dpscheck | stuck meme

stuck meme

esuna off that paralysis

Post toplevels, reply as usual. Hope you enjoy your quality time with your thread partner, now that you're stuck...

01. IN A CROWD — for bonus points: in a crowd, after an argument.
02. DEFENDING THE BASE — while you wait for reinforcements to arrive. Good luck!
03. ON A RAFT — or a manacutter or an airship or something, drifting towards a deserted island.
04. IN A RELATIONSHIP — that your thread partner is trying to break you out of. The relationship can be with someone else... or just your bed/pet/hobby/gambling habit.
05. IN A WAITING ROOM — while you're waiting to hear a healer/conjurer/physician/chirurgeon's assessment, and you really didn't want to run into anyone... or maybe you'd like some emotional support?
06. TRYING TO NAVIGATE — through the Ul'dahn marketplace, maybe, or Hawker's Alley, or any number of confusing Lominsan/Gridanian/Sharlayan alleyways.
07. STANDING GUARD — wherever might be applicable: outside the Rising Stones? Rowena's House of Splendors? Or maybe awkwardly in front of a bedroom with a near-stranger so that the person who hired you to keep watch can get it on inside...
08. WITH YOUR HAIR — caught in someone else's belt or leather sheath or inexplicable shoulder spike... oh, adventurers and their impractical clothing.
09. DELIVERING TERRIBLE NEWS — exactly what's on the tin. Sucks to be you.
10. DOING THE DISHES — at a restaurant where you forgot your wallet and couldn't pay the bill.
11. IN A LAKE — because this person caught you skinny-dipping and won't... go... away...
12. WAITING TO BE RANSOMED — in the actually-quite-loving care of some especially incompetent criminals.

Enjoy being stuck! This meme was gently lifted off bakerstreet.

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valoirs

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

...what then...?

[francel breaks into a broken laugh, languid and lifeless, and then lapses into silence. what them? what then? nothing. it wouldn't have made a difference. it wouldn't have made a difference but it would have meant everything and all francel ever wanted was.]

...he would have... I would have...

...I would have still meant something.

[ Francel, it seems, mourns the loss of something that is not Haurchefant's life, for a look spared anyone in his final moments would have done nothing to seal the knight's mortal wound. Zephirin wonders — would one last look have left a different Francel in its wake?

The Francel before Zephirin now is a troubling sight. No doubt he retains the sense to remind himself to seek solace in faith and duty, in their calling, over looking to any ordinary man, but his is a private grief that likely needs time to be eased.

After a moment, Zephirin moves once more, finally crouching on the floor across from Francel. ]

You were close, once.

— Not once!

[at last francel looks up, blue eyes wet and full of rage. he tries to blink away the tears that have yet to spill, but they cling to his eyelashes. his voice shakes with anger, but all the momentum seems to slide out of him in an instant and he collapses in on himself again.]

...not once.

[shame and self-loathing wash over him in equal measure. this is not something he should yell at his commander over. he needs to pull himself together. he is a proud knight of the heavens' ward and his duty lies with the fury. he should not be curled up against haldrath's casket like a child curled against a security blanket.

he should have lost all mortal concerns when he finally accepted that haurchefant would never look at him.]

...why do you fight, Zephirin?

[ Zephirin does not flinch. He does not frown, nor does Francel's outburst earn him Zephirin's reprimand. He makes no attempt to placate Francel with some promise that the day will come when the young knight may expect to see Lord Haurchefant again, granting him eternity to seek proof of his worth not in the Fury's eyes.

Not once, Francel insists, but the man he called a fool has departed for halls not yet within reach, and in life, when did Haurchefant last stand at Francel's side? Why does Francel shed tears, convinced that he meant nothing?

Perhaps once riles him in its inaccuracy, making light of his pain. ]

Not once, then.

[ Then a slight frown darkens Zephirin's countenance after all as he considers Francel's question — its answer should have been clear. He has every standard response at the ready, his own motivations buried where they cannot lead him astray.

~~For the glory of King Thordan.~~

It is the Fury's will.

