082 » cold as stone in the kitchen light

[haillenarte]

[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.]

Comments

[subsidence]

[Numb fingers are just the nature of it. Working without gloves, and thumbing frost away from his tools himself, Estinien continues his tasks unhindered by his cold hands. He knows well how to navigate their stiffness, and he remains almost as deft as he would be if he were warm. This is true even now, when his work is pickier than just the swinging of a hammer. He's laying tiles, small ones. He hasn't broken any of them. Yes, he doesn't seem mighty this way. Not like a champion. It must mean something to him, the privilege of lacking might--it must mean enough for him to come here, when he does. He is only kneeling, placing tiles.

He does always keep to himself, working away from other people, but when someone happens to pass him by, he does not look up. He keeps his face turned low and has thus gone unnoticed. Well, it's thanks to that and then confidentiality. Seems the overseer hasn't said a word. And so, now, with footsteps coming closer, Estinien does not look up, not until Francel announces himself. The words are more familiar than the voice and Estinien responds automatically by lifting his head. He looks at the man who's come to him, says,] Mm, [and looks back down. But just a breath later, his hands still in their task, and he brings his head up again to take a proper look.

No feather. No cap.

Estinien's mouth pinches, creasing at his left cheek, and he puts his eyes all around to study Francel more severely than he ever has before. A queer look, maybe perplexity, has come across his face. Like a hound trying to make sense of a scent... Where have you come from?

Oh, does he really not recognize Francel without the cap?

The study doesn't last too long. Estinien realizes that he has not given Francel a proper look before this, so he does it now, justifying it to himself with the thought that he doesn't want to be caught unaware a second time by another instance of the missing cap. It crosses Estinien's mind that it has been rare, for years, to look someone full in the face and grow familiar with their features, but the thought does not cross for long enough to fully form, and so it passes by. Estinien goes back to laying tiles. He does it precisely.]

Mm, [he says again. But it was never an affirmative. Instead:] Seems it's been some while. [And it is, by now, a customary lack of regard. Too often, these things simply do not occur to him when he is set on something else--more and more it must appear this way. He directs his thoughts toward one thing and one thing only, and at times does he mire himself there.

Now he brings his hands together to dust them off. He flexes his fingers, too, and maybe the feeling will come back to them soon. Rearranging himself in one sweep, he goes from keeling to crouching, and he rests his forearms over his knees and tilts his face to look up at Francel again. He's squinting a bit, just for the sunlight, but his spirit seems mild. It seems fine. Maybe he likes this, the lack of feathered cap. At any rate, he isn't acting like he's intruded upon right now.]

Less the overseer, are we? You almost look like me.

[Well, he doesn't know how to say that in the way he means it. But what he does mean is this: just a person. Someone who wants to be just a person. Someone who has to try to be just that. Of course Francel doesn't look like him. Here is the unkempt hair, here are the long-suffering leather boots, here is the dagger he does always keep behind his hip.

But here, too, are the men who wish for their names to be short and sweet, to take up less space in Ishgard's mouths.]

[haillenarte]

You mean the manly countenance, I hope, and not the sleep-deprived pallor.

[francel is joking, of course. he knows full well that estinien is indicating neither the young lord's boyish face nor the healthy roundness to his cheeks; he means the clothes, most like, and nothing more. if the prolonged pause is any indication, it is quite possible that estinien has never noticed anything about francel at all, and instead has understandably decided to remember francel as a series of impressions and colors — orange feather, big cap, a bliaud dyed in meadow green.

which is fine, in francel's book. most people walk away from him without any particular impression at all.]

I am... gladdened, truly, that others have faith enough in me to seek my counsel. That they see me as a leader of men. This, all of it — it is more than I deserve. Yet, all the same... Even I want to disappear from time to time.

[there is no more rubble in this area for francel to sit upon, but there is a stack of wooden beams lined along the streetside, and this will serve as the overseer's bench for the moment. he takes a seat upon these joists, casting an eye over estinien's stonework. skillful, he thinks, without surprise. if the tiles had not been so precisely laid — if they were askew at angles, if the grout lines were uneven — francel would not have begrudged estinien their flaws. but it is fitting, somehow, that they are done well. if only i could be so —

no, not like this. some spark, some feeble ember of envy flares in francel's heart; he snuffs it out before it can turn into a flame. sighing, he rests his chin against his knuckles, staring sightlessly, but thoughtfully, at estinien.]

...Easier for me, I suspect, than for you.

[subsidence]

[Frankly, the snort Estinien makes is owed and overdue. It's not just an acknowledgment; it's a lack of dismissal. Whether he's eaten, whether he's slept, whatever he needs, and the chiding--those things he does turn away from. But this... this is just simpler. Francel makes a joke, and Estinien snorts at it (even if a better man would laugh). There is nothing to dispute and there is nothing to flee.

