(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

[civicbooty]

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. ]

[haillenarte]

[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.

[civicbooty]

[ 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. ]

[haillenarte]

[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...

[civicbooty]

[ 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. ]

[haillenarte]

[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?]

[civicbooty]

[ 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. ]

[haillenarte]

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.]

[civicbooty]

[ 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?

[haillenarte]

[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.

[civicbooty]

[ Misunderstanding, Aymeric waves off the apology. ]

You did not choose this, firstly; and secondly, for good or for ill, it is as the witches said: the Bond seems to grant me a skill for spellcasting I've not earned. Your presence is a benefit, not a hindrance.

[ Settling against the mattress and his single pillow, he balls up his ruined shirt against his shoulder — not necessary, he's fairly certain, but it may appear that way, and it'll keep Francel's attention off it. ]

[haillenarte]

But — but I...

[whatever francel means to say, it fails to leave his mouth. he is at a loss: on the one hand, he started this by pretending that he could not recall what he was doing, but on the other hand, aymeric has now taken the extra step of pretending that it didn't happen at all. anxiously, the young lord laces his clawed fingers together, as if in useless prayer. for no reason at all, he suddenly remembers that his rosary is here with him. he would do anything for it to be something more useful.

for many long years, francel lied by omission to haurchefant. now he does it with aymeric, too.]

...

I... regret that it came to this.

[civicbooty]

[ Aymeric only shakes his head, watching him, waiting to see how he'll arrange himself for sleep. The bed isn't particularly wide, but he's shifted to the edge of the pillow in an attempt to allow Francel to not, at least, lie halfway on top of him. ]

Rely upon me, and I shall rely upon you; that is all. You're guilty of nothing.

[haillenarte]

[for a long moment, francel hesitates. this would make his second time sharing a bed with aymeric — the lord commander, while he remains the untested lordling he has always been. he thinks, irrationally and disjointedly, that he doesn't deserve this, that aymeric is too far above him, that he is becoming an increasingly cursed creature as outwardly disgusting as his soul, and — and in the first place, it would be wrong of him to fall into some other man's arms when he used to love haurchefant so passionately, so desperately, without even the slightest hope of reciprocation. he thinks on all these things in the blink of an eye.

he decides that he wants the comfort anyway.

timidly — it would be masochistic to attempt to lie on his back — francel rests his head upon the free half of the pillow, settling onto his side. he aches for contact — nothing romantic or sexual, just contact. he is afraid that if he falls asleep, he will wake up covered in scales, never again to know the warmth of another person's hand.

long ago, he once held his hand against haurchefant's larger palm, and smiled as his bosom friend laughed at his child-sized fingers.

he says nothing now, as he lies beside aymeric, first with eyes half-lidded, then with eyes closed. but he places his hand between them, palm up, and does not trust himself to ask for what he wants.]

[civicbooty]

[ He doesn't notice the hand — registers its placement and not its purpose — but he notices something else, and frowns in silence for a moment, considering. ]

You're like to turn too far in the night. Here—

[ Shifting, he lays the back of his hand against Francel's stomach in a wordless request. Awkwardness aside, half on top of him may be the safest way for Francel to sleep, after all, with Aymeric's forearm precluding any unconscious attempt to roll onto his back.

His skin is icy enough for some concern, besides. ]

[haillenarte]

[much unlike a few nights prior, when francel's skin was merely cool to the touch, it is now actively cold to the touch. the issue no longer seems to be that he has stopped producing his own body heat; instead, he seems to be radiating a chill from within.

it's nothing that can't be overpowered, though. he is less like a slab of eternal hoarfrost and more... like a cold coerthan mountainside. he does not burn against the skin as true ice would.

wordlessly, francel allows himself to be maneuvered into a more secure position, half on top of aymeric. he makes a grateful sound, and then closes his eyes, pressed into aymeric's warmth.]