We were chosen to walk this path. ]

... We fight to but one end. It falls to us to see Ishgard's prayers answered.

[francel lets out a shaky breath. he tilts his head back, resting it where haldrath's arm might be if there were no coffin to encase his body. he contemplates the hull of the soleil, but his eyes only see — his mind only remembers — the silver glow of haurchefant's hair when moonlight graced it just so.

francel lifts his head, and then he stares at zephirin through his tears for a long time.]

...Would that I had your resolve...

[ Even Zephirin finds it somewhat uncomfortable to remain in his crouched position clad in full armour, and in the end, he rises, without taking his eyes from Francel. Calmly curious, his frown cleared away, he meets Francel's tear-veiled gaze and echoes the question asked. ]

Why do you fight, Ser Francel?

[ The archbishop's desire was for Ishgard's best to fill the ranks of his personal guard, their skill the sole deciding factor, and some may harbour their own aims alongside the obvious. ]

For the glory of...

[king thordan does not make it past his lips. francel tries, but cannot voice the sentiment, not with any real conviction; he cannot profane the name of their ruler with his own lack of faith. he shakes his head. he lets his gaze fall to his lap, and then he laughs again, lifeless and bitter.]

...because I wanted him...

[because he knew there was always a chance that haurchefant might die. a chance that haurchefant might die doing exactly this sort of thing, but francel had always assumed that it would be for him and not for anyone else. because even if he accepted that haurchefant would never love him, he still thought, selfishly, stupidly, that they were — that there were things haurchefant would do for him and no other. because he wanted haurchefant to speak of him as haurchefant spoke of the warrior of light — there he goes, my friend, my francel...

haurchefant was a fool.

so is francel.]

...I wanted him to be proud of me.

[ Francel's ambitions are nothing so lofty as peace everlasting, or justice, or honour. Power and glory do not appear to beckon to him. Instead his answer is an odd confession, a vulnerable heart exposed, much like every previous sentiment he has aired pertaining to Lord Haurchefant.

Zephirin continues to gaze down upon the crown of Francel's head until the silence might border on reaching an unnerving length, and then he extends his hand, palm upturned, offering it to the younger knight. ]

And now? [ For Francel speaks of the past. ] What will you do?

[ To fight for the glory of King Thordan is but lip service without their full conviction backing their pledge. To Francel's credit, he chose honesty. ]

[something horrible rises in francel's chest at the question — something horrible and warped and fearful like a sob. he tries to choke it down, but it rises up anyway, up from his chest through his throat through his lips. he didn't want this. he didn't want any of this.

haurchefant's death was the last thing his appointment to the ward was supposed to lead to.

francel reaches for zephirin's hand slowly, as if every movement pains him. if zephirin meant merely to lift him to his feet, francel rejects that. he laces their fingers together, turning zephirin's wrist to accommodate his own. his fingers are shaking.]

I don't know...

[this, too, is vulnerable: i don't know, a child's response, rather than the more formal i know not, or perhaps i do not know, i cannot answer, all this now is meaningless. but indeed there are few things that a man stripped of his reason for living would know.

there is something desperate in the way francel clings to zephirin's hand. he squeezes tightly through their armor, through their gauntlets, desperate for something like warmth to anchor him in all his nausea.]

[ Francel's reaction is unexpected — again it is troubling. When he accepts Zephirin's hand not to leave his seat on the floor, but to clutch that hand in his own as though it is a tether thrown a man dangling from a crumbling precipice, Zephirin could take it upon himself to pull Francel to his feet and extricate his fingers from the hold, but after another moment's standing stooped above Francel, he kneels, and he allows his hand to stay clasped in Francel's grip.

It occurs to him that Francel, even bereft of his most intimate purpose, holds Haurchefant to account for his sacrifice. Others — perhaps all who witnessed the scene — would seize an easier target at which to lash out in their grief.

Zephirin's other hand settles beneath Francel's chin, instructing him wordlessly and with a gentle sort of firmness to look up. ]

See Ser Haumeric.

[ A nod of his head indicates Francel's shoulder. And then, his hands still left in place: ]

Another man's esteem does not determine your worth.

