"So it has," Francel says, on his knees before Haurchefant's monument. Then — because that does not seem to adequately fill the silence — he repeats himself: "So it has."
He does not need to turn and look over his shoulder to know that Felih is the one speaking to him. There are few people who would speak with Lord Francel at all when he is changing the bouquet at Providence Point, and fewer people still who would address him in so casual a fashion. Sighing, Francel replaces last week's bouquet of lilies and exchanges it for a fresh one — the old one has yet to wither, but its petals have begun to brown and curl.
He rises to his feet with the old bouquet in his arms.
"Ser Aymeric sent word of your exploits in the east," the young lord continues, in a carefully neutral voice. "Savior of Ishgard — and now, what is it? Ah yes — liberator of Ala Mhigo. I suppose you must have some other title with the Domans, as well."
Felih had been proud to call Francel a friend, in times past. But since the death of their mutually beloved Haurchefant, Felih found it harder and harder to face it. How could he ever apologize enough? How could he look Francel in the eye, knowing he was the reason Francel's best friend now lied cold and still in a tomb, with only the monument and memories left of him?
He comes, now and then, to offer flowers. Not Nymeia lilies- Felih can't bear the sight of the things these days, he's seen far too many of them on far too many graves, too many bodies. He seems to bring death wherever he goes.
Curse Nymeia and her threads of fate.
He brings flowers from all over the world, colorful, unique, pretty- something he hopes Haurchefant would've liked to see. All the flowers he never got to see in life, because they never did get to go out on that adventure together, did they?
The ring feels like a heavy weight on the chain around his neck.
"Yes," Felih murmurs in response. Dependable, lovely Aymeric- of course he passed on reports of their endeavors in Gyr Abania. "We did have a good hand in liberating them both, but I care little for titles these days."
There's another silence Felih doesn't know how to fill- but he cares for Francel still, and so the question that follows is sincere, if timid. "...how have you been faring, these days?"
The men and women of Skyfire Locks like to boast about their young lord; they like to tell adventurers and passersby of his piety, his discernment, his forgiveness, his grace. But the truth is that Francel is just a man — not an angel among men — and he is not above things like jealousy, and blame, and irrational hatred. In the wake of Haurchefant's death, blame had seemed like a good alternative. If Ser Aymeric hadn't been a fool. If Felih Tia had never come to Ishgard. If this, if that — Haurchefant would still be alive.
Time has not brought healing, but it has brought detachment. Aloofness. The question that plagues Francel now isn't whether or not Felih is responsible for Haurchefant's death. It's whether or not Francel's feelings mattered. Whether or not anything about him ever mattered at all.
He has the feeling he knows the answer: they didn't. He didn't.
"All is well in Skyfire Locks," Francel says, offering the answer to a question that he knows Felih did not ask. "The people have no particular troubles of note. And Lord Emmanellain appears to be settling into his new position at Camp Dragonhead quite well. Young Honoroit has been very helpful in that regard..."
Felih nearly flinches at the way Francel dodges his question, the pointed avoidance making his heart ache. Too much changed, after what happened. Too many broken hearts all around, and he feels like only a harbringer of misfortune. He and his companions have done much: slain primals, liberate nations, drive back Garlean invasions and swarms of beasts, but...
He couldn't save the people he loved most. What use was power if he couldn't use it when it mattered?
Still, he approaches, ears low, tail tucked between his legs. He can never apologize enough, but at least- at least he shouldn't be afraid to try and reach out. After all, in the end, they're both in mourning- they're both hurting, missing the treasure Haurchefant was.
"...Emmanellain has been taking his duties more seriously, at the very least. It seems his brother's actions... inspired him," he murmurs quietly. He remembers the portrait in the office, he remembers how he'd wept at the sight of it. The camp was so very quiet for him, that day. "And if Skyfire Locks is doing well, 'tis through your leadership. It seems as if things are... stable, these days."
What would you know of my leadership? rises to Francel’s tongue, but the young lord keeps his thoughts in his mouth. He has not forgotten that Felih Tia saved him from certain death at the hands of a false inquisitor, and theoretically that should still hold weight between them, even if Francel nowadays is of the belief that he would have been happier to die then than to be alive now.
“Yes,” is all he says instead, and nothing more.
He allows Felih to come closer, but he says nothing further. Francel’s gaze drops to the dying bouquet in his arms. It seems a mercy to ruin it now rather than to let it continue wilting. With icy determination, he starts to pick off the petals of each lily; now and then he stops to let the breeze snatch the petals off his palm. The game is meaningless now. The answer will always be the same: he loved me not, loved me not, loved me not...
Felih's ears remain low. He doesn't know how to- ever... ever...
He sighs, and turns his gaze to the stone, watching how the winds carry the petals out, over the memorial, then off the cliffs and into the deep canyons and abyss surrounding the holy city.
