middaeg | (open) & i may not see the future,

Entry tags:

(open) & i may not see the future,

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,,,)

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[when the full moon rises over the eighteenth of maiuril, the house is quiet.

then there is a heavy thud from francel's room.

the young lord hasn't been around all day — eerily so. ordinarily, the house is still when he is at the library, or else when he is painting signs around town; it is alive with his activity when he returns home, and sets about making food. today, however, he was not scheduled to work — and he has not emerged from his quarters to make dinner, nor indeed to eat, or ask for anything at all.

the door to his room has been shut all day.]

[ An evening without Francel has taught Aymeric, primarily, that his limitations in the kitchen are much worse than he estimated. Making raw game and garrison rations palatable with the help of an open fire and such occasional luxuries as eggs and salt is, it turns out, not the same as practical day-to-day cooking, and he has rarely set foot in the kitchen of his own manor without his elderly cook fondly chasing him out.

So he's given up, by late evening, on doing anything more complicated than slicing pieces of fruit into two bowls: one for himself, one to bring to Francel's room as an offering. Thus far, Aymeric has guessed it's the customary melancholy combined with Francel's slowly worsening condition, and the residual shame it must be causing him, that have kept him shut up in his corner of the house—

—But then he hears a thump, and feels a twinge of something indefinable, a spike of foreign anguish.

Leaving his pathetic bowls of fruit on the counter, he snatches up one of the apothecary's phials and makes his way in long strides to Francel's door, and knocks— ]

Francel?

[ —and pushes it open without waiting, peering in. ]

Edited 2019-05-22 03:46 (UTC)

N-No — No, don't look —

[francel is on the floor, fallen from his bed, and he is not well. he is far from well.

first, one might notice the blood; then, one might notice francel. what aymeric is seeing may not be immediately clear to him: francel is on his hands and knees, certainly, with his golden head bowed, but there seems to be a — a mass upon his back, obscured by the fact that he has torn his bedsheet from his bed and wrapped himself in it, but the sheet is stained with blotches of dark red.

blood stains francel's face, too, trickling from his jawline down to his chin — his horns now protrude cleanly from behind his ears. the floorboards beneath him are clean, perhaps due to the bedsheet's absorbency. the young lord wipes his chin on the back of his hand, then his hand fumbles for the hilt of his knife — his ornate, bladed letter-opener lies mere ilms away from his fingers.]

[ For a half-second, old instincts whisper to Aymeric to let him do it, let him keep whatever dignity remains, he is becoming a monster, and Halone will not have mercy on him—

Then he's across the room in another second, kicking the blade away in his plain boots, dropping hard to his knees. ]

Not yet.

[ Every motion he makes is fast and urgent — tilting Francel's chin up with a hand firmly on his jaw, uncorking the glass phial with his teeth — but his voice is deceptively calm, full of gentle authority. He tips the phial, smelling of something sharply herbal, to Francel's lips: ]

Drink.

Edited 2019-05-22 19:27 (UTC)

[francel has no choice: his eyes are terror-stricken for only a moment before they flutter shut, and he drinks deeply of the phial's contents, his smooth throat bobbing with the motion. whatever aymeric has proffered, it tastes nothing like the potions of eorzea, and if it numbs the pain, francel cannot immediately know. his mind is dazed, still reeling, from the sudden onslaught of new perceptions assaulting his senses.

when the bottle is emptied, francel pulls back, breathing hard. the first word out of his lips is —]

Aymeric...

[the mass beneath his bloodied bedsheet twitches. he groans, still suffering.]

Aymeric, the — the knife. I need... I need it...

Edited 2019-05-22 23:54 (UTC)

[ The mixture, the apothecary cautioned them, was diluted: its ingredients were costly, and the money they'd brought would not cover even one of the better brews. They might try two at once, he added with a shrug—

—but leaving Francel alone like this, even to go only to the kitchen, is out of the question.

Aymeric shifts closer, remembering the witches said affectionate contact would strengthen a Bond, and winds an arm around Francel's shoulders. There is blood on his shirt, now, and on his hands. ]

Tell me what for.

[ Gaze fixed with determination on the bloody bedsheet hiding the twitching mass on Francel's back, he slides his fingers under the stained edge, finding the skin slippery with blood, and flings it away. ]

It's — no, don't — please, please, please —

[the sheet sinks into the corner of the room, sickly wet; francel is reduced to near-hysterical pleading, half-sobbing. he buries his face into aymeric's chest, as if he can hide himself from view, or else run away from what his body has become.

the problem is immediately obvious: francel's wings have come in, and they have burst straight through his back. the wings themselves are ugly, misshapen things, all bone and sinew with neither scales nor fur covering them; spindly feather shafts stick out at all angles, and they have caught on strips of francel's skin that did not break cleanly in the initial rupture, pulling them taut, tugging on muscle beneath.

his back is bloodied and mangled — but the raw, exposed flesh must hurt less than the skin stretched tight across his shoulders, still trying to hold his wings beneath them.]

