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| [he doesn't tell anyone — can't, and can't be bothered, or so self-conscious — but the justeaucorps is a little too wide in the shoulders, a little too long in the sleeves. it's not marcelloix's fault. the man didn't have the opportunity to take francel's measurements properly, as a tailor would have, and it's a wonder that he's still an expert craftsman at all, with his draconic claws. and francel said it was a perfect fit. he said that.
he wonders when it became so easy to lie.
the new nest is almost finished, its houses furnished, ready for occupants, but there's still plenty of work to be done in the firmament. there are more roads to pave, other neighborhoods to build. and so, for a time, ishgard still has need of a man named estinien, not as a dragoon or a slayer of dragons, but as a common laborer. a hard worker with a sledgehammer or a pickaxe or a basket of bolts. a man with a solid body and able hands. that's all she asks of him now.
francel asks for other things. not in a pushy way, no — but he chides, he reminds. he accepts no for an answer (occasionally); he smooths over implicit failures. if estinien fails to take three meals a day, well, one is good enough. if estinien doesn't want to talk about whether or not he slept through the night, well, at least he was asked. if estinien disappears for days or weeks at a time, it isn't francel's business — but the young lord is always glad to see him return. and he always has food ready. and he always has tools set aside. and he's still — still — told no one that estinien is here.
today, the justeaucorps is too much, and francel doesn't want to be lord francel de haillenarte any more than estinien wants to be ser estinien wyrmblood, estinien of ferndale, the azure dragoon, slayer of nidhogg — the epithets, they go on. he's cast aside his feathered hat; he's told his manservant that he doesn't want anyone looking for him. he's dressed like a common laborer, though it's not his intent to be convincing. his hands are too soft for that, his mien too mannered. the disguise, if it can be called that, is just to throw off the most oblivious of those who might be seeking him. he's long been aware that people don't quite seem to recognize him if he doesn't don his feathered cap.
thus garbed, francel makes his way to the corner of the firmament where he knows estinien has been quietly working, and asks by way of announcing himself:]Have you eaten? [this is, by now, a customary greeting.] | |
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