gurabad | 000 » i write you in spite of years of silence

Ser Zephirin...

[ francel stirs as if from a reverie. he does not look visibly drunk, but there is a dazed quality to the way he looks, almost unseeing, at zephirin's face against the starlit sky. he lifts his palm, not in greeting, but to reach out, somehow blind and helpless as a newborn kitten. perhaps he wants zephirin to take his hand. ]

Come, sit. I am so alone, and so in need of company.

[ it is not snowing, but it is bitter cold, and the young lord seems lightly dressed. he is missing his hat. it may be better for his well-being if zephirin ignores the demands of his drink-addled mind... ]

[ Zephirin does take Francel's outstretched hand, as one might for a dance, or else to receive of a priest's blessing, but he merely holds it between his own palms for some moments — the night's chill clings to Francel's fingers. Then he guides that hand to Francel's lap, and releases it there. Unbuttoning his craftsman's coat, he sheds the garment to offer it to the young lord, though it is no substitute for a thick blanket or a warm fire. ]

Might we walk instead? 'Tis bitter cold, as you have said.

Walk...?

[ francel speaks almost as if he has never considered the word before. he does not quite accept zephirin's proferred coat, but he seems amenable to it. indeed, if the knight-turned-skybuilder takes the liberty of draping the garment about francel's shoulders, the young lord shuffles uncertainly into it, seeking its warmth without much conscious thought.

rising slowly from his seat, the young lord sways a little on his feet — not too dramatically, but enough that he places a hand upon zephirin's chest to steady himself, as easily and thoughtlessly as if the former knight were a mere wall. but then, a wall wouldn't be so warm and... giving, now would it? ]

...Mmm. Where shall we go? I'll go anywhere with you so long as we make for someplace warmer.

[ Having wrapped Francel in his still-warm coat (the nearest thing, out in the open, to holding a man like a swaddled babe or a plush rabbit), Zephirin means to draw back, but he reacts quickly as the young lord stumbles slightly, and moves his hands to Francel's shoulders. Without hesitation, he makes a wall of himself for Francel to lean against, solid and sturdy, until the boy seems steadier on his feet. ]

This way, my lord.

[ One arm held out to support Francel's weight, Zephirin leads him towards the bridge to the Last Vigil's manors. They pass a knight standing guard, and they must make a mismatched pair in their attire, but the man barely turns his head. Nevertheless, Zephirin expects to be intercepted ere long — someone, surely, has noted Francel's absence.

He keeps to the bridge's middle, well away from aught but tidy paving stones beneath their feet. ]

[ In the darkness of the night, the guardsman standing watch at the bridge doesn't quite recognize the young man in the craftsman's coat as Lord Francel. He doesn't recognize the other man supporting him — arms bare despite the cold, having sacrificed his coat to the more slender man perhaps — as the disgraced Ser Zephirin, either. He thinks for a moment, to himself, that it is good to have comrades-in-arms when one has had too much to drink. That his superior officers could stand to treat him that gently, hold him that steady, when he is in his cups. And then he does not think any more of it until well after they are gone and it finally occurs to him, in a moment's lascivious musing, that they could have been lovers.

Francel, for his part, does not feel like the plush, plush rabbit he wanted to be, but he feels a little swaddled, and a little spoiled as well. Even in his addled state, it is clear to him that he has Zephirin's full attention, though why and for what reason, he can't quite place. It seems as though it has been a long time since last he commanded anyone's full attention in this manner — since last anyone looked at him as Francel and not as the overseer.

But then, what guarantee does he have that Zephirin is looking at him as Francel, either? He must poke and prod until he has a clearer view of the situation. ]

Zephirin... Am I a man to you?

[ A most thorough investigation! ]

[ Francel's proximity is not unwelcome, his body a shield against the cold where he is pressed to Zephirin's side. Though the former knight maintains his composure, he is not impervious to the weather's icy touch, and it swiftly seeps into his limbs. Privately, he once again imagines himself ill-suited to providing the comfort for which Lord Francel yearns, now for tangible reasons — leaner still than in days past, when Ser Janlenoux oft took it upon himself to intervene, there is a gauntness to his form, too many sharp angles ~~(would that he were a large plush rabbit)~~.

