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

[ Cain was excited about everything. He'd trot ahead as the city crumbled into its more poverty-stricken districts near the wall to get some horrifying streetfood he hadn't tried yet. Lizards on a skewer, fried chicken feet. Dropped spare change to buskers, nodded along to their music. Invariably gave half the food away to some bold pickpocket kid angling for his coinpurse after slapping away their hands from his belt. Marveled openly about how blue the sky was, and didn't that cloud look kind of like a little dog.

The sword, though, had excited him probably most of all. Gotten him stunned speechless when first presented at the beginning of their outing, and he patiently listened and said almost nothing. But his eyes just couldn't lie about it.

So the rest of the long-ish walk, he was floating on cloud nine, a happy energy, self-consciously trying not to touch or think about the sword at his hip, set so he could use his left hand, and not his right. They passed the gates while he was laughing with the guards about recent rains making the mud in the streets impossible to avoid. ]

[ Aymeric was in full regalia. His armor clinked as he walked, even as the road became uneven packed dirt. He was rarely not in an outwardly pleasant mood — it was ingrained into him; one could accomplish much more by presenting oneself as generally optimistic — but the outer city took that and amplified it, turned it into a serene aura. He was a familiar enough sight just outside this particular gate that an old man tending a cut-rate apothecary stall raised a hand in greeting which Aymeric readily returned, and a young child barreling out of a tiny wooden house close to the wall skirted the hem of his long coat and called him blue man with a kind of neutral affinity.

A short while down the road, Aymeric nodded ahead of them and leaned a little toward Cain. ]

When we reach there, down by the hut with the caved roof, we can draw, if you like. Only make it plain that you're practicing, and your target is me. There are infected people here. No danger, I would say; they keep largely to themselves, the same as any plague. So many of these stalls and shops, as you can see, are dedicated to superstitions, remedies, blessings...I suspect they account for the most part of commerce outside the wall.

[ His voice was calm, tinged with pity. ]

[ Cain was Aymeric's inverse, and still looked like a ratty street thug. Or, in the right moment, some over-enthusiastic common boy swept up to serve as squire in a pinch.

The sense of poverty and doom were all familiar, and he waded through it easy as a duck to water. Nodded, eagerly, when he was given instruction. ]

Alright. I will. And... tch, reminds me of the old death lottery.

It'd be fucking fantastic, if we could cure this thing from people with something simple as antibiotics. Probably a dream, but... there's gotta be a biological component.

[ Antibiotics, Aymeric filed away: a particular kind of curative. ]

If you think it possible, then perhaps it is. Your ways are plainly far more advanced than the city's healers.

[ He half-turned to Cain as they walked, then, with a distaste in his furrowed brow and pursed lips that said a little of what he thought of wherever the man had come from. ]

What is a "death lottery?"

Edited 2019-07-02 14:28 (UTC)

Just advanced enough to have discovered a special rule about the universe: if a thing exists, there's something else that exists to eat it. Or close enough that it can be encouraged to change its diet a little.

Most plagues are just microscopic organisms. I've got a hunch this Cwyld is probably the same. A fungus, maybe. If we can get some good samples of its different morphology or whatever, we can see what we get with a shitty medieval DNA spindown.

[ He shrugged, fingers tapping the plain pommel of the practice sword at his hip as they came closer to the designated little house. ]

A death lottery's exactly what it sounds like. Martians don't get the fancy Earther gene mods to make old age easy or prolong it two hundred years, and since we're all poor as dirt and not many people get licenses to have kids, so it's a huge cost burden for the Colony to provide elderly care. You're takin' up resources that could be spent on a new generation.

Once you're past a certain age, and if there haven't been enough volunteers in the year, there's a death lottery and your name's in it. My grandmother went that way.

[ Aymeric looked at him sharply, silent for a long moment.

He lifted a hand between them, seemed to think better of it, flexed his fingers and made a fist that he dropped by his side — and looked ahead again, at the uneven road, the mud-flecked hovels, the rising forest. ]

I mislike thinking of your people as the unfortunates left behind, but I am...gratified that you have escaped that place, come whatever may.

[ But the barbarism of it reminded him of Ishgard's own long-suffered intolerable practices, which in turn reminded him— ]

I don't mean to change the subject abruptly, but I think we ought to be most cautious with this research into the Cwyld. I would like for you to work in perfect safety, within the walls, but if somehow we were caught bringing such a fell threat inside the city — I think our journeys might come to an untimely end. It might be prudent to find or build something here, in the outer city.

