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087 » i get lonely and make mistakes from time to time

[it was only supposed to be another ordinary trip to providence point.

it was all well and good that count edmont arranged for haurchefant's body to be interred in the house fortemps mausoleum, putting the lone bastard son to rest among his forefathers when, in another life, he might have been consigned to a nameless burial outside of the city proper due to the ignoble nature of his birth alone. it was wonderful, really, that haurchefant was recognized in the annals of house fortemps at last — but this denied francel the privilege of a proper grave to maintain, so he raised the funds to purchase a humble slab of marble and had it engraved with a message that he alone would understand. and so, day after day, francel wraps a fresh bouquet of white lilies in white paper to take them to haurchefant's monument and lay them by the stone there. this is how he mourns: by putting his memories up on a pedestal, and only taking them down when he feels the need to cry.

today's trip was only supposed to be one more such pilgrimage to haurchefant's monument, but — but then the blizzard began to howl. quite without warning, in fact. of course francel knew that a storm was coming, just by the look of the grey skies above, but he thought he had more time before the clouds burst! he thought about turning around and going back to camp dragonhead, but then he heard the rumble of snow coming down the mountain. an avalanche. i am going to die here, he'd thought with sudden resignation as he watched the torrent of snow come down the cliffs above. then something hit him on the head — a piece of passing ice, perhaps — and he fell to his knees, he lost his grip on the bouquet, he felt something or someone cradle his head before he hit the ground —

then darkness, for a time.

when he comes to, he is... dazed. there is too much space around him, and he can tell by the sound of the air around his ears alone that he is surrounded by stone. a cave, francel realizes dimly. a cave, and while a proper fire has been lit at its center, the fire alone isn't quite enough to keep the cave from being rather cold. someone else must be in this cave with him. he pushes himself to a sitting position.]

Where... Where am I?

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"Do you want the good news first or the bad," is the wry response from somewhere over on the other side of the cave. There's an elezen man over there, though whether Francel has ever actually seen Estinien without his helm on is probably even odds. He's dressed in travelling clothes which look warm enough but he's not straying far from the fire, either.

Francel might notice that he's laying on something at least moderately soft, some kind of a bedroll and there are more supplies in the cave than what a momentary respite might suggest, but only if he really looks around for it.

[francel rubs his aching temple; he squints at the figure illuminated by the firelight. no, he has never had the pleasure of seeing the azure dragoon out of his drachen mail, though he has seen ser estinien from afar, and he thinks that his savior's voice sounds oddly familiar. he can't quite place it, however.

the silver-haired man from across the cave is, well — handsome, in a rugged sort of way. he does not seem quite so refined as the sort of knight francel usually imagines being rescued by; there is a coarseness to his jaw and a roughness to his hands. the young lord takes in the bedroll beneath him, the traveling clothes, the various and sundry supplies. a traveler? an adventurer? and yet he has been staying here for quite some time. a hunter, perhaps?

hmm.]

...Let us begin with the good news and end with the bad.

"Then the answer to 'where are you' is a cave I've favored the past few weeks, which happens to be well stocked for that purpose at the moment, as I was intending on moving on soon and had acquired the supplies to do so," he falls silent a long moment, staring across the flames a bit too intently, probably. He's not used to having to do things like control either his gaze or his expression, after all.

"The other answer is 'completely snowed into a cave just far enough from Falcon's Nest to make rescue unlikely before the snows melt some or shift again'."

Oh...

[francel meets this pronouncement with neither great disappointment or great relief. he sits a moment longer, gathering his bearings — after a moment, he looks out at the entrance of the cave. sure enough, it appears to be completely snowed in. a few generous cracks in the cave's ceiling afford them ventilation from the smoke of the fire, and if the smoke is visible from outside, it may yet serve as a signal for search parties, but this is assuming that the snowstorm has even let up, or that anyone is out searching at the moment.

this is quite the predicament.

francel supposes that, after all the time he's spent thinking that it would be better if he were dead alongside haurchefant, he should have petitioned the fury to be a little more specific about how he would die.

nevertheless, his companion for the moment seems... personable enough. a bit grumpy, perhaps, but anyone would be, given the circumstances. ]

Well, you don't seem likely to eat me within the next few bells, so I suppose it could be worse. I ought to thank you for... for rescuing me.

