francel de haillenarte (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
haillenarte) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
gurabad2021-11-07 10:36 am
haillenarte) wrote in gurabad2021-11-07 10:36 am
Entry tags:
133 » but being modest's just not an option
[Nowadays, almost everyone is whispering that House Haillenarte's youngest has at last blossomed in the most remarkable way.
It was always Count Baurendouin's intention to groom his youngest as the family socialite — and right he was for it, given that his first four children all managed to fail at the task in their own ways. Stephanivien, genius engineer though he may be, lacks the tact and poise for etiquette and lace collars. Aurvael has the right exuberance, the right attitude, but the wrong tongue, the wrong face, a certain lack of razor-sharp wit — he has long been absent from banquets and parties owing to the fact that most in high society find him something of a bore. Laniatte, despite being a radiant beauty, absolutely detests pomp and circumstance of the sort that may be found in Ishgard's ballrooms, and is simply better suited to steel and swordsmanship than she is to swift steps and seduction. And Chlodebaimt — dear, sweet, beloved Lord Chlodebaimt — is dead, though it seemed for a time that he would be the shining star to lead House Haillenarte in the coming years.
For a while, it looked like Lord Francel was not up to the task. There stood the Count de Haillenarte's youngest child, soft and meek and eternally accompanied by the Fortemps bastard — how would a fourthborn son succeed where his elders had failed? He'd been devastated when Lord Haurchefant died, everyone said as much. He seemed more likely to die of a broken heart than he was to emerge from the ashes as a new man.
(He wasn't the same after that, some of his old attendants whisper, when one sends the right eyes to look, the right tongues to probe. The Lord Francel that everyone knows now — that isn't the young lord that I knew. That I raised. He was — he used to be —)
But then the Restoration happened, and Lord Francel had led it with surprising aplomb, enlisting the help of adventurers and mercenaries, so long frowned upon by the city's elders, to great effect. And he'd built the city with such a joie de vivre! He led musical ensembles, great artistic revivals, created public baths and glorious statues to preserve the worship of Halone for a new age. How delightful that he proved to be quick-witted and easy on the eyes and an excellent dancer. Some even titter behind their lace handkerchiefs that he is nearly as fine-featured as the late Ser Adelphel.
And his politics? Ah, well — there's the thing.]
Ser Aymeric.
[He's resplendent in his newly-tailored finery, House Haillenarte's sweet Lord Francel. A fine alpine coat for the occasion, glittering rings over his gloves, a glass of wine held delicately by the stem. He meets Aymeric's piercing blue gaze without fear. Smiles with his own navy blue eyes, warm and strangely inviting, like the call of the sea on a summer's day before the Calamity. He sips delicately at his wine, his eyes never once leaving Aymeric's face.]
Are you enjoying the evening? Lady Marcelaine's taste in music is exquisite as ever, I think. The harpsichordist is particularly skilled.
It was always Count Baurendouin's intention to groom his youngest as the family socialite — and right he was for it, given that his first four children all managed to fail at the task in their own ways. Stephanivien, genius engineer though he may be, lacks the tact and poise for etiquette and lace collars. Aurvael has the right exuberance, the right attitude, but the wrong tongue, the wrong face, a certain lack of razor-sharp wit — he has long been absent from banquets and parties owing to the fact that most in high society find him something of a bore. Laniatte, despite being a radiant beauty, absolutely detests pomp and circumstance of the sort that may be found in Ishgard's ballrooms, and is simply better suited to steel and swordsmanship than she is to swift steps and seduction. And Chlodebaimt — dear, sweet, beloved Lord Chlodebaimt — is dead, though it seemed for a time that he would be the shining star to lead House Haillenarte in the coming years.
For a while, it looked like Lord Francel was not up to the task. There stood the Count de Haillenarte's youngest child, soft and meek and eternally accompanied by the Fortemps bastard — how would a fourthborn son succeed where his elders had failed? He'd been devastated when Lord Haurchefant died, everyone said as much. He seemed more likely to die of a broken heart than he was to emerge from the ashes as a new man.
(He wasn't the same after that, some of his old attendants whisper, when one sends the right eyes to look, the right tongues to probe. The Lord Francel that everyone knows now — that isn't the young lord that I knew. That I raised. He was — he used to be —)
But then the Restoration happened, and Lord Francel had led it with surprising aplomb, enlisting the help of adventurers and mercenaries, so long frowned upon by the city's elders, to great effect. And he'd built the city with such a joie de vivre! He led musical ensembles, great artistic revivals, created public baths and glorious statues to preserve the worship of Halone for a new age. How delightful that he proved to be quick-witted and easy on the eyes and an excellent dancer. Some even titter behind their lace handkerchiefs that he is nearly as fine-featured as the late Ser Adelphel.
