gurabad | 029 » got caught up in my own selfishness

Entry tags:

029 » got caught up in my own selfishness

[it isn't often that one catches lord francel de haillenarte at a banquet.

the reason, first and foremost, is that he is the leader of the garrison at skyfire locks (de jure if not de facto), and he does not like to give the impression that he has all that much free time. a second, more pressing reason, is that he is simply bad at attending banquets — or rather, that he's become bad at it.

it's odd. when he was younger, he was much better at playing the games of high society. he was charming then, small and cute and quick-witted in a way that would make adults laugh. but now, francel stands at that awkward age where he is somehow neither adult nor child — too old to consort with little lordlings and fresh-bloomed ladies, certainly, but too young to entertain the idea of marriage, and too powerless to engage with political intrigue. francel has, in short, nothing to do at the banquet save gorge himself on delicate servings of pudding and dance half-heartedly with women whose dress he compliments before their looks... but he wasn't in a position to refuse an invitation from count dzemael, and he isn't in a position now to leave without good cause.

he takes a break from dancing at one corner of the room, and gazes wistfully out at the dance floor, at the noble ladies twirling beside handsome lords and knights. it would be nice to be one of them, he thinks to himself. to have little else to think of save the latest fashions and what suitors one's father might arrange.

a moment later, he resents himself for thinking anything so cruel.

francel is so caught up in his feelings of vague, implacable envy that he doesn't quite notice that he's seized someone else's glass when he moves to fill his own.]

Hm? Ah, pray forgive me —

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Ah! [ Comes a cry of recognition to greet Francel, one slightly louder than needed, considering the proximity of Francel's ears and the presumably excellent condition of his hearing (not for long, should Emmanellain neglect to adjust to a speaking volume more suited to conversing at but a few ilms apart). A pat to the shoulder joins the greeting, jovial, meant reassuringly — yes, that is Emmanellain's glass, only the evening's third (or was it fourth? One of the two!), but there are refreshments enough for all, the Dzemael cellars hardly in danger of being drunk dry. Emmanellain's extended hand continues its patting while its counterpart sets out to refill his glass and Francel's both, a daring endeavour to undertake on its own. ]

Come to rest your legs a spell, have you, old boy? [ It's as if Francel materialized out of nowhere... ] Enjoy the sights?

[ The sights being the many fair ladies at dance, of course, though Emmanellain has some vague inkling that Francel isn't enjoying much of anything this night at all, save the wine. If even that! But then, Francel simply doesn't seem the sort to embrace the positives in these largely tedious soirées, none of the things that make them bearable. One such "thing", sadly, is conspicuously absent, perhaps occupied somewhere among the crowd, so Francel's unexpected company forces Emmanellain to acknowledge even as he musters a smile through his disappointment, aiming it at a passing lady (not his heart's one true lady, alas, elusive as ever), who turns away on a lord's arm.

Merely an issue of timing. In any case, the night is young, leaving ample room to show the dance floor the same appreciation given to their host's liquid refreshments and the snatches of interesting conversation here and there. ]

...Good evening, Lord Emmanellain.

[so he says, in the same sort of tone one usually says something like great, just my luck. after taking in the young lord's flushed cheeks and drunken demeanor, francel immediately decides that he regrets the decision to refill emmanellain's glass more than anything he has ever regretted in his life (and francel has a great many things to regret in his life).

francel knows emmanellain quite well, of course — they practically grew up under the same roof — but this does not deter francel from desperately trying to act as though emmanellain is a stranger he has just met. paradoxically, he is also trying to forcibly dissuade emmanellain from pouring them any more wine — he grabs emmanellain's wrist to help steady and still the stream of wine with a casualness that can only be borne of great (and usually exasperated) familiarity.]

The... the sights, yes — that is enough — enough, Lord Emmanellain. Have you not had rather too much to drink?

[ Too much? Emmanellain may have remained unperturbed by Francel's less than lukewarm response, but the question gives him pause, long enough for him to at least appear to mull it over quite seriously. He abandons his fruitless search for Francel's sister, gaze wandering to Francel's fingers upon his wrist, to the wine glass drops away from overflowing. His eyes narrow as if in great concentration. By some miracle, nothing spills.