[he wraps his arms around his knees, partly because he is a little chilly despite the fire, and partly because he feels an odd pressure to take up as little space as possible. the fire, these supplies in the cave — they might be enough to last two men some weeks, but they were surely gathered for one.]

Might I have the honor of your name?

"No, a bit rangy for my tastes," he jokes, though it's deadpan enough that he might accidentally sound a bit serious. It's very clear that the follow up question takes him by surprise and produces... a whole host of emotions across his face, none of which are easily identifiable. He doesn't directly answer right away, seems lost in thought for a moment,

"It's been... a long time since anyone has asked me that," he says, finally, and although it was always at least partially the intention, to know that he has truly become known only by his armor is still a bit of a shock, now that he's set it aside. He has not yet decided if the shock is pleasant or unpleasant, and it shows in his tone, which is more pensive than anything else. It takes him a moment, but he follows it with,

"I warn you, it is not like to prove a comforting revelation," he knows he does have his supporters, of course, but the fact remains that the last time most citizens of Ishgard saw him, it was bearing down on them to devour them all, a cruel casualty of the very power he sought to use in their protection.

[at this unusual statement, francel's brow furrows, and he tips his head very slightly to one side.]

You seem familiar, but I would surely remember a face such as yours if ever I had seen it...

[well... more likely than not, at any rate. this man, this hunter, he does have such deep-set dark eyes. most in ishgard bear shades of a lighter blue. francel gazes at him through the firelight, his face betraying nothing of fear or distrust.]

Surely you are not wanted for murder and treason in the capital? Clearly you have saved my life, and so I will not hold your sins against you, ser, whatsoever they may be. You have my confidence.

Edited 2020-06-30 23:42 (UTC)

For some reason he laughs at that, without humor though it still sounds... oddly genuine, like when you have to laugh or else just give up.

"I am wanted for both as a matter of fact, though I am not surprised you know not my face." Perhaps that alone is enough to cause slow realization to dawn, but if not, he does not make Francel fish further for information,

"My name is Estinien," he says simply, and he'll let the rest of those chips fall where they may. It changes nothing about the reality of their situation, certainly.

...Oh.

[that's all that francel says for a time, and nothing more.

oh. well. hm. the young lord does not, in fact, hold the azure dragoon any ill will: by all accounts, the man was possessed by nidhogg's vengeful aether when he did his foulest deeds, and before that, he had the distinction of slaying nidhogg himself. but this is bizarre. that he would come across the azure dragoon living in a cave not far from ishgard's walls is... bizarre. he had heard that ser estinien hung up his drachen mail and renounced the title of azure dragoon, of course — but why, and for what reason, was simply not for the ishgardian populace to know.

now he has the man before him, and he could ask... but francel gets the feeling, instinctively, that he should not insert himself into matters beyond his personal jurisdiction. he merely shakes his head.]

...I suppose that only means I owe you my life and Ishgard's current peace.

[best to take everything in stride. he nods his head, brassy locks gleaming gold in the firelight.]

I am Francel de Haillenarte. And I thank you, Estinien.

"You owe me nothing." It's perhaps a little stronger of a reaction than Francel might have been expecting. Though Estinien doesn't raise his voice in the slightest, the way the words are almost ground out, steel and anger, leaves little doubt that another man might have shouted. "Give your thanks for peace to someone who deserves it and give thanks for your life when you know whether or not you will make it out of this alive."

There's a silence, then, where he just stares into the fire for a long moment before he takes a deep breath and lets it out with some of the tension written across his shoulders,

"Yes, I know who you are," he says, finally, "and also that you're not deserving of my anger any more than you likely meant to raise it. My apologies. There is a reason I have chosen to be alone, and it has little to do with the opinions of Ishgard," he manages a small smile, curt, but genuine enough, "I do promise not to eat you, though. Whatever else my emotions might imply."

