dpscheck | stuck meme

Of course not.

[it is a well-known fact that some seminarians use their time in the seminary to, well, indulge in the world's pleasures as much as possible before they make their vows and don their klobuks; this is why francel's "friends" complain that he receives too few visitors through his most excellent bay window. francel is not that sort of seminarian, but that doesn't mean he doesn't sometimes wish he was.

groaning — knowing he will not be rid of emmanellain until he acquiesces to some harebrained adventure (and never the fun kind of adventure, the way haurchefant could make a trip to the crozier seem like a venture into the sea of clouds) — poor francel shifts his weight, glaring a challenge into emmanellain's blue eyes.]

Fine. What is it you propose I do? Accompany you to the Forgotten Knight?

[ Emmanellain's answer is to throw his unoccupied arm around Francel's shoulders, jostling him, but with something of an overbearing parent's pride. ]

A daring first step! I never knew you had it in you, Francel! Why not, I say — you'll find no better mentor than yours truly. Shall we be off?

[ Francel's empty bag catches Emmanellain's interest. If Francel isn't using it to carry anything within, others could.

At the Crozier's far end, Zephirin makes his purchases: an apple first, before he comes to a stall where orchestrion rolls are sold. A look up and down the market place's length to consider his options takes his gaze to the back of Francel's head, and the youth draped over the young lord. A friend's nameday well wishes, perhaps? ]

Edited 2017-05-27 22:04 (UTC)

[judging by the way francel shakes off emmanellain's arm, and then shoots him a look of seething annoyance... emmanellain is likely no friend. (or he is, but an especially annoying one.) the blond actually ducks and walks a few paces ahead to be rid of emmanellain's weight.]

I deign to walk with you, but not in contact with you! Fury take me, Emmanellain, do you walk arm-in-arm with every damned fool who tolerates your presence?

[ The scene holds Zephirin's attention. He adjusts his conclusion drawn, for Francel is visibly displeased by his companion's proximity, hastening to increase the distance between them. Yet they walk together, away from the markets. Francel, despite his exasperation, seems to lead the way until his friend falls into step with him, and he takes the same route of his own accord.

Zephirin leaves the orchestrion rolls for a later time, passes a counter-top of artist's supplies. His route back to Foundation matches Francel's by chance. The pair ahead soon disappears through the entrance to the Forgotten Knight — an unexpected turn of events.

Gibrillont's specialty, to Zephirin's knowledge, is not rolanberry-and-cream cake. ]

[unaware of zephirin's goodly presence behind them, francel huffs and folds his arms in the doorway of the forgotten knight. he is loath to go down the stairs leading to the bar proper — lest emmanellain do something stupid, like try to push him down the stairs.]

Well? You are the expert here; you may take the lead.

[ Briefly, as Emmanellain's hand settles between Francel's shoulder blades, it has the look that Francel's hesitation is indeed not groundless — but Emmanellain merely thumps the young lord on the back. ]

Follow me, then!

[ Down the stairs he goes, and then past noisy tables, selecting a free one to claim, strategically positioned in its nearness to the tavern keeper's counter, and to the busiest seats. This table Emmanellain points out to Francel, motioning for him to sit. ]

And here we are, old boy.

[the tavern is small — too small for the role that it plays in the economy of ishgard. the forgotten knight is filled with the hustle and bustle of temple knights fresh off their shifts, house knights dressed in anything but the colored haubergeons that identify them, and wandering hunters looking for an honest (or dishonest) day's work. francel dodges a waitress to sit at emmanellain's selected table. the dirty plates in her hand brush against his pure white sleeve; he rubs angrily at the fish-sauce left behind, and then tries to pretend the stain isn't there.

briefly, francel remembers that — according to legend — the founder of the forgotten knight was a knight sworn to haldrath the dragonseye; the tavern bore other names, once, but now it is named for him. a man no less noble than the founders of the four houses forsook nobility and leadership for... this.

francel decides that he'll never understand.]

...I fail to see the allure.

[ Among even the upper floor's usual patrons, the two lordlings are out of place, and Francel perhaps starkly more so than Emmanellain. A few pairs of curious eyes follow their movements. Dropping himself onto the chair across from Francel, with a smile for the passing waitress, Emmanellain shakes his head. ]

Well, you've scarcely sat down! Give it time, you'll see.

[ Precisely what awaits Francel is shrouded in mystery, or well obscured by the steady hum of conversation around them, the dim flicker of lamplight, the smells of food and drink. Someone laughs. The waitress reappears, bobs a curtsy, and stands expectantly beside the table. ]

Oh, leave this to me.

[ Without thinking to ask after Francel's preferences, Emmanellain proceeds to place their orders. ]

[francel does not recognize the string of words that leave emmanellain's lips, partly because he does not know what dishes grace the menu of the forgotten knight, and partly because the chatter around them makes it difficult to isolate individual words. the waitress, however, nods her understanding; once she turns to leave, francel grabs emmanellain by the shoulder, clearly upset.]