Emmanellain's answer is a burst of laughter, and he waves one hand dismissively, stretching the other out for his waiting glass. ]

Too much! Is there such a thing, I ask?

[ Not if one conveniently forgets past incidents, some minor repeated difficulties gauging limits and the threshold between enough and too much. ]

Now, my poor brother might spend the evening in fetters, minding what he says, what he does, how much to drink—

[ Emmanellain's hand finds its destination and raises the glass almost in a toast, a moment's thought for Artoirel and his duties. ]

Which ladies to ask for a dance, which lords to discuss this and that with... But I?

[ Placing the rim of his glass against his lips, Emmanellain tips his head back, punctuating his rambling point with a mouthful of his drink, before he throws his arms out to each side for emphasis — and upsets his balance. ]

[francel tries to locate an escape route — but he can't find one before emmanellain topples over, and then he finds himself catching his "friend" (childhood bully?) before anything can crash to the ground. francel's not very strong, and he does have to exert himself to keep emmanellain on his feet; he looks around the room anxiously, but fortunately, no one has seen him with emmanellain yet.

muttered:] We need to put you in fetters of a different kind.

[surely there must be someone he can just pass emmanellain off on. where is his little pageboy? the one that is always so much more responsible than his lord...]

Where is young Honoroit, Lord Emmanellain?

[ This, for the record, does not prove Francel right. Anyone could stumble, talking, drinking, and gesturing at the same time! Luckily there are seats to move to, away from the treacherous floor and the imminent threat of Emmanellain pulling Francel down with him as he staggers into the reluctant arms struggling with their burden, made worse by Emmanellain's efforts to right himself lest one Lady Laniaitte should make her appearance then. ]

Honoroit—

[ Somehow he succeeds in keeping the floor under his feet and the rest of himself not draped all over Francel. Most of the banquet's attendees are wrapped up in their own affairs; only brief glances drift their way. ]

I'd wager he was bored out of his skull! No need for him to stay with me at all times, you know. I sent him off to... ah, but now I could simply ask you!

[ And Emmanellain's face lights up with a triumphant smile. ]

[in fairness, it's probably not too odd that the youngest son of house fortemps is in the company of the youngest son of house haillenarte. someone, somewhere, is probably praying for francel's straitlaced piousness to rub off on emmanellain. that would probably be a good thing.

unfortunately the contact doesn't last long as francel tries to heave emmanellain onto a nearby chaise, and then kind of hovers with his arms outstretched just in case — the way one tries to balance a delicate but unstable structure.]

...Simply ask me what?

Edited 2017-04-19 02:15 (UTC)

[ A sack of popotoes could well have taken Emmanellain's place — he flops down heavily onto the chaise, sagging against its backrest in a heap of limbs flung out wherever they land. Instead of answering Francel, he inspects his mysteriously empty wine glass, then his mysteriously damp sleeve, wrinkling his nose and heaving a sigh. He makes it partway to sitting up before the task grows too taxing, and his head drops back. ]

Hmm...? Why, but one question, one most important question!

[ A pause follows, any dramatic effect unintentional. Emmanellain blinks slowly, grappling with the weight of his own eyelids. As urgent as it is to ask his pressing question and hear his concerns confirmed or see them dispelled, this creeping drowsiness threatens to gain the upper hand.

No, not here— He isn't Artoirel, nor Haurchefant, but he isn't entirely oblivious to the widely held opinions of him, and even he knows that every son of House Fortemps is ever under scrutiny. ]

[francel deftly confiscates emmanellain's glass before the older lord can make the connection between his lack of wine and his wet sleeve. some young woman in a pretty blue dress is staring scandalized at the sight of emmanellain gracelessly sprawled out on the chaise — but when francel makes eye contact with her, she turns away. he wonders vaguely if he should hail down some unfortunate house dzemael guard and have emmanellain escorted to a guest bedroom to sleep the night off. it would save both of their dignities.

sighing, francel reaches out to lightly slap emmanellain's cheek with the back of his knuckles a few times in an effort to wake him up.]