[for a long moment, francel only stares at estinien, silent as he contemplates his thoughts.

clearly, the once and former dragoon is... not well. not unwell, either, but a great unrest still drives him, and he does not see himself as a hero. francel might argue with that, were this a class and not a matter of the heart — a hero may yet be a hero regardless of his other deeds, and even if he does not wish to be called as such — but what he believes is not nearly as important as what estinien feels.

it isn't within his power to fix whatever ails estinien, not in one conversation, while they remain near-strangers. it likely isn't in estinien's power to fix what ails francel, either.

but perhaps that doesn't mean that they shouldn't at least try.

quiet for a time, francel tears his eyes away from the fire. then he falls back onto the bedroll estinien has given him, and stares at the ceiling. at first, it seems as though he has no intentions of responding to any of estinien's outbursts — he seems a meek sort, perhaps he is too afraid to speak — but when at last he does respond, his voice is steady and low and calm above the crackling of the fire.]

...I would give you thanks nevertheless.

[he closes his eyes and folds his hands loosely over his chest, looking vaguely like a corpse only lightly disturbed in its coffin.]

If I die tomorrow, it will be no great loss for Ishgard. I only did not wish to be crushed by the falling snows. For that, and that alone, please accept my gratitude. Beyond that... pray do not concern yourself. I would not like to leave you burdened if indeed I do not come out of this alive.

In much the same way that his outburst causes Francel to understand that he is not well, the quiet response to it reveals the same about Francel. Though he knows who the young man is, he knows little and less about whatever it is that ails him. He has rarely paid attention to the doings of young noblemen, save where it directly impacted his ability to go about his revenge. He does know, however, that House Haillenarte is not in particularly good standing these last years and, truth be told, he does not even fully disagree with why, but that is not something he holds against a young lord of the house, whatever his feelings on the overall matter are.

"If you truly seek death, there are kinder ways to find it than being killed in an avalanche. Or freezing to death in a cave with a traitor, for that matter," he studies the young man for a long moment, "Far be it from me to presume to offer advice that I have but recently learned, but death is usually only one of a number of solutions, not the only path forward."

He finally moves from where he was sitting, to do the work of starting to cook something, it seems,

"Stay where you are," he says, regardless of whether Francel has started to move or not, "You did sustain some small injuries from the ice. Nothing that should trouble you more than a few days at worst, but there is none to help you if you aggravate the injuries. Tis better to be careful with them now."

[at first, francel does not quite catch on to estinien's point. injuries? what injuries? he feels fine, for the most part, his head and his hands — then he tries to move his legs off of the bedroll, and winces.

ah.

his ankle is sprained, most likely. not broken, so it's nothing that won't heal in good time — but even if the snow were not blocking the entrance to this cave, he would be in no condition to walk back to camp dragonhead. immediately defeated — he has always been praised for being a good patient — francel falls back into his resting position, except that he rolls onto his side so that he can watch estinien work.

he is quiet for a moment, staring at the way the firelight plays off of the dragoon's silver hair, and then he asks:]

Why did you save me?

[on a slightly mischievous whim, he closes his eyes and echoes estinien's words from earlier:]

You owed me nothing.

"I had the power to save you. Why would I not?" he poses back, "I would hope I have not yet fallen so far that such a thing seems utterly surprising," he tends to some business of setting things to cook for a moment, before looking up and it's perhaps a similar type of mischievous whim, "True, I didn't know at the time the cave would also be a casualty. But I'll take the unexpected company over having let someone die in the snows." Another pause,

"Unless you snore," he adds, "then perhaps I should have left you."

[true to form, francel purses his lips in somewhat childish consternation at this accusation, though he knows he's only being teased.]

O-Of course I don't snore! [perish the thought. he sinks, sulking a little, back into the bedroll.] ...Do I look like the sort of person who would snore?