Crouching this way, Estinien could look like a boy playing in the dirt, if not for his utter lack of boyhood. Still, he continues to lay down his tiles. Through the gladness. Through yet and even. He lays the edge of his thumb along the edge of a tile, and adjusts it with more attention than might be expected of him in almost anything. It's neater than his hair and steadier than the whole of him.]

Not so, [he says. He lets the tiles alone, now. He's done many rows of them, but the row he's been working on isn't finished yet. The swath of grout before him is smooth and blank.] It is very easy for me to disappear. I need only to get up and turn on my heel. [He tilts his head, and it rests along his shoulder in this posture. He really is looking at Francel, now. They probably haven't looked at each other this way before right now, though Estinien won't afford it any special mention. He's just gauging more than the colors and the impressions, for once.

He raises one hand to motion in a faraway direction, without looking toward it. The edge of Ishgard lies beyond.]

By there a ways, and off I go. Simple as anything has a chance of being. And tougher for you than for me, I gather.

[The moment draws out until he brings his hand back down, draping his forearm back over his knee. Those ridiculous portraits--well, they did get something right. His eyes can look so dark, so deep-set, and so quiet, just behind his hair.]

If you think that's a poor confession to make... [Slowly, he shrugs the shoulder where his head isn't settled.] A boy could be the happiest boy in all the hills and still want to disappear from time to time. 'Tis the nature of being anyone, anywhere. [He blinks his eyes, and then he looks less like that portrait. He's moving to work with his hands again instead of idling or holding a gaze.] So, nothing to sigh about, I think.

[Surely no one has ever tried to call him a comfort.]

[haillenarte]

...Mmm. That is true. That is... true.

[francel falls silent for a time. the envy is loud in his ears again, despite his attempts to snuff it out, strangle it before it could take breath. he spoke of the not being noticed in disappearing, but estinien speaks of leaving, of freedom. and francel knew he would sacrifice his freedom and anonymity in accepting a position as lord overseer, but still, still — if i could run away as i used to —

haurchefant isn't here anymore to whisk him away on a grand adventure. instead, he has this: silence with estinien.

a boy, estinien says. it galls francel more than he wants to admit. haurchefant called him a boy too, boy despite the sixteen years they'd spent as friends, and francel hated it because it made him feel as if there wasn't anything he could do to close the six years between them. he's too old now for his features to change; he'll never develop his father's cheekbones or the line of his brother's jaw. he'll be soft-cheeked and doe-eyed until he's forty and four. fifty and six. rotting in his grave. (he doesn't expect to be long-lived.)

what does estinien see, looking at francel? the lord overseer is boyish, but there’s little innocence to him. some lordlings, even the lecherous ones, the innocence rolls off them in waves. francel at least has the decency to look more like tarnished brass. he looks youthful and well-rested, but his manner speaks of weary resignation. he lacks something that sets boys apart from men, like the sparkle of hope in alphinaud's eyes, or the glint of mischievous wit in honoroit's smile.

maybe it's just that he's given up.]

Do you think —

[he breaks off. looks at estinien the way estinien looked at him. watches the dragoon's hands for a moment — the bones of his knuckles, the lines of his wrists. estinien, he has hands that know nothing but work. he isn't handsome, not the way aymeric and artoirel and so many others are handsome. his mouth is too small for his face; his eyes droop unexpectedly; the bridge of his nose juts out too far.

but the eyes, francel thinks — the quietness of those eyes. they're soothing when the world is too loud.

francel knows he shouldn't ask estinien, of all people, the question in his throat. he's not even certain that estinien will know of what it is he speaks. more than likely, he'll turn his head, say speak plain, boy, and return to his tiles, because francel asks a question for which there can be no answer without further explanation. but still. all the same. it has to be asked before the rest of it will come out.]

...Do you think... that I've done the right thing?

[subsidence]

[As ever, Estinien is too focused on himself. The things he feels, and, maybe worse, the things he remembers--those are the things he puts first. What he recalls from boyhood has frequently comprised his reasons for doing almost anything. That is to say... Well, it wasn't the sight of Francel that made Estinien speak about a boy. The happiest boy in all the hills... Once upon a time, that was Estinien himself. Truly. The days could not have been better than they were. And yet even he wished to be far away, some afternoons, some nights. With new sights, new people--or just away from the sights and people who knew him already. On clear days, Estinien might sit and look across the great distance to see Ishgard's grey spires. He was a happy boy in those hills, but, from time to time, he wanted... He just didn't know any better.