But he takes care to be gentle, to steady the young lord by means of subtle touches. His answer comes slowly, for the question strikes him as something weighty, containing more than the words themselves. He casts Francel a sidelong glance, searching. ]

...I do not think you a child, if that is your concern — nor a bundle of nothing.

Edited 2020-10-12 02:04 (UTC)

[ Francel's first response is a slightly slurred laugh, one that brightens his boyish features briefly before they dull once more into half-asleep exhaustion. ]

That wasn't quite what I meant...

[ But how to explain what he meant? The infinite despair of not being seen? It is all too much for a young lord who, at present moment, wishes only to be bundled into bed ~~and perhaps petted, like a large plush rabbit~~. Still, Zephirin's gentleness is appreciated, even through the young lord's drunken stupor; Francel feels safe despite himself, and though he knows, fully, that blood stains Zephirin's hands, he nevertheless leans into the former archimandrite's touch, relying on him to stay righted, to keep on his course. ]

I meant... Am I now only the Lord Overseer? [ He laughs a little tonelessly. ] Once upon a time, someone called me his friend...

[ Once upon a time is plainly too long ago, too far away. Lord Francel has divulged as much himself, and he feels his loneliness keenly — even a hundred guards and servants to surround him would not ease it. The Lord Overseer may be well-liked, but the man behind the role goes neglected, it seems.

Zephirin's eyes linger on Francel's profile. After a moment, he shakes his head. ]

Were you not the Lord Overseer, I would have come regardless.

[ He pauses, gaze drifting upward. It has begun to snow. ]

I would do so again, provided you have no objections.

You mustn't be my friend...

[ briefly, lord francel trails off there, a little meaningfully... but then his expression softens once more, and the young lord rubs his cheek with surprising bravery against the bare expanse of zephirin's shoulder. it is difficult not to think of the plush, plush rabbit he professed to want to be. ]

But I want one so very badly.

[ he laughs, briefly and playfully; it is punctuated by a hiccup that might be a sob, though there are no tears in francel's blue eyes. ]

I miss him. I miss you. Come, sit and tell me of your day — not of the Warrior of Light, but of you...

[ It has the sound of a vague reprimand, at first, reminding Zephirin of his place, pulling his gaze back down toward Francel. I understand sits on his tongue, but he says nothing, made uncertain of it as the young lord's cheek presses against his shoulder. He thinks of kittens, abruptly — and of rabbits.

And yet, Lord Francel sinks deeper into his sorrows, his mind and his heart elsewhere, no mirth in his laughter. His words are not meant for Zephirin's ears. ]

...I understand.

[ Now Zephirin murmurs it into the cold air, lips near brushing the crown of Francel's head. His palm rests upon the young lord's chest. ]

Even so, might I ask after you and your day, from time to time?

[ warmed somewhat by the jacket wrapped around his shoulders, supported by zephirin's sturdy hand, francel finds it easier to smile now, even though he is still haunted by haurchefant's memory. he isn't so far gone that he has truly mixed up haurchefant and zephirin, however; he knows it is his best friend's killer in front of him. nevertheless, francel closes his eyes, nodding sleepily. he turns docile, almost weightless, in zephirin's hold. ]

...You ought to ask me every single day, that I might be less lonely for your company.

[ they are closer now to haillenarte manor, but they remain far enough that bartelot, the guardsman on duty, will not see them. no one will see the way francel leans even closer into the crook of zephirin's neck, chasing what little warmth might be found there. ]

Would you call me your friend, Zephirin? Would you accept that as... as your penance?

[ Zephirin amends his assumptions: he does not understand. Or rather, he suspects that he has misunderstood, fumbling blindly to follow the route that Lord Francel's thoughts take, steps behind.

The young lord's hair tickles his neck. A shiver travels the length of his spine — it must be the cold. Very slightly, his hold on Francel tightens, as if to fulfill the boy's earlier request. ]

...You present it as some manner of punishment.

[ You mustn't be my friend. Strange, in his view, when nothing makes the young lord somehow repulsive. ]

All of this... Do you believe that I come seeking absolution?

I don't know. Why have you come? I am only... to you, I am only...