Emmanellain! I've no gil on my person for anything like that!

[ Emmanellain's head turns away from the waitress, back toward Francel. His brows rise in clear astonishment. Then, laughing, he pats the hand gripping his shoulder. ]

Really, Francel, surely you heard what I said! Leave this to me — consider it my gift to you.

[ An extravagant gesture for show, sudden generosity born of some whim, or is Emmanellain aware of the day's significance? ]

[the pats help francel deflate. anger seems to dissipate in the form of air leaving his body, leaving him less indignant — and also less capable of supporting his own body. he hunches into his chair, withdrawing his hand as he stares at his shoes.]

I don't even have anything to read...

[how is he supposed to entertain himself now?]

[ Francel is hopeless. Emmanellain's stare would tell him as much, were the young lord's eyes not lowered to his shoes. ]

Why in the world would you read in a tavern?! You wouldn't catch a thing of what goes on around you!

[ Their drinks arrive first, set down in front of them before long. Emmanellain crosses his arms. ]

I should think that you have all the company you need right before your eyes, not between the pages of a book.

[francel looks up at emmanellain, expression unchanged, and says:]

...No. Not at all.

[ The sentiment is mutual, though Emmanellain doesn't object to Francel's company. It simply continues to prove Francel a bore from head to toe, within and without, and Emmanellain has his work cut out for him. With a sigh, he unfolds his arms and leans back in his chair. ]

Not all, I suppose... [ Haurchefant, no doubt, is the one person who could make that claim — but Haurchefant keeps distant Camp Dragonhead company. ] Be that as it may, you needn't choose a book over an old friend.

[ Teasing Francel to the point of tears lies far behind them. ]

[francel breaks the eye contact, looking away from emmanellain in favor of the drink on the counter in front of him. ice bobs in the liquid; gibrillont must employ ice shards in his barman's workshop. it is too dark in the tavern to discern precisely what color the drink is, but francel doesn't want so much as a sip of it, anyway.]

...I have no ill will towards you. I would be glad to count you an old friend. But you... you belittle me, and you goad me into coming here, and you — you tell me that the way I live is wrong. You deny me my pleasures to substitute your own. You act as if I do myself no good whatsoever.

[the young lord swallows on a lump in his throat. he knows — he knows that bringing up haurchefant now would be a low blow, but he does it anyway.]

...Even — even when we were boys, and Haurchefant snuck into my room to whisk me away in the dead of night, he — he always made sure I brought some book along with me, and let me rest when I needed it. But you... you don't want to compromise with me at all. You care not for me, Emmanellain. You merely want someone to fall with you.

[with that said, francel rises from his seat, and turns to leave.]

Keep the drink for yourself.

[ The tavern is not quiet, and Francel is not loud, but somehow his accusations fill Emmanellain's ears. Francel describes a bully, someone who has lackeys instead of friends, who tramples everything that stands betwixt him and getting his way, caring little for anyone and anything but himself. Francel keeps to his side of the table, but his words are a resounding slap.

It raises Emmanellain's hackles at first; he leans forward, opens his mouth. Any rejoinder dies unsaid.

To Francel, he is a bully, dragging him away from his books against his will, to get a rise out of him, for a laugh.

It shouldn't hurt — why should it matter that Francel prefers Haurchefant's friendship? Emmanellain has friends of his own, ones who share his notion of the best ways to pass the time, and Francel is not his sister. It shouldn't hurt at all — but Francel's verbal slap leaves a stinging mark.

The truth is that Emmanellain had no calculated aim in mind, whether entirely self-serving entertainment, or friendly overture. Francel was there, a convenient target, and Emmanellain had the time on his hands (chose to have the time on his hands, the easiest path left to take). In this, as in all things, he didn't stop to examine his reasons before he acted.

The way he lives is wrong, he hears often enough. He does himself no good whatsoever, and those around him even less.

He's no longer in the mood for his own drink, let alone Francel's. ]

...Wait. [ Emmanellain's chair scrapes against the floor. He catches hold of Francel's arm. ] Would you rather visit our library?

[already nearing the limits of his patience, francel whirls around at the tug to his elbow; he pulls his arm back towards himself with a surprising viciousness. his outburst is not entirely his own; it is still not loud, not precisely, but it is choked out through the lump in his throat. francel is teary-eyed.]

Leave me alone, Emmannellain!

[he makes as if to wipe his face on one of his sleeves, but it is the same sleeve stained with fish-sauce, and his handkerchief is still damp with rose oil. annoyed, he has to complete the motion with his other sleeve instead.]

Why... why can you not let me well alone? What difference does it make if I visit the Fortemps manor library? I just — I want to go home. Let me well enough alone.