Then, what if Estinien were to look beyond himself? If he is caught, as ever, in his own memories--if he is held fast in the amber of his boyhood--what of the world past that, still in motion? What's outside?

Why, it's a tired face. A tarnished one. Estinien recognizes that.]

Couldn't say. I need that hammer. [He holds out his hand, palm broad and expectant, without looking up from what he's working on. There is, indeed, a hammer just to the side. It's a small one, not meant for very brutal work. Less brutal than one might anticipate from him.] Depends on what thing you mean. Hmm. [He frowns at the bit of grout he's looking at. It's an area he had done earlier, having since gone dry, and he wants to chip a peak away from it so that it's not jutting up improperly. He wants to smooth it down.] Depends on what you're trying to do, first of all. As well as what you want to get out of it--this thing you've done or these things you do. I've no idea, since you've been doing things all your life and I have witnessed almost none of them. [Once he has the little hammer in hand, he taps away at the jagged bit of grout. So light is the sound that comes forth from it, it's difficult to associate with Estinien. And now he's frowning more deeply as he works.] First of all, [he corrects himself,] right for whom? You? Me? Another man? Five other men? Scores of men and women? Hmm. [He shakes his head and huffs. It's like watching a unicorn sneeze: a reminder of a living beast rather than a valiant idea.]

Life is not a series of choices, but the endeavor of living with them.

[The peak of uneven grout comes free, and Estinien brushes its debris away with his thumb. He seems satisfied, if the slackening line of his shoulders is anything to go by.]

'Tis why they call it living, I suppose, [he says. There's less tightrope focus when he says it.] And not choosing. [It's a piece of logic so overly simplistic as to be nearly nonsense, but Estinien appears to be content enough with this as his understanding of the world. Now he does look again at Francel. His thumb is still brushing back and forth over the smoothed-out bit of grout--slowly, as if it's a cat or a baby.] I don't know what 'right' means to you, and so I do not know whether what you've done is right.

[haillenarte]

[there is the hammer, right when estinien asks for it; there is francel's face, too — too-young and too-old and too-worried and a little too close all at once. he rocks back onto his heels once the hammer is taken from his hand, staring at the grout where estinien is working. unlike many of the nobles in the house of lords, who speak frequently of nothing, the dragoon — the former dragoon — speaks of everything, everything all at once. he speaks of what is right. of what life is, or should be. some of ishgard's upper crust once claimed that the azure dragoon spurned their attentions because he was too coarse, too unlearned to appreciate what they could give him. now francel wonders if the answer was not merely that estinien's mind was too sharp for learned men.

this philosophical discourse — pedantry, some others might call it — would have worked just as well in a classroom at saint reymanaud's as it does out here, in this half-finished street.]

What a way with words you have, Estinien. You might well be a better orator than Ser Aymeric.

[francel laughs a little, his words taking the shape of estinien's own. merely to repeat them, perhaps. perhaps to try them on, as he might admire a new pair of thighboots, or the dashing cut of a justeaucorps over his shoulders.]

"Life is not a series of choices..."

[he shakes his head and rises to his feet.]

Very well. Perhaps I asked the wrong question. Perhaps it was foolish of me to ask it. And if I have erred, perhaps only the Fury can absolve me when the time comes for my sins to be judged.

[subsidence]

[Not that Estinien would have argued the upper crust's appraisal--at least not in an instance like that. He is coarse. He is unlearned. He did not appreciate them, and he spurned them. It's all there together, and he would see no reason to dispute any of it.

It is for this reason Estinien assumes Francel is needling him, and it is also for this reason Estinien doesn't bristle at it. He takes it for what it is--jabs seem, to him, a perfectly acceptable method of communication--and just grunts.] Hells take me were I to be given the floor, and hells take whomever would give it to me, [is all he says about that. He does not envy Aymeric's talents; indeed he would be troubled to have them.

The motion of Francel rising catches Estinien's periphery, and he raises his face to track it with his eyes. His hands stall. His fingers have gotten dusty, almost as if with chalk. With that and the near-constant sullen shape of his face, he could be a parody of a student with a slate. An awful one.

His eyebrows quirk, perplexed.]

No cause to wait til the bitter end unless you prefer the torment of that. She will get to you in due time. I reckon you can go ahead and absolve yourself before then.

[haillenarte]

Is that how absolution works for you, Estinien? Fascinating. You invent new schools of theology each and every day.

[by francel's tone, he is likely only teasing — there is no true judgment, no raising of hackles in his voice — but it might be taken as more needling. more jabs. he has to hide the little smile on his lips as he crosses over to a nearby makeshift toolshed of sorts, a crate full of various implements that oft prove useful on a construction site; from this, the young lord extracts a dustpan and a small handheld brush, hefting both items in his hands with the ambiguous air of a man who is well-versed in their use but clearly not bred to use them.]

