk, the knight's chocobo follows, dutifully trotting after its master. ]

This way. It will require some assembly, but you requested more filling a meal, I recall, ere we make for your hot springs.

[ The bag brought is not bottomless, but it is decently full, today. Opening it for Francel soon enough, Zephirin unwraps the topmost parcel: slices of ham sit in a neat stack upon their bed of coarse paper. In the bag's depths, another parcel holds freshly-baked bread rolls; a third, much smaller, contains fragrant tea leaves.

Heaviest, at the very bottom, is a kettle suited to boiling water over a campfire. ]

Might I entrust the rest to your hands?

[ It may be of help for Francel to occupy himself with tangible things. ]

[those slices of ham and rolls of bread do more to dispel francel's inhibitions than he would like to admit. abruptly, the young lord realizes that he is hungry, and while he has been hungry for some weeks, his body had almost grown accustomed to it before the treats that zephirin brought a day ago roused a healthy appetite in him again.

now he feels almost famished. all the same, however, his good manners are showing: he doesn't dive into the ham and bread, even though he is starving and it is right there in front of him. instead, he sets about making a campfire for them to boil water for their tea.

despite being some sort of dragon-man hybrid, francel lacks a tail — yet there seems to be an excitement about his person not unlike that of a puppy's wagging tail as he glides about the area on his fluttering white wings, collecting scraps of wood to make kindling for a fire.

once he has adequately piled the twigs high, he cups his hands around his mouth, and takes a deep breath —

the air is alive and crackling with flames at once. the dry wood burns well. nodding to himself, francel settles in the snow beside a bit of the fallen watchtower that will serve them as a table.]

...The fire is ready, Ser Zephirin.

[this is only the second time he has called zephirin by name.]

[ As Francel flits from place to place, perhaps distracted from his listless, despondent mood for a time, Zephirin sees to the meal, setting the makeshift table. Each parcel's wrappings laid out, smoothed flat, form the tablecloth, upon which the knight arranges the evening's modest spread. For Francel, he pulls two bread rolls in half first, placing two slices of ham between the halves. Beside the bread, he sets down another apple, and a cup to hold the tea.

The young lord's return draws Zephirin's focus away from the table: he watches Francel light their fire (without hesitation, practiced and efficient), masking his surprise for the method used, refraining from commenting upon it. In certain ways, Francel's transformation undeniably makes him more dragon than man, and the young lord must be all too conscious of every change.

Zephirin merely answers him with a smile, appreciation for his task deftly completed. ]

Sooner than aught that mine own efforts would have yielded, at that.

[ Emptying the contents of his waterskin into the kettle, he balances it atop a frame, over the fire, before he gratefully warms his chilled fingers, flexing them near the heat. ]

...Are you amenable to resuming our conversation? Pray eat your fill, however.

[ Zephirin takes nothing for himself yet — if only to leave enough to sate Francel's hunger, should a dragon's appetite deem two filled rolls and an apple too meager an offering. ]

[for a time, francel merely watches zephirin warm his fingers, realizing with a jolt — though not for the first time — that he doesn't process temperatures as he once did. extreme colds, extreme heat — he feels them no longer. he has lived for moons in the tattered remnants of his bliaud, in the coldest blizzards and the heaviest snowfalls. he'll likely never know the warmth of another person again — and, in turn, no one else will ever be able to feel his warmth, if only because he doesn't seem to generate any.

zephirin's touches from yesterday still linger, but those were an exception, he knows. they won't become a norm.

he can't divulge any of this to zephirin, however, not under these circumstances, and the modest ham sandwich is calling to him, besides. if only he had his home, his little stove in skyfire locks, he could whip up a salted and scrambled egg to go with it — but, no, he mustn't be a beggar and a chooser, and now is not the time to let his lordly upbringing get the best of him. he will take what he can get.

settling across from zephirin, francel reaches tentatively for a sandwich, his wings fluttering nervously behind him. he seems a little subdued, still, but he remains open to conversation. zephirin's smile is too difficult to look at, however; he lowers his gaze.]

What is there to resume?

[ Sufficiently thawed, Zephirin draws his hands away from the fire's warmth, clasping his arms around his knees as he sits back, facing Francel. Their meal preparations were but a fleeting distraction; now that their attention returns to Francel himself, the young lord's mood darkens once more — not without reason.