It hurts — th-the skin, it — hurts and — I meant to, t-to cut through it, Aymeric, please —

[ Aymeric has watched men fall apart in dragonfire, seen limbs ripped from bodies — but he has never seen a man become a dragon, and the sight makes him freeze with his arms around Francel, wide-eyed. A coldly objective part of him whispers that it may only get worse; that in a matter of minutes, Francel's needle-teeth as long as his fingers could pierce through his new skull and sink deep through his mistaken would-be savior's shoulder.

Then he's moving fast, reaching across the floor for where the letter opener lies still and innocuous, having bounced off the baseboard. He pushes himself to his knees when it's securely in his hand, tests the blade on the edge of his palm — and is surprised and gratified to see the bright red line it leaves. The ornate hilt makes it seem a pretty desk ornament, but it's more like the kind of dagger sometimes carried by merchants in the Pillars: meant only for the most dire emergency, but deceptively effective.

He cups Francel's cheek in his left hand, circling his right around his back, and pulls him into his arms — it'll improve his reach. He turns his head, voice firm against Francel's ear: ]

If you must bite down, do it on me. Be brave: you have the blood of a knight. You will survive this.

[ Then he splays his fingers across Francel's muscle where the skin has stretched too far, slides the blade under the slick skin, and severs the remnants as hard and swiftly as he can, one by one. ]

[francel had not yet braced himself for the first cut — when the knife digs into his frayed nerves, an anguished cry escapes him, a near-scream that breaks into a sob. then he does as he is told, and bites down on aymeric’s shoulder.

one small mercy is that the young lord’s draconic teeth have not fully come in just yet: his teeth are sharp and fully capable of breaking skin, but only as a miqo’te’s fangs might be. with something to bite down on, his pained groans turn to soft, long-suffering mewls in his throat, and his hands squeeze tight in aymeric’s tunic, pulling the garment tight over the lord commander’s shoulders. his sharp claws tear holes in the fabric. he whimpers.

his flesh cuts easy. when at last the final remnants of the skin across his back lies in tattered strips across the floor, francel has grown still and quiet, like a child that has had its fill of crying. he feels mostly numb, though he is still aware of the dull rawness of his exposed back, still bleeding, though not quite as much as before. perhaps the apothecary’s treatment has taken effect, or the magic of their bond has set in — that, or francel’s senses have just grown so overloaded that he no longer processes the pain. he thinks that he could fall asleep, or pass out.

his wings, now freed, stretch weakly, then fold atop his wounded shoulders. he feels gruesome and flayed. francel is not quite certain of what he is doing; he realizes a little too late that he has taken to lapping and sucking apologetically at aymeric’s open bite marks, almost kittenish, quiet and subdued. aymeric’s blood tastes metallic in his mouth. with a little sniffle, he forces himself to stop.]

Edited 2019-05-23 15:56 (UTC)

[ The silence following the sounds of pain and the methodical bloody wet slip of the blade is deafening. The room sounds like an infirmary in the aftermath of a plague — too quiet, only the labored breathing of the survivors. Aymeric is not given to an active imagination, but he wonders if this is what the house was like directly after the Cwyld left it empty.

He lets the dagger fall to the floorboards with a clatter, covered in blood. The sheet lies in a destroyed heap. They are both in need of a bath, but Francel's wings are too raw and new.

Aymeric hazards a glance down.

He knew the pressure on his shoulder was Francel's teeth, but he told himself to ignore it, to focus, to think more about how long he forced Francel to suffer than whether or not it was still Francel. If his eyes had gone beady and dark and mindless, if his teeth were sunk in down to the bone, so be it.

But Francel continues to look like Francel, boyish and pale and full of sorrow, even with coppery blood running down his chin. Fresh drops well up from Aymeric's punctured shoulder. He is exhausted, suddenly.

The room is not fit for sleep, he decides; the silence is too oppressive, and the memory of Francel's muffled sobbing seems to have soaked into the wood.

Aymeric's voice is low and weary. ]

Well done.

[ He lays a hand on Francel's hip, and the other on his side, well away from where his back is red and tender. ]

Come sunrise, I shall find you a healer. [ They have little money for one, but the Coven's witches, he thinks, should assist — or he will persuade them to. ]

Would you rather to stay the night with me?

Edited 2019-05-24 01:30 (UTC)

[francel seems weak and weary, his limbs limp with exhaustion, but he manages to reach up and drape his fingers absently over the nape of aymeric's neck. there is blood on his face, his back, round his fingers, in his mouth. he cannot take a bath in this state, but perhaps a light sponging would do him good.

the young lord breathes shallowly for a moment, and then deeply.

there is a surprising resolve to his voice when he speaks.]