We could use a man of your honesty in the House of Lords. I do believe that. Not that I extend an invitation to you — I merely do believe that. Some among us ought to be told that the jewels upon our fingers are bigger than our brains.

[he begins, then, by cleaning up some of the dust. not from estinien's fingers — that dust can't be helped — but from the tiles behind them. for streets to be clean there must be street-cleaners to clean them, and francel would sweep the yalms of tile that estinien has already laid. once they are cleaned of skybuilders' dust, these stone squares will be ready for the running steps of children, the footfalls of their fathers behind them. the thought of ishgard at peace.]

I would tell them so myself, were I not nearly as threatening as a teacup.

[subsidence]

[Estinien laughs like a man who saves it for when he really needs it. It hasn't gone bad--it remains preserved--but it is a little stale. It's a diminished supply of a finite resource.

But he does laugh. Hah hah. Twice, just like that.]

Do I? If you say I am truthful, I will tell you the truth: I could hardly make sense of the worship when first I came to the city. It's different, living outside this place. If you haven't got the cathedral, you cannot do what the cathedral would ask of you. You hardly know what it would ask. Thus you worship in what ways are allotted to you. [He doles out more of his laughter. Twice again. Hah hah.] I've invented nothing.

[So it goes, in the countryside. In Ferndale, the superstitions were different. The prayers were different, and for different things. The forgiveness was different; the desire for forgiveness was for different reasons.

Sometimes, anyway. At the end of the day, forefathers are forefathers; piety is piety; fervor is fervor. Ferndale was Ishgardian enough to burn for its sins.

For the first time since they've met, Estinien cranes his neck to watch Francel. The laughter has been stowed back away for safekeeping.]

No need to ply me with titles and bays. I am plenty willing to be honest about their jewels, if you would like to see it. [He is hardly joking. It was always for the best that he didn't attend the socials held by Ishgard's nobility. Then:] Do you wish to be threatening?

[It's an indelicate question, peaking toward incredulity when he asks it.]

[haillenarte]

A little.

[francel wants it to be casual, but it comes out too quiet, too low. like the soft scraping of his brush along the surface of the stone tiles, it has the ring of a confession.]

I've long accepted that it is not my... my avocation to be threatening. But it would be good on occasion. It would be...

[it would be easier, he thinks, to tell people no, if he were threatening. it would be easier if he were dark and brooding and intimidating, in the way that artoirel and estinien both can seem like the clouded sky before a storm. if he were threatening, it would be easier to tell people that he wants, on occasion, to be left alone, or that he wants, on occasion, to be dressed in workers' garb, and speak only with a man by the name of estinien, who can be trusted with secrets in the exact same way that he cannot be trusted to stay.

and it's not as though he cannot tell others such things now, as he is. but it is harder. he has to couch his refusals in kinder words. he has to smile. and it can be a difficult thing, still, to smile.

but he shakes his head all the same, as if to dispel his own thoughts.]

It matters not, I suppose. The sons of House Haillenarte are all alike in their placidity. Ours has never been a House to be feared.

[subsidence]

[Estinien is familiar with the sound of a confession--most especially with the sound a confession that is trying to be anything but that. He therefore understands that it is kinder to keep from remarking on it, and Estinien is indeed capable of a conscious kindness, when it suits him. The kindness most suitable for him is the quiet type, unassuming, kind not for what it says, but for what it doesn't.] Yes, [he says (kindly). If Francel's voice is the sweeping brush, Estinien's is the debris in its path: leftovers from something bigger and harder. Still could nick a hand quite deeply, if touched the wrong way, from the wrong angle.] It is good, on occasion. [He will acknowledge it nakedly, for the truth of it is why he adopted it at all. Francel does not say it would be easier, but Estinien thinks it on his own. For a long, long time, it was easier. It was what he needed.

He thinks about that, then--adopting it for himself, deciding what a threat was and how to be one. Looking upon Francel, the first question Estinien wants to ask is who the young lord wishes to intimidate. But instead he asks Francel the first thing he asked himself so long ago.]

Well? [He tosses his head, making a gesture with his chin. The flick of him is like that of an obstinate unicorn, refusing to take the tack, the bit. Refusing domestication.] What does that look like to you? A threatening man. What comprises him?

[What do you want to do? What do you want to be?]

