dpscheck | hot springs episode

[francel is too weary and hard-hearted now to believe in anything so beautiful as healing waters. he does not believe, either, that a warm bath will cure him of all his ills. nevertheless, he journeys to the hot spring on chirurgeon's orders, primarily because he has nothing better to do. the alternative would be to sit at his desk in his cabin, where his vision might swim over bombastic reports from his knights, or perhaps the enchiridion, which has now lost all meaning.

he does not himself arrive on the back of a chocobo. the hidden spring in central coerthas is near enough to his home that he can make the trip on foot, aided by a convenient path through the mountains which (queerly enough) only he and the local chinchillas seem to frequent. but francel sees aymeric's chocobo when he arrives, of course, and he frowns. perhaps it is only one of the local knight-captains, he thinks. perhaps lord drillemont... or else lord emmanellain...

he doesn't — really thinking about it — he doesn't really want to see either drillemont or emmanellain bathing in the nude, but it seems strange to turn around without at least ascertaining who has come to bathe in the spring ahead of him. gaze lowered, francel makes his way up the path, walks around the boulders, past the ornate armor without seeing it. he thinks — he doesn't know what to think. he thinks perhaps it could be haurchefant, if only that were not impossible. he knows that is impossible.

francel expects to see a dead man before he expects to see ser aymeric in the hot spring.

his steps come to a halt; his breath catches in his throat. he is at war with himself. shoulders tensed, francel half-turns to leave, half-catches himself on a nearby boulder as though it might anchor him.]

I — oh. Pray excuse me, I...

[ Aymeric lifts his head, instantly roused. ]

Not at all; come in. Were I determined to avoid company, I would have remained in Ishgard.

[ He pauses, propping himself up on his forearms, squinting through the steam. ]

Lord Francel? [ A mild, friendly humor enters his voice: ] I might certainly go, if you like. I've no intention of chasing you away from your own family's holdings, or near enough.

...House Haillenarte has no claim upon Dragonhead. We hold only Skyfire Locks and the farmlands surrounding.

[that still stings, even five years later, but francel tries not to think about it as he wrestles with the unreasonable desire to run. he can't excuse himself — aymeric has given him explicit permission to stay — but this is, really, the last thing he needs right now, and he feels nervous in a sick way, pulse fluttering up to his throat, leaving him dizzy with self-hatred.]

...Indeed I am oft referred to as Lord Francel. Well met, Ser Aymeric. This is... admittedly, not how I envisioned our paths might cross.

[he sounds somehow defeated as he lowers his gaze to his shoes and murmurs:]

I am sorry to disturb you in repose.

[ Aymeric gives that an easy smile — and sits up, implicitly offering the rock, as if were a table he was rudely sprawled out on. ]

No need! This is no more than... [ he makes a vague gesture to everything around them— ] Chirurgeon's orders. Come! Let us talk of the goings-on of Skyfire Locks. Your lord father has said nothing of it; I am interested.

Edited 2019-07-28 23:01 (UTC)

[chirurgeon's orders, aymeric says. francel furrows his brow, musters the strength to squint through the steam at aymeric's body, but he spies nothing particularly fresh, only the typical pattern of scars as might be expected of an ishgardian knight. awkwardly, he scuffs his shoe against the dirt.]

Are you hurt? I suppose I am injured as well, after a fashion. But...

[he allows that thought to lapse. awkwardly, he tugs at his collar, uncertain of whether or not he should disrobe. i ought to leave, he tells himself. i ought to apologize for disturbing him, and come back some other time. there is naught to gain from this.]

...I believe my father the count has said nothing because there is nothing to report, Ser Aymeric. Only the crocs and wolves plague us now. Occasionally, there are incidents with wild karakul, or goobues, but... still, my people are happy. They look towards the future, unfettered by the ephemeral present.

[ Aymeric looks at him, sharp and curious, silent for a beat too long. ]

"Unfettered by the ephemeral present."

[ It has the air of slow agreement, as if Francel were quoting some well-known piece of scripture. He leans on his rock again — which only has the effect of bringing him a few ilms closer to Francel, through the wisps of steam. ]

I am quite well, from my perspective. My hospitalier captain merely contests it. [ It'd be more believable without the conspiratorial humor in his voice. ] But I thank you for asking. And you, if I may? You said you were injured?

[francel nods, still wary, as though he has not yet decided whether or not he can trust himself to keep speaking with aymeric. he seems, at least, to have made a decision; he sets the small pack holding the towel and other materials he brought with him upon a nearby boulder. mechanically, his fingers undo the metal clasp holding the collar of his bliaud, and then move to undo the laces of his outer jacket.]

