[ser stephannot of skyfire locks is a simple man. he has never married or sired children — his six younger brothers and sisters were trouble enough to raise — and he has spent all his years of knighthood sworn to house haillenarte. he is a young man no longer, but his blade is still keen and yet sings in his hand, so he enjoys a fairly comfortable position in lord francel's personal guard. his peerless service to the fury will no doubt be one day rewarded in her hall.
he has, in short, few concerns in his life.
and he would endeavor to keep things that way, but for the arrival of the mysterious stranger in skyfire locks.
it was a sudden thing, really — one day, francel simply returned from one of his usual outings to providence point, saying that he had found a man without his memories, lost and confused and in need of help; as was his wont, the boy left his home with a bouquet of lilies, and returned leading an elezen man by the hand. and this much would be of no consequence — if not for the fact that an entire fortnight has passed, and still the mysterious stranger has yet to leave.
so, this is the situation that ser stephannot is in now: he must watch his young lord francel dote on this amnesiac stranger — a man who might be of common or noble or mixed blood or worse. several times now, stephannot suggested sending the mysterious stranger on his way, but each time, his young lord refused. "where would he go, stephannot?" he had asked. "i would have him stay until his memories have recovered!"
all well and good. but why must this strange "zephirin" fellow stay in the young lord's home? (and why does that name sound so familiar? it has been many years since stephannot last stepped foot in ishgard — he cannot recall, no, he cannot recall.) why give him that privilege? why not send him to one of the locks? (besides, zephirin is a common enough name. he could be anyone. a commoner or a carver or a criminal or worse —)
secretly, stephannot knows. this is the way that lord francel has chosen to cope with lord haurchefant's death. he understands that much. still, it strikes him as rather inappropriate.]
Zephirin? I had a mind to make breakfast — how do eggs strike your fancy?
[yes, stephannot thinks, his young lord has taken too much of the enchiridion's exhortations for generosity to heart.]
[ Lord Francel's guest has no desire to impose on his host overlong. The cottage is too small for the burden of sheltering a stranger indefinitely, even a stranger who endeavours to be of some use while he avails himself of Lord Francel's generous hospitality, and the young lord's guardsmen make no secret of their views on the matter. The young lord himself has his daily affairs to attend to.
No, Zephirin intends to leave as soon as another few pages of his memories wiped blank are restored — unfortunately, his name was the only thing thus far to emerge from his mind's persisting fog, days into his stay at Skyfire Locks. A fortnight since Lord Francel took him in like a stray cat, and this remains all he has retrieved of his life.
His body may be a seasoned soldier's, marked here and there with scars — but was he a swordsman who fought with a shield on his arm? Or did he wield an axe? A lance?
Perhaps, he thinks from time to time, he might try his luck in Ishgard with a first name alone, if indeed "Zephirin" is his own name. Perhaps someone there knows his face. Perhaps something besides chance led his feet to Providence Point.
For now, however, the sun has risen on another cold Coerthan morn, and Lord Francel speaks of breakfast, as if they are friends and Zephirin's presence in the young lord's humble home is nothing out of the ordinary. For now, Zephirin smiles, lifting the washbasin in his arms to change the water.
If I were spoiling you I would not ask you to haul the firewood, now would I?
[privately — to himself — francel might admit that the suffuse warmth with which he treats zephirin is absolutely an attempt to distract himself from the grief of having lost haurchefant. and if zephirin were any more demanding, any less grateful of a guest, francel might be more inclined to remove him from the premises. as things stand, however, he needs this — he needs the company of a man closer to his own age than his knights. he needs to be reminded of what it was like to feel needed by someone else.
and it is easier to forget the questionable (unfair; absurd; the fury she hath no mercy, my prayers and exhortations were they all in vain) death of a friend when one makes new friends to forget the pain — so francel happily scrambles heavenseggs upon his stove, one omelette for himself, and another for zephirin. stephannot and sylvaintel have already eaten at their own homes.]
