stuck meme

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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.

TEMPLATE CODED BY valoirs

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[valhourdin]

[ 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. ]

[haillenarte]

[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.]

[valhourdin]

[ 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.

[haillenarte]

[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.

[valhourdin]

[ 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.

[haillenarte]

[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.

[valhourdin]

[ 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. ]

[haillenarte]

[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.]

[valhourdin]

[ 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. ]

[haillenarte]

[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.

[valhourdin]

[ 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.

[haillenarte]

[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.]

[valhourdin]

[ 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.

[haillenarte]

[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...

[valhourdin]

[ One subject holds Francel's thoughts captive. ]

I imagine he saw your skill.

[ It is unfortunate that circumstances forced Francel to draw his blade against his not once friend and mentor, to defend divergent goals.

Had Haurchefant been the Ward's thirteenth seat, and Francel the Warrior of Light's ally, Zephirin suspects that events would have ended in the former's sacrifice regardless. He seemed the sort. ]

No doubt his shield would have been yours, and you would live.

[haillenarte]

...

[francel says nothing. he lifts his eyes to zephirin's again. it almost pains him. he thinks of sunlight and grass and warmth, of dewdrops on leaves, all things he can't have and haurchefant was one of them. zephirin's remark seems somehow true, at least in the sense that francel's fractured mind cannot either attack or defend its veracity. it hangs, blankly, over his head.

would haurchefant have protected him?

would haurchefant have protected him?

dead men cannot answer. francel knows this. francel knows, by his own unanswered questions for chlodebaimt, that dead men answer nothing, that death is not even death or even an eternal departure but instead a terrible, awful, endless silence.

he cannot even explain to himself why he reaches out, open-palmed, for zephirin's hand again.]



Will you stay... for just a moment?

[valhourdin]

[ Zephirin's gaze flicks downward to Francel's hand. His own comes up not quickly, but nevertheless free of hesitance, and covers Francel's palm.

Until they are summoned, he will stay. A fellow knight's well-being falls within his responsibilities.

In place of spoken assent, he extends an offer: ]

If you wish, you may draw my blade. Avenge your friend.

[ But Francel has said nothing to suggest that he cannot separate Haurchefant's interference and Zephirin's duty. ]

[haillenarte]

[francel shakes his head vehemently, as if rejecting even the very thought.]

How could I seek vengeance from you...?

[he turns his hand, squeezing zephirin's loosely.]

I... I have only him to blame.

[and that hurts. because francel never wanted to blame haurchefant for anything but — but haurchefant was responsible for his own death...]

Only myself to blame...

[valhourdin]

[ That astonishingly violent movement is Francel's first true sign of life since his short-lived shouting — a small step approaching progress. Zephirin's response is a minute shrug. ]

Few would share your thinking. They would look upon his sacrifice as a heroic act, but demand blood for blood. Your options both prolong your suffering.

[ Francel's tears will not reach the dead. Francel's self-loathing does him harm. ]

[haillenarte]

...Killing you would not ease my suffering, either...

[it occurs to francel suddenly and for the first time that this really is an odd position. why is he seeking comfort in the hands of his own friend's murderer? and yet, what other choice does he have? none other in the ranks of the ward would have the patience for him, except perhaps haumeric (whose advice would be too logical, too sound for francel in his current state) or vellguine (whose advice would be too knightly and lofty for francel to ever live up to). francel sits, numb; even the chilly air has ceased to bother him. the sensation of zephirin's hand in his is the only sensation he can feel at all.]

And vengeance... vengeance did not see my brother returned from the dead.

[valhourdin]

[ Little by little, Francel seems to emerge from his earlier torpor. Perhaps nothing has the power to ease his suffering, but despair has not taken from him all reason. ]

No. I can make no claims to the contrary — would that I could.

[ Zephirin's grip tightens briefly around Francel's fingers. ]

... For now, you have earned your rest, ere we reach Azys Lla.

[haillenarte]

[that squeeze sends a jolt of warmth through francel's arm, electricity coursing through his bones. suddenly he remembers what it is to feel alive. the lump in his throat still aches and his eyelids still feel swollen, too-sensitive, but francel remembers what it is like to have thoughts again. after a pause, he nods.

this is not what he wanted.

and maybe they are wrong.

there is no good solution to any of this.

but all he has left is the promise to continue on.]

...Thank you, Zephirin.