Huh.

I thought you'd like all that pragmatism and efficiency.

[ He wasn't sure what he was supposed to make of the aborted gesture, and shook his head, jerked a thumb back toward the city. ]

Safety's a dream, and I'm not an idiot. I don't wanna get skinned alive. I wanna help people, not... be suicidal.

I'm tryin' to design my shit to be done in under an hour, be pretty mobile. My little glassware kit, a steady fire, and some reagents and shit in small doses should be all I need. A, uh. A thermometer or something.

[ God, who the fuck ever thought his middle school classwork might be used to save lives? Again, he kicked himself for not paying more attention. Or getting sucked here with a lightpad with a full library of textbooks. ]

[ Aymeric nodded slowly, saying nothing. Sensible. That was settled, then — which was good, because something else Cain had said stuck in his mind like a pin. ]

Was that a jest? [ He looked at Cain, inscrutable. ] "Pragmatism and efficiency?"

Nope.

[ He said it with a smile, reached his left hand for the sword, now they'd come to the place they were meant to begin. He withdrew it with a slow care, but kept the point down, not making himself a threat until he had Aymeric's call. ]

We can spar on your mark, sir.

You care so much about the greater good. You've got the fire for it in you, the kinda fire that burns up everything else. When you go colder and older, I can see you being the kinda man who makes calls like that like he's doing math. Saving the young or the old, deciding who lives and who dies, not feeling even a twinge about it anymore.

Wanna know how I can tell?

[ Aymeric went very still, a wounded shadow crossing his face.

Cain didn't know what he was saying, he told himself. He couldn't know; he didn't understand — but in a way, that made it harsher.

The unease he'd felt at the first throwaway observation thrashed and roiled into a sickness, blooming somewhere in his chest. He was not like that, he would never be like that, or it would have been for nothing. This was the reason he'd tried to step out of the light and back into his comfortable office; this was the reason no one could sit in the Archbishop's throne again, ever, not even if it was him, not even if he believed himself to have perfect clarity of purpose.

He looked at Cain steadily, somewhere below his cheekbone, and didn't touch his sword. ]

I do.

[ Aymeric's serious consideration made Cain more grave. And he set the tip of the blunted sword in the dirt, and brought his feet together and his posture straighter, like a soldier at attention. Kept his left hand balanced on the crossguard, and beckoned with the right. ]

Come here. You might need to be close to see.

You have a coin in your pocket, or something small?

[ Aymeric came closer readily, as grim as a man on the way to his own execution, patting his tabard, and produced the only coin he had. He stopped when Cain's sword would let him go no further, and held the coin between them like something too precious to be seen by the rest of the dingy street. ]

[ Cain smiled, a slanted expression, and turned the sword aside, let its point rest in the curve of his foot and the pommel stay against his hip, following the line of a canted leg.

He reached for the coin. Slow, fingers poised, until they started to tremble. He only closed his fingers around the edge of it, and wet his lips as if it hurt. He ket his eyes on his hand. ]

I can't... stop it. That... fucking... tremble. I hate it so fucking much. I've tried everything on my own. No amount of... exercising, no amount of... of anything. Helps.

That's just how it is.

Move your other hand, put it around my wrist. There's... right below my wrist, where you can feel the bones of my arm separate? Press there, firm.

[ Depressing the nerve, he knew, would stop the shaking.

He sucked in a breath and turned his hand enough that Aymeric could see his callouses, and if he dropped the coin, it would fall into the dip of Cain's palm. ]

I got these callouses all working at the shipyard. My hands blistered on the first day, were bleeding on the second. So much I had to bandage them, right, because all the blood made the tools slippery. It hurt like a sonofabitch, but I kept... doing it. I needed money, it was the only job I was good for.

You can't help your body growing callouses, or twitching when you've damaged nerves. It's just something that fucking happens.

Your heart's the same way. You keep doing a thing that's painful, your body's going to protect itself. Grow callouses. It's not evil, it just... fucking is. It's biology, chemistry. As terrible as dawn and dusk.

Every time you make a hard call, something in you hurts. And your body's gonna do what it needs to, to lessen the hurt.

You keep living like this, Aymeric, you're gonna become hard. It starts small, right. Just... not noticing nice things other people do for you. Not acknowledging kids that touch your cloak because it's really not worth anybody's time, they won't remember it anyway.