After breakfast, perhaps you might accompany me once more to Providence Point. I thought we could stop by Camp Dragonhead on the way — mayhap you would remember something of your past if we looked at the armory there. A man such as yourself must certainly have held a spear or sword in hand...
And if I were to confess that nothing gives me greater pleasure?
[ He speaks not entirely in jest, genuinely grateful to be assigned such chores and keep busy. These are lands yet foreign whilst he lacks any memories to give meaning to the names of locations inked on a map, but he has regained the strength to move about unaided and make himself useful, and with each day that takes him outdoors, his disorientation lessens. Idle, his mind would wander to niggling fears that perhaps he was exiled for some grave misdeed, that it is but a matter of time until his lost past finds him here. From time to time, too, it becomes tempting not to pursue it at all. If the man he was had living family and friends, he would leave them in peace.
But Lord Francel's kindness is no invitation to consider this his home.
Zephirin lingers in the doorway as Francel extends to him a different invitation — he thinks of the broken shield at the monument overlooking Ishgard. A faint something stirred at the sight, he imagined, but he has yet to speak with the knights of House Fortemps stationed at Camp Dragonhead. ]
...Thank you. [ Zephirin's eyes flick to his hands. ] Mayhap my body remembers enough of wielding a weapon that my mind will follow.
Ha! We would need to find you better pleasures, in that case...
[at the doorway, an expression of surprise crosses ser stephannot's masked features — long has it been since last he heard the young lord laugh, even briefly, and he wonders what strange spell this zephirin has cast over the youngest son of house haillenarte.
francel, for his part, harbors no such concerns. it is good to be able to like someone, to care for someone, not as a knight or a servant, but simply as a friend. and while he and zephirin are not friends in the traditional sense (one cannot truly call a man with no identity of his own a friend), he likes zephirin. he has enjoyed keeping zephirin in his home.
two omelettes for two plates. francel takes both and sets them upon his solitary dining-table, beckoning zephirin to come eat.]
I admit, I am once again puzzled over whence you might have come. Had you been one of our knights, or else a knight from House Durendaire, we would have known you by the colors of your haubergeon. But your ruined armor was quite unlike any uniform I am familiar with... Strange plating, truly, all black and gold. Perhaps you were an adventurer of some kind.
[ Lord Francel's omelettes, delicious though they are, salvage nothing new from whatever abyss swallowed up Zephirin's memories. Zephirin remembers no prayers said before a meal, no companions' faces as they sat around a table. He simply cuts his portion into evenly-sized pieces, eating tidily, at a steady pace.
But soon his expression turns pensive; his knife and fork pause hovering near the edge of his plate. ]
...An adventurer? [ That possibility does not rule out dealings with House Fortemps, and it is far more welcome a notion than fearing himself guilty of a crime. ] I wonder, then, whether I ought take my leave of Coerthas and travel the land. With luck, I shall retrace my steps, and something may come to me on the road.
[ No doubt Ser Stephannot would have him depart immediately. ]
[indeed, no doubt the silent ser stephannot would speak up to voice his approval of this idea — but the look of concern that crosses francel's features stays his hand. the young lord does not want zephirin to leave. in fact, what the young lord wants is for zephirin to stay, and thereby provide a welcome distraction from his empty heart, his even emptier thoughts.]
Well — well, let us see how the armory at Camp Dragonhead fares us first.
[francel seems mildly distressed as he sprinkles a light dusting of sea salt over his eggs. his thoughts stray towards stranger notions.]
...No, you don't seem like the sort of man Haurchefant would have... no.
[ That look of concern does not escape Zephirin's notice. It surprises him — surely Lord Francel himself wishes to have his amnesiac guest out of his hair sooner rather than later, that his days might resume their usual course — and his eyes rest on Francel's troubled features for a time, searching them quizzically. His hands are still, the remainder of his breakfast uneaten.
