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,,,)

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[ For half a second he lifted a hand to protest — but then Cain went on, and Aymeric laughed, almost doubled over, the box clutched against his stomach. ]

Firstly, my friend— [ there was deep, cheerful sarcasm in it— ] I do intend to sleep, whatever you believe, and I have the most excellent comparatively modest wine cellar in all of my— particular street, and I certainly know how to dance...only not the sort of dancing one might find around a bonfire.

[ Aymeric laughed, and he laughed too, drawn along by the sound with an unresisting helplessness, and rubbed at his reddened face after, grinning. ]

Sleep! Sleep, alright, I'll give you that one. And wine, I can imagine you putting your feet up by a fireplace with a red that's not too sweet or juvenile, like something from a painting.

[ Don't ask how he knows anything about wine. ]

But just because you know how to dance doesn't mean you do it unless pressed! So, let's hear it: what do you do? To decompress, destress, all of that?

[ It was almost a well-called bluff, on the dancing: Aymeric hadn't said he did it because he liked it, but most people, he thought, would have taken in that way.

He sobered a little, faced with only answers that would support Cain's impression. ]

I rarely have the time, at home. Drinks with a friend, if I can manage it — the best I can do, generally. More than that would invite scrutiny, on account of my house and station.

I was about to recommend something definitely unfit for your house and station, but I'll spare you. And, uh, watch the strings,

[ They'd come to the mouth of the alley, webbed almost to hip height on himself with strings tied to simple can-and-spoon alarms. He hopped up to grip the hanging street sign and swung over them so as not to trip them. ]

I made a dumb bet with the pack of kids on the 100 side and now they're out to capture me. Don't pick up any money on the ground either, it'll be badly spelled.

[ He walked toward the shadow of the tower, hands on his hips. ]

Next week, though, we're gonna change your game. Try drinking and painting, that's gotta be one of the six classiest hobbies that exist. And go down the list until we find something you actually like.

[ He did watch the strings — he watched them for several seconds, frowning mildly, and then watched Cain's back for another, and finally did the same: grabbed the street sign, one-handed, and swung a little less elegantly over the mess. ]

You needn't find me a hobby I shall have little time for— [ he caught up to Cain in long strides, walked into one of his jutting arms, neither specifically meaning to nor avoiding it. ] Though I suppose you're quite aware of that. Will this be part of lessons, then?

[ They passed a few gleaming coins on the cobblestones, and when they came to the net ladder, Cain tested it with his hand, as if half-expecting it to be illusory. And then tested his weight on it, climbing up a few steps before nodding down. ]

Yeah, actually. Back home, I was kind've obsessed with being the best soldier. I wanted to, um, maximize my probability of going back home, right? And sending the most money I could back to my family. And there's like... a whole science to productivity, to getting the most outta yourself and your body. Getting you a hobby isn't about the hobby, it's about resetting the hypothalmus and shit, re-balancing your hormone levels. You think all those brilliant ideas you raved about me having were things I got while sitting down writing and thinking about it?

[ He frowned as he climbed, lifted a hand with a disgusted expression from the rope, and shifted a little. ]

Um, keep to the left side on this part. Kids left something sticky on the right.

Anyway, the hypothalmus is a part of your brain, regulates a lot of body systems. Stuff like adrenaline, cortisol, all the important stuff that keeps you sharp. If you keep it too low-level stressed for too long, it's like... overusing a joint, giving it a repetitive stress injury, right? It won't be as effective. You've got to manage your brain like any other muscle, to get the most out of it.

[ Sure, his own methods for relaxing are mostly fighting, fucking, and drinking, but painting is on his masterlist of shit to do now that he... can. Right up there with learning how to swim, getting in a horse race, and learning how to bake black bread. ]

[ There were terms there he didn't know, even taking Cain's explanation into account. Aymeric was quiet as he followed, concentrating on unraveling all of it while trying to keep up. He wasn't quite as nimble as Cain even under better circumstances, and the delicate paper box was hindering him. He climbed mainly with one hand gripping the ladder; the other he braced on the knots to pull himself along. ]

I've never thought of it that way, I confess — but I see your meaning. Especially afield, and in the garrisons, where the day-to-day is harder, the commanders are not so watchful. When I was younger, some of the most able knights were those with the least regard for modesty and temperance.

