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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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[francel holds himself still until after his sister has left. laniaitte opens the double doors with ease and re-enters the banquet. like as not she has no love for the banquet at all, but it is duty that drives her — duty and social obligations.

francel watches the couples past her, whirling on the dance floor, and he doesn't understand why they have blurred until the doors close behind her and he realizes he is crying.

the young lord wipes his tears, silent except for the shaky breath he takes — he learned a long time ago that sobbing only opened him up to further teasing. he hates this — he hates his weakness, his jealousies —

by the time he has willed his expression into normalcy and wiped the last of his tears from his reddened eyes, the music has ended. another song will probably be played in a few moments' time, but it doesn't matter now. the banquet is spoiled. he cannot continue pretending that he is happy now that he has been reminded that he is not.

francel walks to the hallway window. it is snowing outside. he rests his cheek against the glass, and watches the white flakes of snow glimmer dimly in the light of the streetlamps.]

[ Once Francel and his sister retreated to discuss their private affairs, Zephirin returned to the usual way of things — brief words here and there, the occasional moment on the dance floor, an attentive ear for his surroundings. Lady Laniaitte steps past the doors unaccompanied. She wears an expression that points to a weight bearing down upon her, not lifted, until she visibly draws herself up and faces the revelry reigning within the hall, straight-backed.

The musicians finish their song. Zephirin, though his chance involvement in Francel's evening has ended, takes this opening to make as if to approach Laniaitte.

His steps do not come to a halt beside her — only when the doors are at his back, the threshold and the banquet's sounds behind him, does he stop, standing still near the wall a ways from Francel's window. The young lord now appears wrapped in melancholy.

It is Zephirin's concern to the same extent as was the prevention of any incident to ensue from Lord Emmanellain's earlier drunken state. It comes to his attention by chance.

Yet instead of some announcement to alert Francel to his presence, or opting to turn away, he simply waits in motionless silence, watching the picture before him. ]

[the glass is cold against francel's cheek. after some time, something that might be a hiccup or a sob rises in francel's chest; not wanting to fog the window with his breath, francel turns his head and lets out a slightly congested sigh instead.

the movement brings zephirin into his peripheral vision. francel turns his head sharply once he realizes what he is seeing, and then seems to panic. he straightens himself; he wipes away some remaining moisture from his eyes. his eyelids and nose are now very red.]

S-Ser Zephirin? Why are you here?

[ Zephirin is not given to hasty speculation; the scene which he has chanced upon is incomplete. It is lonely, bracketed by the merriment now muffled behind thick doors and walls, and the quiet hallway where they stand. In the lamplight, telltale tracks glisten upon Francel's cheek until the young lord's hand passes across them.

Why the conversation with his sister has left Lord Francel in tears is not for Zephirin to uncover.

His movements less abrupt than Francel's, the knight lowers his gaze to allow Francel a moment to salvage his composure, though it will not restore his privacy. He sidesteps the question. ]

Once more I must needs apologize, Lord Francel. My intent was not to intrude.

N-No. You... you haven't...

[francel blinks too many times in the span of one moment, trying to shake off the sudden sting of fresh tears in his eyes. he takes a deep breath, running his hands over his face in an effort to recompose himself. he wishes this were a masquerade, that he had remembered to bring something to hide his face.]

...There is no need to apologize.

[he shakes his head.]

I... I should apologize to you.

[ Few would welcome spectators to witness such displays, and Zephirin considers withdrawing — whatever compelled him to step away from the banquet and his obligations is satisfied with the knowledge that Francel has not fled from the premises. Weeping achieves little, but sorrow is no shameful thing.

He turns slightly to gaze past Francel and the windowpane, and the falling snow beyond — until the young lord speaks of apologies and earns himself a quizzical tilt of Zephirin's head. ]

I cannot say that I recall aught done to offend.

I... I have been...

[francel struggles with his words, and then shrugs his shoulders in complete defeat.]

...I have been lying to you, I think.

[it is clear that francel is trying to maintain his composure, but he keeps having to pause to wipe fresh tears on the back of his glove. he wonders where his handkerchief has gone, or why he didn't think to pull it out before this. he would fumble for it if he were not trying to avoid unnecessary movements.]