[haillenarte]

I —

[francel begins, and then stumbles to a halt. his hands — uncallused, unblemished, and wholly unsuited to holding the brush and dustpan his fingers are curled around now — still for just a little too long over those stone tiles.

what is a threatening man? threatening men are like artoirel, dark and sulky and always given to looking away from others with his jaw clenched and his pride swallowed. threatening men are like haurchefant when he was angered and all the world fell away from his eyes as he raised a knife and brought it down into a man's chest, over and over and over. and then there is francel's father — a man who has never raised a hand in anger against him, and yet manages to hurt him with his words and his glances and his ever-growing expectations alone.

estinien himself is a threatening man, but the difference between estinien and all the other threatening men that francel knows is that — at the very least — when he speaks to estinien, he knows they stand on equal ground.

it is not fair of you, francel thinks, to always ask whatever question strikes at the heart of what i would leave unsaid.

eyes downcast, francel sweeps the last of the dust into his pan, and then he sits unmoving.]

...I don't know. He is stronger than I, certainly. He is more given to violence and violent changes of temper and the imposition of his will upon others. He is...

[it's not just that, francel thinks — not just the anger. his father has never been angry. artoirel has never been angry. but the fear, the fear comes from the unknown, and from looking into the abyss and wanting to know —]

I don't understand what he wants from me. I wish I did.

[subsidence]

[All at once, and with a pinch inside his gut, Estinien realizes where they have come to in their conversation. It's dreadful. It really is just that: full of dread. Estinien stares hard, hard, at where Francel has gone still. He stares with all the hardness and all the sturdiness of the tile he has laid down today. He allows himself to see that shape and to recognize it. It is familiar. It is undeniably familiar--the stillness, the shape. Whatever you need right now, Estinien thinks, I do not have it. Yet again--as always--he cannot accept the tack, the bit. He could be the noblest of steeds, perhaps, in another story, but he has long since grown accustomed to the role of the bucking stallion whose wildness cannot be broken in. Any stable master who wishes to protect his herd knows: feral stallions are put down. They are certainly not fit to bear lords, nor soldiers, nor a common man's cart.

He pushes the heel of his palm against his forehead, sweeping his hair away from his eyes while he swipes the sweat from his brow. Away from him comes one great mouthful of steam into the New Nest's chilly air.]

That's what he is? A man whose wants you cannot understand? Then I could dare to say that you are indeed already a threat--or nearer to one than your diffidence decrees.

[Estinien says that with simplicity and ease, no attempt made to tread lightly. Perhaps it's easy for him because he isn't the one being picked open like that. But he believes it, also. He agrees with it. Yes, he would say--were he to say it--that the anger may well be less of a threat, as it is direct and often tangible; it is less of a hardship to shield oneself from things that are direct and tangible. But unknown wants... One cannot shield oneself from that. One cannot fulfill that. Yet while an unknown want cannot be fulfilled, it can be disappointed. Estinien learned this with his very own legs. When he jumps, he must know where he is landing--but if he jumps wrong, he doesn't need to see the ground in order to dash himself against it. Through mist or in darkness, the end of the fall is waiting. That is what waits; that is what it's like to fall short of someone's hopes and wants and expectations.

Naturally, he doesn't tell that to Francel. If the commiseration has a chance of being evident, it is only in how he doesn't linger on the dread of it.]

Now, [he says,] if it is strength or violence or domination you are after--I might start by jogging each dawn without fail. [So indelicate! Yet again! But his words are not, themselves, a joke. He might start by--well, he did. He began by running every morning. He still recalls when he came back to find Alberic staring at his empty bed. Estinien hadn't explained what he had been out doing, and Alberic did not ask him to explain. They didn't discuss it. Of course Alberic wasn't surprised when Estinien wanted to pick up a spear.

But Estinien got there by running each morning. It's the best that he knows how to say.]

[haillenarte]

[francel only shakes his head. smiling a little, true, but it is without true humor. no, he thinks; estinien is wrong, or else only goading. he is nothing close to what he wants to be.]

You don't wish to know my wants, do you? That, there — that makes the difference.

[the young lord rises, then, carefully balancing his dust and his broken pieces of stone and all the gathered nothing in his dustpan. his feet take him to a waste bucket of sorts — something some skybuilder has thoughtfully set on the side of the road and left half-empty to be filled with someone else's regrets.]

...I was never good at that. The jogging, I mean. Too sickly, they said; too frail. It is one thing when those who hate you tell you that you will never amount to anything — another thing entirely when those who love you tell you the same. I believed them. Then, when I didn't amount to anything, I only had myself to blame.

[francel does not say this to dismiss estinien's advice — only to acknowledge it. he knows, of course, that every strong man must have been a weak boy once. that they must have begun by jogging each dawn without fail, or else by swinging a wooden practice blade at imaginary foes outside a manor gazebo, beneath the brilliant moon.

now it's as simple as beginning, but there's nothing simple in beginning twenty years too late. and is it even worth it then? it has to matter that much. it has to be just that important. the most important thing in the world — he is gone now, and i —]

I could run now. Take my first steps, stumble, fall — rise again. But I am too late, I think, for strength and domination. In a few years' time, if I yet breathe, Ishgard might well be a land that has outgrown its stores of swords, and spears, and steel.