[it's a rhetorical question — francel may not think much of his overall appearance, but he's at least aware that he comes off like the sort of young man who would sooner curl himself into a ball of sheets than snore. he flattens a little bit, almost like a little rodent, as he watches estinien work. if there were a proper oven or stove to work off, francel could at least offer to be of some use, but he has little experience cooking off a campfire...]

...I'm only curious. I know little of you — as you know little of me, I suppose. But I'd heard that you were... not an unkind man, not exactly, but that you had few interests beyond your spear. That you were unlikely to take interest in the affairs of others. I suppose I... I just assumed that extended to the lives of others as well.

[he sighs.]

Then again, that was years ago. And the people I heard this from would have never had reason to speak with you.

"Hm. It makes me sound like a wild animal," he says darkly, but with some amusement, "They're not wrong, and neither are you," he concedes, looking up from the pot for a moment, "I am not a man who has ever been interested in aught but my own vengeance and my service to Ishgard through it. But to watch someone die in front of me whom I could easily save is not an act of disinterest."

He goes back to the food,

"And now you're my responsibility. At least until the ice shifts and you can be returned to Falcon's Nest. If I would not allow you to die quickly, it would the worst cruelty to then force you to die slowly through negligence instead."

[it is a little amusing, francel thinks, to watch estinien work with his hands. a culinarian and not a dragoon, at least for the time being. he wonders how many people have borne witness to this. not many, he would assume.]

It would not be so cruel...

[the young lord shakes his head, then clarifies:]

I would not take it as cruelty. As I said, you have done me kindness enough.

[for a moment, one must wonder how long they are going to go back and forth on the ethics of letting francel die, but — well, then some scent catches francel's interest, and he cocks his head like a curious puppy, sitting up slightly without moving his ankle.]

Are you making stew?

He would hardly aspire to culinarian, but he has had to cook for himself in the field for a long time and his motions are steady and sure as he goes about adding things into the pot as it heats. He glances up at the tone and has what looks to be an inquisitive look on his face for a moment before he goes back to his work. There's something familiar about that, and not in a way he's wholly comfortable with. So he ignores it, because it seems easier and more prudent, both.

"I would, even if you would not," he says, simply and then nods to the follow up question, "I am. It's not liable to be particularly delicious, but it should be filling enough. And warm."

That's all right. I like simple flavors.

[strange. so strange. again, this is not how francel ever imagined meeting the azure dragoon at all, but he finds that he doesn't dislike this. he is seized by vague memories of his childhood: being too sickly to go outside, and with haurchefant sent away to work as a squire for a time, he once spent his afternoons watching the kindly manor chefs go about their business. now and then, a rolanberry tart would be left to warm for him in the oven.

estinien is no manor chef, and there are no rolanberry tarts now, but it's soothing, still, to watch someone at work. francel rests his cheek upon his makeshift pillow, feeling strangely at ease.]

...Is it better?

[an open-ended question. better for you? or better for me? there's no clear-cut answer.]

Outside of Ishgard, that is.

Estinien considers that for a long moment,

"It is better that Ishgard no longer needs me, nor any of the things I represented-- both for Ishgard... and for myself," he admits after a moment of consideration, "Yet I am finding old habits die harder than dragons. I know not what to do with myself," perhaps it seems odd to hear him talk so, but he says it so matter of factly that it's difficult to believe it's in any way a secret.

"Time will tell," he seems to decide, after a moment.

[francel watches estinien for a long moment of his own, silent and contemplative. the fire crackles over his thoughts. after a lengthy pause, however, he says:]

I think Ishgard has need of anyone who is willing to call her home.

[he shifts a little in his bedroll, again not enough to disturb his injured angle, but just enough that he is peering at estinien with catlike interest.]

I'll not pry. I am, plainly, in no position to pry. Whatever you do with yourself is for you alone to decide. But there are...

[there are people who care, francel thinks, in the tenacious way that he can because he is the sort of person who cares too much. to him, being cared for is one of the most important things in the world. but perhaps it isn't so for estinien. perhaps, if francel said that aloud, the dragoon would only laugh. so he swallows it down, as ever he has with his feelings that burn too bright to be shown to others.]

...There are people who see you as a compatriot still.

He studies Francel for a long moment,

"You speak as though you wish to bring me some kind of comfort, but I don't recall needing comforting," it's a bit brusque, but he follows it with a warmer, "Rest easy. For once in my life, there is no worry someone might raise the alarum and call me into battle. Ishgard does not need me, right now. She may yet. In the meantime, allow me some peace. I am conflicted about a great many things, that desire is not one of them."

"And what of you?" he asks, curious, "It's not often that lordlings even bother to come to Falcon's Nest if they're not required to, much less wander the snows outside." He doesn't know Francel well enough to know for certain, though he does also certainly have a guess.

[francel, for his part, expected nothing but brusque detachment, so he is surprised by the touch of warmth to estinien's secondary remarks. baring his intensity of feeling has often gone so much worse. he props his chin onto his hand, glancing contemplatively at the blocked cave entrance.]

...I was visiting a fallen friend. He loved to watch the spires of Ishgard from Providence Point, so we erected a monument to him there. I visit it whenever I can to change the flowers and ensure that his shield is not buried beneath the snows.

[a fine thing to die for. a fine thing to be caught in an avalanche for. but francel means it seriously. he knows that there is more to life than death, but for now, at least, all he has to remember haurchefant by is that cold slab of engraved marble and the hole in his shield.]

He's got more than a fair guess at the full picture of this story at this point, though his involvement in it is clearly much less personal, if Francel is braving the snows in such a manner.

"It is kind of you, to honor the dead," he says, in lieu of a lot of other things that he doesn't quite know enough about the whole situation to be comfortable with, "Ishgard is built on them." It's more patriotic than cynical, but the cynicism is there.

"Here, I think the stew is ready," probably it would be better if it cooked a bit longer, but it's done, now, and while he's no good whatsoever at comforting people, he'd like to at least try to get Francel's mind off of the matter. "I'm afraid I've only got one set of everything," he says, bringing out a bowl, "so I hope you won't mind my manners if I eat from the pot." He uses the single spoon he has to assist in ladling the stew into the bowl and hands the whole thing to Francel, settling down to pick at the remainder with the matching fork.

[francel may be the sort of lordling who is used to being waited on, but he is by no means spoiled — before all else, he is grateful that estinien is thoughtful enough to grant him use of the spoon and the bowl. nevertheless, it amuses him, a little, how uneven this apportionment seems to be. isn't he the guest in this scenario? was he not the one who troubled estinien by being a hapless lordling caught in the snows? he's done nothing to earn this!]

I hardly mind your manners! I would be a silly sort of man indeed if I were concerned about table etiquette at a time like this.

[laughing a little, he blows at a little spoonful of the simple stew to cool it down. salt is the predominant flavor, he thinks, though of course it is better than no salt at all. his voice takes on a wistful quality as he waits for his meal to grow a little less hot.]

Besides, I always liked watching the House knights sit down for dinner. Of course I was never allowed to imitate them, and so I soon lost the urge, but I thought it very... very dashing and manly to lick one's lips or sup straight from a bowl. A foolish, boyish sentiment, mayhap...

Estinien is definitely not going to win any awards for his cooking skill, but it's honestly not bad, either. It's just... food. Something kind of unremarkable to provide sustenance. But it is warm and filling.

"Hm. Most of the nobility are. I'm glad to know I rescued someone with sense at least," it's hard to tell if it's a compliment or a joke or just some grumbling. He laughs at the second, though, the noise barely more than a hah!, but there's a warmth to it that lingers,

"I've never thought of myself as particularly dashing or manly at the dinner table. Less so in a cave in the snow," there's something just a bit wicked about his tone when he adds, "If you want to give it a try here, I won't tell anyone."

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087 » i get lonely and make mistakes from time to time

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