Other... other lords and ladies always seem to enjoy themselves so much, at these banquets. They — they drink, and make merry, and say foolish things, and — and dance, and flirt, and play at games of love... But I? I am not... I have never...

[again, he thinks of how he used to be: a child, toddling alongside his father, being coached to greet every noble by name and title; he thinks of how he wants to be: one of the beautiful, charming flowers of ishgard, adorned in jewels and silks, whirling on the dancefloor, with songs played in her name. but it has nothing to do with being a lady — what he really wants is to dance with a handsome man, to flirt with one, to be desired by one as laniaitte is desired by emmanellain, to be pursued, to be wanted, by someone...

these are all impossible things, for someone like him.]

...I wanted to be like that... just once. But now it — it all seems so dreadfully pointless. And once this is all over, I'll be the same fool I always was...

[ Zephirin listens, silent, absorbing each fragment of Francel's explanation to piece together into a whole. Gaps remain — what has spurred these thoughts is unclear, as is the reason for Francel's remorse, needless in Zephirin's view. There is no harm done if he played an unwitting role in the young lord's attempt to realize an innocuous fantasy.

For Zephirin, the enjoyment that Francel yearned to experience holds no appeal, but he sees its purpose: in its absence, steeped in centuries of bloodshed and loss, hopelessness and discontent thrive.

The halting trickle of Francel's words dries up, but the flow of his tears does not. A glove is a poor substitute for a handkerchief, and so Zephirin retrieves a clean serviette tucked away on his person, stepping closer to bring it within Francel's reach. ]

It would appear that the apology remains mine to extend. I took your good cheer to be genuine.

[ Outside, the snowflakes dance to the musician's playing in Francel's stead. ]

[francel stares at the proferred serviette as though afraid to even touch it. in the midst of his self-imagined sin, forgiveness seems somehow alien and terrifying. he reaches out slowly and grasps the cloth at its corner.]

I... I was happy, for a time. But.. have I not deceived you?

[ The cloth does not transmogrify into a slavering beast, some ravenous creature with snapping jaws and fangs to sink into Francel's hesitant fingers. It stays where Zephirin holds it, waiting peaceably to be accepted and used.

The knight raises a brow. ]

How so, if your happiness then was not feigned?

[francel pulls the cloth toward himself, but does not use it to dry his face. he sniffles involuntarily — which sort of ruins the whole effect of his picturesque melancholy, but one must sniffle when one must.]

Because I... I am not the person I was trying to be.

[ Their fingers brush, the contact fleeting and barely there behind a barrier of fabric, before Zephirin's hand returns to his side. He regards Francel in contemplation — still the young lord's distress shows no sign of abating. ]

I see.

[ Zephirin's expression does not change as he faces the window. ]

So you mean to tell me that your deception began the moment we first spoke, and continued to our conversation's end?

[when did they first speak? francel struggles to recall. suddenly he remembers that it had been to secure emmanellain an escort, that he had hardly paid zephirin any attention at all until after emmanellain was gone. he lets his hand still clutching the serviette fall to his lap as he gnaws on his lip.]

I... well, no...

[he feels even more stupid than before.]

[ Gently yet steadily, the snowflakes outside drift from the heavens. Zephirin waits for Francel to gather himself, however long the wait. ]

When you spoke of your tutor, then? Or of the snow?

...All of that was true.

[francel, too, turns his eyes toward the dancing snowflakes outside. he tries to imagine what it would be like to try and dance with the snow crunching beneath one's heels. undoubtedly it would be difficult, even ridiculous; it would end with him and his dance-partner tumbling in the snow. but then, that was part of the appeal.]

Silly of me, I suppose...

[ Francel did not strike Zephirin as a fool, in those moments. One truly empty-headed, concerned only with dance and fine fare and flattering garments, would not harbour a secret wish to receive the Fury's judgment. ]

You have committed neither crime nor sin, Lord Francel.

[ Zephirin's gaze wanders from the window to study Francel's profile. Evenly, he adds: ]

I take no offense to know myself better suited to armour than to wedding-gowns.