...It is nothing too unsightly. I am sure it pales in comparison to to other wounds you have seen and sustained over your years.

[he pulls the green bliaud off his shoulders as he speaks, then sheds his grey inner jacket as well, and for a moment, francel's claim of being injured might ring bizarrely false — his arms are clearly unencumbered, and his thin chest bears no signs of recent injury. he has no bite marks, no bruises: neither ixali watchwolf nor rampaging ogre has sought to lay him low.]

I... simply made a mistake.

[as he speaks, one might come to the conclusion that perhaps his injury is in his legs, that a stumble through the snow sprained the young lord's ankle or something along those lines. but then he turns to seat himself upon a boulder while he removes his shoes and gaskins, and the nature of francel's injury is made plain.

he has already been seen by a chirurgeon, no doubt, but one of much lesser skill than hospitalier captain abel whitecape. the skin across francel's back is healed, though in a ruddy and discolored way that will likely take some months longer to fade properly; he sports a series of long red lines across his back, some overlapping, some not. the scars are too haphazard and imprecise to have been done with any precision, but too neat to have been inflicted by anything but a bladed instrument, or perhaps a number of bladed instruments.

francel sets his clothes upon the boulder, sets his shoes beside them, and then — as quickly as possible, wishing to preserve his modesty — strips himself of his pants and undergarments, then slides into the hot water, suppressing a shiver as the cold air bites into his skin.]

[ Francel's assessment is fair — Aymeric has both seen and received worse — but Aymeric is a knight surrounded by knights, and Francel is a man who has never distinguished himself in battle.

More than that, the nature of the wounds is curious.

Aymeric frowns, all the levity in his voice replaced by a mild concern. ]

Might I ask the cause? [ It has nothing to do with him, he's keenly aware, so he adds, in the event that talking about them clinically might help: ] They are...difficult to place. Perplexing, were I a healer.

[francel sinks into the water until he is neck-deep in the spring, eyes half-lidded as they stare dully toward the blue skies of ishgard. for a moment, it may seem as though he does not intend to answer aymeric's question at all. after another beat, however, he rights himself, sitting up properly though he continues to avert his gaze.]

...Know you the ritual of self-flagellation?

[he sounds almost bored, his voice carefully lifeless.]

Some few devout within the See once claimed that those most pious could undertake a trial of the flesh, and thereby commune with Halone. One fashions a simple whip out of blade and rope... Many are the priests who have claimed to see Halone, or if not Her, then another loved one, long lost to the war.

[francel thinks vaguely that he does not want aymeric to think him a zealot — he might have been fairly considered such, once upon a time, but no longer. he shakes his head.]

...I do not believe as I once did. And so I knew... I would see nothing, hear nothing. Gods do not come for men like me. [he closes his eyes in the water, aymeric by the boulder, francel by the shore.] And yet... if there was even the slightest chance...

[ Aymeric's voice is neutral, cautious. ]

I have never cared for the practice, in truth. We were battered enough by the war itself; it seemed folly to add to our miseries, and the tangible consequences oft become the— [ he swerves away from burden— ] —the province of healers.

There are many devout within the Church, Lord Francel, but — if I may — those who suggest that we ought to do ourselves injury to become holier men are grasping bitterly at phantoms.

...Yes, of course.

[vaguely, francel thinks to himself that perhaps he should feel chastised, but he isn't sure that he does. he feels as though some indefinable emotion is caught in his throat, and no words can possibly wrench it from his airways. it was a mistake from start to finish — he knew it would bring him no solace — and what he really wanted was not haurchefant, nor even his faith restored, but —]

I knew that, but still...

Edited 2019-08-03 03:43 (UTC)

[ Aymeric shifts as if he means to get up — but he only sinks lower into the spring, propping his chin on his crossed arms, much like Francel found him, only awake and intent, pale eyes keen and interested. ]

But still? Speak freely; think of me as no more than a spirit of the spring. A water sprite.

[it has been a long time since anyone last tried to joke with francel de haillenarte. the young lord smiles on reflex if nothing else — but even his amusement, genuinely given, does not quite dispel the sorrow from his eyes.

his gaze finds the water again. warmth suffuses his limbs; he feels half-miserable, half-playful, so much so that he allows the buoyant spring to carry his legs, lighter than the rest of his body. his feet float on the water, and cold air teases his toes where they dare to surface entirely. perhaps this selfsame curiosity and playfulness has seized aymeric, too. francel doesn't know. this is the hour of their first meeting.]

Have water sprites the heart to judge the selfishness of men?

[he looks upward once more, toward the sky.]

