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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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[ 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.

[ Indeed, the statue stirs, coming to life to acquiesce as Francel brings the baked goods to his attention. One hand reaches out, selects the first tart it comes upon, and seizes it with the sort of care used to grasp some fragile object of value. Zephirin transfers the tart to his other hand's palm to catch any crumbs brushed loose. ]

There is no harm in admiring beauty wherever it is found, be that our lost grasslands or the ice and snow.

[ Ser Adelphel likely shares Francel's appreciation for a pristine snow-clad Coerthas — but Ser Adelphel is nowhere within earshot.

Brief silence descends once more. Bringing his chosen tart to his mouth, Zephirin takes a bite. ]

[francel watches zephirin with a keen interest he does not bother to hide. he is a man more shy than this, ordinarily; he cannot explain to himself this mad game he is playing, his strange desire to see zephirin move, let go. vaguely he understands that it has something to do with the fact that he knows all too well what it is like to be so still — but it is an odd impulse all the same.

the blush at his ears has now faded, but his cheeks still burn a color almost as pink as ser adelphel's hair.]

How do you like it?

[ Francel's attentive stare does not escape Zephirin's notice. For his part, Zephirin shows no reaction, though the lordling watches him as though he has never seen another man eat a fruit tart and thinks it fascinating. Carefully, he chews his mouthful — a burst of sweetness, smooth in texture — and swallows, and catches stray crumbs to wipe away with his thumb. His hand drops from the corner of his mouth to return the tart to his other palm. ]

Exquisite, as you assured me, Lord Francel. My thanks.

[ Much like Ser Adelphel might have been the man to turn to in discussions of snowy Coerthas, culinary matters are best left to Ser Janlenoux, assuming a goal to hear a master's opinion, but Lord Francel seeks a simple answer, no recipe, despite asking his question as the tarts' baker would. How do you like it? — almost as one awaiting a verdict on his own handiwork.

Zephirin's lips betray a trace of fresh amusement in a faint smile. ]

[zephirin offers no keen insight as to how the tart was made or served, true, but francel seems strangely pleased with the answer all the same. he smiles, too.]

Good. That is... good.

[for one thing, it is reassuring to know that zephirin is, in fact, capable of tasting things as any other man — or, at the very least, he is capable of pretending to taste things. if francel's own brother were not the master inventor responsible for making machinery for the holy see, francel might suspect that the vault's engineers have developed a new automaton, one in the guise of a tall elezen man who tells exceedingly poor jokes.]

Are you one for sweets, Ser Zephirin? Or do you prefer more savory delights?

[ Amusement lingers. This particular conversation counts among the most memorable that Zephirin has had, unique for its length and its divergence from the setting's norms. Francel asks a host's questions, recounts boyhood memories, reveals some oddly intimate musings, none of which would cross any onlooker's mind. His pursuit of Zephirin's mundane "secrets" is intriguing.

(Doubtless any onlooker will make his or her own speculations as to the nature of so drawn out a discussion between Lord Francel de Haillenarte and the but recently appointed archimandrite of the Heavens' Ward, and such speculations would miss their mark.)

Zephirin considers this latest question. In possession of all five senses, he is capable of tasting what he eats, and he is capable of appreciating dishes of pleasing flavour, but he does not seek out any one over another, nor indulge in favourites. ]

Both have their place, in moderation.

[ He takes a moment to finish the remainder of his fruit tart and contemplate his inquisitive conversation partner. ]

What of your own preferences?

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