(open) & i may not see the future,

[civicbooty]

Who: Aymeric and Francel and Solas in closed prompts; whoever wants an elf goodboy who likes ethics discussions and long walks on the beach in the open prompt!
When: mid to late May.
Where: the Coven, the Haven.
What: magic, ruminating on politics, rich boys probably putting mattresses on the floor, etc.
Warnings: gore, actually, but it's fine, everything's fine,



♞ practical magic. (the coven, open.)

[ Every day, without fail, Aymeric can be found at the Coven, diligently working on his magic. He's progressing slowly, in part because he's chosen no straightforward discipline: often he has an object in front of him on which he'll cast a spell; then he'll wait a little and touch it lightly with his fingertips. Many times he'll only purse his lips or frown, but other times, he'll yank his hand back as if burned (and he might be).

He also practices shielding magic, as best he can — he may turn, sometimes, and ask the nearest obvious newcomer if they wouldn't mind throwing something at him, yes really, harmless or otherwise. He's wearing armor; it's fine. ]

♞ walls continued upright, bricks met neatly, floors were firm, and doors were sensibly shut. (moving in, for francel.)

[ The house, the witches assured them, is perfectly safe. Yes, it did once belong to a family who succumbed to the Cwyld, but that's no reason for alarm, of course, they said; get a tea table and some chairs; get a fire started in the hearth, and it'll feel just like home.

It feels nothing like home, though, even after he and Francel have dusted all the rooms and carried in a few pieces of inexpensive but solidly-built furniture. Aefenglom is much too warm, for one thing.

By the time night falls, and there's nothing else to bring in or to clean, Aymeric has shed his armor in the house somewhere, poured two glasses of water, and coaxed Francel out to the covered front steps with them as a remedy for the house's stale air.

No one, at this hour, will see Francel's emerging scales.

The twin moons are bright overhead. Aymeric settles on the top step, allowing Francel space, and stretches out his dusty legs, looking pensively up at the sky. He takes a long, cool sip before he speaks. ]

I've wondered, I must confess, how much they truly know of that lesser moon. Folly, I suppose.

♞ a strategy discussion. (tea, for francel & solas.)

[ It still hasn't occurred to Aymeric to use his watch more often — or almost ever — so he's delighted when he runs into Solas by pure chance a day after they've moved into the Haven. They can't offer much in the way of hospitality, but they do have tea, and a table, and chairs, just as the witches suggested, and Aymeric extends a prompt invitation.

The house is too large for two people, though not as luxurious as some of those nearer the center of the city. The yard is a tangled mess of weeds, and thick ivy has smothered all but the windows on one side of the house. Part of the quaint carved wood detail above the covered porch has a sizable splintered hole in it, as if it was struck by something heavy, and a massive scrape mars the faded paint on the front door. The towering pale wall that separates the inner city from the outer is starkly visible, here, through the other homes.

Aymeric slows as they approach the door. ]

Francel has been reclusive, of late. I've no doubt he'll be glad of your company, but if he appears reluctant, pray forgive him.

[ He pushes it open, stepping into a clean but empty narrow foyer split by a staircase, and raises his voice: ]

Francel?

(note/the wildcard option: prose is always okay. for any other ideas/whatever, feel free to pm me or hmu on plurk at elegiae ♡

unrelated note that a reference to the parliamentary records building is now undermael college because I didn't see a question on the faq until right now,,,)

Comments

moving in;

[haillenarte]

[out in the moonlight, with no one to see him, francel has at least thought to open his collar and let in some of the night air — but the cloth still obscures most of his neck from view, and he's still not comfortable, not really, with his hands. his nails are sharp and pointed; a smattering of white scales has broken out near his knuckles.

he keeps his palms face-up as he reaches out to take a glass of water.]

...With luck, no Garlean madmen will tempt the ire of Menphina's hound in these lands.

[francel knows a little more about dalamud's fall than most men in ishgard, it seems.]

