dpscheck | stuck meme

[francel takes zephirin's arm. it is not uncommon to see noble lords walk arm-in-arm through the pillars — usually, they are young men, childhood friends who grew up side-by-side in neighboring manors, who would each trust the other with his life — but it is uncommon indeed to see a young lord with a temple knight, especially a temple knight in uniform.

lord francel seems to pay the curious stares no mind. in fact, he seems almost to enjoy them.]

Are you certain? I would not mind waiting for you to change out of your haubergeon.

[he pauses ever so slightly, then adds:]

My lord brother Stephanivien has a fine collection of clothing he has never worn. You could borrow some at the manor if you so wished.

My conscience would object to your waiting, Lord Francel.

[ Zephirin's conscience objects less to Francel's offer, though remaining in uniform is not overly uncomfortable. It is unlikely that Lord Stephanivien has any interest in his unused collection of clothing.

With Francel on his arm, Zephirin makes for the doors, placing his basket aside where it might be collected and reused. In truth, it would have taken no significant amount of time to excuse himself and change his attire — the issue is drawing further attention to Francel and leaving him to his own company meanwhile.

Outside, Zephirin steers them past the busy plaza and towards the Pillars at a measured pace. He opts to wait until they are out of the open to mention his recent news. ]

[that zephirin does not refuse stephanivien's clothing outright bodes well, in francel's opinion. the young lord allows himself another innocuous fantasy — zephirin, clad in stephanivien's finest, in the fine velvets and silks of a firstborn son, with a ribbon tied around the neck of his shirt, perhaps...

at length he regathers himself, and smiles, brightly.]

How have the last few days found you, Zephirin? Well, I hope?

[ Deliberately, Zephirin chooses a quieter route to their destination; they cross stone steps, pass through archways. Beneath one such arch, Francel summons him back to the present.

He nods in reply, turned toward the boy to look at him through his mask. ]

They found me declared fit for continued service. The chirurgeons attribute my recovery to their efforts and the Fury's grace alone...

[ Again a subtle warmth colours the tone of Zephirin's voice. Perhaps the chirurgeons are right in their beliefs, but Francel's company itself has been an unexpected balm, easing the strain of weeks spent convalescing. ]

Is that so? Full glad I am to hear it! I do hope my treatments were of more help than harm.

[francel's cheeks darken slightly, as he recalls his slightly less innocuous fantasies: his hands warming zephirin's skin, rubbing and massaging, easing all of his tensions away... unconsciously, he clasps his hands before him, again somehow not unlike a maiden with a secret to keep...

after a moment, however, his face falls.]

...But... I suppose we'll not have so much time to spend together, then.

Would that I could sing your praises.

[ Zephirin's eyes linger on Francel's flushed cheeks. They witness the swift change in the boy's expression from bright to overcast. Within his own heart, Zephirin discovers a mirror image of Francel's disappointment; when duty sends him beyond Ishgard, he cannot promise Francel another meeting.

But then, at times it seems that for Francel's sake, that may be for the best. ]

...Fury willing, we have time enough to exchange letters, should you wish it.

Really?

[this remark, it seems, is meant both for the prospect of receiving zephirin's praise and for the prospect of receiving zephirin's letters. cloudy skies give way to the sun once more; francel shines with a fierce and radiant delight, and it seems as though nothing could possibly give him more joy than exchanging letters with his beloved knight.

(he writes letters to haurchefant too, of course, but that's a different situation.)]

Oh, I would love to! Fury be praised! [francel is, in fact, so delighted that he skips forward a couple of paces and twirls in a little circle so that zephirin can catch up without hastening his pace.] I —

[sunshine gives way to... confusion? a perturbed expression seems to cross francel's face as he suddenly sways where he is standing.]

[ Within seconds, Francel's returning joy dims for no apparent reason, but of greater urgency is his alarmingly unsteady stance. Zephirin's steps quicken after all, into a dash forward to reach Francel's side. He seizes the boy's shoulders to aid him in holding himself upright, eyeing him closely. ]

Joacin...?