Haurchefant is a name he has heard uttered but once or twice. It rings not the faintest bell, and Zephirin takes care not to pry, having noted the odd quality to Francel's voice. He knows enough, by now, to piece together his assumptions as to this Haurchefant's identity. ]
I doubt that we knew each other, [ he offers, though Francel leaves his musings unfinished. ] After all, you and I met for the first time when you came upon me a fortnight ago. Nevertheless, I admit to hoping that Camp Dragonhead will prove a lead.
[were zephirin one of the many mercenaries and adventurers that had captured lord haurchefant's roving eye — even temporarily — francel would have surely heard of it. or would he have? with haurchefant now dead, it sometimes seems as though he and francel were never friends at all — that despite all these years, francel never knew him, or else, perhaps, that he never knew francel.
such thoughts strike the young lord with alarming frequency, and have been the cause of many of his ill humors as of late.
in the end, he takes up his fork and continues eating his eggs.]
...Will you be warm enough in your attire? I have a cloak I might lend you, should the elements require it.
I would be grateful to accept your cloak, provided you have another to wear yourself.
[ The garments that Zephirin was given to replace mangled plate and tattered cloth beneath keep out the worst of the chill indoors, but he has learned how quickly the weather turns stormy, the winds biting. Both he and Francel ought set out prepared — which Zephirin trusts the young lord knows quite well.
They are fortunate this day, for the skies are clear when they leave Francel's hilltop home, and still cloudless upon their arrival at Camp Dragonhead. The garrison's knights greet Lord Francel, but know not what to make of his companion, it seems. Some place him as the stranger led past the garrison like a lost child, a fortnight prior, if not in those words.
A fair-haired knight, introducing himself to Zephirin as Ser Corentiaux, appears to be Camp Dragonhead's acting commander, though his introduction includes no such explanation. Perhaps Zephirin only imagines that a flicker of recognition crosses the man's features. ]
[if ser corentiaux does know zephirin — and indeed he is the sort of man who would know, for corentiaux knows everything there is to know, at least so long as it concerns himself — francel knows better than to ask. the colder likes his secrets; he will not reveal them unless he is hard-pressed. any attempt to convince the man to divulge his thoughts will be futile.
in lieu of interrogation, francel proceeds with his plans. "would we be able to make use of the camp dragonhead armory, ser corentiaux?" the young lord asks, politely. "you see, zephirin would learn of his past life, and i would help him, so long as it is within my power to do so. given his age and physique, 'tis like that he served ishgard in some capacity, as mercenary or knight... i thought, perhaps, he might find his memories restored were he to hold a blade in hand. "
corentiaux's emerald eyes flicker over zephirin's — spring green. though he pauses a moment before answering, he seems to come to the conclusion that it is safe to allow zephirin a weapon, in the end. "'tis not within my power to refuse you anything, lord francel," he answers generously, with a warm smile that — francel knows quite well — must be forced. "you know where the armory is."]
[ Camp Dragonhead's armory presents Zephirin with a sizeable selection of swords and axes, lances and halberds. One after the other, he tests their fit, but his forgotten life remains out of reach. Each weapon's haft ill suits his hands — or is it the weight of each blade? The shield he soon discards?
When he has no options left to turn to, Zephirin steps back, quiet. A slight crease upon his brow, he presses his fingertips to his forehead, giving chase as another distant something flits past the outskirts of his mind. ]
I—
[ His frown deepens. His body's apparent complaint strikes him as ridiculous. ]
Mayhap these blades are lighter than I once preferred...
[francel frowns. if it is not the shape of the weapon that is the issue, but rather its size or heft, then zephirin must have preferred a bigger, more fearsome blade — perhaps even a greatsword, like those that dark knights are rumored to use.
francel has heard tell of these dark knights. they serve no houses, no masters; they have been known to slay members of the church, foregoing things like law and due process in pursuit of their own radical ideas of justice. they are not to be trusted, nor housed in the homes of honorable ishgardian men.
but this doesn't mean that zephirin was a dark knight, francel reminds himself. ishgard would not make and market greatswords if all those who preferred them were licentious vigilantes, and even whitebrim front has its share of soldiers who prefer large zweihanders over more traditional methods. zephirin could be a knight of house durendaire.]