And his politics? Ah, well — there's the thing.]
Ser Aymeric.
[He's resplendent in his newly-tailored finery, House Haillenarte's sweet Lord Francel. A fine alpine coat for the occasion, glittering rings over his gloves, a glass of wine held delicately by the stem. He meets Aymeric's piercing blue gaze without fear. Smiles with his own navy blue eyes, warm and strangely inviting, like the call of the sea on a summer's day before the Calamity. He sips delicately at his wine, his eyes never once leaving Aymeric's face.]
Are you enjoying the evening? Lady Marcelaine's taste in music is exquisite as ever, I think. The harpsichordist is particularly skilled.
no subject
It was a delight, at first, when Francel seemed to bring himself more closely into the fold: Stephanivien was a reliable ally, but his skill for politics was abysmal; Aurvael was ineffectual, and Baurendouin's strength was waning — too many years of rumored cowardice, overspending on his wife's whims, the collapse of the Steel Vigil and the sorry position of the Rose Knights, who lost more of their fellows to stronger houses every moon, and the heresy scandal had taken their toll on his reputation, and he was a far less useful man in the House of Lords for it.
That weakness, in turn, was a weakness for Aymeric: the Haillenartes tended to side with the house of Fortemps, but their added weight was rarely enough to tip the scales when the houses of Durendaire and Dzemael decided to oppose him.
Less than a moon passed, only a few meetings of the House of Lords, before Aymeric realized Count Charlemend had supported his ascension because it had been convenient — but his motions, and prospective laws, often were not. There were two Speakers, in practice: it was only that Charlemend had sidestepped the title, the responsibility, and the target on his back.
Then Francel had come to Ishgard with bold ideas. He was fair-faced and gentle, easy to like, and he'd spoken of his plans with eloquence and well-considered strategies. Aymeric had been heartened the first time he'd spotted him in a meeting of the House of Lords, intelligent eyes looking up at him from the benches beside his father. Here, Aymeric thought, is an opportunity: Francel will understand the progress needed in the city; Francel will bring his house to the heights it once reached — champions of the commonfolk, patrons of the arts for all to enjoy... ]
Lord Francel!
[ He summons a smile for the man who has, with nimbler skill than his time at Skyfire Locks would have suggested, hurled several proposals to the House of Lords into the abyss with a few words about unfeasibility or inadequacy. ]
I confess I've an untrained ear, but even I am bound to marvel at the product of their talents.
[ He takes a breath, looks down at his own wine, and back up: his eyes glitter with something like mirth. ]
And how are you, my lord? You were lively, at this past meeting of the House of Lords.
[ Lively is not accurate: nothing Francel did to strike down his latest proposal was lively. It was subdued, really — subtle and elegant, the prick of a poisoned needle. Still, the crooked tug of Aymeric's smile is congratulatory, as if Francel's own skill, like the musicians, calls for high regard. ]
no subject
But of course he doesn't, the young lord chides himself. Where was he when you had need of him most? When a single word, a glance, a touch would have done — where was he then? No, Aymeric has had his chance, in the most vindictive and innermost recesses of Francel's twisted heart — which is why the fourthborn heir apparent to the Haillenarte name only lowers his eyes demurely without ever once letting his own mask slip. He sips delicately at his wine.]
Lively? No, no, my vote was — such a shame.
[Such a shame it was inadequate, in other words. A proposal the week before, unrealistic. A memorandum from last moon —
If one were to speak of it in impolite terms (and to have the thought at all suggests that some are, indeed, speaking of it in impolite terms), one would think that Ser Aymeric had somehow run afoul of the young lord. But surely not? What reason would House Haillenarte, so recently beleaguered by problems with heretics, have to mistrust the man who has but recently offered pardon to all who justly criticized their country's past misdeeds?]
But I do look forward to seeing the revised bill, Ser Aymeric. You have such a way with words — and an elegant hand. I have no doubt that you will be able to address the concerns that I had with your proposal.
[A catlike smile.]