...Promise me... you'll stay?

Edited 2019-05-24 14:13 (UTC)

Of course.

[ Even if he weren't compelled by a sense of obligation, the other bedrooms are bare, and the tea-table chairs would be an exercise in futility.

His hands tighten on Francel as he gets to his feet, making sure he stays upright, and winds a careful arm around his waist to lead him across the dark silent hall to another spartan bedroom. He maneuvers Francel to the edge of his bed, pads over to a plain chest of drawers, and conjures a tiny flame to light a lamp — a small thing, but useful, and relatively easy — and disappears busily through a door. The sound of running water follows; he returns seconds later with a wet cloth in hand.

The mattress is almost too thin to sink under his weight as he sits next to Francel. He starts with his jaw, dabbing the cold cloth gingerly along where the blood trailed from his horns. It's difficult to keep his eyes off the wings, such as they are — small and bloody, viscerally repulsive, more reminiscent of a sickly new-hatched bird than a dragon. ]

There is another potion, if you like.

[ Blood is slowly soaking into his shirt where Francel bit down, a trail of it trickling slowly to his chest where the collar lies wide open. He's ignoring it, for now, because he can; in comparison, it's hardly anything. ]

Edited 2019-05-25 00:24 (UTC)

[francel sees aymeric staring; in response, his wings fold in on themselves, as if cringing away from the lord commander's gaze. (the motion causes him no small amount of fresh pain, but it feels as natural, now, as withering under any man's gaze.)

but the cool towel feels most welcome against his skin, and francel finds himself leaning into aymeric's touch, eyes closed in grateful contemplation.]

...Later, mayhap.

[when he opens his eyes, he finds his gaze fixated not upon aymeric's handsome mien, but on the trail of blood rolling down his shoulder. his fascination is incomprehensible even to himself; he swallows, fantasizing for a brief and inexplicable moment that he can almost taste it...

what is he thinking? it was blood; it tasted of blood.]

I am sorry, Aymeric. And... I thank you.

[ Absently shaking his head, Aymeric leans forward, hunting down the trail of blood drying on the other side of Francel's neck. ]

'Tis no fault of yours. [ He works in silence for a moment, then lifts the cloth away, gesturing vaguely as he sits back. ] Turn, if you would. Do you mean to hide them?

[ He can guess what Francel's position on it will be, of course, but 'no' would be as worthy an answer — and one he'd rather hear, though he doesn't have a clear reason as to why. ]

Edited 2019-05-26 10:11 (UTC)

[francel turns when he is asked; he braces himself for the stinging pain that will no doubt manifest once aymeric's towel has made contact with his raw, exposed back.

aymeric's question stuns him. it isn't that any part of it is unreasonable — but francel had not yet realized that he is now stuck with this, that he is trapped by his body, that he will have to go about his life in aefenglom with these accursed, ugly stumps upon his back. hiding away is not an option, or at least not a reasonable option, but he thinks about it anyway. he thinks about cutting them off. surely it would not be so bad — the pain would be only an instant —]

I...

[he feels sick. fresh tears sting his eyes; he brings his wrist up to his face and wipes them away.]

I don't — I cannot know. I cannot bear the thought — of, of being seen like this —

[he isn't sobbing, but he stutters awkwardly, wiping tears from his eyes. evidently, he is still not as composed as he sounded.]

Then I shall find a solution for you.

[ A...cloak, or something like it. The weather is too warm, but possibly the people of Aefenglom feel a need for them anyway — or the Coven might assist, again. In the worst case, Francel can borrow his coat for the morning, and make a timid and gloomy lord commander.

Aymeric dabs the cloth carefully far from Francel's wounds, across the small of his back, a little lower. ]

I had thought to learn to create wards, and so I have been, albeit slowly — but mayhap I should take up conjury.

[ Wry humor, but there's truth in it. ]

[aymeric moves swiftly to soothe francel, and it works, more or less. the young lord's panic is immediately hushed by the lord commander's words, and his frantic babbling soon subsides.

quieted, francel holds himself still as aymeric dabs away at his quickly-drying blood. the contact stings, however; although the young lord braces himself for the pain, and holds his spine stiffly as he tries not to cringe, he cannot stop his wings from quivering in agony. the motion might be cute, coming from a chocobo hatchling, or perhaps a small bird, but francel's wings are bizarre and alien. if he were able to see them himself, he would feel violently uncomfortable.]

It would... be of more use, I think. But either would be more than I can offer.

[he is silent for a moment, then tries to crack a joke:]

Should I turn four-legged, you have my leave to stable me in the yard.

[ There's no way Francel can hear him grimacing, but he can interpret the attendant silence any way he likes. ]

I must decline, I fear; I've a cat who would be most displeased to hear of such ignominy, and it is imperative that I remain in his good graces.