Zephirin does not chase Francel's averted gaze, waiting for him to look up of his own will, patient. ]

You might unburden your thoughts, if you so wish.

[ Their weight will grow heavier by the day, haunting his waking bells and his nights. Alone with them, Francel can find no reprieve from their constant presence — he might share something of that load with someone, at least.

Zephirin does not insist upon it. It is for Francel to decide whether he has earned the young lord's story, however much of it, by now. ]

Or speak of things of your choosing. Excepting our names, we know little of each other...

[ Ere long, the water nears boiling, and the knight stirs to take the kettle from the fire, pouring Francel a steaming cupful for the tea to steep. They lack the milk for a proper Ishgardian recipe, but with the help of a little sugar, it may be comforting all the same. ]

That... is true.

[francel concedes this point quietly, eyes lowered; his focus does not waver from his steaming cup of tea. it is true because he has deliberately sought to make it true. he has not wanted to learn more about zephirin; he has not even tried. he has resolved never to grow close to another man again, because he cannot make the same mistake twice — a third time, in some ways — and his appetencies make it all too easy for him to be hoodwinked.

but when he is being invited to ask... well, he was never very good at refusing others. if he'd been better at it, perhaps he wouldn't be in this situation now.]

Well...

[awkwardly, he shifts a little, wrapping his hands around his cup of tea. his long, clawed nails tap against the cheap porcelain.]

...Have you any family, Ser Zephirin? A wife, perhaps?

Edited 2020-06-10 04:07 (UTC)

[ Zephirin's eyes track the movement of Francel's hands, flicking to the young lord's fingers harmlessly cupped around the tea. They are claws, without a doubt, and if bloodlust were to overtake Francel, these claws could tear a man's throat to shreds, but even now, his hands appear delicate, small and pretty, his skin smooth. Even now, he has little in common with other men transformed.

And he asks — with difficulty, reluctant — so unexpectedly mundane a question, something that one might ask without much interest in the answer, over a goblet of wine at a banquet. (Not like this, hesitantly, barred from the company of friends and family alike.)

Zephirin blinks, lifts his gaze. The question does not offend, but his reply comes slowly, though his voice is even: ]

I remain unwed — by choice.

[ He thinks again of Francel's concerns. ]

...There is no one who would suffer overmuch, should aught befall me. Others of my house would find some use for my inheritance, I imagine, as I have no brothers and sisters. My mother and father are reunited in Halone's hall.

[ A beat — he could ask after the young lord's own family, as if Francel's identity were unknown, if not for the fact that it seems a subject to handle with great care. ]

I see...

[ser zephirin paints a surprisingly lonely picture, for a temple knight so young and handsome. he is gentle, with a quiet temperament, and he does not seem prone to lashing out. he is clean-cut and — apparently — virtuous. and he has no wife? no children? no parents, nor even siblings?

i would feel so alone, francel thinks, his heart weary with knowing. he felt friendless and forlorn even as he was, surrounded by knights and people who looked up to him, with brothers and a sister back in ishgard, parents who would miss him when he was gone. if he only hadn't been weak — if he'd only told himself that it was enough to be admired and respected, if not loved —

he sips delicately at his cup of tea, lashes brushing against his cheeks, and he says nothing of his regrets.]

And you... you never find yourself in want of company?

Edited 2020-06-16 04:40 (UTC)

[ These questions, in truth, are not so mundane at all — Lord Francel, his days full of the solitude forced upon him, asks nothing frivolous. These are glimpses of his own heart, Zephirin perceives, fragile as the young lord's trust. They, too, must needs be handled with care.

It will not do to speak as a soldier, to claim that loneliness is an unfamiliar notion.

Silent too long, Zephirin searches his heart in turn, unearthing all that he has learned to lay aside, those memories and wants left to collect dust in its depths. The Congregation became his home long ago, and he does not yearn for someone to await his return and greet him fondly — even so, he is no clockwork construct built for the sole purpose of fulfilling his duty to the Holy See. ]

...Given the time, I suppose that I might. [ As Francel surely does, out here alone. ] Moreover, though I cannot permit myself to dwell upon it, I would welcome a reunion with those no longer among us.

[ Francel has kept his gaze lowered, but Zephirin tilts his head slightly. ]

The company of others is no unnatural thing to desire.

...It was a foolish thing to want, all the same.