I do only criticize in order to bring our people the civil liberties we will need in this new age, of course...
no subject
For a moment, a heartbeat, he can't reply, and his genial smile freezes in place. The room is warm and well-lit, filled with cheerful conversation — but the cold nature of politics settles, as it always does, heavy on Aymeric's shoulders.
An internal part of him, as it always does, hardens.
It may be, he understands abruptly, that Francel's rebukes have nothing to do with his proposals at all, and he could be threatening to press his finger on the scales every time, cutting Aymeric's ability to pass motions in the House of Lords off at the knees.
It'd almost be impressive, if it weren't a vexing and immediate problem — and if it didn't imply ungenerous things about kindly, good-hearted Lord Francel.
But Aymeric is used to bargaining, and nearly all men are willing to entertain the possibilities. The question is what Francel wants — and how best, and most cautiously, to ask. ]
I understand, of course.
[ His eyes track Francel's without looking away, giving up nothing. ]
But you have an admirable mind for such things, my lord — certainly worthy of greater consideration than you've thus far been given. Would you permit me the pleasure of your company, on the morrow? For tea, perhaps, or dinner, at your leisure? I would be most interested in hearing your particular reservations, and mayhap correcting the proposal to satisfy them.
[ He raises his eyebrows, smiling harmlessly. ]
no subject
[Despite the — it would not be right to call it sarcasm — despite the faint ghost of mockery hiding behind Francel's veneer of polite kindness, this proposition seems to take him quite genuinely by surprise. He hides it well, of course; he is no longer the boy who wore his emotions on his sleeve to be read and used and manipulated and disposed of without a second thought. But he stares at Aymeric for a moment too long, expression inscrutable. Something like doubt flickers through his blue eyes.
Isn't this what you wanted? he asks himself. His eyes on yours, at last seeing you for who you really are? And yet it doesn't taste the way he thought it would. In the first place, he doesn't quite remember what sort of person he really is.
Maybe he doesn't quite know, himself, what he wants from Aymeric, besides the nebulous idea of revenge, and the life of a man who will never return to Francel, and never even intended to.]
...You flatter me overmuch. [The way the young lord lowers his lashes bashfully — that could be almost real. There's something regretful in it.] My mind is no more admirable than any other man's. But if you would have my company, Ser Aymeric, I would be honored.
[Something bitter cloys the back of his mouth. Francel sips at his wine again; perhaps the sour finish will remind him of what victory tastes like. It steels the fluttering rabbit-beat of his heart.]
I am certain we shall reach some point of agreement.
no subject
Excellent!
[ His eyes are bright, spirits again high. ]
I've some fine tea at the Congregation — a personal vice.
[ He flashes Francel a conspiratorial smile, head tilted; just between us, as if keeping indulgences of even the most innocuous kind in the house of a holy order warrants a winking apology. ]
Unless you'd prefer a less lengthy walk in the cold? My home is nearer, and I would be no less pleased to meet you there.
[ He lifts his wine to drink, raising his eyebrows, leaving the decision entirely to Francel. ]
no subject
Your home would afford us better privacy, I'd imagine — particularly if you wish to meet once tonight's soirée concludes.
[Francel does not linger too long on the rumors that might arise if he is not seen leaving Borel Manor in the evening. In fact, he muses, such rumors might even work to his advantage, if he presses the issue in the right ways. The thought turns his smile almost sunny for a moment.]
And I should dearly like to meet the House Borel cat, whose reputation so precedes him!
[...Precedes him for yowling, hissing at visitors, and clawing up a cardinal's boots, perhaps...]
no subject
This is the sort of underhanded offer he's gotten before, though most often by wealthy widows — women whose status could not be diminished, and might be increased, by rumor.
Lord Francel is not, perforce, courting that same rumor...but most lords, Aymeric well knows, would put off such a meeting till midday tea, and Francel has made it plain that he is not naive.
His eyes dance as he lowers his wine. ]
I'm afraid he's not known for his good manners — though he is quite an impressive fellow. Well! If it's to be tonight, I should be glad to excuse myself some moments early, so as to warn my steward of company, and prepare — unless you'd prefer an escort?
[ There's humor in his voice — the Lord Commander, acting as a personal guard for a stroll across the Pillars — but it's good-natured, winking, assuring Francel that neither answer would offend. ]
no subject
(Or is it that he is not attractive enough? That thought niggles, too, like the specter of the man he once was — but no, Francel thinks; it can't be that. He has come too far to let himself be weighed down by petty insecurity now.)