[civicbooty]

[ Aymeric laughs, a quiet huff, and leans back on his elbows, drawing up one leg boyishly on the step. ]

You jest, yet two Ishgardians with titles are most improbably here, no? We may well be joined by the emperor himself, presently.

[ He looks at Francel with muted sympathy, smile fading. ]

Does it cause you any pain?

[haillenarte]

[francel seems startled by the question, and something like panic crosses his expression — he did not want aymeric to acknowledge his changes, did not want anyone to notice them, because noticing them would make them more real.

guilt tugging the corners of his lips low, he cradles the glass between his palms, and does not drink.]

...Not... pain, as such — nothing sharp or refined. But a dull ache... in my bones, behind my ears...

[sometimes, late at night in his own bed, he imagines that he is being torn to pieces from the inside out, that his skin and sinew will fail to accommodate whatever is growing inside him. he feels sick to think of it.]

I've... asked the Coven, but... there's little they can do. Others... are similarly afflicted.

[civicbooty]

[ Aymeric looks at him a long time, very still, deep in thought. If it's occurred to him that Francel might not appreciate a lingering stare mixed with pity, just now, he's disregarding that.

He pushes himself up again, restless, drapes his arm across his knee. His knuckles are covered in the house's grime; he flexes his fingers, scrutinizing them idly. ]

It may be true that there is little the Coven might do on their own, but — and mayhap I misremember — did they not suggest that bonds are beneficial for one so afflicted?

[ He remembers it very clearly, in truth, but Francel is owed a chance to make his own relatively rational decision. ]

[haillenarte]

[francel squeezes his fingers tight around the glass.]

...They have impressed this upon me each time I come for treatment. If I persist without a Bond, they say, I run the risk of going mad... of losing my capacity for rational thought. If I continue to resist the transformation, I will be more beast than man — and they have been kind enough to avoid mentioning it, but... I understand it would be particularly destructive for a dragon to run wild.

[he has said it now, admitted what is happening to him; it makes him feel more sick than ever before. francel turns one hand over, looks at the emerging scales beneath his ugly, peeling skin. he tries to fight a sudden tension in his throat.]

If I die while I am still myself —

[civicbooty]

[ Aymeric might have respected that thought as coldly objective, had Francel not already admitted to having no ambition but death. He interrupts: ]

Francel.

[ He sets down his glass and moves closer on the step; his leg bumps Francel's when he settles again, and he reaches out to steady that hand, manipulating it in the moonlight. ]

Mark how small these scales are. I have never, in all my summers, seen their like on aught but the smallest wyverns and dragonets. You are not becoming the sort of creature you must imagine, and there are possibilities here we know naught of in Ishgard. If these magics can protect you from an otherwise likely madness, what else might they be capable of?

[ His hand shifts around Francel's, grasping it tightly, with urgency, and he tilts his head, chasing Francel's gaze. His voice is low, persuasive: ]

When a knight is young, and first goes afield with others, the most important principle he must learn is this: when you are far from any true haven, you are your brother's shield. There is no one for whom I would rather put this magic I have been granted to use — therefore, use it. When you can bear this no longer, go with me to the Coven. I shall be your witch — and if ever you should lose yourself with no possibility of return, I will deliver you to the Fury. I swear it.

[haillenarte]

[francel tries, weakly, to tear his hand from aymeric's grasp, but the motion itself is frail and unconvincing, and he accomplishes little. he finds his thoughts straying toward his father, towards the counts of ishgard, towards the old priests in the synod, sharp-eyed and hard-hearted. they would not be so affected by this, he thinks to himself. they would not tremble, and their hearts would not race, at the low rumble of aymeric's voice, the glint of his ice-blue eyes in the moonlight.

now is not the time to remember that he used to dream of haurchefant looking at him like this.]

...And what if others should come?

[his voice is cracked, despairing.]

Suppose other men and women that we know should arrive through the veil? Ser Estinien, mayhap? Ser Lucia? Even Lord Emmanellain? Should the whole of Ishgard wind up here, would you still aid me above all others? Or would you take up all their burdens as your own?