[francel turns his dustpan, spilling all that collected detritus into the wastebucket, and then he sets the dustpan and brush aside, as if to leave his troubles with them.]

The time to write one's future with blood and violence — mayhap that was yesterday.

[he sounds like a man without regrets. as if he believes himself. but if he did, they would not be having this conversation, and it's just never that easy to dispose of one's insecurities.]

[subsidence]

[Once Francel has gone from being still to being in motion, Estinien is, himself, like one foot balanced upon a spire. The ball of a foot, the rolling, the ability to keep just steady enough (and the breathless anticipation of what it will mean if he loses that ability and slips). He is--still as though he is on a high spire--windswept and chilled, even. Most of all, he is bewildered by that. His face, if Francel turns to look upon it, is all incredulous angles and quirks. It must be one of the most guileless expression he has worn before the overseer.]

I will not fault you for thinking me contented with ignorance, [he says quietly.] I am a wayward Ishgardian, but I am as much an Ishgardian as you are. We were all contented with our ignorance. Yet it is precisely that which has sown within me the oath to forsake that contentment henceforth.

[He means that. He could be the noblest of steeds, in another story. He could be the noblest of men.

The bewilderment pinches quickly out of his face, exchanged for something more dour, and familiar for it. He will examine some structure off in another direction, now.]

A fair narrow sight, isn't it, [he says--his voice starts in faintly, but once it grows more solid, it's riding a wake of irritation.] Of a threatening man. I believe you've a fair narrow sight of what that is. Best to consider more broadly what all a threat may be. [He has gone from examining some structure to frowning at it.] As I would consider you well enough of one, beyond your own rubric.

[These are his hackles, beginning to peak.]

[haillenarte]

[francel does turn, then, at just the right time to catch that guileless face before it disappears behind something harder. surprise does not begin to encompass the young lord's reaction. what was that, and why was it there? what did he say that would render estinien so — so unguarded?

he said nothing of importance. he did believe that he said nothing of importance.]

...I do not understand, Estinien. I do not say that to be diffident.

[slightly bewildered, francel spreads his palms wide — questioning, or perhaps merely beseeching. half of it is placating, even, which is perhaps precisely why francel does not think of himself as a threatening man. why are you angry? i mean no harm. he's always been this placating.]

I? A threatening man? I threaten no one.

[subsidence]

[You are not supposed to bite the hand that feeds you. Even if it were to hold your supper half the time, and the other half a cudgel, it feeds you. Most especially with a flat hand, a still hand, with the palm open and the fingers splayed--you especially do not bite a hand like that. But Estinien does think about doing it.

Yes, yes, Estinien is himself a threatening man. Of course he is. He intended to be one and he has fulfilled that intention. It is no surprise, then, that Francel so seeks to placate him. It isn't unusual. But beyond that... The palm that stays open beyond base placation... The things Francel asks of him: has he eaten, has he slept, is he well. And for what?]

How should I be any less threatened by a man whose wants I do not understand than you are?

[He's not raising his voice--not even growling. He isn't biting the hand that feeds him. But his teeth are at the ready. He has relied on them for too long; the reflex might never truly die.

The breath he takes is tight, and here comes more steam to wisp before his mouth. He misplaces his hands--what has he meant to do with them? Instead of trying to puzzle that out, he curls in his fingers, looks down at himself, and stands up at last. Perhaps this is just the same way he finds himself in Ishgard. If he looks this lost--and frustrated for it--now, then perhaps he looks this lost and frustrated for it when he wanders the wilds only to realize he has come back home.]

[haillenarte]

[still bewildered, francel lets his outstretched hands fall, though he looks no less puzzled, no less placating. it is good that estinien does not raise his voice; the young lord might be closer to crying then. as it is, francel merely stares, brow furrowed, and his expression strangely guilty, as though he thinks he has somehow hurt estinien, and the thought of this, for whatever reason, pains him.]

I... I'm sorry.

[it has, very slightly, the ring of a question. i'm sorry? it is, perhaps, not something he should apologize for.

francel does not know what he is meant to do with his hands, either. they come together near his chest, not in prayer, but in something more conflicted: the fingers of his left hand curl around the fist of his right, and his thumb brushes over his knuckles, as if in a vain attempt to self-soothe.]

If you have questions, might I answer them to the best of my ability?

[subsidence]

[And yet guilt is not absolution. To see it does, momentarily, frustrate Estinien further. Absolve yourself is the demand he thinks to make, an echo of earlier, his countryside religion. But he doesn't make that demand. It isn't the right way to tell Francel that no apology is owed for this. Yet he does not know what the right way is.