[ There was a self-aware humor in it — he didn't personally give a damn about either, so long as no one allowed their vices to lead anyone to an untimely death. ]

[ Cain arrived at the top, laughing, and reached down after pulling himself up. ]

Hand that to me, free up your hands.

And... y'know, unwinding doesn't need to be wild like that. But in a barracks situation, usually just aren't many other easy options. Cards, drinking, fighting, and fucking are pretty much it.

But since you're being so hard-line about behaving, I figured we could keep it respectable.

[ Aymeric said nothing to that. He reached up and let Cain take the paper box while he climbed up to the window ledge.

The edges were crisp and neat; there were tabs extending inside the corners that kept it closed. The contents were lightweight — two of them, rolling against the thin sides. Aymeric gestured to the box as he slid inside, only a little flushed, adjusting his sleeves. ]

I was talking to you of birch syrup, if you recall. It made me think I ought to see if it might be found in the outer city. A man I was helping, a sort of apothecary, laughed when I asked him, but he gave me those, instead.

[ Two tiny painted wooden boxes, stuffed with dark warm spices not readily identified. It wouldn't have even qualified as a gift, in Ishgard; his old cook had a cupboard stacked with spice jars, taken so for granted that when Aymeric wanted to tease her he'd wander into the kitchen and ask if she even remembered what this or that one was called — but here things were less easy. Here, he'd had to trade his sword-arm for two tiny boxes.

Small as the gesture felt, he wasn't in the habit of giving gifts that weren't token bottles of wine chosen by his steward. He turned in a casual circle, needlessly brushing off his shirt, looking to see if Cain had framed the piece of art he'd liked. ]

[ The art had indeed been framed. Just a normal sheet of paper, carefully smoothed against a white backing. 'Helping Hand' was written in bold, decorative text across the top, outlined in pinks and creams. Beneath, some skilled printmaker had carefully illustrated a scene at the side of a white-sailed ship. Fishermen young and old clustered awed at its side, helping to haul up a net half-risen from the waves, heavy with gleaming fish. But at the top of the net rest some young merrow man, face and slender hands lifted to the fishermen while a few, faces soft with awe as if at his beauty, reached down to help him. He was cast all in blues and silvers, but the hull of the ship was red, the soft pinks and oranges of dawn or dusk coloring the bend of the sails, the tops of the waves.

The second the box was in Cain's hands, he was quieter. His thumbs brushed along the delicate sides of the bright box, with the reverence of one for whom gifts were unspeakably rare. He felt the contents, but was suddenly... almost afraid to open it. He took a shaky breath. ]

People don't give me gifts, you know.

[ It felt... blurted out. And he flushed almost with shame, inwardly reprimanding himself for saying something so... stupid. He carefully folded open the flaps, as if he were determined to keep the paper box. He set it atop a low shelf, so that he could withdraw the small painted boxes.

It was so strange to think that someone had probably made such delicate things with their hands. That somewhere, a tree had been felled and milled for the wood. Fuck only knew how many years it had grown, quiet and unobtrusive in its forest. Someone's sweat and labor had gone into smoothing the thin boards. Someone had mixed the paint, and applied it into these patterns. Someone had lacquered them to seal them.

Some of the lines of paint were thinner than the edge of his thumbnail. The backs of his eyes burned a little.

With care, he brought one to his face, cracked open its lid with his thumb, and inhaled slow, and deep, with his eyes closed, murmuring a question, ]

Did he tell you what they're called?

