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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[ This time his eyes closed again, and he looked as if he might start melting wholesale to the floor, go liquid as a pet cat. ]

Same...?

[ He echoed, voice almost softened by a dreamy quality. Aymeric's bolder touch made the short, black claws of his modest gauges tremble at his lobes. He tucked in as if he might burrow between Aymeric's arm and his body and just start properly leaning if this went on. ]

It's... ears are... sensitive, but not for all humans. Just... most. Erogenous is the word, I think.

[ His thoughts had gone pleasantly scattered. ]

Are yours like that, too? Does your earring mean anything?

[ Aymeric's fingers kept moving very slightly; they'd picked up a rhythm. ]

It means nothing at all. [ Except that it helped, for one in his position, to stand out a little. Cain would learn that, if by a convergence of good fortune he ever really came to Ishgard — the very first thing they'd need to do was have a tailor brought to the manor. ] And they are, a bit. It imparts a sort of calm.

[ He gave the words a rising intonation that said he didn't expect Cain to do anything with that knowledge, but he was allowed to have it.

He couldn't have said whether he'd do exactly what Cain was — though that, in part, was because it was shameless. Only a little more of this, and then he'd pull Cain's attention back to where it needed to be. A little more. ]

Nothing... but it looks good... definitely...

[ He spoke like a dreamer, the words loose, only the barest thread of logic stringing them together. Totally un-selfconscious as he did begin to lean, just a little, chin ducked almost to his chest, brow making contact low on Aymeric's chest. ]

I thought... longer, right, maybe less sensitive?

The very tip is less so; you're not entirely mistaken.

[ He didn't hide the amusement in his voice. His free hand hooked around the back of Cain's neck — neither heavy nor holding him in place; just a quiet assurance that he could stay if he liked. ]

You were thinking on it?

[ Aymeric's hand curved over the back of his neck, pleasantly dwarfing, and Cain melted in like a stroked cat, eyes closed, voice muffled against Aymeric's chest. ]

Tch.... 'course, yes, thinking... always thinking...

Ears, face... nose is straight, magic? You've been in fights. Scars? Hands, you have nice hands... Quiet, you move quiet, I like that... And tall, what... are all elves so tall... mmh

[ No part of the flood of half-formed questions seemed significant. Aymeric picked out what he could easily and satisfactorily answer: ]

I have got scars. Magic is a great help, of course, but not often quite enough for deep wounds.

[ He drew his fingertips across the nape of Cain's neck, back and forth, light and experimental. ]

Deep wounds...

... how long have you been a knight?

[ Goosebumps rolled down his arms again, this time with a shiver that started at his nape. Something about Aymeric smelled so good, too, the pleasant masculine scent of light sweat, clean soap and clothes, something else he couldn't quite place. He wondered, in a vague way, what the elf's skin would taste like, imagined how pretty bruises must look on him.

His shoulders slowly began to sag, as if he'd go limp in small, steady measures under the other man's steady hand. ]

You look young... and then you open your mouth...

Wise, wise, wise... you ever get tired of being wise..?

[ That won a dry laugh. He wouldn't cast doubt on himself, not when Cain could revoke his help whenever he wanted, but wise was generous. ]

My kind do not age in precisely the same manner as yours, though the divergence is not much, I think. I am two-and-thirty. I have been a knight since I came of age.

[ He tipped his head to the side, thinking. His hand shifted, fingertips pressing gentle circles into the muscle on either side of Cain's spine. ]

I was an archer until I was some years older. Scars and wounds were less a concern, then. Scouts and sentries are more like to die than to be wounded.

[ Just a fact; his voice was neutral. ]

Edited 2019-07-01 18:46 (UTC)

What's come of age? You're always an age... I'm two-and-twenty.

[ His brow smoothed and he tucked his chin, offering more of the space of his neck up to Aymeric's fingers, speaking down to their feet. ]

Sounds like being in the fleet... Even a glancing hit, right.. from a 'teron... their weapons are better, stronger, faster...

