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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 —

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[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. ]

It was when I was but a boy... yes, and a Zephirin de Valhourdin won the Temple Knights' grand tourney one year. My tutor told me that the victor was but a youth of fifteen summers. I had seen eight, myself, so he joked that I had a mere seven years to set the new record. [his voice dips low, imitating the tutor's deeper tones.] "Any more than that, and you'll be too old!" he said...

[francel's flushed embarrassment gives way to a radiant smile as he talks. the sudden recollection has lifted his mood; he likes to think of his childhood, to linger on happier days. he takes another sip of wine, largely to wet his throat.]

Alas, I had to disappoint him. I fear I'm more like to trip over a tourney-winner than ever be one.

[ Remarkable to place the name and a feat ere long nearing fifteen summers ago, faded by now in the memory of most until they retrieve it to dust off as the odd acknowledgement made in conversation, all customary references to Zephirin's achievements to his name. At eight, perhaps, Francel was steered towards a contemporary example of a future to make his own.

Zephirin himself has spent scant time reminiscing, occupied with the present for the sake of Ishgard's future.

No less worthy of note than Francel's memory is the transformation that Francel's mien undergoes, brightening for reasons unknown — to Zephirin, at least, who cannot glean the exact trigger from Francel's anecdote, its ending a self-deprecating remark. ]

There are greater feats to accomplish.

[ Rather than modesty, feigned or genuine, it is the truth bluntly stated. Zephirin's victory those many summers ago opened doors, all the more because none anticipated that a youth his age might best his seasoned opponents, but personal gain would be a petty ambition. What good is one man's rise against the backdrop of a war with no end? ]

The defense of our city above all.

[ Then, out of place, follows an observation that does not need making: ]

Your fears are unfounded, it would seem.

[once again, zephirin fails to give expected responses, but this time, francel is not so much affronted as he is... somehow concerned. most men would jump at the chance to relive bygone and innocent days. zephirin, it would seem, is not most men, but then again that is exactly why francel lured him into conversation to begin with.

the lordling's smile falters slightly, as he regards zephirin with confused curiosity.]

Hm? Whatever do you mean?

[ Zephirin's free hand indicates Francel. His shoulders lift almost imperceptibly in a shrug for the turn their conversation has taken — moments to hold such conversations are few and far between. ]

That you have yet to trip over a tourney-winner, Lord Francel. Naught more than a jest, if you will.

[if that is zephirin's idea of a jest it is an extremely bad one. it is, in fact, almost so unfunny that it becomes genuinely funny, though francel's laughter comes out as more of a disbelieving snort. he shakes his head and takes another sip of wine.

(from across the room, by the musicians, aurvael raises his brow to see his brother actually laughing alongside ser zephirin.)

it doesn't take very much wine to loosen francel's tongue. he doesn't appear to be too inebriated, but his cheeks and ears are a delightful pink.]

Oh, you don't know that! I almost tread on Ser Vellguine's toes, earlier, when I was dancing with some... I can't recall. [he shrugs.] Besides, I would merely have to trip over mine own father — he used to sweep the tourney gauntlets in his day.

[the musicians begin to play a different song, one faster in tempo, perhaps at aurvael's request. francel taps his gloved fingers to the beat, against the table.]

I might yet trip over you before the night is ended.

[ Francel's insistence on painting himself a hazard to Ishgard's every tourney-winner might be cause for concern, or at the least it suggests that he is beginning to succumb to the sips of wine he has taken. Gone are the profuse politeness and the fumbling of before, and the flush to his skin is not one of embarrassment.

Unwittingly, Zephirin imitates Lord Aurvael's look. ]

Shall I summon another guard, lest your fears come to pass?

[ Discreetly, to spare House Haillenarte humiliation, though the young lord seems unabashed to share his near encounter with Ser Vellguine's toes with said knight's commander. ]

No, no — I am fine, I assure you. But perhaps I should refrain from dance.

[francel has enough self-awareness, at least, to know that he is drinking too much and too fast. he sets his glass aside in hopes of sobering up a little bit.]

I do like to dance... or I did, at any rate. No, sometimes I still do...

[he seems to mull over the question of whether he does or doesn't like to dance for some time — and then, rather suddenly, he looks at zephirin with a keen and renewed interest.]

What are your thoughts on dance, Ser Zephirin?

As you wish.