...The merchant and mender who passes through Camp Dragonhead from time to time might have... heavier blades for you to try.
[ Zephirin's hand sinks back down to his side; he meets Francel's gaze, his frown carefully smoothed away. In the young lord's remarks, he hears the same strange, concerned reluctance of their conversation over breakfast, and once more it seems that he ought leave his past buried, though Camp Dragonhead has proven a possible lead.
His memories should never have become Lord Francel's responsibility, in any case.
After a moment, Zephirin crosses the armory floor to approach Francel, his right hand outstretched for the young lord's upon reaching him. On his lips, he wears a small, rueful smile. ]
Unless Ser Corentiaux objects, I suppose I am to stay here for a time, then. No matter what comes of it, I hope to repay your kindness.
[visibly relieved, though by all rights the young lord should not be quite so eager to keep an amnesiac within visitable distance, francel smiles and nods. there is more time now — zephirin will not go off in search of his memories, at least not until the merchant's next visit to camp dragonhead.]
I am sure he would not pass up the opportunity to have another skilled swordsman in his service. And there is no shortage of work to be done in Camp Dragonhead. Though you should be careful — he is not so forgiving a taskmaster as I...
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valoirs
3.0 spoilers
he has, in short, few concerns in his life.
and he would endeavor to keep things that way, but for the arrival of the mysterious stranger in skyfire locks.
it was a sudden thing, really — one day, francel simply returned from one of his usual outings to providence point, saying that he had found a man without his memories, lost and confused and in need of help; as was his wont, the boy left his home with a bouquet of lilies, and returned leading an elezen man by the hand. and this much would be of no consequence — if not for the fact that an entire fortnight has passed, and still the mysterious stranger has yet to leave.
so, this is the situation that ser stephannot is in now: he must watch his young lord francel dote on this amnesiac stranger — a man who might be of common or noble or mixed blood or worse. several times now, stephannot suggested sending the mysterious stranger on his way, but each time, his young lord refused. "where would he go, stephannot?" he had asked. "i would have him stay until his memories have recovered!"
all well and good. but why must this strange "zephirin" fellow stay in the young lord's home? (and why does that name sound so familiar? it has been many years since stephannot last stepped foot in ishgard — he cannot recall, no, he cannot recall.) why give him that privilege? why not send him to one of the locks? (besides, zephirin is a common enough name. he could be anyone. a commoner or a carver or a criminal or worse —)
secretly, stephannot knows. this is the way that lord francel has chosen to cope with lord haurchefant's death. he understands that much. still, it strikes him as rather inappropriate.]
Zephirin? I had a mind to make breakfast — how do eggs strike your fancy?
[yes, stephannot thinks, his young lord has taken too much of the enchiridion's exhortations for generosity to heart.]
no subject
No, Zephirin intends to leave as soon as another few pages of his memories wiped blank are restored — unfortunately, his name was the only thing thus far to emerge from his mind's persisting fog, days into his stay at Skyfire Locks. A fortnight since Lord Francel took him in like a stray cat, and this remains all he has retrieved of his life.
His body may be a seasoned soldier's, marked here and there with scars — but was he a swordsman who fought with a shield on his arm? Or did he wield an axe? A lance?
Perhaps, he thinks from time to time, he might try his luck in Ishgard with a first name alone, if indeed "Zephirin" is his own name. Perhaps someone there knows his face. Perhaps something besides chance led his feet to Providence Point.
For now, however, the sun has risen on another cold Coerthan morn, and Lord Francel speaks of breakfast, as if they are friends and Zephirin's presence in the young lord's humble home is nothing out of the ordinary. For now, Zephirin smiles, lifting the washbasin in his arms to change the water.
He is aware of Ser Stephannot's eyes on them. ]
You spoil me, my lord. Have you any tasks for me?