And what is this important question, Emm?

[like as not no one has addressed emmanellain by his childhood nickname in a good long while.]

[ They've begun to attract longer, pointed stares in addition to the displeased glances one might give a particularly pesky nuisance to wish gone from sight without the trouble of going near it and risking involvement. Beneath the cover of music and conversation, some voice their disdain, but no muttered "good-for-nothing" or "drunken fool" reaches Emmanellain's ears. His first reply is a groan, and he swats at Francel's hand; still, the taps achieve their goal, shaking him from his stupor. Emmanellain's gaze finds Francel to regard him with a foggy sort of curiosity.

How many years since he last heard that nickname?

It prompts memories of afternoons passed in the very company he so desires, the games they played together. Another sigh leaves Emmanellain, and he lets his head slide from the chaise's backrest to fall onto his palm. ]

Only this, old boy: a dance.

[ Not with Francel — but that goes without saying. ]

I made sure to propose it — I suppose they went missing in transit...

[francel is silent for a moment.

against the noise of the crowd and the soaring arc of the music, francel's silence is not in fact quiet. he stares at emmanellain's slumped form for some time. it would be easy, as laniaitte's younger brother, to simply dismiss emmanellain as a drunk and a fop — an unworthy suitor for his sister's hand. privately, francel thinks that laniatte and artoirel are better-matched than laniaitte and emmanellain (or even, in his most self-indulgent moments, himself and artoirel). he has no reason to be sympathetic to emmanellain's desires.

but francel knows a few things about unrequited love, and it hurts him to see someone else in its throes just as much as it does to be in it.

he knows emmanellain is drunk, and this will mean absolutely nothing in the morning, but all the same, the rapping knuckles at emmanellain's cheek turn gentle for one moment. francel's knuckles stroke emmanellain's cheek with a kind of sad lovingness. his voice is gentle.]

I tell you now this will not end happily.

Edited 2017-04-19 23:58 (UTC)

[ To feel that shift from light slaps to a touch alike a feather's caress is a curious, truly unfamiliar sensation, out of the ordinary in a sequence of events whose ending is predictable. Emmanellain could will the hand upon his cheek to belong to another, close his eyes and pretend — though he would much prefer to be less... himself, less as he is now, in a perfect daydream. But he can barely keep himself upright, and Francel's voice and Francel's words hinder any pretending.

Emmanellain's brow furrows. He turns a look of confusion toward Francel. ]

What? Whatever do you mean?

[ Seven hells, his head weighs far more than it should. Even so, he reaches up to pat Francel's arm in turn, brushing off the young lord's strange warning with a laugh. ]

Quite right, perhaps not this night, that I'll grant! We did make a narrow escape, averting disaster in the nick of time and all that, a joint effort—

[francel has no idea what emmanellain is talking about, but he allows his arm to be patted away, letting it fall back to his side. he sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose.]

Might we speak again once you have sobered?

[ And just like that, the moment passes, whatever connection took shape between them then swiftly broken. Emmanellain has his answer, if not the answer he longs to hear, but it isn't terribly difficult to dismiss it in favour of his own interpretation. Holding fast to it, he barrels on: ]

We might speak now, or on the morrow, or another day! But are we not speaking? Truly, what fortune that it was you... My regards to my lady...

[ Fumbling for his glass only to discover none within reach brings a perplexed frown to his face. ]

A— a toast, if you'll join me — not that I intend to keep you from ladies of your own!

[with a sigh for the stupid, terrible drunkard he loves (and hates, and loves to hate) entirely too much, francel turns away, searching for an idle guard he might trust to take emmanellain to safety.

unfortunately, no manor knights appear to be within easy reach, and he doesn't trust emmanellain enough to walk out of the man's sight. francel turns, instead, to the closest stranger that seems likely to offer him help.]

A thousand pardons, good ser, but would you mind finding someone to escort my — this gentle lord to some private chambers? He is terribly inebriated, and I fear I cannot take my eyes off him for even a moment, lest he get himself into some dire straits...