[civicbooty]

[ He is beginning, slowly, to anticipate Francel's thoughts turning to difficult theories and suppositions; his penchant for melancholy is stronger than his good sense, and needs frequent and patient correction. ]

They are not here — you and I are, and we have naught to gain by dwelling on unlikely possibilities.

[ Aymeric releases Francel's hand and the subject both, leaning back a little. ]

Behind your ears, you said?

[ He lifts his hand to hover by Francel's ear, warm and close, but waiting cautiously. ]

I see nothing. May I?

[haillenarte]

[francel stiffens visibly, pressing his hands into his lap with an anxious twist of his wrists... but he nods after a moment, bowing his head so that aymeric can take a closer look.

his voice trembles when he mumbles, seemingly embarrassed:]

...Be gentle, pray.

[civicbooty]

[ Francel's ears are longer than his own, at present inconveniently, so Aymeric relies on his fingertips. His touch is only gentle; pressing down experimentally, lifting, and repeating, tracing a slow arc along Francel's skull, searching for anything at all. ]

Where?

[haillenarte]

[it is extraordinarily difficult to think when aymeric's fingers are being so wondrously delicate, sending thrills all down his spine, and the last time anyone handled francel's sensitive ears was years ago, when he was sick and his busy mother took time out of her day to rub his ears until he fell asleep. the young lord shivers visibly — but his expression is almost at ease...]

Here...

[cautiously, francel brings his hands up to aymeric's wrists, guiding the man's hands until his fingertips are pressed flush against the backs of his ears. there, beneath francel's hair, aymeric will feel a hard lump — nothing that has broken the young lord's skin yet, but it is forming, long and spearlike, along his skull.

perhaps he is developing horns, like the au ra of the far east.]

Do you feel it?

[civicbooty]

[ Aymeric's hand goes very still in response, and he murmurs, both unsettled and curious: ]

I do.

[ He runs his fingers over the contours of them, shapes that must be horns. Francel likely knows, he supposes — he must be waiting for the moment when they split his skin, as though it could happen all at once, without warning. Aymeric remembers the tales they learned as children; he remembers the promises the priests made in their sermons: when a heretic is remade in the image of his masters, he feels pain unimaginable, incomparable — he would die of it in an instant, but his body is unnatural, twisted, resistant to Her mercy, knows only torturous suffering and witless rage...

Struck again by pity, he draws his fingertips to Francel's nape, tracing soothing circles. ]

We should find an apothecary on the morrow, in any case.

[ Even a long night of discomfort is best prepared for, and agony seems nearly as likely. ]

[haillenarte]

[francel shudders, though he does so subtly; tension eases from his shoulders, and he keeps his neck bowed, like a limp marionette. the touch to his neck feels good, though he is loath to admit it. how many years has it been since anyone last treated him with such care? even chlodebaimt was never so tender — even haurchefant's touch never lingered...

when the young lord speaks, his voice is small and strained.]

...If you are still willing... we can go to the Coven, and they may form for us our Bond.

[and it won't last, francel thinks, immediately and despairingly. he cannot know that new arrivals will come, does not know whether or not more from ishgard will be summoned here, but this will not last, and he knows it. he has always been everyone's second-best; soon aymeric will find someone else, someone better, and thereafter francel will be nothing more than a convenience, forgotten and left behind, like a ragged doll at the bottom of a box of toys.

it has already happened once before.]

Should another — should you find any other to whom you would rather be Bonded — I will annul it willingly. You have my word.

[civicbooty]

[ Frequent and patient correction.

With amusement, not unkind, Aymeric settles his hand on Francel's shoulders. ]

And you have my word that I shall never ask it.

[ He gets to his feet, taking his glass with him, and half-turns toward the front door. ]

Come with me when I go to learn from the witches, then, and we shall find an apothecary, as well. Now — if you'll pardon me, I feel as though I am some sort of dust-sprite.