But it grows. Like a weed. I got these callouses in ten days, and now it's like I've had them forever. Isn't that fuckin' nuts?

And you've gotta see it in you. And realize that if you don't want your hand to shake, maybe instead of trying to take coins the way you're used to, you reach and let people drop 'em for you instead. You let people know and see your weakness, so they can... catch you.

[ He looked up, at last, face a little pale. ]

Is this... making sense?

[ Aymeric's thumb rolled over Cain's wrist. He watched the dark veins move, following the pressure in a slow circle.

He knew there were people who called him a tyrant at parlor meetings and dinner parties. He prided himself on proving them wrong, finding solutions that served everyone, might save everyone.

But he had made hard decisions, hadn't he? Hard decisions had piled up at his feet like dead leaves since he'd been given command. When had he last made one without a second thought?

He stayed silent while he considered it, a faint line between his brows, closing Cain's fingers around the coin to watch the disparate aspects of his arm move.

Perhaps two moons ago, he decided, depending upon whether an outside observer, a neutral judge, felt particularly merciful. And the last had been no more than three moons before. ]

I'd like to disagree.

[ He answered slowly, uncurling Cain's fingers again, one at a time. ]

I've seen unimaginable forgiveness come from what ought have been hardened hearts, this year past.

[ But coldness was in his blood — and perhaps, for Isghard's good, it needed to be actively defended against.

He plucked the coin from Cain's hand, went to the side of the road where a stall had been closed up with a dirty blanket, and set it, gleaming, on the countertop. ]

Still: were you to...heed your own counsel, how do you suppose you might go about it?

[ He watched, silent, for the longest while. And eventually... just sighed. Looked away, rubbing the back of his neck. ]

I... don't know.

I thought I was... irredeemable, you know. And... I mean it, Aymeric, if you'd met me even days before I was brought here, you'd have wanted to kill me and been glad to do it. I was the worst kind of man, in service to the worst kind of man.

Vile. Just... so.... vile.

I don't even know if I... believe, really, in good or evil. Or if at the end, anything at all even matters. We're all just made of dust, and one day all the stars are gonna go out. What the fuck do our little sins and little salvations mean?

Just... find people you like to make happy, maybe. Remember that... art exists. And flavor. And there's... more. Than the next objective, the next order, the next.... plan.

But also take into account I guess, that the person giving you this advice really doesn't know any better than you do and is at least half a numbskull. And worries about you, and the people around you, and finds dumb parables to tell you to make it stick.

It is true, I think, that a man who leads — perhaps any man with any responsibility at all — should surround himself with those who do not fear him. Those who will tell him, unabashedly, that he is wrong, or that he is being, perhaps, hard-hearted. A man should have friends, not only those who lead and follow him, and...it is true, too, that I have perhaps too few of those.

In short—

[ He came up next to Cain, reached out to bury a hand briefly and messily in his hair like they were not grown men, just a tall boy and a shorter one, and smiled. ]

I thank you. For being my friend, and for telling me something I dearly hoped not to hear. I shall think on this.

[ He squawked at the mussing of his hair— which he'd tried, for once, to have washed and somewhat presentable—

And then laughed. Embraced the other man with his free arm, very hard... and then leaned back and shoved, vaguely, at Aymeric's hip. ]

Yeah, yeah. You're my friend too, you jerk. Seriously, if I lose any more sleep over you I'm gonna start... I dunno, taxing you, or something.

[ But he beamed so happily.

And nodded. Touched the hilt of the sword again, looking to Aymeric wordlessly for instruction. Spar? Keep moving? ]

Ah — yes. You've been most patient.

[ He grinned, bright and knowing, and drew his sword. It nothing like the coarsely-made thing he'd managed to get for Cain; it was sharp, and it glimmered a deep cobalt blue in the light, carved or forged from something not easily identified. He held it out only a little, the tip pointed at the ground, and shifted; planted his feet to show Cain his side, his free arm held between them. ]

Most men use a shield with a sword of this nature. I do not, which suits our purposes: as we've got spells for shielding at our disposal, in theory, we may use that hand to cast. [ He paused and tilted his head, admitting: ] Not that my shields are as reliable as mythril. Still! Shield or no, you must ever be braced on your back leg. For you, it will be your left. If you've got a shield, this allows it to protect most of you. If you haven't — and I don't advocate this behavior, but we all do as we must — you can do this:

[ And he stepped in close, fast, around an imaginary shield, and grabbed the back of Cain's neck roughly, tugging just enough to paint a picture as he mimed thrusting up with his sword...and stepped back, flexing his fingers. ]

...Though naturally, one hopes to be wearing armor.