[ Mild teasing, with the aim of probing for Francel's reaction, for another piece of this curious puzzle. ]

I confess, I see no cause for such regret.

Edited 2017-04-27 20:57 (UTC)

[francel actually chuckles at that, though the sound of his laughter is obfuscated by the lump still-aching in his throat. he turns his head and smiles wryly at zephirin through his tears.]

I said you would be suited to a wedding-gown!

[he shakes his head, reminded again of zephirin's exceedingly flat jokes. the image of stephanivien twisting the man's head on in the manufactory once again comes to mind. it all serves to dispel his bad mood, though perhaps in less gentle a way than he would have liked.]

I... I suppose there is none? I... I thought... I thought I had done you some wrong.

Edited 2017-04-27 21:45 (UTC)

[ Zephirin's gaze meets Francel's with the same evenness of his tone — but an automaton built to keep watch would have no need of the flicker of humour that tugs the corners of Zephirin's mouth upward, albeit into near undetectable a smile, and arches his brows. ]

If even now you stand by your belief, your deception was subtle. Think on it no more.

[ He pauses as if in thought. ]

The night is not yet ended, but it seems a certainty that I have escaped Ser Vellguine's fate.

[the fact that zephirin smiles with merely the slightest curl to his mouth is somehow endearing. francel briefly entertains the idea of reaching out and pulling the man's lips into a smile with his fingers, but first of all that would be strange and second of all he is still half-leaning into the corner of the window. it's actually rather uncomfortable; cold air claims his lower back and sends an uncomfortable chill up his spine. francel straightens himself still further, finally resting the whole of his weight onto his feet.]

Hm? Ser Vellguine's fate?

[ It seems that Francel has inadvertently roused some part of Zephirin that rarely emerges from its lockbox. There is no place for it beside duty, but it is not duty that keeps the knight by this window overlong.

He indicates their feet with a brief sweep of his hand. ]

Did you not advise caution in your company?

Oh...

[again francel laughs, a half-exhaled giggle. he brings the serviette up to his mouth to hide his smile.]

I might still collapse on you yet. A few more drinks will do it, I imagine.

[ It is somehow gratifying to hear that sound. ]

Ah. Mayhap I spoke too soon.

[ The young lord's spirits seem lifted, sufficiently so that he need not hide in a hallway's secluded corner — but traces of his misery are slow to fade, there in the redness to his eyelids, the drying tears clinging to his lashes.

Eventually, Zephirin breaks eye contact, glancing toward the closed doors. They open unexpectedly, and an elegantly coiffed young woman steps into the hallway, graces them with a lingering look, picks up her skirts, and disappears down the nearby staircase. Some moments later, a man follows. ]

Nn...

[francel makes a small, small sound that does not quite indicate anything. it somehow suggests that he is simultaneously surprised and unsurprised; coldly indifferent, and yet possibly interested. he sniffles one last time past the serviette.]

...I don't suppose they are off to dance in the snow.

[ Perhaps they are. Perhaps the snow stirs whimsy in them as it did in Francel — or they seek some place hidden from all eyes and ears, or mere coincidence takes them the same way.

It is of no consequence, and it transpires without comment on Zephirin's part. Turning, he leans closer to the window, an ilm's distance from the glass. On its other side, the snowflakes have not ceased their dance.

Leather-winged carcasses, spilt blood to water a field of scorched grass. The same scene, ringed with dark stains against patches of white yet unsullied. Charred corpses atop a bed of earth, a frozen mattress, their features beyond recognition, lives given to defend Ishgard as she is — it is the only way. Once—

It is the only way.

Zephirin remembers himself and blinks away the past. ]

... And you, Lord Francel?

Am I off to dance in the snow, you mean?

[young lord francel shakes his head, and finally lets the serviette drop back into his lap. he cannot know the turmoil in zephirin's mind, but he feels suddenly very cold.]

I... I am none too sure. I could just as easily accept a second plateful of tarts as a warm bed.

[he shivers a little, involuntarily. it is his proximity to the window.]

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