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[privately — to himself — francel might admit that the suffuse warmth with which he treats zephirin is absolutely an attempt to distract himself from the grief of having lost haurchefant. and if zephirin were any more demanding, any less grateful of a guest, francel might be more inclined to remove him from the premises. as things stand, however, he needs this — he needs the company of a man closer to his own age than his knights. he needs to be reminded of what it was like to feel needed by someone else.
and it is easier to forget the questionable (unfair; absurd; the fury she hath no mercy, my prayers and exhortations were they all in vain) death of a friend when one makes new friends to forget the pain — so francel happily scrambles heavenseggs upon his stove, one omelette for himself, and another for zephirin. stephannot and sylvaintel have already eaten at their own homes.]
After breakfast, perhaps you might accompany me once more to Providence Point. I thought we could stop by Camp Dragonhead on the way — mayhap you would remember something of your past if we looked at the armory there. A man such as yourself must certainly have held a spear or sword in hand...
no subject
[ He speaks not entirely in jest, genuinely grateful to be assigned such chores and keep busy. These are lands yet foreign whilst he lacks any memories to give meaning to the names of locations inked on a map, but he has regained the strength to move about unaided and make himself useful, and with each day that takes him outdoors, his disorientation lessens. Idle, his mind would wander to niggling fears that perhaps he was exiled for some grave misdeed, that it is but a matter of time until his lost past finds him here. From time to time, too, it becomes tempting not to pursue it at all. If the man he was had living family and friends, he would leave them in peace.
But Lord Francel's kindness is no invitation to consider this his home.
Zephirin lingers in the doorway as Francel extends to him a different invitation — he thinks of the broken shield at the monument overlooking Ishgard. A faint something stirred at the sight, he imagined, but he has yet to speak with the knights of House Fortemps stationed at Camp Dragonhead. ]
...Thank you. [ Zephirin's eyes flick to his hands. ] Mayhap my body remembers enough of wielding a weapon that my mind will follow.
no subject
[at the doorway, an expression of surprise crosses ser stephannot's masked features — long has it been since last he heard the young lord laugh, even briefly, and he wonders what strange spell this zephirin has cast over the youngest son of house haillenarte.
francel, for his part, harbors no such concerns. it is good to be able to like someone, to care for someone, not as a knight or a servant, but simply as a friend. and while he and zephirin are not friends in the traditional sense (one cannot truly call a man with no identity of his own a friend), he likes zephirin. he has enjoyed keeping zephirin in his home.
two omelettes for two plates. francel takes both and sets them upon his solitary dining-table, beckoning zephirin to come eat.]
I admit, I am once again puzzled over whence you might have come. Had you been one of our knights, or else a knight from House Durendaire, we would have known you by the colors of your haubergeon. But your ruined armor was quite unlike any uniform I am familiar with... Strange plating, truly, all black and gold. Perhaps you were an adventurer of some kind.
no subject
But soon his expression turns pensive; his knife and fork pause hovering near the edge of his plate. ]
...An adventurer? [ That possibility does not rule out dealings with House Fortemps, and it is far more welcome a notion than fearing himself guilty of a crime. ] I wonder, then, whether I ought take my leave of Coerthas and travel the land. With luck, I shall retrace my steps, and something may come to me on the road.
[ No doubt Ser Stephannot would have him depart immediately. ]
no subject
Well — well, let us see how the armory at Camp Dragonhead fares us first.
[francel seems mildly distressed as he sprinkles a light dusting of sea salt over his eggs. his thoughts stray towards stranger notions.]
