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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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[ Zephirin is no priest, and they are not at confession; he cannot absolve Francel of his apparent fondness for dessert, barely the shade of a sinful act when few abide by the Fury's every teaching. Truth be told, he would look the other way, were the young lord to give in to temptation. Grave transgressions do not take the form of dainty fruit tarts, nor even that of drink in excess.

As Francel frowns at the platter, Zephirin's hand calmly claims a second tart. ]

I would not think that a post out in Coerthas grants any much chance to indulge.

[ Pudding in platefuls to lure a man from the path of temperance would surprise him far more than an abundance of time to contemplate "just about everything". ]

[zephirin's assumption is dead on. francel blinks, surprised at its accuracy, and then smiles.]

Oh... you are correct. Coerthas... does not.

[he, too, follows zephirin's example, taking up a third tart.]

In truth, it has been some time since I dined upon anything so fine as this — at Skyfire Locks, you see, I cook my own meals. I could, given the ingredients, prepare for you a roast to rival that found here, but — it is an irony — somehow I've no talent for baking. With karakul, one can season to taste, but with cake? I simply ready the batter and pray for the best...

[he laughs, a little sheepishly.]

[ While Zephirin listens, the tart disappears in measured bites before he speaks once more. He does so with a nod in Francel's direction. ]

Be at ease, then, Lord Francel. The Fury will not strike you down.

[ Or damnation awaits all who taste a dish prepared by the hand of Ser Janlenoux, who serves up sin each time he sets foot in the Vault's kitchens.

In other words, none will pass judgment on an evening's respite from duty. When it ends, Francel will return to his garrison, to the chill of the snows and the tough meat of wild karakul.

Zephirin's sense of humour evidently sees little use. ]

[mention of the fury has perhaps the wrong effect. francel's hand freezes in its effort to bring the tart to the lordling's mouth. his lips twitch oddly.]

...Would that She did...

[and on that off, cryptic note — so unlike anything else he has said in the last few minutes — he downs his lemon tart. and yet lord francel also seems to realize he has misstepped: he reaches for his neglected glass, and then —

— promptly drains the whole thing.]

[ It is a remark jarring in tone and placement. Zephirin's brows arch, but he says nothing for a time, does nothing, resuming a watchful guard's posture as Francel washes down his tart with the entire contents of his wine glass.

Perhaps it is a pious man's guilt, perhaps over personal failings, perhaps House Haillenarte's losses suffered. Perhaps it means nothing.

It is not a wish to go to Halone's arms a fallen hero. ]

... I fear you have done naught to invite Her ire, Lord Francel.

[francel swallows his wine without tasting it. once he resurfaces from the bottom of his glass, he sets the glass aside, though it is plain from the way his eyes flick toward the bottle that his intent is to refill it in a few minutes' time.]

No... no, I suppose not.

[the musicians still their playing as the waltz comes to its end and — right on cue — smartly dressed dzemael manor manservants reappear with more to eat for any so inclined. in the midst of all the merriment, francel seems to recover himself, once again he fixes zephirin with his sweetly inquisitive look.]

Nevertheless... if ever you find yourself in Dragonhead, I would be honored to serve you a meal of my own making. Ah, but I suppose the Archbishop would have no need to travel quite so far south...

[ Lord Francel, it seems, says one thing, yet believes another.

There are those quick to find fault with themselves, those for whom the slightest misstep equates to failure. Engaging in the harshest self-flagellation, the Fury's wrath would be a relief. But Zephirin does not remind a devout man of Ishgard that the Fury knows the depths of every heart; he lets Francel tidy away the remnants of his inward-turned loathing whilst the manor manservants make their entrance and replace empty platters.

When Francel returns to the previous focus of their conversation, Zephirin looks from the wider room back to the young lord, who extends his polite gesture and corrects himself in one breath. ]

You have the right of it. But I look forward to availing of your hospitality, if ever His Eminence should task me with the journey.

[ He places his hand to his chest, dipping forward briefly in a slight bow. ]

[francel smiles and returns zephirin's gesture, but he does so clumsily. he seems, in fact, to execute a lady's curtsy for a moment before he stops midway through and corrects himself with the proper gentleman's bow.

delicate laughter rings out to their left. his mix-up has elicited the attention of a noble lady, who has apparently come to their table merely to have her glass refilled. she is somewhat older than both of them, though not excessively so; she radiates a gently aging beauty in her brown furs and red silks. she offers no apology, but she hides her icy smile past a delicate red fan. "if you have certain... habits, lord francel, there are other lords who share such inclinations. i do believe you would look most fetching in a dress of sapphire blue."]

A-Ah, um — er — that is —

[francel stammers out what might be a denial if only the words would emerge from his throat. the blush has returned to his ears again. it is difficult to place how the woman's accusation of transvestism is meant: she is of a house sworn to house durendaire, and could just as easily mean the remark kindly as she means it to humiliate him.]