Edited 2019-07-03 01:37 (UTC)

[ Cain studied with his eyes, but copied with his body, made a mirror-image to Aymeric's posture with the ease of someone who knew their own body well. Already, the sword felt like a strain on his wrist, unpracticed with the weight. He watched, was about to nod...

... and then Aymeric was moving in. With a breathless speed and terrible grace, and his right hand snatched for the knife at his belt, went with animal-panicked speed to stop the sword blade before it could ram up into him— too slow, too fucking slow, and he could see it, the shadow of pain bearing down in the glint of the blue blade reflected up into his face, bared his teeth to brace for the cut—

But it was all a feint. There wasn't even a reprimanding blow for being sloppy, for not thinking to use his sword, rather than the knife, more familiar and instinctual. He stared up at Aymeric, suddenly at a loss, like a hound given a command he didn't know, but was still desperately eager to please. ]

I...

[ He replaced the knife, embarrassedly. ]

I don't... understand...? Am I... just supposed to be still? You didn't punish me for failing.

[ Aymeric huffed a laugh. ]

Where have you failed? I was showing you, Cain. You made to defend yourself; you did well.

[ He paused, arching a brow. ]

Nor would I punish you. No one's life depends upon your sword arm. Did your commanders truly discipline you for not knowing what you could not have been expected to know? [ He tipped his chin at Cain's hand— ] Raise your sword; try and strike me.

Edited 2019-07-03 02:45 (UTC)

I.... yes. Even at first. Even the first day. But they had to be hard. Training was a Terran year, if you were lucky. One mistake in a dogfight, one, and you're most likely dead.

[ He wet his lips, closed his eyes. Tried to adjust the balance of the sword, find something that felt right. He held his hand a little lower, angled the tip a little higher.

Opened his eyes again. One side of his mouth twitched up in a toothy grin. ]

I kinda liked it, to be honest. Hurting made me work harder. And I wanted to be the best.

[ He turned the blade of the sword and made a lunge. Not too far, trying not to overextend himself, but he added force, the heel of his offhand to the pommel, guiding the fast downward, inward stroke. He knew a parry was coming, knew he had to push past it. Only strength and speed would count against skill. ]

Edited 2019-07-03 03:22 (UTC)

There are other methods I prefer, but if you think it might be of use, I suppose I...

[ With easy grace, almost careless, the taller man threw up his sword to block—

—and staggered with a grunt as the weight of Cain's attack pushed down his own sword, and that was a threat, and instinct tore through him, made his blood sing. He reached for magic that wouldn't come to him here even as he spun, pivoting, fast and hard, and threw all of his weight into Cain's shoulder with the broad curved face of his pauldron.

Knock him down, one of his very first instructors had said — if you can't win with just a sword, you can't win with just a sword, but you don't suffer a heretic to live, and you damned well don't suffer him to kill you.

He had a dim mechanical intention of getting astride him in the dirt, keeping him still— ]

Edited 2019-07-03 04:33 (UTC)

[ Cain tucked his own face down to guard with his shoulder like a boxer, but not fast enough; the metal rammed into his face, split the skin over a brow. It bled in the steady and profuse way headwounds always did, fast covering one eye and cheek, and he...

Was laughing. Low and raspy and wolfish, savage, and with his already lower vantage he just dropped the sword and went into a crouch so he could snatch up Aymeric's belt and armor and just help the bigger man's own momentum sail over his shoulder.

A fight gone to ground was where he'd do best, all that armor would surely just fuckin' weigh Aymeric down... ]

[ He made a sharp sound of surprise when he hit the ground high on his back instead of throwing Cain down — but he rolled with the momentum, reaching for Cain's dropped sword inches from his hand. They were both unarmed, now, and dragging Cain to the ground with him would be a messier victory than he preferred. ]

Edited (when you hit post before you finish the tag) 2019-07-03 15:46 (UTC)

Shit!

[ He slammed a boot down on the flat of the blade, knowing that he was fucking diminuitive compared to Aymeric; it might not be all the resistance he hoped it'd be. He snapped his elbow up, trying to catch Aymeric in the face to forestall him getting control of the weapon. ]

what do you get when you cross 2 swords, 1 fantasy plague, 1 great knight and 1 cussy space marine

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i know that feeling all too well