...No, you don't seem like the sort of man Haurchefant would have... no.
no subject
Haurchefant is a name he has heard uttered but once or twice. It rings not the faintest bell, and Zephirin takes care not to pry, having noted the odd quality to Francel's voice. He knows enough, by now, to piece together his assumptions as to this Haurchefant's identity. ]
I doubt that we knew each other, [ he offers, though Francel leaves his musings unfinished. ] After all, you and I met for the first time when you came upon me a fortnight ago. Nevertheless, I admit to hoping that Camp Dragonhead will prove a lead.
no subject
[were zephirin one of the many mercenaries and adventurers that had captured lord haurchefant's roving eye — even temporarily — francel would have surely heard of it. or would he have? with haurchefant now dead, it sometimes seems as though he and francel were never friends at all — that despite all these years, francel never knew him, or else, perhaps, that he never knew francel.
such thoughts strike the young lord with alarming frequency, and have been the cause of many of his ill humors as of late.
in the end, he takes up his fork and continues eating his eggs.]
...Will you be warm enough in your attire? I have a cloak I might lend you, should the elements require it.
no subject
[ The garments that Zephirin was given to replace mangled plate and tattered cloth beneath keep out the worst of the chill indoors, but he has learned how quickly the weather turns stormy, the winds biting. Both he and Francel ought set out prepared — which Zephirin trusts the young lord knows quite well.
They are fortunate this day, for the skies are clear when they leave Francel's hilltop home, and still cloudless upon their arrival at Camp Dragonhead. The garrison's knights greet Lord Francel, but know not what to make of his companion, it seems. Some place him as the stranger led past the garrison like a lost child, a fortnight prior, if not in those words.
A fair-haired knight, introducing himself to Zephirin as Ser Corentiaux, appears to be Camp Dragonhead's acting commander, though his introduction includes no such explanation. Perhaps Zephirin only imagines that a flicker of recognition crosses the man's features. ]
no subject
in lieu of interrogation, francel proceeds with his plans. "would we be able to make use of the camp dragonhead armory, ser corentiaux?" the young lord asks, politely. "you see, zephirin would learn of his past life, and i would help him, so long as it is within my power to do so. given his age and physique, 'tis like that he served ishgard in some capacity, as mercenary or knight... i thought, perhaps, he might find his memories restored were he to hold a blade in hand. "
corentiaux's emerald eyes flicker over zephirin's — spring green. though he pauses a moment before answering, he seems to come to the conclusion that it is safe to allow zephirin a weapon, in the end. "'tis not within my power to refuse you anything, lord francel," he answers generously, with a warm smile that — francel knows quite well — must be forced. "you know where the armory is."]
no subject
When he has no options left to turn to, Zephirin steps back, quiet. A slight crease upon his brow, he presses his fingertips to his forehead, giving chase as another distant something flits past the outskirts of his mind. ]
I—
[ His frown deepens. His body's apparent complaint strikes him as ridiculous. ]
Mayhap these blades are lighter than I once preferred...
no subject
[francel frowns. if it is not the shape of the weapon that is the issue, but rather its size or heft, then zephirin must have preferred a bigger, more fearsome blade — perhaps even a greatsword, like those that dark knights are rumored to use.
francel has heard tell of these dark knights. they serve no houses, no masters; they have been known to slay members of the church, foregoing things like law and due process in pursuit of their own radical ideas of justice. they are not to be trusted, nor housed in the homes of honorable ishgardian men.
but this doesn't mean that zephirin was a dark knight, francel reminds himself. ishgard would not make and market greatswords if all those who preferred them were licentious vigilantes, and even whitebrim front has its share of soldiers who prefer large zweihanders over more traditional methods. zephirin could be a knight of house durendaire.]
...The merchant and mender who passes through Camp Dragonhead from time to time might have... heavier blades for you to try.
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His memories should never have become Lord Francel's responsibility, in any case.
After a moment, Zephirin crosses the armory floor to approach Francel, his right hand outstretched for the young lord's upon reaching him. On his lips, he wears a small, rueful smile. ]
Unless Ser Corentiaux objects, I suppose I am to stay here for a time, then. No matter what comes of it, I hope to repay your kindness.
no subject
I am sure he would not pass up the opportunity to have another skilled swordsman in his service. And there is no shortage of work to be done in Camp Dragonhead. Though you should be careful — he is not so forgiving a taskmaster as I...