[francel does sound despondent, but that motion of zephirin's does prompt the young lord to look up. his gaze is steely and solemn and ishgard blue as he looks into the temple knight's green eyes.]

If I have one piece of advice to offer you, Ser Zephirin, it is this: do not think overmuch on those who are no longer among us. It does the body and soul little good. It makes us think only of impossible things... and blinds us to the future.

[this would be a solemn pronouncement indeed... if francel did not immediately seize upon his ham sandwich and take a hearty bite of its contents. his sharp draconic teeth make short work of the hard bread, but by the faintly excited flutter of his white wings, he is not displeased!

perhaps he is capable of joy yet, even if he is prone to hiding behind boulders and speaking glumly of things long past.]

[ Lord Francel's appetite is not ruined, if nothing else, despite their conversation. Thinking it poorly-timed to offer some rejoinder just yet, Zephirin lapses into silence, leaving Francel be as the young lord chews upon his meal. It is, truth be told, a rather charming display once again — Francel's fangs tear into the bread's crust, but he eats like a nutkin, round-cheeked.

Finally, as though he has spent minutes deep in thought, Zephirin raises his voice only just above the crackling of the fire: ]

Your advice is a mark of good sense, and I shall take it to heart.

[ But the young lord speaks from experience, telling his tale in fragments. ]

Even so, if I may, why should it be foolish to seek companionship, within reason? [ And then, an admission, another small offering, for loneliness seems akin to hunger of a different sort: ] I find myself enjoying our meetings thus far, brief though they have been.

[zephirin's young nutkin companion munches away, a soft plushness to his cheeks despite how starved he must be, both for food and for friendship. the temple knight's compliments seem to strike a nerve, however — not in an angry sense, but merely in the way that it seems to make him stiffen, as though sensation has struck some part of his body that has been flayed raw and bleeding. he lowers his gaze again.]

...If so, then I am gladdened...

[for all francel's apparent resistance to the cold, he must still be warm inside. his breath comes out white and warm against the cold air.]

But every word exchanged with someone else leads to more opportunities to be hurt. And the pain is always worse than before. Better to swallow the bitter taste of loneliness than to always have to feel so... so damaged.

[perhaps, indeed, he is damaged. beyond repair, even. yet the young lord seems rather hale and hearty as he stuffs his mouth full of the rest of his sandwich, chewing full-cheeked as he nibbles, a little sadly, at some crumbs on his fingertips.]

[ Any gladness on Francel's part appears to be reserved for his meal, the rest of him yet subdued, his soul's wounds too deep. Tea and a few bread rolls are no remedy for that, nourishing only his body. Even the sweetest fruit tart would not cleanse his palate of his loneliness.

For now, Zephirin takes up the apple while Francel has his second sandwich to eat instead of contenting himself with the crumbs remaining of his first, and produces a small knife from within his chocobo's saddlebag to cut the fruit into quarters. Removing the core, he sets the pieces before Francel one by one. ]

If you prefer it, we might sit in silence. I will not ask you to gift me your full trust.

[ Zephirin places the last slice of apple with the others, aligned in an evenly-spaced row. ]

Though I confess, I pray that my presence does not worsen your troubles... Your singing has ceased, it seems.

[it is telling, still, that when zephirin takes up the apple to cut it into slices, francel halts and watches him for a time, wings a little too stiff, as if he is prepared to take flight. a worried anxiety seems to seize the poor young-lord-turned-dragon — not that he is selfish, but he is starved enough to have instincts, now, and he is fearful of zephirin eating the apple his body is desperate to have... this despite the fact that zephirin has been so kind as to bring him that apple to begin with.

then zephirin lines the apple slices up in a row, and tension visibly leaves the young lord's body; his shoulders relax. he takes up one of the apple quarters, snacking away at it in modest, well-trained bites that tell little of his hunger; that story is better told by the way that he takes up his second sandwich. plainly, francel intends to eat everything that zephirin brought him —

though the mention of his singing does fluster him some.]

I — y-you heard me?!

[not that he... believed that zephirin could not hear him, but merely that he had no reason to think that zephirin cared.]

[ Zephirin's hands, withdrawn once more to his side of the makeshift table, wipe the knife's blade clean in unhurried motions before they return it to the saddlebag, and then they settle, fingers loosely laced together atop the broken slab of stone between knight and young lord. The apple and the remaining sandwich are left to Francel in their entirety. Zephirin himself now sits perfectly still, as if the slightest movement might startle his unfortunate companion, made uneasy again.