[the world seems suddenly too bright and too dark at the same time. francel totters unsteadily once more, throwing his weight into zephirin's hands. he looks up weakly, but his vision still seems to be blurry, and he can barely make out zephirin's handsome face for all the stars he's seeing.

he laughs weakly.]

...I... I'm sorry. I... think that was a bit too much. It seems as though the world is spinning...

Edited 2017-08-18 23:12 (UTC)

[ The ground is motionless beneath their feet. The clouds are all that moves across the heavens. Perhaps Francel is ill, his excursion too demanding in his state.

Catching the boy and supporting his weight, Zephirin locates the nearest seat, a bench, meaning to guide Francel towards it for a moment's rest until his lightheadedness passes. ]

...This way. By your leave, I intend to touch your face.

[these dizzy spells are not unfamiliar to francel, although he thought his sickly boyhood days were behind him. he nods his assent, grasping loosely at zephirin's arms for support. he allows himself to be lowered onto the bench, but he is breathing heavily, with his eyes closed, as if even this much strains his delicate constitution.]

I'm sorry... This is my fault. I should not have been so excited...

[ Beside Francel, Zephirin is silent to discourage the boy's apologies while breathing should be his first concern. He frees one of his hands from the gauntlets he wears, and gently, he touches his palm to Francel's cheek, then his brow, leaving it there in his attempt to determine whether a fever is to blame for this dizzy spell.

Finally, Zephirin takes Francel by the shoulders once more, keeping him steady upon the bench. ]

Have we somewhere to be this very instant?

[in lieu of a voiced refusal, francel shakes his head, weakly. he has no particular fever, but he is short of breath, and by the way he is looking not quite into zephirin's eyes, he cannot see properly, either.]

Your hand... feels nice.

[he closes his eyes and leans into zephirin's touch. his lips are awfully chapped.]

[ Though satisfied that Francel did not wander the city in search of him when strict bed rest may have been advised, Zephirin implicitly agrees to their prolonged contact, repositioning his hand to cradle Francel's head. Francel's skin is not overly warm, but his unfocused gaze and his dry lips both tell another tale. He seems in no condition to continue on their way yet, not by relying on his feet.

Zephirin's hand is no remedy to replace fluids and a bed. ]

If you are not well, Joacin, allow me to see you home safely. Do you give me permission to carry you?

[ Drawing attention would be unavoidable. ]

[francel nods weakly — it's not his first time having to be carried home, although it will be his first time being carried home as a grown man. nevertheless, at this point he does not entirely care about what others think of him, and he reaches weakly for zephirin's shoulders, desperate for sweet relief.]

Please...

[ Zephirin, while no Ser Guerrique, easily gathers Francel into his arms and lifts him from the bench. Despite Francel's height, the knight holds him securely around the shoulders and under his legs, and so they set out again for Haillenarte Manor, at a slow, steady pace.

Saint Valeroyant keeps their route relatively undisturbed.

The sight of Lord Francel carried to the manor's doors by a Temple Knight is understandably alarming for the guard outside, however. The man calls out, rushing to meet them as they approach. ]

[francel opens his eyes blearily to see the manor guard's concerned face; he lifts his hand weakly, thereby assuring the man that all is quite well and that house haillenarte's youngest master has not, in fact, befallen some terrible fate on this day of saint valeroyant's honor.

the guard seems to know what to do. "v-very well then, inside," he says, anxiously looking about as if for a chirurgeon. "i will inform civerege."

the guard ushers them inside, and beseeches ser zephirin to set the young lord on a nearby chaise set at the entrance specifically for this purpose. civerege, as it turns out, is lord francel's personal manservant, who hurriedly brings over a glass of water. the man smiles apologetically at zephirin, whom he dimly remembers as being francel's guest from a few nights prior. "lord francel has these — spells," he explains. "he will be fine with some rest, and some fluids. come now, my lord, can you hold this yourself?"

francel reaches weakly for the glass, meaning to lift it to his lips himself — he is old enough, strong enough for this — but his wrist buckles suddenly, and he spills a small amount of the water upon his chest. he grimaces.]