[ On the surface, every Ishgardian banquet held appears no different from the last, an assembly of the same people in nigh immutable configurations, occupying the same halls for the same purpose. Beneath the surface, ties are forged, others unmade; no Ishgardian banquet is held for frivolity's sake. The individual aspirations and the conduct of those come to attend, however, vary greatly.

Where amid the range the two lordlings before Zephirin fall is determined at a glance in the infamous Lord Emmanellain's case — his harried companion is more challenging to assign a category beyond his politely pleading manner, his sustained effort to preserve propriety.

Zephirin halts, drawn away from nothing of such import in that moment that it cannot be postponed for the nonce, though the consequences of Lord Emmanellain's vices are not his direct concern. He assesses the scene, one harmless placed beside certain comrades' pastimes: the young lord's mumbling makes mention of roses and little else as he labours to push himself to his feet, swaying on the spot once he stands. Harmless, yes, but a scene better confined to a tavern.

Turning back to Francel, expression kept even, Zephirin inclines his head. ]

The gentle lord's escort will be along shortly.

[ That promise made, he departs, threading his way past pairs and clusters of banquet-goers until he locates a guard in House Dzemael's employ to entrust with the task at hand. Together, they return, in time to witness the scene change as a boy arrives and sweeps a courteous bow. "Honoroit, my boy! Back so soon?" The youth's master radiates hope, seemingly blind to his manservant's troubled countenance. ]

Edited 2017-04-20 11:57 (UTC)

[francel, for his part, turns this way and that — a little ways toward honoroit, and then a little ways toward zephirin and the manor guard. he seems somewhat overwhelmed to have so much to deal with at once; somewhere in the back of his mind he is keenly aware of his second brother, aurvael, watching the scene unfold from across the room.

(if francel were more aware of the goings-on in ishgard — if he had spent the last two years in ishgard and not in distant central coerthas — he would know that aurvael's alarm has been brought on by ser zephirin's unexpected involvement.)

though francel had felt mildly affronted by zephirin's brusque manner of speech before leaving (as opposed to the rather flowery language expected between nobles), he welcomes the man's return with a genuine — albeit rather distracted — smile.]

Thank you ever so much, ser, I owe you a great debt — you as well, Honoroit. Please keep a watchful eye on Lord Emmanellain now you are returned —

[he seems a bit... frazzled.]

[ With the guard at the ready, the matter is handled, and Zephirin has no cause to linger, but the declaration of gratitude that intercepts him upon his return bars his way. Something in its delivery leads him to forgo convention — the appropriate response would be to decline the need for repayment of any imagined debt owed, each side agreed that such an exchange is no binding contract. Yet if they were to take the young lord at his word?

A hint of amusement touches Zephirin's lips. ]

Until such time as I hold you to your pledge, then.

[ "My apologies, Lord Francel," Honoroit interjects, his voice rather strained, now that he abruptly has both hands full, supporting his master's weight when Emmanellain's unsteady steps nearly pitch him floorward. "L-leave my lord to me... I do hope you have, ah, a quieter evening ahead." Here the manor guard intervenes, relieving the boy of his load, and despite Emmanellain's protestations, they successfully usher him from the room. ]

[once again, francel feels mildly affronted.

the problem, he reflects, is not in fact zephirin's brusqueness. he is brusque, yes, but he has been nothing but polite. the problem is that he fails to give expected responses. not a problem, for instance, or it was no trouble — those little remarks that lubricate social functions like this house dzemael banquet. and yet, francel has no right to be offended. he feels, nevertheless, as though he — or some vague foundation of society has been somehow violated.

after honoroit, emmanellain, and the manor guard vanish from sight, francel takes a moment to look at zephirin — really look at him, as a person, and not as a convenient means to escape house fortemps' youngest. handsome, francel decides, but unfamiliar. passing strange. he is good-looking in a way that surely everyone must take notice, and yet he does not command the attention of the room as does lord artoirel, or even ser adelphel brightblade.

he cannot place where he has seen zephirin before.

if he were more cautious, he might simply laugh off zephirin's remark as a joke, and move on with the party. but despite his meek mildness, francel is not terribly cautious. if anything, he is reckless to a fault, and for some reason, he wants to know if zephirin will continue to surprise him.

francel's appraisal lasts a mere second. he lets his eyes drop to the two glasses he still holds — his own, and emmanellain's — and as he speaks, he places the empty one on a nearby tray to be collected by a waiter.]