[ That Francel comes close to responding with a curtsy in place of a bow leaves Zephirin unfazed, accustomed as he is to witnessing rather more colourful behaviour among the Heavens' Ward itself. The gaffe would have gone ignored, but they are not alone, and the woman who announces her presence with a gibe cloaked as advice poses an obstacle to a seamless change of subject.

Zephirin turns to acknowledge her arrival, as is custom. He proffers his arm. ]

Your advice is generously imparted, my lady. If I may, I would request your continued guidance — ought I wear colours light or dark?

[ Zephirin's manner remains perfectly sober, though fashion is a matter of no relevance when one wears attire already prescribed. ]

[the noble lady continues to giggle past her fan. "you, ser zephirin?" she titters. "hmm, hmm. i would say that you should ever walk in the light. the white skirt of the very reverend does suit you so. yes, like a wedding-dress suits a pretty bride..."

she laughs again. a servant comes by and deftly refills her glass; she takes it with her free hand, using a sweep of her fan to announce her exit, and flounces off.

francel is still sputtering, bewildered. he seems to require several moments to recollect himself before he sheepishly returns to the plate of tarts.]

...Perhaps, in her generosity, she will arrange for a dress of sapphire blue to await me at Skyfire Locks.

[ Zephirin takes the parting comment in stride, bowing his head as though flattered by the comparison. The Enchiridion preaches temperance, but more oft than not, most choose to remember the teachings only selectively — loosened tongues are the usual outcome.

Unfortunately, it appears that his attempted diversion has in fact prolonged Francel's discomfort.

A glance toward Francel discovers the young lord making eye contact with the tarts left on their platter. Zephirin shrugs. ]

And you would feel obliged to wear it upon your next visit?

No, but...

[francel doesn't finish, if indeed he has anything to protest about wearing a dress at all. he takes up a fourth tart, but with less of his earlier relaxed posture: this time, he picks up the tart with both hands, like a mouse, or one of the chinchillas that prowl the wilds of coerthas. the lordling has a funny habit wherein he stuffs every tart into his mouth whole and chews with his cheeks stuffed rather than run the risk of crumbs falling after separate bites.

for now he keeps the tart in his hands as his eyes flick curiously over towards zephirin.]

...You would look very good in a wedding-gown.

Edited 2017-04-24 11:18 (UTC)

[ Once again their conversation treads upon unexpected ground, and at that, Zephirin hums a chuckle under his breath. With a shake of his head, he retorts: ]

Regrettably, I must content myself with plate and mail, never to be a bride.

[ Lord Francel, Zephirin suspects, now suffers from the same condition as the noble lady of a moment prior, and might come to wish that his remark was not spoken aloud. Covertly, the knight surveys the exits, in the event that Francel would benefit from a few moments of air. ]

[with that said, francel stuffs his tart into his mouth with a rodent's panache, chewing full-cheeked with both hands close to his mouth as he stares (without quite seeing) at zephirin's armor. perhaps in his mind he is imagining various cuts and fits of lace against zephirin's slender frame, the effect of a veil and some flowers against his golden hair. at length francel swallows, though not without noticing the way zephirin is marking the exits.]

Oh! Have I kept you overlong?

[ Together, they have whiled away a portion of the evening in what amounts to idleness — but many attend such gatherings for that very reason. Zephirin's attention has scarce strayed elsewhere — but no duty demands his presence. He has performed society's motions and made his rounds.

Again he shakes his head, another minute movement. ]

Not at all.

[ Neither kept nor overlong. ]

My thoughts but turned toward the heavens. Pray pay it no mind.

Are you sure? I hate to be a bother. If you must leave, I would take no offense.

[francel frets — but is content to let the matter go after another helping of dessert. he cannot recall now what he was saying before the noblewoman's timely intervention, and so there is nothing for it but to continue down the path he's chosen.

the lordling's lips are tinged with a pink so similar to that found on his cheeks that one might suspect the involvement of cosmetics... were it not for the fact that he was far more pallid when lord emmanellain was still floundering near him.]

...Green would suit you as well, I do think. In shades both dark and light.

[ Intriguing, too, is Francel's decision to resume their conversation. Surely he has friends and acquaintances whose company he enjoys, yet he chooses a stranger's instead, and upon this stranger, he bestows compliments perhaps better paid a lady to court.

Zephirin has encountered his fair share of admirers, but this is not quite the same, though he supposes that he could treat it no differently, despite lacking an eye for the fashionable, and indeed any interest in such frivolous pursuits. Green or blue, brocade or velvet, and so forth, these are the distractions afforded the privileged amidst calls for fervour in daily prayer and unflagging support lent a righteous war.

He motions at Francel, taking in the rosy hue that has bloomed upon the young lord's skin, confirmation of Zephirin's suspicions. ]

As it does you, Lord Francel.