It's hard for Estinien to keep from frowning. It is often hard.]

I wasn't chastising you.

[That's the best he knows how to do, but perhaps it suffers for the weight he puts into it: excessive, like an oath. Neither of them know what to do with their hands--and now Estinien is at a loss with the entirety of his body. It's been some time since he's looked like a reed growing from the earth, deferential to the wind, and not like the sturdy post of a wrought-iron gate.]

I am only telling you--that by your definition--and anyroad beyond that, you said yourself you wished to be that. A little.

[During his time with the Temple Knights, Estinien could rally men and women to arms, toward the sky. He could do that and he did that. But he did so with his blood lust, appealing to their own; his lust was inspiring, intoxicating, inciting anger and the need for that anger to be gratified. He shared only death with his comrades. The goal was naught but corpses, and it would be the enemy's or their own.

So he hasn't learned how to be stirring, if murderous intent is not what's to be stirred.]

To answer my questions would be to rid yourself of what fangs you are only now discovering you bear, [he says, and that nearly does sound like an admonishment: Be reasonable. Be smart.] If you have aught to hold over my head, 'tis sensible to keep it.

[It's a kindness so clumsy as to be unkind. An attempt at keeping Francel armed with something that might cow the sort of man Estinien is.]

[haillenarte]

Estinien...

[for a time, francel stares, still mystified, at an utter loss for words. his confusion goes in circles. but then, slowly, the pieces estinien has given him (shoved into his hands in a jumbled mess without ceremony, really) slot into place.

was this not... kind?

he'd meant to be kind, hadn't he? he'd meant to be a comfort?

a change does come over francel, subtly and slowly. those hands clasped tight over his chest squeeze themselves a little, press more tightly against his collarbones. a bright sparkle of something gleams in his eyes. were he a child's drawing, scribbled in crude crayon, there might be a halo of flowers drawn around his head.

francel reacts, in short, like an overjoyed maiden — if indeed estinien has ever been near enough to an overjoyed maiden to recognize the demeanor of one — and it shows a little in the way his weight rolls onto the balls of his feet. not as a dragoon stands upon a spire, but as a little lordling with gentle curls might have once stood on tip-toe to speak with his father at his desk. even the tips of his ears seem to have perked. and he's certain this question will not find estinien well — he's certain the dragoon might very well use his prodigious leap to cut the conversation short where it stands — but all the same, he asks, a little too happily, and just a little hopefully:]

Were you trying to cheer me up?

[subsidence]

[Isn't it strange... Estinien frowns, as if suspicious, at the bright buoyancy Francel has on display, the picture he gives off: a slow sunrise. The precursor to a very blue sky. Isn't it odd... Estinien stops looking, then, because the sight and sensation disquiet him. For a second, for a bare second, he tries to recall if and when anybody has ever reacted to him in this way--whether he has ever been capable of eliciting such a response in another person. This measure of it. Then he immediately stops trying to recall, because--the answer may be yes--and it could strangle him if he pursues it. It could choke him to death. He must swallow it before it can.

But he is quite aware of just how lost his body is. Where are his hands supposed to be? In what direction should his toes point? What is the angle that is steadiest for him to boast?

He ends up lifting one of his shoulders, but not the other--a precarious peak, difficult terrain for even a seasoned pair of traveler's boots--and his hands lift away from his sides just so, palms open, fingers unwittingly imploring. He is asking for something without recognizing that. Strength or understanding or a reprieve. Mercy, maybe. Let him off easy here, he might plea. But there's no humility in his face to accompany that. Just something like hoarfrost. It's brittle, but enough sunlight would get rid of it.]

Regardless of my intent-- [Yes, there is the hoarfrost--] You seem cheered well enough. [And there are the leaves beneath the frost: they may suffer beneath the thin white prickle of it, but they are certainly alive.] I wouldn't lie at you with the goal of turning your face into a milkmaid's face, as if the udder of your ewe has made you the talk of the town.

[Oh, that's colorful, isn't it, for him. The milkmaids he must have seen as a boy; the town that talked. There is life beneath the dregs of nighttime's frost.]

[haillenarte]

[francel may not recognize those imploring fingers as an appeal to mercy — he may not take note of them on a conscious level — but he sees them, and something in his heart pulls back where it might otherwise have lunged for some sort of kill. teeth in the jugular, strangling the very thing estinien is trying to swallow and ignore.

fortunately, francel is not so cruel. fortunately, he is easily distracted and flustered. there is something of a disgruntled rabbit to him, the stomping of a hind paw.]

I-I am no milkmaid!

[...well, estinien may have pointed out his fangs, but francel's retorts, unsurprisingly, still lack bite.]

Pray do not speak of me, or my face, and — and the udders of ewes in the same breath. It brings to mind thoughts much too bizarre.

[with a vague uncertainty that suggests he is not altogether aware that he is doing it, francel touches his face as though he expects his round cheek to have transformed into something appropriately milk-laden and swollen, but... mercifully, it retains the same plush form as ever. by the expression on his face, the young lord might be sulking.]

Merely being in good cheer does not make one a milkmaid...

[he is particularly soured upon this point, isn't he? practically curdled.]

[subsidence]

Hm. [An appraising hum, that. Not dissatisfied, nor dismissive, and not even thoughtless as with so many of the little sounds he makes. Thoughtful, actually. Then, quietly and offhand, he mutters,] Naught wrong with a good hardy ewe.

[Regardless, this has perhaps salvaged the moment--for Estinien, anyway. Surely not for Francel. But this is where Estinien is most comfortable: with someone a little put out by him, rather than radiant.

He squares his shoulders, here. Raises his chin a bit. This is some posture, and when he speaks again, his voice projects like a leader of men. He did command the Knights Dragoon, once. He did know how to engulf them with his voice, as if he stood right beside each and every one of them. As if he could or would promise to stand with them.] Aye, it does not make you a milkmaid. She would be up to her elbows in fleece and hay. She would have hands like the sole of my boot. Not so with you. [Again, and circumspect:] Not so.

I wonder, then, what I would call you. Your good cheer and the potential to menace me. [But he waves his hand, shaking his head at the same time, like a horse with its hair in his eyes.] 'The overseer', I reckon, same as always.

[haillenarte]

[ah — the shoulders, the raised chin. the commander's voice. francel did always have such a soft spot for the commander's voice. it meant things, once upon a time; it stood for honor and knighthood and the hope that someday, perhaps someday, he'll see me for what and who i am. but someday never came and — and it doesn't matter anymore. he tells himself that it doesn't matter anymore.

they aren't similar at all, in any case, and it wouldn't do him any good even if they were.]

Am I to call you something different? You remain 'Estinien' to me — the same as always.

[he presses a hand against his breast, though why and for what reason, he isn't entirely sure. it isn't as though he can feel his pulse past the layers of his craftsman's jacket. but the tautness in his throat, the tight squeeze in his chest — that hasn't gone away. he wants, very desperately, for it to go away. if only he could claw his worthless heart out through his ribs. haurchefant, when he needed all of camp dragonhead to hear him, when his shoulders were squared and his eyes were as brilliant as the blue sky —]

...You could just call me Francel, as all the others do.

[subsidence]

Of course I remain Estinien. I've naught to be but Estinien. [He says this without grace. There's a bullheadedness to it, an insistence, as if he is speaking it into a stronger reality than it already claims. He must have naught to be but Estinien; he says that because he has determined that it needs to be true. Ishgard no longer has any need or desire for him to be more than that. Thus has he determined.

And as he scrutinizes Francel now, it's just as much without grace, just as much with an insistence. The hand against the breast...] I will not strike you, [he says seriously. He isn't sure... He isn't certain that the hand to the breast means this, but... Well, he places his own hand to his own breast, in mirrored gesture.] And if what I have said to you feels the same as being struck, 'twas not what I intended when I spoke.

[A man this clumsy--how can he balance with such poise upon Ishgard's spires?

He doesn't like it, this thought of discarding the relatively safe overseer and its associated cap and feather, in favor of a featherless man and his name. It already tastes bad. It already tastes medicinal. He'll say it anyway, at least once.] Francel, as all the others do. [His tongue catches on that middle sound, the slight retracted sibilant characteristic of his speech--and now given uniquely to Francel's name. Then he clucks his tongue.]

I might as well.

[haillenarte]

[francel smiles, though the motion is fleeting and does not reach his eyes. which is not to say that it is insincere — no, he merely lowered his gaze and steeled his heart before the curve of his lips revealed too much about himself.]

There, see? That was not so difficult.

[his heart, nevertheless, still aches. it does him so little good when it aches. he squeezes down on the lapel of his jacket, knuckles curling against the slight curve of his chest as if he really has clawed his beating heart out from behind his ribs, but there is nothing he can do with the empty air in his palm, so he lets his arm fall to his side, having done nothing.]

You did not strike me. [francel says this almost too quickly.] I struck myself. I...

[he stops there. an edge has crept into his voice, the barest tremble of what might turn into tears if he lets things continue as they are. he shakes his head. he tries to stop thinking of haurchefant; he tries to think of the milkmaids and their ewes again.]

...It was a moment's weakness. Your voice made me think of... better days.