[francel is, in many ways, a doll. he is one now, with no will left of his own, and he lifts his head when he is wordlessly bid. part of him grasps for meager kindnesses, half-imagined. he does prefer haumeric's cold but gentle treatment to noudenet's more forceful healing. he wonders if zephirin knows that.

the archimandrite's eyes are green as the meadows of coerthas before the calamity,

francel doesn't say anything; he simply shakes his head. there are too many things he never learned to say.]

Edited 2017-05-09 00:13 (UTC)

[ Whether that slight movement on Francel's part means refusal or disagreement, or something else, silence has free rein once again. Though he draws breath, Francel is listless, lifeless. His fleeting flare of anger is extinguished.

If he will not move, then Ser Haumeric will come to him.

For the time being, however, Zephirin uses his unclaimed hand to assist him in ascertaining the nature and extent of Francel's injuries, turning his attention to the straps of Francel's armour, regardless of the inefficiency of working one-handed. ]

[the sudden contact stirs francel from his reverie, or at least the quiet space inside himself he has retreated to. he shakes his head again — he does not pull away from zephirin's ministrations, but he half-lifts his own free hand toward his armor, hovering where zephirin's hand is working.

haldrath's casket shakes with the movements of the ship. the soleil's engine roars. perhaps, above them, guerrique is cracking jokes.]

I can...

[i can remove my armor myself, he means to say, but the words die in his mouth. his hand hovers uselessly. he lets zephirin remove his breastplate.]

[ The rest of Francel's sentence is implied in his hand's halfhearted effort to intervene, evidence that he seems unlikely to grow wholly unresponsive, and Zephirin glances up from his task. Leaving it unfinished, he gestures for Francel to take over. The layers underneath his armour's breastplate pose a greater challenge to remove without both hands. ]

Go on.

[francel hesitates a moment, but in the end he pulls his hand away from zephirin's, and then pulls his gauntlets off. he dutifully removes his chainmail shirt, placing it gently on the airship's floor. the plain black tunic he wears beneath is also removed.

it does not snow in the sea of clouds as it does in ishgard, but the air is no less cold. francel tries to hide his shivering. at six fulms seven ilms, francel is not the most petite member of the ward — that title belongs to ser adelphel — but his build seems rather fragile. he has the muscle of someone who has difficulty building muscle: his swordplay is another thing entirely.

francel's shoulder bears an ugly bruise slowly turning purple, and from the way he handles himself, it must hurt him every time he moves it. marks on his torso are also mottled red-blue, but he isn't injured past his bruises and bumps. he's mostly fine.

he didn't have to yield to lucia and estinien so early, and he knows it.]

...You need not send for Ser Haumeric. This is... this is nothing.

[ Zephirin sits back on his heels, hands resting upon his knees, and watches Francel's every movement for any sign of persisting discomfort, assessing its source. Francel's bare torso tells the remainder of the story begun in hints, in his distraction and in his hopes divulged: it was his heart that gave him the order to withdraw from battle.

Perhaps it is a liability, but this time, it only stayed his blade.

Shaking his head, Zephirin leans forward to touch his fingertips first to Francel's shoulder, then to the patches of skin discoloured by lesser bruising. ]

The damage may go deeper than these show the eye. Would you have your brothers bear you to our destination upon their shoulders?

[ He stands. ]

Ser Haumeric will disturb your solitude but briefly.

[francel shivers at zephirin's touch, even though his commander does not press deeply enough to prompt pain. his fingers find the hem of his tunic; he clings to it for warmth.]

...As you will.