But—

[ Apparently, even without any such intention, Emmanellain still torments Francel until he cries. Here and now there is no Laniaitte rushing in to save her brother. There is only Francel, and Emmanellain, and a tavern of onlookers. More eyes look their way. ]

It was only...

[ In good fun — to Emmanellain it was. ]

How was I supposed to know that you can't go a bell without a book? Had I known that you would cry...

[ Because this is so unlike Haurchefant's whisking Francel away that it upsets him? If Emmanellain were to find his handkerchief now, it would make the same amount of difference that inviting Francel to the Fortemps Manor library has made. ]

[the onlookers no doubt see this for what it is: a game gone wrong — a blue-blooded, soft, spoiled lordling in the wrong place and the wrong time. francel stares at emmanellain for another moment, but ultimately he cannot stand being in the tavern for even a moment longer — it is too loud, with too many eyes upon him. he feels a sense of alienation, of wrongness, so strong that finally he simply turns around and half-walks, half-runs up the stairs. he pulls open the double doors.

somehow, francel is surprised that it is still light outside. he hovers in the doorway, trying to blink the brightness away with his tears.]

[ Some shade comes in the form of Zephirin, who steps away from the wall where he took up position, driven by a sense of responsibility for Francel's welfare. The result is no collision, but Zephirin's chosen wall is one directly beside the Forgotten Knight's doors, and the knight abruptly stands silhouetted against the sunlight before Francel. A swift assessment of the situation leads him to conclude that Francel's nameday has turned unpleasant.

Uncovering what transpired to upset Francel is not so pressing — the boy appears unharmed.

For now, Zephirin reaches into his pocket, and draws out an unused handkerchief, which he proffers for Francel to take. ]

[francel blinks, confused, at the cover that comes twixt him and the sun. his eyes need another moment to adjust to the light, but at last he makes out zephirin's face beyond the stinging sun. he ignores the proffered handkerchief.]

Zephirin...?

[suddenly — quite without warning — francel throws his arms around zephirin, forgetting nearly everything: that they are in public, this is not the time for tears, zephirin may yet be injured. it doesn't matter. francel buries his face in zephirin's chest and whimpers unashamedly.]

Zephirin...!

Edited 2017-05-28 14:08 (UTC)

[ Once more, after stiffening in brief surprise, Zephirin becomes a wall. Francel is left to cling to him to his heart's content, and to use his shirt instead of the handkerchief to dry his tears. The knight stands still, though the boy's arms around him hinder his lowering his own arms past Francel.

They are within view of the Congregation, of any passers-by, but that matters only in that they lack a place where Francel might recover his composure undisturbed.

Zephirin touches the boy's shoulder. ]

Come with me.

[ This he says quietly, and if Francel will follow, then he will guide him out of the open, into an alleyway. Whilst not ideal, it is secluded. ]

[francel's tears are torrential, for the relatively minor spat he just had with emmanellain. he allows himself to be guided to the more secluded alleyway, where, with the help of zephirin's comforting presence, his quivering sobs soon fade to quiet sniffles. eventually he accepts zephirin's clean handkerchief, and uses it to dab gently at the wet corners of his eyes.

parts of zephirin's shirt remain nevertheless soaked with francel's tears.

at length he says, in a shaky voice:]

I'm sorry... I am sorry. You must — you must find all this terribly strange.

[ A number of crates sit stacked against the alleyway wall, and behind them a low ledge rises above the cobbles. Zephirin removes the thin open coat he wears, folding it until it makes a cushion to be placed upon the ledge for Francel — should the boy wish to sit and consider the offer of Zephirin's handkerchief, rather than weeping into Zephirin's chest. Himself he positions beside the crates, a shield between this end of the alley and its mouth adjoining the streets.

He waits in silence for Francel's sobs to run their course and subside.

Once Francel's frame ceases its trembling, and he grows calmer, Zephirin takes a seat on the ledge. His head shakes a patient no. ]

You have your reasons. [ Francel's tearful flight from the tavern, unaccompanied, is explanation enough. ] Are you unhurt? Your companion?

[ So he reveals having seen them, but he doubts that said companion has come to any harm. Gibrillont keeps a close eye on the Forgotten Knight's patrons, and brawling is rarely permitted to escalate. Perhaps Francel visited the lower floor. ]

[the young lord shakes his head. in the end, he perches on the very edge of zephirin's coat-cushion, like a bird that yet remains a flight risk; he has to angle his legs to avoid a puddle that is hopefully rainwater and not worse. oddly, francel does not question how zephirin came to know of his companion. he folds the handkerchief in his lap and suppresses a sniffle.]

I... I am fine. He...

[will emmanellain be fine? presumably so. there is no reason for emmanellain to be exceptionally hurt by any low opinion francel de haillenarte might have of him.

and yet.]

...I said some awful things to him, but he has heard still worse.

Edited 2017-05-29 00:21 (UTC)

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