[ The sudden observation interrupted Aymeric's inspection of the artwork. He'd crossed his arms to lean closer to it, as if it were an old fresco; he'd doubted how fascinating it could have been, days ago, but now he had to admit to himself that he also liked it. The fanciful elements of the rescued merrow and the imagined glory of life at sea where pleasantly alien to him, even as the silvery-blue of his hair, so much more common in Ishgard than it was in Aefenglom, reminded him of home. No part of it sang the praises of saints or slayers; there was a joy for life and beauty—

He turned when Cain spoke, head tilted, waiting for more. He pretended not to notice the reverent way the man was handling the boxes, so inconsequential, the very least he could have done for an apology. ]

One is certainly anise.

[ He drifted closer, slow and leisurely, pressing the knuckle of his forefinger against his lip as he frowned. ]

The other is— sweet...some sort of pepper. Hells, I've forgotten. Sweet pepper, but there was another word. I suppose I ought to have asked him to write it down.

[ He raised his eyes from the little box to Cain's expression, watching him attentively. ]

Edited 2019-06-29 19:58 (UTC)

I love this. It's... warm, sweet-spicy almost. Like... I don't know. And rich, it's gotta have lots of oils, I bet it smells amazing after being heated in a pan... do you know this one?

[ He lifted his thumb to his mouth, flicked his tongue to lick just the tip, and tapped it lightly to the spice. Swiped the taste of it away while closed his eyes, brows meeting over his brow in a small, thoughtful furrow. ]

It tastes like... the feeling of being really warm, and maybe just waking up from a nap. Somewhere so damn comfortable you don't even wanna get up, right... in summer, in the evening. And the light is low, gone all gold.

And peppers, you know I love peppers? There are a bunch of street food stalls that put 'em on long skewers, roast 'em on coals. Just a few coins, and it's so much fuckin' flavor you could just cry.

[ He repeated his process, flipped open the second to breathe it in.

His eyes snapped open almost immediately, and he turned, set both small boxes on the low shelf behind the stove, and reached for a small paper-bound little pocketbook sitting on top of his mismatched collections of plates. A small whittled pencil held his place, and it was clearly a cooking log or recipe of some kind when he flipped it open. ]

Did you smell these before getting them? This is fucking fantastic,

[ He began to write, small and tight and fast. But his right hand had a palsy-like tremble when curled around the pencil, a small, steady shake. ]

This one, I know this one, know exactly what to do with it too. Are dumplings a big thing, with your people? They're like... if you can afford to buy something not manufactured, it's the big special occassion food where I'm from. This spice, in a sauce, oil and garlic and green onion... steam, I'll need to make a steamer, get cabbage...

[ It was like a bright flood. Aymeric broke into a smile as Cain went on, so thrilled by something so small, so pleasantly unaware of himself. ]

Anise I know; that particular pepper I do not. Nor dumplings, though I am aware of them.

[ He stepped around to Cain's side to peer over his shoulder at the little book, vaguely interested. ] I'd hoped you might have a use for them; I'm not certain I would have known what to do with them, so this—

[ He paused, laid his fingertips on the back of Cain's hand inquisitively. ]

You're shaking.

[ He'd sketched out a diagram; suggested two different folds, one lateral, one along the angles, for his suggested dumplings. Began marching off a list of ingredients, begun describing possible ways to recreate a specific garlicky, spicy taste. One involved grating garlic into hot oil freshly, adding minced green onions and the pepper; another kept the garlic and onion whole, easy to remove after.

But he dropped the pencil as if it had burnt him, closed it in the book, shied back from the touch like a skittish horse. ]

I, uh...

[ He fiddled with it, shifting it between his hands, and then replaced it atop the plates, deeply self-conscious. ]

It's, um, nothing to worry about. Just an old nerve disruptor scar. It, uh... that's from a weapon that deadens nerves. One clean touch to the head, right, leaves you a drooling... emptiness, for the rest of your life. Fuckin' lucky I was wearing gloves.

Back home, nobody wrote really, so it was... easy. To hide.

[ He was aware he was saying too much, and was suddenly not sure how to... stop. ]

Edited 2019-06-29 21:11 (UTC)

That is lucky.