Most times, and you're a million pieces of... of frozen flesh and glass and metal scattered in the darknes...

Seventeen in a hundred survive first year. Survive three, you can have your name back.

[ He felt almost like he was falling asleep, and the images of all those things flowed through his pleasure-dimmed mind like water. Home. Glittering battlefields. Drinking while he watched them float by. Anna. He shifted his face minutely against Aymeric's chest. ]

Who named you?

[ He let go of Cain's ear, wrapped that arm around his shoulders. Seventeen in a hundred made pitiful odds even compared to Ishgard in the worst times of sieges and calamities; Cain's people were fighting a war of attrition, and it sounded as though they were losing. It was fortunate, in a way, that he'd decided not to give a damn.

The question wrenched his thoughts to a place that made him feel tired. ]

I...am not certain. It might have been my father, I suppose. He did not acknowledge me, but I think he hoped I would become something great.

[ He didn't wait to redirect the subject. ]

Are you still wary of giving me your name?

Yes.

[ The answer was quick, less fuzzy on the edges, certain.

There was something too-familiar in the quality of Aymeric's voice, when he mentioned his father. It probed at a place in Cain's mind he had no want to revisit, and he was just as glad to have the diversion of subject.

He didn't want to ruin this strange... comforted-safe-adored feeling. ]

Though... I know you'll keep it safe. It's... sharing names, it's... intimate. And... hah, a part of me's still afraid someone will know if I say it, and shove me in a hole again.

[ His mouth was dry. He took in a slow, steady breath. ]

I'm Alexei.

Alexei Sokolov. It's a name like yours, I guess. People give it to boys as a... hope.

[ It wasn't what he'd meant. If his father had hoped for nothing from him, he wouldn't have named him at all, and perhaps Aymeric would be named something else, the name of any wretch in the lower levels of the city, cowed by years of cold and starvation — but the way Cain interpreted it twisted something unexpected in his heart.

His hand had paused. He switched tack to cover the hesitation, stroked up into Cain's hair and back down to the collar of his shirt. ]

Alexei.

[ Undeniably foreign, but easily pronounced. It had a grace. His voice was warm. ]

Would you rather I call you Cain elsewhere?

Yes.

[ The second Aymeric's fingers dipped into his hairline, he shivered again. Took a breath obviously meant to be steadying, and leaned back, pushed himself away enough to crane his neck up and seek out Aymeric's face. ]

Thank you.

[ Aymeric shook his head a little, fondly. ]

I must thank you. For your trust, in this and...in all of it. I'd have held onto the hope of returning even had I only my own meager plans, but, to be frank, yours are far better. And you've the patience of a saint, instructing me in matters I am so pitifully ignorant of.

Edited 2019-07-01 20:47 (UTC)

It's... nice. Seriously.

Back where I'm from, people like me... they're considered too dumb, too badly-educated for... anything but a Fighter's post. They call us the dogs, and most of us were proud to even be that.

I'd have no fuckin' hope of getting a command, except of other Fighters. To be the whip for the brass to get them in-line.

[ Only my family and the other thugs ever looked at me like you do.

He smoothed Aymeric's shirt, briskly, and set his shoulders. ]

I'm glad I could give you a better kind of hope. But we need to get moving. What mages do you know, who could study the mirrors?

[ Aymeric released him with the same drifting touch along his shoulders, and without, this time, crossing his arms as though nothing had happened. ]

Solas — I thought first of Solas. He's got ears like mine, but he's smaller— [ his hand twitched, as if he meant to demonstrate, but Solas's height couldn't be far off Cain's, and it seemed better to avoid referring to Cain as small. He abandoned the description. ] —and, in any case, he has experience with unusual magics. I could also, if you think it best, petition the Coven for their direct efforts.

[ His eyes followed the almost-movement of Aymeric's hand. Twitched an almost-smile and lifted a brow. ]

Huh.

Solas. I don't know him, but I trust your judgement. Meet with him, see if he's game.