The young lord retains a soft fondness for the beleaguered stewards of noble houses, however, and so on this matter he elects not to sink his teeth into Aymeric's neck as if seeking sustenance. Oh, it would add something to the rumors if Francel were seen leaving tonight's banquet with Aymeric, true — but he isn't so desperate as that. There is something to be said, too, for the fact that he still harbors some resentment against promiscuity. The things he used to turn a blind eye to, for love of Haurchefant, when he yet lived.]
No, no — I dare not do your steward the discourtesy of visiting ere he has had the chance to dust the mantelshelf. [A gentle laugh.] My manservant of many years, Foncrineau — he would be greatly offended if I were to commit such a heinous sin. I shall see you within the bell, Ser Aymeric.
[Well — perhaps he might venture a joke.]
Wear something... silky.
no subject
—Silk, no favored color. Duly noted, my lord.
[ He manages a grin, quicksilver — but he's already turning with the jest, slipping away around the backs of conversing lords before this exchange can go any further.
Nearly a bell later, across the city, the drawing room in Borel manor has been made welcoming: the fire is lit and the curtains drawn to keep in the warmth; wine in a silver decanter and two goblets sit on a table between two tall-backed armchairs, and a chessboard is set for play, awaiting its players.
Aymeric himself has traded his dark doublet for just what Francel cheekily requested: a silken shirt that's really meant to be worn under something else — but it's well-tailored enough for an informal visit, and he's laced the collar as high as it'll go, up to the hollow of his throat. His parry for Francel's thrust, whether or not it was a harmless jest.
He stands, smiling, when his steward shows the younger lord into the drawing room. ]
Lord Francel! I trust your walk was pleasant? Or brisk, at least?
[ He gestures to the opposing chair. ]
Pray, take your ease.
no subject
You truly wore —
[He focuses his gaze upon the silk shirt, blinks, and then — breaks into a peal of boyish laughter, bell-like in its clarity, bracing himself against the doorframe as his shoulders shake with mirth. Gradually, Francel's laugh fades into silent chortling; he resurfaces shaking his head.]
Ahahahaha...! Oh, Ser — oh, Ser Aymeric, you really are so...
So — [smiling, he swallows, tosses his head a little, takes a slightly incredulous breath] — handsome in that shirt. Yes, the walk was most pleasant.
[He most certainly did not mean to say handsome. The tone of his voice implied, possibly, stupid, or perhaps more generously, amusing. In any case, Francel seems unbothered by the parry to his thrust; indeed it may feel as if he managed to take another thrust of his own for the sheer delight he's deriving from the situation. Smiling, the young lord takes the opposite chair as he has been invited to, politely loosening his own high collar if only because he is slightly warm from the brisk, cold walk down to Borel Manor.]
I used to think often — and wistfully — of the way that Ishgard was before the Calamity. [He shakes his head.] Tragically, I suspect that the aetheric imbalance will take a full era to be corrected. I doubt we will see Ishgard shed her crown of snow ere we see our graves.
no subject
[ Despite the jab about his attire, his voice remains warm and blithe, unoffended; it's as though he didn't hear it at all—
—but it has been sorted away into what little he knows of Francel by reputation, aside a growing number of observations that disagree with rumor: however sweet and soft his family's knights and servants found him in the Locks, there's plainly a part of him bitter and mercurial enough to delight unkindly in a man agreeing to his whims.
He remains standing as Francel sits, reading for the decanter. ]
And we surely agree that this endless winter makes an urgent need of warm shelters in the Brume, and better homes for its orphans, and better wages for those who care for them.
[ He casts Francel a sidelong glance with a smile: the glance is keen and assessing, but the smile dares Francel to disagree.
He finishes pouring the wine, sets Francel's goblet close to him, and takes up his own as he sits down, stretching one leg comfortably toward the fire.
The vintage is a sugary white, faintly effervescent — pleasant, but selected either by or for someone with a sweet tooth. ]
no subject
[Francel quite loses his cheer after that. It might be more accurate to say that he stopped laughing once his thoughts turned to Ishgard as it was before the Calamity — but, more crucially, he takes little pleasure in playing the part of villain. It isn't really his objective, so to speak, to deny orphans proper housing and care. The children are innocent, and have done him no wrong. Haurchefant would never have approved of such a thing.
(And then comes the thought, bitter and seductive as the last dregs of wine in a glass: what does it matter, really, what Haurchefant would have thought of it? He did not think of Francel when he died for a hero's sake.)