[ The word sounded foreign in his mouth. He'd tilted his head again, giving Cain a strange look, half-smiling. ]

You said it deadens the nerves — is it also sensitive to touch? I apologize if I...

[ It was possible, he supposed, that his understanding of such things was so lacking — but really, this was the most polite means he could summon of asking whether there was a reason Cain had jumped like Aymeric's fingertips had borrowed his spell-sparks. ]

Nope. No feeling, kinda from the back of my middle knuckle up my arm a little.

[ He raked a hand through his hair and shook his head a little to clear it. ]

Anyway, I...

Thank you. Not a lot of people would do something like that. I'll have to cook something for you sometime.

If we're headed out past the walls, is there anything that's helpful to bring?

Oh, I —

[ Shifting, caught off-guard, he swept a hand through the hair at the back of his neck. ]

I'd not intended to, or I would have worn armor. We certainly may, if you like. I would need only a few moments at— [ he stumbled very slightly— ] —home, as it were. In that case, I suppose I'd suggest some sort of weapon, though you needn't, truly. I shall have my sword.

[ Cain laughed, head tipped back, and shook his head at them both, hands going to his hips. ]

Going out is... important. Fighting the Cwyld. I don't want our planning to take time away from that.

But I know pretty much fuck all about fighting in a place like this, unless we're talking fist-to-fist or knife scuffles. So, I'll put it to you: we can study here, for today, or go out and learn on the hoof.

Your call.

[ He waved a hand. ]

Here, then. I doubt you would call what I do in the outer city fighting the Cwyld, in any case. All of it carries a risk, close to the forest's edge, but that risk manifests rarely. I've encountered... [ he tipped his head back, thinking— ] no more than three infected creatures. Three more, of course, than anyone without armor and a sword would care to meet, so it is of use — but fighting the Cwyld is generous phrasing.

I can take you, of course, whenever you'd like — so long as you'd not mind staying behind me if we enter the forest.

[ He smiled, rolled his eyes indulgently. ]

Alright, gently pruning the Cwyld, then.

[ He tossed his hair out of his eyes and drew a hand across his chest. ]

But... be still my fuckin' heart... are you trying to protect me?

[ Aymeric crossed his arms and lifted his chin a little, as if he were too tall to be affected by teasing, and fired it back. ]

Yes — and if I must beg you to allow it, I will. My honor as a knight would be grievously tarnished, you see, were I to allow a shipbuilding tavern brawler whose magic does not obey him to come to harm in such a place.

[ Ante upped. Shit. Blush or counter were his only moves. His hand skimmed up and touched his mouth, as if covering a gasp. ]

Your honor as a knight. Well, of course I could never let anything tarnish silver so fine.

But...

[ His smile went wide, sly, and he crossed his arms and lifted his chin right back. ]

Only a deaf man or a married one would turn down an opportunity to hear you beg for anything.

[ He would have argued married — he knew plenty of married men who would have been happy to hear him beg for any number of things, most of them a hundred times more damaging — but that was another conversation.

For now, one corner of his smile hitched up; on the board not to be seen between them, he advanced a pawn. ]

I shall recall that when we do leave the city. As you've graciously given me the choice, my honor will survive without your express permission.

You've changed so much in one small span of conversation, first an honorable knight and now a rogue, taking what he pleases at will.

[ He purred his counter like a cat, slipped away to pull a bit off chalk off one shelf, a small glass device, like an hourglass, from another. Walking in a prowling circuit around the elf, only here and there watching him from the corner of his eye. ]

Bold, sir, very fucking bold of you.

[ Aymeric tracked him with his eyes, standing very still — interested in the glass object he couldn't identify, but momentarily unwilling to surrender by looking at it. ]

And which—

[ No, he stopped himself. Too far; it would take this idiot repartee from the bluster-over-drinks it should have been to something too close to an earnest invitation.

He rubbed his mouth as if it could get rid of his crooked grin, lowering his eyes. ]

What is that?

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