...Forgive me. Our... splendid northern customs dictate that I should know your face and title, but I have been absent from Ishgard for several years. May I have the honor of your name?

[ Once again, Zephirin finds himself detained a moment longer.

He allows it, free to take his leave should he deem it time to move on, and matches Lord Francel de Haillenarte to a category more clearly defined than first impressions provided. Zephirin's position makes it his business to keep abreast of Ishgard's goings-on, the Holy See's surrounding lands included — social functions are but one playing field upon which the High Houses engage. House Haillenarte has gone poorly rewarded for its services, with the exception of the promise of Halone's halls.

When Francel addresses him this time, Zephirin notes his averted gaze, unusual paired with his adherence to the expected. Zephirin's answer comes smoothly, and smoothly, too, does he choose to pick up a glass for himself: ]

Certainly. Zephirin de Valhourdin — your distant post absolves you, Lord Francel. I fear I have not had occasion to leave mine.

[ It matters little to him whether his full identity is known to Francel. Names and titles are not what drives him. ]

[the name valhourdin brings to mind some dim recollection of a knightly lesser house, or perhaps a noble lesser house — francel cannot recall which. but the question of noble or common does not weigh as heavily upon francel as what might be expected. francel has never been one to refuse a knight's company over how blue his blood might run.

he watches zephirin over the rim of his own glass, and then volunteers a careful assumption.]

You are posted within Ishgard's walls, then?

[ The glass in Zephirin's hand serves no immediate purpose; he does not lift it to his lips, merely holding it while he meets Francel's eyes, now resting on him and thus open to contact. The young lord's cautiously drawn conclusion is somehow refreshing. It is a tentative move, as though Francel casts about for footing to reacquaint himself with the rules of society's games.

To watch him flounder, no matter its odd charm, is not Zephirin's intent. ]

I go whither His Eminence requires of me.

[ So he offers plainly, which could be taken for a reluctance to continue this conversation, but in truth it is simply the most efficient phrasing to encompass the scope of his post. ]

[oh.

oh.

(from across the room, aurvael sighs and leaves his brother to his fate.)

the knowledge that he has been pestering a member of the archbishop's esteemed personal guard brings a visible touch of color to francel's cheeks. he almost asks ...and his eminence requires your presence at this banquet? but, well, that much is obvious, and in tune with the traditional obligations of the heavens' ward, at that. floundering again for something new to say, francel awkwardly gives the traditional response to any talk of the archbishop: he raises his glass, proposing a quiet toast.]

...May the Fury bless his work and grant him length of days.

[it is traditional, but perhaps to a fault; that particular toast is not really in vogue at the moment, and such deep piousness is hard to find in ishgard these days.]

[ Lord Francel's pallor gives way to a maiden's blush — like as not, he believes himself to have committed some faux pas. And yet, to make amends he commits what might be seen as another, had he not confessed his lengthy absence from the city. What could signal a lack of care for current customs seems instead only clumsy and quaint.

Missing nary a beat, Zephirin mirrors the glass raised and finishes Francel's sentiment in like manner. ]

May She be his shield and deliver him from all harm. [ He pauses briefly then, the time it takes to blink. ] Halone's blessings be upon you and yours as well, Lord Francel.

The same to you, Ser Zephirin...

[their glasses duly raised, francel sips of his wine, drinking a bit more than usual so that he can blame his blush on the alcohol. he lets the wine's somewhat spicy finish linger in his mouth for a moment, but then his contemplative look gives way to surprise.]

Oh — now I know where I have heard your name!

[he probably didn't mean to say that out loud.]

[ Unlike the drinking habits that some exhibit even at a formal gathering, Zephirin takes a sip of his wine as though he performs a ceremonial gesture. Afterwards, his hand returns to its former position, glass lowered; his gaze remains where he left it to study Francel. A questioning glance is the prompt he gives the young lord to elaborate, should he wish it. ]

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject