(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

[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.]