[ How to explain what he must only be? Forgotten; an afterthought. The friend of a man who is dead because other, more powerful men disagreed with one another. Because Haurchefant stood up for what he believed was just, and now he is dead, and Francel has no one. The world is just that cruel.

Flailing inwardly, though his feet keep walking slowly and steadily, Francel sighs and gropes for a comparison, for some way to describe an emotion he can't quite put into words — ]

I must be... the last flake of snow in a howling gale.

[ The final, forgotten piece of a much greater whole, he means. The last, most unimportant problem in a series of bigger problems. An end or a beginning. He isn't sure which. ]

Edited 2020-11-25 01:31 (UTC)

[ Snowflakes catch in their hair and lashes, melting there. They are small, all of them, though a howling gale might gather them into a ferocious whole — and they are obscured then, and no one would take note of each flake in a storm. The comparison paints Francel both insignificant and a nuisance. Something discovered left over when the worst of the gale has died down.

One palm open, moved away from the front of Francel's shirt for the moment, Zephirin allows a few falling flakes of snow to land upon it. Once more, he shakes his head. ]

You are a man in your own right. It matters not whether you are the Lord Overseer, or the bearer of another title — or none at all.

[ His hand curls closed. ]

I came merely as another man myself... I cannot replace what is lost, but by your leave, my company is yours.

Mmm. If that is so...

[The young lord's eyes flick forward for a moment, staring vaguely into the middle distance, and then close once more. He leans heavily on Zephirin's shoulder.]

If that is so, then stay. I ask only that you stay.

[...He seems disinclined to elaborate on that thought, but it's just as well: they needn't discuss it. Haillenarte Manor has come into view.

At the gates, the Hyuran guardsman, Ser Bartelot, raises his brows at their approach — fortunately, his consternation is not for Zephirin's presence, but merely for his wayward young master. "Praise the Fury, you've brought him back!" the man exclaims. "His lordship's never stayed at a banquet quite this late before, and we'd begun to fear the worst. Bit excessive of us, mayhap, but after what happened to him in his eleventh summer we've all become accustomed to fretting. Unease, you know — 'tis an illness, and it spreads like a plague. Has he had too much to drink?"]

[ Zephirin does stay — he will stay until he is sent on his way, once Lord Francel is safely returned to his home. The fretting guardsman outside the manor will soon take his place, he predicts, or another servant will hasten to put Francel to bed, bundled in his sheets.

(But one must wonder why no one came, in their unease, even as the hour grew late.)

Until then, however, Zephirin stays. His hands hold Francel steady. ]

He appears to be somewhat addled, but unharmed.

[ Despite the cold. Despite the bridges and ledges, and despite his lonely heart. ]

I shall entrust him to your care.

[ Ser Bartelot wastes no time — nor does the manservant who emerges from within the manor halls as the doors open. "My lord Francel!" Foncrineau, brow creased with concern, starts for his young master's side. "Pray come inside and be seated by the fire whilst a bath is drawn and your bed readied..." ]

[Even in his addled state, Francel seems to recognize Foncrineau — and well he should, given that the man is almost like a second father to him — but he doesn't seem to be in any state to walk on his own. He does, however, nudge his head against Zephirin's shoulder in a way that suggests he will not protest being returned to his manor — but when he catches the knight's gaze in the aftermath of the motion, he holds it, though his eyes are somewhat glassy, and it seems hard to tell if he recognizes Zephirin for who he is.]

...What about you?

[His fingers curl in the fabric of Zephirin's close-fitting top.]

Do you have someplace to stay? If not, you could stay the night here, with us...

[Foncrineau seems somewhat surprised, but this is within the realm of things his young lord might be do; indeed, Francel is kind enough that he might open his manor up to the man who brought him home — the very man who —

Well. Is he that kind, truly? To look past all that has been done? Foncrineau hesitates for a moment, but the Fury teaches forgiveness in all things, at least according to the way he knows his young lord reads scripture. "Our guest rooms have gone many a year without guests to use them, Ser... Ser Zephirin," he says, after a moment. "'Twould not impose upon our hospitality to stay the night. Especially given the hour..."]

Edited 2021-02-21 06:00 (UTC)

000 » i write you in spite of years of silence

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