"...there were days..." he starts slowly, quietly, "...that I felt as if I couldn't go on. I would come, and sit, and let the snow cover me, because perhaps if I let it numb me, it would stop hurting. Perhaps I would... see him, again." It had become such an issue that Camp Dragonhead now made a point of checking on Haurchefant's memorial when Felih was seen arriving, to ensure the man hadn't curled up besides the stone, loyal to a mate that was far beyond his reach.
It's near a whisper. "If I could trade my life for his, I would."
"As would I," Francel replies, "if such a thing could be endeavored."
The young lord knows these feelings well, but his heart is well beyond such platitudes. He has long accepted that lives are without price, and that Halone does not offer her fallen warriors wholesale to be bargained and bought. He continues tearing off the petals of his lilies with a kind of savage methodology — the sight of the flowers floating on the breeze brings him some small measure of peace. Again, words rise to his lips; again, he tells himself to withhold them. There is no point in saying anything about Haurchefant now, he reminds himself. He is dead. It is over. There is nothing left.
Had Felih's guilt not been so grave, perhaps he would've gone to Francel for comfort. Perhaps they could have leaned on each other in the misery that followed, perhaps they could've bared their hearts to each other. But Felih Tia could be a coward- and it grew harder to face the man with each passing day.
The petals being scattered and spread make him wince, seeing the petals vanish, white like the snow-laden winds consuming them, carrying them out of sight.
They both cared for Haurchefant deeply- why should they not support each other in the mourning? Felih has to take a deep, shuddering breath, the cold air stinging at lungs that aren't made for the cold. He can't stay out much longer, lest his breathing become impaired.
But with that breath, he steels his resolve and steps forward, a hand gently coming to rest on Francel's, trying to make him pause in the flowers' mutilation. "I have not been... the friend I should have been. I'm- I'm not proud of it, Francel, and I'm sorry. I can't.... ever apologize enough, but if there's... there's anything I can do for you..." he trails off.
Favors, tasks and jobs, even just calls for companionship or someone to confide in- who else would understand the heartache more?
The cold does not bother Francel. He has long grown numb to the ice and snow.
"I have asked nothing of you, Felih, and I ask nothing now," he says, as calmly as he can muster, though the clipped and strained quality to his voice belies the emotion he is trying to keep at bay. "The time for this is long past. The time..."
He trails off. Words seem to catch in his throat, choking and strangling him; he brings his fingers to his neck, as if to clear them away by hand. It always comes down to this: words. Words.
"It's all too late," Francel says, and somehow those words feel like the only truth in the world.
Felih's ears draw back in hurt, in disappointment. Perhaps... perhaps Francel is right. Perhaps it was too late, but- is there harm in trying?
Maybe there was. Felih felt as if he was sure of little and less, these days.
"I'm sorry," Felih murmurs again. "I never... wished to hurt you. You are a treasured friend to me, still, though my- my cowardice has made me distant in the wake of our loss." His tail tucks between his legs, defeated. "If you would rather I- I sever our ties, I... would not blame you." He says it with great hesitance.
Felih, at heart, is clan-oriented. He is only the people who care for him, who he cares for, and without others, he is lost and aimless. It hurts to break a bond, but if it would ease the mourning man's heart...
At last Francel stops mutilating his flowers, though only because he has no more flowers to ruin; tearing his hand out from beneath Felih's, he throws the decimated stalks over the cliffside.
He tells himself that he should not do this. Not here, especially; not in front of Haurchefant's monument. But then, Francel knows as well as anyone that the monument is naught but cold stone. Marble that he bought and paid for. And the epitaph beneath Haurchefant's name was something that he chose for himself.
"What do you want from me, Felih Tia?" he asks, in a voice finally his own: dry and crackling with thunderous rage. "Do you think me a priest to give you absolution? Would you have me tell you that all is well? That I have found happiness? That I endeavor to smile because that is what he would have wanted?"
This is the man he really is, he reminds himself: the man who left Ishgard for cold vengeance, the man who would have died to defend the reputation of a faltering family. All such talk of piety and selflessness are lies.
"Spare me," he snaps. "I knew what he wanted. He wanted you."
Felih flinches, but doesn't back away, ears low as he takes the berating, the anger, and hears the way Francel's voice finally begins to crack and raise, the emotion springing loose after, perhaps, years of silence.
"I merely wanted your truth," he says quietly afterwards, ears pinned back. "I wanted you to- be honest. You put on such a fine mask- after all, you have such burdens, such hopes and weights on you, you must present a strong face." Felih knows this feeling well. "It pained me, seeing you like that. In the wake of everything- it seems... as if you were not allowed to mourn fully." Francel had as much right as Felih, if not more, to mourn and scream and curse the gods and all who conspired to bring about Haurchefant's death.
Felih had gotten to tear Zephirin's heart out with his own claws, but it was a hollow victory. Zephirin's heart would not bring his mate back.
It's the final words that render him stunned and speechless, fur bristling in shock, heart clenching in his chest.
Oh.
Gods... how could I be so blind?
Haurchefant's dearest, closest friend...
His hands tremble.
Well, I suppose neither of us got what we wanted then, did we?
"What does it matter now, when he is lost to us both?" he says, voice breaking, agony on his face as tears finally spill over.
“Precisely,” Francel replies. “It doesn’t matter. It never did.”
With obstinate cruelty, he turns his back on Felih’s tears; he has no heart for them, indeed no heart at all. The Warrior of Light might well have clawed Francel’s heart out alongside the valorous Ser Zephirin’s.
“Tell yourself whatever lies you’d like,” he says. “Pretend I have forgiven everything, if that is what you wish. Only leave me in peace.”
Felih has to clench his teeth to keep himself from sobbing, ears flat against his hair as he watches his former friend turn his back to him, his words cutting through deeply, chest aching. He forces himself to keep standing, even though he just wants to curl back up to his mate's memorial.
"...Lies are no comfort. Only truths. And here is mine: had I known- had I known... things would be different. I never meant to- to... I'm sorry. I'm sorry..."
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valoirs
no subject
He does not need to turn and look over his shoulder to know that Felih is the one speaking to him. There are few people who would speak with Lord Francel at all when he is changing the bouquet at Providence Point, and fewer people still who would address him in so casual a fashion. Sighing, Francel replaces last week's bouquet of lilies and exchanges it for a fresh one — the old one has yet to wither, but its petals have begun to brown and curl.
He rises to his feet with the old bouquet in his arms.
"Ser Aymeric sent word of your exploits in the east," the young lord continues, in a carefully neutral voice. "Savior of Ishgard — and now, what is it? Ah yes — liberator of Ala Mhigo. I suppose you must have some other title with the Domans, as well."
no subject
He comes, now and then, to offer flowers. Not Nymeia lilies- Felih can't bear the sight of the things these days, he's seen far too many of them on far too many graves, too many bodies. He seems to bring death wherever he goes.
Curse Nymeia and her threads of fate.
He brings flowers from all over the world, colorful, unique, pretty- something he hopes Haurchefant would've liked to see. All the flowers he never got to see in life, because they never did get to go out on that adventure together, did they?
The ring feels like a heavy weight on the chain around his neck.
"Yes," Felih murmurs in response. Dependable, lovely Aymeric- of course he passed on reports of their endeavors in Gyr Abania. "We did have a good hand in liberating them both, but I care little for titles these days."
There's another silence Felih doesn't know how to fill- but he cares for Francel still, and so the question that follows is sincere, if timid. "...how have you been faring, these days?"
no subject
Time has not brought healing, but it has brought detachment. Aloofness. The question that plagues Francel now isn't whether or not Felih is responsible for Haurchefant's death. It's whether or not Francel's feelings mattered. Whether or not anything about him ever mattered at all.
He has the feeling he knows the answer: they didn't. He didn't.
"All is well in Skyfire Locks," Francel says, offering the answer to a question that he knows Felih did not ask. "The people have no particular troubles of note. And Lord Emmanellain appears to be settling into his new position at Camp Dragonhead quite well. Young Honoroit has been very helpful in that regard..."
no subject
He couldn't save the people he loved most. What use was power if he couldn't use it when it mattered?
Still, he approaches, ears low, tail tucked between his legs. He can never apologize enough, but at least- at least he shouldn't be afraid to try and reach out. After all, in the end, they're both in mourning- they're both hurting, missing the treasure Haurchefant was.
"...Emmanellain has been taking his duties more seriously, at the very least. It seems his brother's actions... inspired him," he murmurs quietly. He remembers the portrait in the office, he remembers how he'd wept at the sight of it. The camp was so very quiet for him, that day. "And if Skyfire Locks is doing well, 'tis through your leadership. It seems as if things are... stable, these days."
At least the war is over.
(But at what cost?)
no subject
“Yes,” is all he says instead, and nothing more.
He allows Felih to come closer, but he says nothing further. Francel’s gaze drops to the dying bouquet in his arms. It seems a mercy to ruin it now rather than to let it continue wilting. With icy determination, he starts to pick off the petals of each lily; now and then he stops to let the breeze snatch the petals off his palm. The game is meaningless now. The answer will always be the same: he loved me not, loved me not, loved me not...
no subject
He sighs, and turns his gaze to the stone, watching how the winds carry the petals out, over the memorial, then off the cliffs and into the deep canyons and abyss surrounding the holy city.