...I knew... I knew it would bring me nothing, Ser Aymeric. All such tales of gods and their miracles are false. But if you had asked me what I'd desired before I began, I could not then have told you. With distance, now I see it more clearly. What I wanted... what I thought the pain might bring me was salvation. A savior. I had been rescued by Haurchefant on so many occasions prior, you see. I thought perhaps if I hurt myself enough... someone would come to stop me.

...But no one ever came. Because it was folly to have even hoped for rescue. Because there are times when we alone must save ourselves. So I picked myself off the bloodied floors and took myself to the chirurgeon, and then I carried myself home.

[the water's buoyancy has lost its fun. francel draws his legs close to his chest, then rests his arms on his knees. his voice is steady and calm.]

...You must think me a pitiable wretch.

[ In answer — perhaps alarmingly, too direct, too fast — Aymeric pushes back into the water and maneuvers around his rock, half-swimming, half guiding himself by the rocks along the shore. He stops before the distance becomes presumptuous, leaving Francel enough room to get up and flee in any direction, and draws his knees up comfortably, watching him, mild and sympathetic. ]

Water sprites have not the right to judge any man's flaws, I fear. They have enough of their own.

[ The self-deprecation is light; honest, but not solemn enough to redirect the focus of the conversation to himself. ]

Were you close friends with Lord Haurchefant? Forgive me, I'd no idea.

Edited 2019-08-06 23:24 (UTC)

[francel stays where he is, unmoving, though he watches aymeric's movements with a kind of wary interest, as if he could run at any moment, so long as he judges the danger great enough.]

If I was, it hardly matters now.

[it sounds self-pitying, and perhaps it is, but he means it. were they friends? he thought so at the time. does it matter now? haurchefant is not like to emerge from halone's hall merely to proclaim francel his most bosom friend.]

I would give my life for his if I could. But that would be a poor bargain. He was twice the man I am.

Doubtless he would have preferred you lived.

[ The easiest answer, and Aymeric offers it with a smile -- but he sobers quickly, tipping his face toward the gray Coerthan sky. ]

Nonetheless -- I played a part, however unwitting, in his end. He was a good man, a great knight. I...regret that I saw no better solution than to trust in the Archbishop's good intentions.

...It hardly matters now.

[aymeric’s words, however intentioned, seem to slide off francel’s heart like so much useless seawater, leaving him no less hollow and probably a bit more saline. it’s always like this, he thinks, when he tries to talk about haurchefant: platitudes, praise for his character, for his knighthood, for his service. everyone rushing to tell some story about him or accept complicity for his death, as if fighting for the disappearing slices of some imaginary tart, snatching up even the flaky crumbs, leaving francel with nothing but the plate.

they didn’t know him, he thinks, bitterly. they didn’t know him when he was no one.

then again, he thinks, i didn’t know him when he was someone.

he feels empty again, like a plush rabbit with its stuffing long removed for a child’s amusement, forgotten and left on a shelf. he thinks that it would be nice to sink into the water and stop breathing, but he knows full well that his traitorous body would struggle for air, and that aymeric would stop him, probably, out of some misguided justice. he thinks about snow.]

...Has anyone ever told you that they loved you, Ser Aymeric?

Edited 2019-08-11 15:02 (UTC)

No. [ Aymeric hesitates with a tilt of his head, amending it: ] Not with the consideration and gravity the sentiment is due, rather. I've seen the odd declaration in letters from senders I've rarely met, but I presume you mean in-person and perfectly earnest.

[ It's neutral and objective, like plucking a card to read from an orderly inventory of experiences he's never had. ]

Why do you ask?

[in truth, francel only asked because he expected to hear that aymeric had the experience. he expected to hear that aymeric had turned away a great many admirers indeed, that they didn't know him in the least, that he was weary of the attention — and therefore, by some twisted extension, that there was, indeed, no value in francel's ever having loved haurchefant at all.

this, somehow, is worse. francel lowers his gaze to the water's rippling surface, thinking of the unsent letters stored in his bedside drawer, the countless sheets of paper he's ultimately crumpled up to use for kindling. he thinks of haurchefant's arm slung around his shoulders, heavy with the weight of his vambrace. he's been a terrible fool.

of course. that is exactly what would have happened had francel mustered the nerve to leave his heart in an envelope on haurchefant's desk: haurchefant would have forgotten it beneath a pile of other documents, and then swept it aside for another day never to come.]

...I suppose I just wanted to know what it was like. But you're right. A letter wouldn't have done any good.

[the young lord draws his knees up to his chest again, then rests his head on his arms, his arms on his knees. curled in on himself, he looks as if he means to fall asleep in the warm spring.

it's all too late no matter what he does, so why can't he just let it go?]