The basics are simple: when mirrors first appear, there's an opportunity for us to use them to travel through, to research the magical signature of their appearance, and learn other useful information. It'll probably take a ton of magic and the window of opportunity would be seconds, maybe less, so we need professionals. I've got a few other people I could ask. My seraph, a... court sorcerer.

[ He rubbed his face, turned a little to look at the window again, this time

But don't fuck around with the Coven. Tell them as little as possible.

You want honest results, don't ask people with a vested fuckin' reason to keep you here to help. If you don't have a handle on somebody's motivations, don't trust 'em, don't ask 'em. The best recruits will be people who need to get home, like you do.

I need you to do some research, too, to distribute to our final list. Find out how many mirrors there are, what dates and times they're estimated to have appeared. Seems to be happening in cycles, meaning we can estimate later dates for study. I've already been poking around too much and don't wanna look suspicious.

And if any harpy of the Coven asks you a question, dissemble. They know if you're lying. Even kind've indirectly.

[ He started to realize that the list of orders he was giving out was becoming too diffuse and too long, and lifted his chin. ]

Is thirty days a long enough timeline to build a team? I'm thinkin' small. Three to five. Small enough to take shifts, have different specialties, and be below Coven notice.

[ Aymeric listened carefully, filing objectives away as they came, easily accepting the judgment on the Coven — though his eyebrows rose mildly at the mention of harpies. That was new information.

Fortunately, he was very good at dissembling.

He tilted his head as Cain finished, nodding thoughtfully. They had three, assuming all of them agreed; and Francel...Francel was no researcher, but he was intelligent, and his loyalty couldn't be questioned. There would be something he could do. ]

Thirty days is more than reasonable.

[ More than he wanted to spend on preparations — but this was Cain's plan, and he was capable of deferring. ]

I shall keep this from the Coven, then, and go to the mirrors alone. And this— [ he tipped his head at the table, the esoteric bits of glassware. ] —shall I return for this?

Yes. If something kills me before this is done, you should know everything I've got. Next time, we'll do simplified theories of time and identifying space-time anomalies, shit like that.

And... I do wanna go out with you. Past the walls. Sometime. I don't know any more about handling a sword than I do about... I dunno, the collective inertia of a school of fish in a current, but maybe if I can get closer to active samples of Cwyld or something, I can learn more.

[ He crossed his arms, and tried to tell himself not to look up too appealingly. ]

[ The collective inertia of a school of fish in a current went directly over Aymeric's head, but the rest — the rest he could handle. He nodded readily, eyes roving as he thought. ]

A fine plan. I may be able to find a sword, for you — I could show you things without one, but the weight of a sword, and the way it feels to hold, is...not inconsequential. We can each be tutors beyond the wall, no?

[ He told himself not to be too excited, not to ask, 'what, really!?' like a boy.

It was in his eyes all the same, and how he leaned forward, lips parted. And then he... controlled himself, hands flexing, and nodded. ]

I'd... like that.

[ Aymeric's smile grew just a little, knowingly, and his eyes danced. ]

Good!

[ He laid a hand on Cain's shoulder, only for a moment. ]

Then let us be about it. I thank you, again, for the instruction. I shall contact you just as soon as I've got a sword — and you must do likewise, if there is aught else you would have of me. In this we are like an order of knights, a secret society, and an order is sworn brothers.

[ He swept around the table, trailing his fingertips on the wood, heading for the window — but paused, steps from the half-stolen piece of art Cain had framed, and tipped his head at it. ]

I like it.

Edited 2019-07-02 00:28 (UTC)

[ Cain had been going to laugh. Had some joke, and what Aymeric said about sworn brothers silenced him. He stared, stunned, as Aymeric drifted away, eyes a little wide.

His throat was too tight.

An order of sworn brothers. A Fighter and Navigator. A team, a unit, a ship, a hope, a trust. His face was flushed. He didn't dare seek out Aymeric's eyes.

Instead he put his hands on his hips and flashed a grin, looked at the piece of art, all bravado. ]

Of course you like it, you've got taste.

Now go on, before I do decide to be the rogue.

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