[ Now it is Francel whose questions take Zephirin by surprise. Not once has the knight had to consider his thoughts on dance, let alone discuss the topic, and he falls silent, turns his head to observe the dance floor's occupants, and permits himself to hear the music that guides their movements.

Several moments pass. At last, Zephirin glances at Francel.

I will dance where I must would be one answer to give, but it carries the implication that he treats it as an obligation to endure, a thing which he prefers to avoid — inaccurate, when it neither pleases nor displeases him to dance.

His private opinions are irrelevant. ]

Many dance for enjoyment. If we past tourney-winners endeavour to keep away, you need not curb yours, Lord Francel.

[francel laughs, richer this time, with a touch of the happiness that graced him when he spoke earlier of his childhood days. all thoughts of propriety and expectations and prescribed responses are quite out of his head; he leans on the table, giving zephirin a kind of sly look from beneath his lashes.]

That's a thought, but not your thoughts. I wanted to know if you like or dislike it! But I suppose you are entitled to your secrets...

[searching for something to occupy himself, francel settles on a platter of delicate little tarts that has been strategically placed next to the wine glasses. he seizes one — lemon-filled — and pops it into his mouth. he hums as he chews.]

Do I prattle too much? I could stop.

[ Somewhere between his talk of Ser Vellguine's toes and his interest in Zephirin's thoughts, Francel has thrust Zephirin out of his element. Yet nothing keeps the knight bound in place, and reasons to excuse himself without causing offense are easily found, were there other matters to attend to and the young lord's "prattling" a problem. Neither is the case — Lord Francel speaks of tripping over feet, not issuing challenge upon challenge to an arm-wrestling match.

It is merely an unusual exchange, once again possessing its surprising charm.

As it stands, the sole action to take is to let the conversation runs its course until circumstances change. Setting his own wine glass aside, Zephirin shakes his head. ]

I do not dislike it.

[ An answer, perhaps his dance preferences divulged, or meant for Francel's newer question. ]

But as you are aware, my days are oft spent within Ishgard's walls. The highlands would afford me few moments to contemplate dance.

Hmmm. Is that so? [the lordling laughs.] The highlands afford me plenty of moments to contemplate — well, just about everything.

[francel's eyes flick toward the dancefloor, where aurvael is now asking a distinguished widow to dance (laniaitte has yet to reappear after presumably being accosted by lord emmanellain's requests). the dancers whirl in a flickering sea of fine fabrics and colors. by comparison, zephirin seems static, immovable — and yet, francel decides that he would prefer to watch the minute movements of the archbishop's knight.

francel presses another mini-tart to his lips, but does not eat it. his voice softens and takes on a dreamy air.]

It is ever so quiet and still, out in Coerthas — well, when it stops snowing, at least, and the dragons are put to rout. The snows blanket everything so lovingly — so inexorably. It would be wonderfully romantic to dance out in that untouched snow. Ah, but I suppose one would never find the right shoes for it...

[ Of course, the true reason why the highlands — or any place — would give Zephirin little opportunity to think idle thoughts is that to his mind, there is nothing to contemplate but Ishgard. Her history, her present state, her dawns to come. He will not begrudge others their pleasures, but his preference is to abstain from all manner of distraction, his purpose to play his part in furthering the archbishop's cause, in following the Fury's will.

Again Francel, stationed in central Coerthas not by chance, surprises Zephirin. He does not liken the snows to a shroud laid across a scarred wasteland. His thoughts are not fixed upon the Horde.

Zephirin has ceased his movements altogether, a breathing statue against the shifting sea of dancers, watching Francel in silence, as if the sight before him is wholly foreign. ]

No. [ Finally, he breaks his silence. ] Though you may be the first to entertain the notion.

[francel smiles at zephirin's remark, though perhaps it is not meant as a compliment, or indeed as anything but a simple observation.]

Perhaps, perhaps... Ah, do not misconstrue me. I miss the emerald grasslands just as much as any man who lived through the Calamity, but there is something to be said for ice and snow.

[he pops the mini-tart into his mouth, rolanberry-flavored this time; he chews and swallows daintily, in a mouselike manner rarely ever found in a soldiers' mess hall. evidently dessert suits him better than drink. after a moment he wonders if zephirin's stillness can be interrupted. he turns the plate of tarts so that every flavor is well within the man's reach.]

Please, Ser Zephirin, try one of these. Every one is exquisite.

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