[ Some fulms to their right, Francel's sister appears at last. She scans the crowd, loses the knit to her brow, and makes for her younger brother. ]

[francel's hand strays toward the bottle of wine, but he only runs his finger down the neck of the bottle before he seizes a more tempting prospect — a fifth? sixth? seventh? tart. the dance-music has started up again.]

I thank you for your insight! I think so, too, but perhaps I wear it too much...

[laniatte's arrival distracts the young lord. he turns to see house haillenarte's fairest rose making for his direction, and blinks at her in surprise.]

— Laniaitte? Whatever is the matter?

[ Laniaitte's expression mirrors her brother's as she draws nearer, her reasons an echo of Aurvael's. Reaching Francel and his companion, she stops to curtsy — if with a touch of stiffness, preferring a knightly bow just as she prefers her haubergeon to a lady's cumbersome skirts. "Pray pardon the interruption," she begins, "I thought my brother alone." Her eyes flick from Zephirin to Francel, and to the shrinking platter of fruit tarts.

She shakes her head. "Naught is amiss, Francel." If some troubling matter led her to find her brother, she keeps it to herself. Zephirin, she questions after a moment. "To what do we owe the pleasure of your company...?"

The knight bows in greeting, straightens, and looks between the siblings. ]

The pleasure is mine, Lady Laniaitte, to speak with our city's watchful defenders. We within her walls owe you our gratitude.

[the thought that laniaitte should have been house haillenarte's son, and francel the daughter, occurs to him (and perhaps all who behold them at the same place, the same time) once more. zephirin's comment elicits a slightly punch-drunk laugh — or what would be a punch-drunk laugh if it did not sound so much like a girlish giggle.]

Oh, I would not say that. Have I defended anything at all? It does not feel that way... from time to time I feel so —

[he might have punctuated that remark with the words godsdamn helpless if not for the fact that laniaitte is around, and francel is still clearheaded enough to know that he can't just go around saying whatever he wants to his older sister. in an effort to distract himself, he very smoothly reaches for the wine bottle, refilling his own glass with a surprisingly steady deftness.]

If there is aught you must needs say in private, Laniaitte, I could step out for the nonce...?

[ Some would concur, of like belief as Francel. The Steel Vigil's remains yet mar Coerthas and tarnish House Haillenarte's name, and failure is not easily scoured from memory. Others would assure Francel to the contrary; all who fought and fell that day did so in brave defense of Ishgard, and their deeds secure them the Fury's clemency.

No doubt the siblings Haillenarte have heard it all.

Zephirin offers no platitudes, but as brother and sister exchange words, the knight's eyes track Francel's movements.

Laniaitte's countenance clouds. "Francel—" Her hand lifts, its mark her brother's arm. Turning her head, she bows it, and addresses Zephirin. "Pray excuse us."

A nod in response grants the pair leave to do as they please. ]

Pray accept my apologies. Though I regret our conversation's final note, I thank you for your company, Lord Francel.

And I thank you for yours, Ser Zephirin.

[francel smiles and bows, calmly allowing his sister to steer him out of zephirin's esteemed company; he waves a farewell against the plucking of the musicians playing pizzicato. he is notably steady as he walks beside lady laniaitte, but he makes no effort to hide the calm coldness in his voice as they walk away:]

Well, what is it you wanted, Laniaitte...?

[ Beyond one set of grand doors, out in the hallway, Laniaitte releases her brother and draws back a step. Grief has driven a wedge between them, their chosen paths two extremes. Francel resents her for her choice, she imagines.

They were not there, that day; they could do nothing. By association, they defended nothing. Perhaps Francel thinks that they do nothing even now.

"Am I not your sister, Francel? If I must neglect one duty to fulfil another as a daughter of our house, I would at the least speak with my brother ere we go our separate ways again." She sighs. "If aught ails you, 'tis ever my concern." ]

Edited 2017-04-25 21:59 (UTC)

[the dzemaels are ishgard's builders, and it shows in the fine construction of the carefully-balanced spire they call home. past the cultivated warmth of dzemael manor's reception hall, opulent hallways give way to even more lavish stairs. the dzemaels reach upward toward the heavens; francel reaches merely for patience.]

Naught ails me, sister. I am fine —or I was fine.

[if he does not resent her for her decision to forsake house haillenarte's honor, he almost certainly resents her for having pulled him away from the banquet — from his tarts and his wine and the knight he was teasing.]

Does aught ail you?

[ Is Francel fine, truly? Laniaitte has her doubts. It wounds her, this chasm she cannot bridge, not with reminders of what Chlodebaimt would have wanted.

Her gaze remains searching, fastened to Francel's. "Naught ails me," she replies, echoing her brother's phrasing. "Naught of true import — but Aurvael tells me that you endured Lord Emmanellain's company for a time." Shaking her head, she presses her fingertips to her brow as if to rub away an ache there before letting her hand fall. Her eyes rove across Francel's face.

"What of Ser Zephirin? What business did he have with you?" ]

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