[ Francel is not kept waiting in the cold air overlong. Zephirin returns above deck, speaks with Haumeric, and leads the mage back to Francel's hiding place, all in a matter of swift moments. As Haumeric seats himself beside Francel, their commander waits nearby, as if he stands watch. ]

[if haumeric has questions, he does not ask them. the conjurer pauses for only the briefest of moments to take in the scene (francel, undressed and bruised, leaning his back into the cold metal of haldrath's casket) before he kneels, rod in hand, to treat francel's injuries. it does not take long. his hands glow white. the light trickles its way towards francel's body, flooding him with warmth — and then it fades away.

francel's skin comes away unblemished.

haumeric maintains a healthy degree of skepticism. he passes his rod over francel's body a few times, to locate any wounds yet untreated — but, ultimately satisfied, he pulls away, silently prescribing the blue-eyed blond a clean bill of health. the mage passes a hand through his dark hair, and then nods. "guard the dragonseye well, brothers," he says, as if to suggest a convenient excuse; he no doubt knows full well that francel's refusal to leave the hold has absolutely nothing to do with haldrath. "i shall take my leave."

ser haumeric takes quick, small steps up the stairs, back into the light.

it is where he belongs, francel thinks.

his wounds are treated now, but he does not pull his clothes back on. he waits to be given the order.]

Edited 2017-05-10 03:27 (UTC)

[ Haldrath's casket and its contents are secure, and with Francel's physical state addressed, Zephirin turns to go. There is no instantaneous remedy for Francel's hurts yet left unhealed; no word, no spell will mend a heart rent to pieces. With time, inspired by the future whose doors they are to unlock, Francel may regain his footing and find his purpose in their cause alone.

Zephirin casts a glance over his shoulder to see Francel still sitting motionless and bare-chested.

It is cause enough to question the wisdom in leaving the young knight to his own devices, and Zephirin picks up Francel's tunic himself, holding it out to its owner to bring to his attention the fact that he need not endure the air's chill. ]

[francel is empty-headed, in the sense that he thinks empty thoughts. he understands what zephirin means by the gesture, but the understanding, somehow, fails to translate into action. francel takes his tunic slowly. it is devoid of finery, of embroidery, of things that he likes; it is plain and unmarked and suits him well.

it smells faintly of soap.

after what seems like an eternity, francel finally pulls it on over his head. he lets it hang loosely over his tassets; he cannot be bothered to tuck his tunic into his armor. he keeps his head bowed — but then he looks up at zephirin, and finally breaks his silence.]

...I am sorry.

[ Again Francel moves as an automaton might, acting not of his own accord — an automaton in need of repair, for his movements are halting, uncertain, making a foreign concept of a simple task to perform. Zephirin does not prompt him to turn to the discarded pieces of his armour. For now, they will see no further use.

To his surprise, Francel abruptly decides to speak, and the quiet apology receives a raised brow. ]

Your apology lacks a reason, Ser Francel.

[francel's eyelids fall, heavy with exhaustion. he thinks once more of haurchefant's smile and feels his eyes sting with tears, but they do not threaten to spill over his cheeks. he swallows on the lump in his throat.]

I burden you.

[his simple answer. ...burden all of us, he adds, but his mouth moves while his voice fails to leave his throat.]

[ Francel becomes a burden only if his anguish consumes him, cripples him beyond recovery to the point that he requires constant guidance. Had he suffered grave injuries and refused treatment, he would have risked becoming a burden.

That he needs some time now, while they journey to Azys Lla, to find himself afresh in the wake of his world's upheaval, does not make him a burden, but it does make it difficult to convince him to see reason. Reassurances will not persuade him to think thoughts less bleak.

Zephirin regards Francel in quiet contemplation — some years ago, he recalls, Francel lost a brother to the war. He saw the Horde repaid in kind and gained the Holy See's recognition. The newest addition to the Ward, perhaps he feels out of place, not truly among brothers in arms.

Perhaps he would respond to a friend's company.

Zephirin kneels before Francel one more time to look him in the eye. ]

Were you a burden, you would not hold a seat that some think superfluous. Your appointment was given the archbishop's sanction.

[something like hope glimmers in francel's wide blue eyes as he looks up to meet zephirin's gaze, but it flickers just as quickly out of existence, as he lowers his eyes to the man's jawline instead.

he must support his brothers. he must. he knows he has to. he wants to. their fragile bonds are all he has left.

and yet...]

...It was he who taught me the blade...

[involuntarily, his breath comes out shaking.]

...If he stood in my place, and I had been the one struck down...

stuck meme

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