Forgive me. I should not have asked. I'll not bother you any further.

[ The pieces slide slowly and deeply into place, and lock there, like a fresco in chipped plaster: the dead man, the hero, the centerpiece, drowning in light and adoration — they were never well acquainted, but Aymeric knew Lord Haurchefant had been loved — and occupying some unimportant corner, forgotten by everyone but the painter, the small figure of a no one, a letter cradled in his hands.

Lord Francel's hands, reddened by the spring and the cold, look delicate, soft and unscarred.

Aymeric takes a long breath, tips his head back against the face of the boulder behind him, and extends an olive branch. ]

There was a man, once — no one who loved me, but one with whom I suffered a sort of infatuation. This was long ago; I was only one knight among many, then. I could not, for the life of me, determine whether I loved him or admired him. I resolved to write him a letter, though I could have spoken to him whenever I liked. I suppose I thought it a sort of protection: if he never acknowledged it, neither would I, and we could go on pretending that I had never confessed anything untoward.

I would not have envied you that anticipation, but all the same— [ he pauses, watching a few snowflakes spiral through evergreen branches— ] I regret that you were denied the attempt.

[francel wonders if the story is even true. it seems unlike ser aymeric, although he knows very little of ser aymeric indeed. he knows aymeric as a concept and not as a person — and the more he thinks on it, the more bizarre it is, indeed, that he should be sitting in a spring with the lord commander, speaking loosely of broken hearts. perhaps he's finally lost his wits after all.]

...Did he acknowledge it?

I never wrote it.

[ Aymeric offers him a conspiratorial smile. ]

I thought that in waiting I might make myself more certain — and so I did, and I felt no pressing need to confess formally to admiration and the love any man might bear a friend.

[ He leans back again, lets his eyes close, relaxed where Francel is wrapped tight around himself. ]

Nor is this to draw comparisons, of course; only to say that I do remember the sense of injustice — that cowardice, as I thought it then, might also be the most selfless solution.

[francel falls silent. it’s not the same, though aymeric himself said that — but it’s really not the same at all. a passing infatuation, a moment of uncertainty — it isn’t at all like being utterly devoted to a single man for sixteen years.

and that in itself seems a foolish statement. but he thought it would be fine. he thought he knew who he was without haurchefant: devoted son, pious lordling, fourthborn of house haillenarte. now, thanks in part to aymeric himself, all that seems stripped from him. haurchefant is dead. and francel doesn’t know who he is without his country, his bloodline, his only friend. more than that, he hates himself for being this weak, this pathetic.

but he can’t say any of this to aymeric. he’s said enough as it is.

haurchefant would have wanted you to be happy, he reminds himself, numbly.

then comes the second thought: no one came.

he sinks his wrists into the water, and imagines the knife. but that wouldn’t do any good. he doesn’t have the right to ruin this spring for everyone else, to taint it with his sullied name until such day as it is eventually forgotten.]

...Cowardice and bravery are empty concepts. It doesn’t matter how we feel, only what we do...

[and i, he thinks to himself, have done nothing. nothing of value at all.]

[ Aymeric stirs as if he means to get up, but he doesn't. ]

Wisely said.

[ And it is, and he couldn't disagree if he wanted to — but Aymeric has just seen the evidence of Francel's doing on his back. He wonders what it is about Francel's mind that twists good philosophies into dark impulses.

The man must have been left alone for a some time, it strikes him, to do himself so much harm.

He turns to Francel, straightening, and abruptly changes the subject. ]

Would you be amenable to telling me more of the standing of the central highlands? Whether the Locks, the region generally, your impressions of the other houses' holdings — anything. I would be grateful.

[this, at least, is a question that does not ask francel to look inward toward himself. he lifts his head as if roused from a dark and dangerous dream, his eyes hollow and blue as they focus on aymeric's face.]

...As the leader of the Locks, I suppose I can offer no unbiased account of life under mine own command. But Camp Dragonhead seems to have accepted its new commander, and young Honoroit is more than capable of making up for Lord Emmanellain's faults. I suppose I have some concerns about the Observatorium — the astrologians spend much on frivolities and little on the knights that guard them, but who am I to question the wisdom of Master Forlemort? That said, had I half the coin in his coffers, I would send more patrols along our southern border, to better keep the roads safe for pilgrims to the Fury's Gaze...

[francel goes on in this vein for some time — he is not spirited, not exactly, and his thoughts tend toward the pessimistic all the same, but at the very least, his propensity towards dark impulses has not prevented him from doing his job.]

hot springs episode

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cw: self-harm

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