"...there were days..." he starts slowly, quietly, "...that I felt as if I couldn't go on. I would come, and sit, and let the snow cover me, because perhaps if I let it numb me, it would stop hurting. Perhaps I would... see him, again." It had become such an issue that Camp Dragonhead now made a point of checking on Haurchefant's memorial when Felih was seen arriving, to ensure the man hadn't curled up besides the stone, loyal to a mate that was far beyond his reach.
It's near a whisper. "If I could trade my life for his, I would."
no subject
The young lord knows these feelings well, but his heart is well beyond such platitudes. He has long accepted that lives are without price, and that Halone does not offer her fallen warriors wholesale to be bargained and bought. He continues tearing off the petals of his lilies with a kind of savage methodology — the sight of the flowers floating on the breeze brings him some small measure of peace. Again, words rise to his lips; again, he tells himself to withhold them. There is no point in saying anything about Haurchefant now, he reminds himself. He is dead. It is over. There is nothing left.
no subject
The petals being scattered and spread make him wince, seeing the petals vanish, white like the snow-laden winds consuming them, carrying them out of sight.
They both cared for Haurchefant deeply- why should they not support each other in the mourning? Felih has to take a deep, shuddering breath, the cold air stinging at lungs that aren't made for the cold. He can't stay out much longer, lest his breathing become impaired.
But with that breath, he steels his resolve and steps forward, a hand gently coming to rest on Francel's, trying to make him pause in the flowers' mutilation. "I have not been... the friend I should have been. I'm- I'm not proud of it, Francel, and I'm sorry. I can't.... ever apologize enough, but if there's... there's anything I can do for you..." he trails off.
Favors, tasks and jobs, even just calls for companionship or someone to confide in- who else would understand the heartache more?
no subject
"I have asked nothing of you, Felih, and I ask nothing now," he says, as calmly as he can muster, though the clipped and strained quality to his voice belies the emotion he is trying to keep at bay. "The time for this is long past. The time..."
He trails off. Words seem to catch in his throat, choking and strangling him; he brings his fingers to his neck, as if to clear them away by hand. It always comes down to this: words. Words.
"It's all too late," Francel says, and somehow those words feel like the only truth in the world.
no subject
Maybe there was. Felih felt as if he was sure of little and less, these days.
"I'm sorry," Felih murmurs again. "I never... wished to hurt you. You are a treasured friend to me, still, though my- my cowardice has made me distant in the wake of our loss." His tail tucks between his legs, defeated. "If you would rather I- I sever our ties, I... would not blame you." He says it with great hesitance.
Felih, at heart, is clan-oriented. He is only the people who care for him, who he cares for, and without others, he is lost and aimless. It hurts to break a bond, but if it would ease the mourning man's heart...
no subject
He tells himself that he should not do this. Not here, especially; not in front of Haurchefant's monument. But then, Francel knows as well as anyone that the monument is naught but cold stone. Marble that he bought and paid for. And the epitaph beneath Haurchefant's name was something that he chose for himself.
"What do you want from me, Felih Tia?" he asks, in a voice finally his own: dry and crackling with thunderous rage. "Do you think me a priest to give you absolution? Would you have me tell you that all is well? That I have found happiness? That I endeavor to smile because that is what he would have wanted?"
This is the man he really is, he reminds himself: the man who left Ishgard for cold vengeance, the man who would have died to defend the reputation of a faltering family. All such talk of piety and selflessness are lies.
"Spare me," he snaps. "I knew what he wanted. He wanted you."
no subject
"I merely wanted your truth," he says quietly afterwards, ears pinned back. "I wanted you to- be honest. You put on such a fine mask- after all, you have such burdens, such hopes and weights on you, you must present a strong face." Felih knows this feeling well. "It pained me, seeing you like that. In the wake of everything- it seems... as if you were not allowed to mourn fully." Francel had as much right as Felih, if not more, to mourn and scream and curse the gods and all who conspired to bring about Haurchefant's death.
Felih had gotten to tear Zephirin's heart out with his own claws, but it was a hollow victory. Zephirin's heart would not bring his mate back.
It's the final words that render him stunned and speechless, fur bristling in shock, heart clenching in his chest.
Oh.
Gods... how could I be so blind?
Haurchefant's dearest, closest friend...
His hands tremble.
Well, I suppose neither of us got what we wanted then, did we?
"What does it matter now, when he is lost to us both?" he says, voice breaking, agony on his face as tears finally spill over.
no subject
With obstinate cruelty, he turns his back on Felih’s tears; he has no heart for them, indeed no heart at all. The Warrior of Light might well have clawed Francel’s heart out alongside the valorous Ser Zephirin’s.
“Tell yourself whatever lies you’d like,” he says. “Pretend I have forgiven everything, if that is what you wish. Only leave me in peace.”
no subject
"...Lies are no comfort. Only truths. And here is mine: had I known- had I known... things would be different. I never meant to- to... I'm sorry. I'm sorry..."
"...I'll do as you wish."