He is not the first to have heard the young lord's mournful songs, but he is the first, he knows, to meet with Francel since his transformation. ]

Your voice is pleasing — some took the singer for a siren.

[ And Francel revealed himself to none of them; the stories spread unchecked, the supposed siren a creature possessed of an eerie loveliness to match the voice heard. ]

Are you fond of music, Joacin?

[ This has the sound of a frivolous thing to ask, but once upon a time, perhaps the young lord sang for enjoyment, not to himself, sorrowfully. ]

I — I am, or I was once — but it ought to be plain to all I am no siren!

[for one thing, francel thinks, is it not common knowledge that sirens typically take on the appearance of women? (it is common knowledge perhaps only among learned naturalists. few ordinary ishgardians have time or resources enough to spend much time researching the lives of soul-devouring she-devils.) there is enough pride left in him still that he seems to harrumph very slightly, nostrils flaring subtly as he bears the indignity of having been mistaken for a singing seductress.

all the same, the young-lord-turned dragon shyly takes up another of his apple slices and nearly devours it whole, his fangs making short work of the fruit's crisp flesh. he eats his second sandwich just as neatly. when he is finished, his wings crumple somewhat in what appears to be satisfaction, not disappointment. it was no feast, and his belly is not sated, but it will do for now. it will do for now. oh, that meal could last him another few days.

(he is still so, so hungry.)

as he rubs his hands together in uncertain anxiousness, as though he does not know what to do with them now that he is done eating, francel looks at zephirin with an unwittingly plaintive gaze. it is not his intention to ask for more, but the desire for more, to be fed, please, zephirin? is made obvious by the sweet roundness of his blue eyes.]

...'Tis good, then, that my voice is still intelligible to man. The dragons... the trueblooded ones. Their cries were naught more than beastly roaring to me once, but now I hear their song. It is ethereal — even unworldly. But I dare not answer them. They would not welcome me as I am, and I... I do not wish to lose what little I have left.

[he seems closer to revealing truths about himself. something of that steely resolve to keep zephirin at an arm's length now wavers.]

I only ever wanted what was best for Ishgard...

Edited 2020-09-01 04:03 (UTC)

[ An unsettling confession, at first, but one that bespeaks Francel's budding trust gifted Zephirin after all. The young lord is wise to resist the dragonsong calling to him — to hear it, to admit to such a thing, would damn him in the eyes of most. But how long might a man bear this, alone?

Steadily, Zephirin keeps his gaze trained on Francel, who is no siren, no, though his singing lingers in one's ears, and the plea in the glance turned upon his Temple Knight acquaintance touches the soul. The knight's thoughts wander, again, to the threat that solitude poses to a man bereft of his home, unwelcome wheresoever he goes as he is.

What would that man think best for Ishgard now? ]

I do not doubt it.

[ Moving his hands apart, Zephirin slides one closer toward Francel's side of the stone table, turning it over there, palm open. The gesture is the same extended to Francel several times before, now as a diversion for the young lord's restless fingers, the promise that Zephirin does not fear him. ]

Pray indulge me once more: might there be songs that you would recall gladly?

[Still somewhat flustered by the attention paid to his musical inclinations, Francel fluffs up his wings once more and cradles himself within their feathery comforts, gazing at Zephirin with shy eyes, a surprising sweetness.]

Gladly? But it has been so long since last I heard music gladly... The songs I sing were of mine own writing.

[It isn't his intention to elicit Zephirin's pity, but the Temple Knight commander may draw his own conclusions from that statement: the young lord was most likely unhappy for a good long while before the events that dyed his cabin in blood and left him with Dravanian features. Unhappy enough to engage with heresy, perhaps? Unhappy enough to imbibe a dragon's blood?

He does not elaborate. He licks his lips absently, as though chasing the taste of his sandwich and his ruby-red apple.]

I suppose I heard the House musician sing, many years ago, before the Calamity... I could sing his song still, though it would be less captivating without the accompaniment. Would you like to hear it?

[The part-dragon, part-lordling seems to have misinterpreted Zephirin's interest as a request of sorts — though perhaps it is an encouraging sign that"Joacin" seems willing to sing on demand...]

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067 » lost in this mournful refrain

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