Francel takes his glass, but he does not sip from it. It is less that he thinks Aymeric might poison him, and more that he simply isn't sure if he can swallow down on the sour hatred at the back of his throat.
There seems to be little point in drawing out these pleasant proceedings. He opts from a more aggressive approach.]
Much as I might prefer to simply indulge in the pleasure of your company, Ser Aymeric... I suppose you invited me here because you wish to know why I did not support the proposition raised in the House of Lords last Windsday.
no subject
I would.
[ His tone is deliberate, gentle and coaxing. He makes a conciliatory motion, turning up the palm of his free hand. ]
I am, of course, prepared to accept compromises on any of my proposals, and the raising of doubts and objections is helpful, inasmuch as the House of Lords is not intended to shut out the voices of the dissatisfied — but I confess that I have been surprised, these past several occasions, that you and I have found ourselves opposed.
[ He studies Francel's face patiently, his own wine resting on the arm of his chair with his fingers splayed around the stem. ]
no subject
Were you surprised, truly? You should not be.
[And what is that supposed to mean, then? What slight has Aymeric ventured against Lord Francel, who has spent so much of his time outside the city, in the highlands?
Yet, before anybody can answer, or venture that question out loud — from that bitter statement, the young lord segues smoothly towards matters of business:]
My chief objection is that I found the bill's proposal to be inadequate in design. This grand sum of seven hundred million gil to be promised toward reconstruction of the Brume — no matter the winner of the construction bid, be it House Fortemps or House Dzemael, 'tis recklessness and folly to set aside the total in a lump sum. Construction costs will undoubtedly be misforecast; the project cost will balloon further ahead than predicted; then shall it be our party's duty to approve a second bill to refinance the reconstruction effort, and our opponents will see fit to criticize us for the clumsiness of our maneuvering.
I would propose instead that we move toward a model in which the bill promises a lesser amount of funds, to be paid out each moon so long as the reconstruction effort is still in full swing. This ensures that the project will receive adequate funding and that the project managers will make more industrious use of it.
[Despite the reasoned, measured tone of his voice, his eyes are blue and distant as they stare impassively at Aymeric's face in return.]
no subject
They're reasonable complaints with a fine solution — even an admirable one. One that would have instantly raised Francel's standing in the House of Lords, if he deigned to speak of it then, when he certainly could have. Instead he cast down the entire proposal.
It had little to do with raising his own standing, then: it was for spite.
Aymeric lowers his goblet, nodding, eyebrows raised. ]
I commend your forethought and practicality, and would be glad to do so again during the next session.
[ But the crux of the matter, the reason Francel had to be invited into the manor to share his thoughts, will still be there, festering, at that next session, of course — unless it's addressed now.
He sets his wine down with care on the little table, eyes lowered. ]
How have I wronged you, my lord?
no subject
So you've caught on.
[The sour taste in his throat now dominates all else. He takes a long, deep swig from the glass in his hands to steel his nerves; the heady taste of the wine leaves him feeling detached from himself.]
If you have managed to deduce that much, Ser Aymeric, you ought to be able to answer that question yourself. Think, my lord. Wherefore would I, an untested lordling with no post save the one in central Coerthas, have reason to hate you? What cause have I to question your leadership?
[Subtly, Lord Francel's hand curls into a fist atop the arm of his chair.]
What have you taken from me?
no subject
The answer, with all that Francel has hinted at, is plain: the Steel Vigil's fall would have been a difficult indignity for the Haillenartes to bear, and moreso, terribly, for the loss of Francel's elder brother — whom he must have admired, as a boy; by all accounts, the man was an excellent knight and an excellent lord.
He lowers his gaze, nodding. ]
Vengeance, most certainly, as it has been taken from many others.
[ He waits, patiently, for Francel to elaborate. He's been awaiting this moment, like as not. ]
no subject
Vengeance, certainly. [He admits to that much, at least.] But not only for the Stone and Steel Vigils — for Lord Chlodebaimt — for my House.
[The young lord takes another long sip from his glass. Then he looks at Aymeric through his wine, a cold indifference on his face, as if merely to see the viscount's features distorted in a sea of blood.]
...I feel as though I have gone quite mad. [His voice is quiet.] As if everyone in the world has forgotten that we knew one another. I think he did, as well.
[Alone for all the world to have forgotten, his bitterness left to fester into the kind of hatred from which there can be no redemption — Francel lowers his glass.]
If you had not been such a fool, Lord Haurchefant might not have had to die.