[ He sets the cloth, now stained pink, on his knee, and holds his palm over Francel's back, leaving a generous distance to avoid any accidental brushes. ]

I...have been taught a minor healing spell. I've not much practiced it, and so it may be of little value, but...

[ Trailing off, he summons the memory of the instruction, and concentrates — and shifts audibly behind Francel, unsettled at the natural way the magic flows into his palm, and from there to Francel's bloodied back, warm and dimly soothing. ]

[the first thing francel thinks is that it doesn't feel like conjury — though he can't pinpoint exactly why. conjury is an easing of the pain, all cold blue-green light, cool and refreshing as wind and water. the magic that aymeric pours into him, however, feels different — warm and nourishing, as if it is something for francel's body to consume, something for which he has an almost limitless appetite.]

Oh...

[a soft sigh escapes him, low and grateful, throaty as a moan. his shoulders droop. the weak healing spell does not knit his skin and tissue back together, as an eorzean cure might, but it makes the open wound across his back far less raw and red. now his flesh is a deep pink; it might withstand a gentle touch without causing him undue pain.]

That... that is much better. Fury be praised...

[ Only half-listening, Aymeric lifts his hand away, frowning at his palm.

If this is the result of the Bond, as it must be, the witches mentioned contact—

Without explaining, seized by possibility, he lays a hand alongside Francel's neck, fingers brushing past the lower curve of his ear. He raises his other hand to his own shoulder. ]

Francel—

[ —said only to keep him still and quiet and waiting for more, allowing Aymeric a few seconds to summon the spell again. He can feel something in his shoulder being soothed, but it produces nothing pleasant enough warrant a sound like Francel made — which raises several questions he immediately sets aside. ]

Tell me whether this has healed. You can see it better than I.

[ He tugs the loose collar of his ruined shirt over his shoulder, exposing the bloody evidence of Francel's teeth, the red line down his chest. ]

[it's too much. too fast. all at once, the hunger rouses in francel: aymeric's hands are touching his neck, aymeric's fingertips are tickling his sensitive ear, and aymeric's warm, bloodstained shoulder is so close, so close that all he has to do is just lean forward —

he was already relaxed from the healing; it only takes another moment to surrender to his instincts. suddenly, francel's warm mouth is pressed hungrily against aymeric's skin, his hot tongue working in long strokes at the trail of blood that runs from shoulder to sternum.

he seems... unlikely to stop. as a matter of fact, he continues lapping at aymeric's skin long after all the blood is cleared. it doesn't even appear as though he's heard aymeric's command.

if aymeric has learned one thing, perhaps it's that... he's tasty?]

[ Aymeric goes very still, silent, willing his own body not to react the way he wants to — not to push Francel back sharply and ask him what he means by this. It may be — it must be — something he's not entirely present for: creature instincts not his own shrugging off his will like a flimsy coat.

It occurs to him, cold and objective, that Francel may not have had an appetite for fruit or tea after all, even if he hadn't been suffering.

Softly, without reproach, Aymeric speaks up: ]

Francel.

[ Then he waits patiently. ]

Nn — ?

[francel jolts, startled — he himself pulls back sharply, with an undignified slurp of saliva in his mouth, and a wide-eyed, fearful look in his eyes. he knows what he has been doing, is aware of it, but with an odd detachment, as though he possessed memories of a life he has not lived.

aymeric's blood still tastes metallic in the mouth, but... sweeter, somehow, in the throat.]

I — ah — what have I been doing?

[he knows, but it seems almost better to pretend not to know.]

[ Francel, to the best of his knowledge, has never shown a special propensity for deception — so Aymeric only watches him with mild concern. ]

You seemed to forget yourself.

[ Saying more might alarm him needlessly. Still, this suggests that Francel may be more dangerous, even in this innocuous form, than Aymeric assumed. That he hasn't caused any harm intentionally is reassuring — but his control may worsen. For now, these are questions Aymeric can't answer.

He lays the back of his hand on Francel's chest, gently pushing him away, and begins to tug his shirt off, mostly one-handed. His shoulder is sore, now, though no fresh blood creeps into the ruined linen. ]

Will you be able to sleep?

[francel swallows oddly, the muscles in his neck flexing. he tries to flush the memory of aymeric's skin and blood out of his mind. he reaches up and touches his horns with one hand. at the very least, they curve somewhat against his skull; it might not be too difficult to sleep with them. it would be much more difficult if he had the large, jutting horns of an au ra — male or female.

he thinks that he should be afraid of himself. but then, he is too tired to be afraid.]

I... think so.

[he answers very slowly, uncertainty in every syllable. finally, he can handle the sense of guilt no longer, and blurts out:]

I — I'm sorry, Aymeric.

(open) & i may not see the future,

cw: body horror, mild gore

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