Forgive me...

May I?

[ Civerege is on hand, doubtless prepared to come to Francel's aid, familiar with his lord's spells and his duties — and Zephirin's intervention is odd for a guest not a close friend, not family. Even so, he already kneels beside the chaise, and he reaches out and steadies the glass in Francel's hands. Holding it there, he seeks the boy's consent to offer his help until Francel's strength returns. ]

[civerege is only too happy to allow zephirin the privilege of helping francel drink his glass of water, if only because it gives him ample opportunity to lecture his young lord. "this is all because you spent all that time in the music room," he huffs, tearing into francel with the affection exasperation of a mother. "i told you time and time again to at least take meals..."

francel, for his part, seems strangely blissful, for someone suffering a headache, dizziness, and fatigue. he closes his eyes and drinks his glass of water like a man parched, with desperate, but almost loving gulps; he seems quite content to let zephirin set the pace of his drinking.]

[ The explanation behind Francel's overexerting himself into this particular spell brings a flash of concern to Zephirin's features, but he contains it, setting a moderate pace, careful to support Francel's upper body and assist him in tilting the glass just enough to drink from it without the risk of spillage or choking. When Francel has had his fill, Zephirin withdraws the drained glass and hands it to Civerege. His gaze wanders back to Francel upon the chaise. ]

...When you are recovered, Lord Francel, would you grant me your company over a meal?

[with his lecture finished (most of which francel did not even listen to), civerege dutifully takes up the glass and disappears to some facility downstairs. francel closes his eyes. he nods. the room has stopped spinning, at least, and he feels well enough to sit up — but he doesn't push the matter just yet.]

...I would be glad to...

[his eyelids flutter open, and he stares dreamily at the ceiling.]

What would you like to eat?

[ Temporarily, they are alone. On the floor beside Francel's chaise, Zephirin folds his legs out of the way.

Francel characterized himself as not exceptionally studious, yet he is capable of a single-minded diligence, at least in the music room or playing the innovative chirurgeon. Zephirin's request this time endeavours to rectify the unintended consequences of his previous request for one of Francel's compositions; sitting back on his heels, he seems to contemplate his options, but instead he plans to ensure that Francel takes a meal to compensate for those he neglected. ]

It was my hope that you might share your recommendations... [ He shrugs, noting Francel's still-dazed look. ] Soup, perhaps.

[francel has enough energy, it seems, to giggle as he lies prone upon the couch.]

Soup sounds lovely. And it is accessible, too. Madam Adrienne always has a pot of something hot in her kitchen.

[gingerly, francel pushes himself into a sitting position (a nearby servant starts, but then withdraws as she sees that her lord has largely recovered from his fainting spell). he smiles at zephirin, deciding that he does indeed feel much better now, and most importantly, that he should not squander his time with his beloved.]

Shall we? I fear I'll need your help walking the way there.

My thanks to you and Madam Adrienne both.

[ After all, on this occasion, their plans were a spur of the moment decision, and the contents of Madam Adrienne's pot were intended for the Haillenarte household, not for any surprise guest.

Zephirin unfolds himself from the floor, rising to help Francel to his feet. As he did before, he offers the young lord his arm, that Francel might lean upon him for support, enabling him to react, in the event that Francel is overeager to disregard his body's needs again and mistakenly believes himself fully rested. ]

[they make for a charming picture, the frail young lord and his tender temple knight. francel takes zephirin's arm and practically squeezes it to his chest — goodness, he's lively for someone who was lying on a chaise just a moment ago. they walk the halls down to madam adrienne's kitchens again, and this time, francel thoroughly expects zephirin's eyes to close.]

I apologize for my frailty. Did I frighten you overmuch?

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject