aefenglom | ( voice ) delivery

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( voice ) delivery

Name: Francel
Date: June 5
Format: Voice

Might I — ngh — might I trouble someone for help?

[there's a soft crackle of what might be breath on the mic, and then the shifting of what sounds like bedsheets. the voice that ultimately speaks again is low and husky, fairly deep, but there's something boyish and hesitant to it. some of francel's words come out awkward and tense, as if he is in a great deal of pain, and struggling to get the words out.]

It's been... several bells since last I took a meal, by my count, and... I'm terribly hungry. The... the man with whom I share a residence is not like to be back for some time. Could I trouble someone to bring food to my doorstep?

[really, even he can't believe he's asking for this.]

I have little coin, but I would happily pay you for your time. Please, and blessings on you.

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I'm here...

[though, far from his seeming glibness over their text exchange, francel sounds weak, and perhaps even a little slurred. he's not in the kitchen, though the kitchen is host to an emptied lunchbox and some silverware in the sink, which suggests he's already eaten; instead, francel's holed up in his room, where aymeric may eventually find him in a... dragon-shaped lump of blankets. very dignified.]

[ Aymeric pauses in the doorway for a moment, having expected slightly better — but then he invites himself to sit on the edge of the bed, laying a hand on Francel's shoulder (very gently, out of caution). ]

How is it?

[ Everything, or whatever's particularly got him curled up in bed, hiding. ]

...Dizzy.

[this comes out of his mouth barely articulated, half-mumbled into his pillow. he's eaten, certainly, but his overall status seems to have declined since he made his first fairly coherent plea for help in the afternoon. he pushes himself up in bed, lying on his stomach, but only barely. his eyes seem glassy, as if from fever.]

Dizzy, and... tired. Sometimes I feel hot... and other times I feel bitterly cold.

[he falters, closing his eyes, and then musters energy again.]

...How was the city?

Fine.

[ He corrects himself internally: brushing Francel off is unfair; whatever he can't or isn't willing to do in investigating a way home, they're partners in this — and he might still discover some innate purpose, some ambition for himself, other than the dubious reason he first gave for hoping to go back to Ishgard.

In apology, both for his brevity and for having been away, Aymeric reaches out on impulse to stroke Francel's hair once. ]

Fruitless, to speak plain, but it may not be, another day.

[ His hand drops to the edge of the blankets. ]

Might I look at your back?

[a (frankly rather embarrassing) whine escapes francel's throat when aymeric's hand makes contact, then disappears; sluggishly, he chases after the sensation, but the motion of his head comes at least a second too late. after a pause, he slowly extricates himself from the sheets, pulling his pillow underneath his belly so that it supports the top half of his body as he is lying down.

unquestionably, francel's back has improved since the bloody evening of the full moon. perhaps aymeric's healing spell provided some guidance; the skin across his shoulders has mostly healed over, with little scarring.

his feathers are coming in, but visually, this isn't much better to look at: where once his wings were odd, alien nubs protruding from his back, francel's fanlike pin feathers have now formed the skeletal frame of the full wing, and the shafts are dark with blood. bits of downy fluff have begun to form at the junction between wing and shoulder, but since not enough has grown in yet, the effect is scraggly and undeveloped, as though the young lord has merely collected dust over a period of time.

suddenly, francel chuckles.]

...If only you were a chocobo rancher and not the Lord Commander.

[ Aymeric's lips thin. He's not a stranger to dark humor, but Francel's, together with everything else, is concerning. That whine was doubly concerning — he seemed not to realize he made it at all.

The wings, if they can be called wings, are difficult to look at, and it's no wonder he asked to have things brought to the door; they'd be difficult to hide — but they don't look like they'll become aevis wings, at least. ]

I see no chocobos here.

[ His voice is light, joking in return.

He's no chirurgeon, but he reaches out again, carefully, and presses his fingertips gently on Francel's back, avoiding the base of each wing. ]

How is this?

[francel's skeletal wings unfurl and stretch slightly at the contact, his undeveloped feathers trembling at their ends like the fingertips of a wraith; he mumbles something appreciative as he sinks into his pillow.

it must be their bond at work, but even the most feather-light touch from aymeric's hands is intensely soothing, dispelling the aches and pains that have plagued francel intermittently throughout the day. as he melts into the mattress, his eyes flutter shut in grateful contentment.]

...That's better. Infinitely better. I...

[he's not sure of what drives him to say this, but it's honest, and vulnerable:]

...I missed you.

Edited 2019-06-07 22:47 (UTC)

[ His hand goes very still. All of this, a distant part of him recognizes, was foolish.

But there was no alternative, at the time, and now Francel depends on him. He hasn't knelt with a rosary wrapped around his fingers and asked for Halone's forgiveness in years. We reap, a priest once told him, when he was young and impressionable, what we sow.

He didn't pray the day he went to the Vault, either — the day Francel's closest friend went after him; the day they all conveyed his ruined body back out of the Vault to bury him.

Aymeric pushes with his fingers a little, lightly kneading the muscle, attempting again to apply some of his weak healing magic. ]

I...apologize for being so long away.

[francel murmurs faint appreciation once more, his wings crumpling like straw atop his back.]

It's nothing to apologize for. You were busy. I know...

[...that i'm not as important is what follows the rest of that sentence in francel's mind, but he fails to say it out loud. after a moment, however, his eyelids flutter open again as he drowsily seeks aymeric's face.]

...Are you hungry? I... I may not be able to cook tonight, but Solas and some others brought food. You might be able to make something simple.

No.

[ More accurately, Francel worrying about him is both unnecessary and absurd. Aymeric continues what he's doing, reassuringly, though he glances back at the lamp in the hallway. ]

Does it hurt you if they're touched? I suppose not, or you'd not have been under the blanket.

[ The real and honest question is whether Francel can sleep, but asking might invite a request he won't be able to refuse. ]

[satisfied by this response, francel closes his eyes again, he shakes his head, his nose touching the pillow.]

It would only hurt if the touch were insufficiently gentle. It is... it's as if...

[he fumbles for a comparison. the act of thinking propels him slightly more awake; in the next moment, he speaks more quickly, despite the bond-induced haze of aymeric's gentle touch.]

It's as if it cuts straight to the nerve. Have you ever taken the brunt of a biast's levinshower, Haurchefant? Or absorbed an gentle spark from a lightning sprite? It's like that — the way it jolts you straight to your core. But I think I might enjoy being touched if only the feathers were fully grown in...

[ Aymeric's hand goes still again. Haurchefant — a minor slip? Aefenglom's magic playing tricks? (The thought hasn't occurred to him before now; it unsettles him.) In the worst case, Francel may be forgetting himself for the second time, now.

The first incident was more grim, Aymeric reminds himself. This, now, has been harmless.

It was just a name.

Still, he has no idea who lives close by, or how vulnerable they might be. Francel isn't barred from leaving the house. On their behalf, if not his own, caution is reasonable.

His voice is mild, but he watches Francel closely. ]

I would like for Lord Haurchefant to be here, as well — but he is not.

[at first, francel doesn't catch on to what aymeric is saying. why bring up haurchefant here and now? but then he thinks back to what he said to prompt such a response, and only then does he realize —

he just called aymeric haurchefant.

he just called aymeric haurchefant.

abruptly, he sits up in a panic, jolting away from aymeric as though he expects the man to hit him for the offense. his claws catch in the sheets.]

My — my apologies. It just — I just — there was never, I never had anyone else and —

[all the days spent waiting for haurchefant to come, silent if he didn't, but almost silent even when he did —]

[ Aymeric watches him placidly, making no move to keep him where he is. Unfortunate that Haurchefant can't be here, he thinks vaguely, for more than one reason: keeping Francel clear-headed and happy may be beyond his own capabilities.

Still, he can feel a twinge of shame that isn't his, that must be an effect of the bond, and he can at least rectify that. He shakes his head: ]

No matter, though I'm sorry to hear it. When we return to Eorzea, of course, you shall have me — but others as well, I hope, in time.

[ Mentioning Eorzea over Ishgard is deliberate and careful: returning a changed Francel to Ishgard without suitably preparing the public and his family could end in disaster. He settles back comfortably against the headboard. ]

Would you like me to stay?

[mentioning eorzea over ishgard may have been a mistake. francel's shame turns quickly to distrust, even as it takes him several more minutes to pull his dignity together. he sits with his back against the wall; a muscle in his throat flexes when he swallows on a dry mouth.

why eorzea and not ishgard? because of his changes, obviously — but does aymeric mean, then, to exile him from his homeland if they ever return? does aymeric expect him to turn feral? quadripedal?

how much should he trust the man he is now bonded to?

he is silent for some moments, dark eyes fixed on aymeric's light ones, as he struggles to find an answer. he likes having aymeric near; he's allowed himself to think of the lord commander as a source of comfort. now he's questioning how intelligent that decision may have been.]

...Do as you like.

[ He feels that, also: an insight where he ordinarily would have had none, would have excused himself to turn off the hall light and check the door and do whatever else might give him time to mull over what do as you like meant.

Instead he folds his arms, watching Francel steadily. ]

If I've offended, speak plainly.

Edited 2019-06-12 04:27 (UTC)

[francel’s broken wings fold oddly behind his back. he stares at aymeric with narrowed eyes, his heart pounding with a mixture of fury and fear.

he almost starts five steps ahead — you don’t trust me, do you? — but he reminds himself that that will help neither of them, and in any case, it would only provide more fodder for aymeric to think that he might be going mad. he himself is not certain that he is not going mad.]

...Why did you say “when we return to Eorzea” and not “when we return to Ishgard”?

[ Aymeric stays very still, the way one might to regain the trust of a skittish animal. ]

Would you not fear returning to Ishgard, should these changes remain? If not, I support it wholly, and I should make every effort to assuage your family's concerns, whatever they might be, and to see that you are not looked on unkindly.

[ But he can't protect Francel from every corner of Ishgardian society that might shut him out: the church, the highborn parties, the marriage prospects. ]

Edited 2019-06-13 04:21 (UTC)

[in response, aymeric offers reason, and francel's distrust abates though he himself does not want it to. the young lord draws his legs up on the mattress, his wings still tucked protectively behind his back. he remains fearful, an injured rabbit, too afraid of being hurt further to draw close to an outstretched hand.]

Why should I fear my the land of my birth? I love Ishgard. I have done nothing to... to...

[to be exiled. he's done nothing to be exiled; he's done nothing to deserve this. that fact hits him hard, suddenly, in a way that it has not previously. why was he alone chosen for this? what has he done to deserve this? he was never a saint without flaw, no, he was always steeped in sin — but to be ostracized, to be made pariah for what he has become — was he ever truly so hateful, so terrible as to become this?

a keening despair blossoms in his heart, snakes its tendrils up into his throat. he looks dangerously on the verge of crying.]

I didn't do anything wrong...

Edited 2019-06-13 14:55 (UTC)

[ That settles it. Aymeric pats the mattress next to him in a silent invitation — but gets to his feet, heading with purpose for the hall. ]

If you believe you can stand before a priest, or your father, or any man or woman who might look on you with fear, and declare that you have done nothing wrong, and deserve the respect any good man is due, then we needn't consider alternatives.

[ He snaps off the hall light and shuts the door behind him as he comes back in. The house has a draft, he's learned; doors not shut are likely to creak. ]

[for a moment, francel thinks — irrationally, and at odds with what aymeric is actually saying — that he is going to be abandoned, that he has tried the lord commander's patience for the last time. as a result, he... well, he's beyond such things as reason and logic, and by the time aymeric comes back into the room, francel has pulled his legs up to his chest on the bed and is quite busy crying real, salty tears, like a much younger child.

he wipes his face on the backs of his hands and sniffles. at the very least, he's not wailing — there are simply a thousand and one reasons he has to be sad. his head hurts. his body aches. his very home would reject him if only he were there.

also, he's twenty-two years old, but that's hardly the point.]

[ Aymeric says nothing reassuring, distracted by the sobering reminder that he swore solemn oaths to defend Francel against all that would do him harm — and now, in a more subtle conundrum than he ever would have imagined at the time, Francel is doing himself harm, and Aymeric, by doing nothing useful to stop it, is bending his own vows.

In hindsight, he should have guessed that Francel was too fragile to depend on a single man — but even so, there was no alternative.

He sits down again, takes off his boots and tucks them under the bed, swings his legs up, clothes and all, under the covers. Settling against the pillow, he reaches out to Francel, beckoning. ]

Come here. [ His voice is careful, coaxing. ]

All of this may never come to pass. We may return to Ishgard to find you without wings entirely.

Edited 2019-06-14 04:31 (UTC)

[francel slips obediently into aymeric’s embrace, drawn more by the promise of relief than by anything else about the man. this is no longer about returning to ishgard; once again, francel’s mind has skipped two or three paces ahead, but now he lacks the language to articulate why he should be so miserable, what has made him so sad. thoughts have made him sad; injustice has made him inconsolable. he chokes out between sobs:]

I never asked — to be a monster, never asked to be — a dragon —

[he buries his face into aymeric’s shirt, as if, like an animal, he expects to be hidden from view merely because he can no longer see the lord commander.]

I did everything right — all that was asked — for my father, for my House, for Ishgard, anything — it was — never good enough — and now I’m to be — a dragon — ?

[a despairing peal of laughter; he shakes his head.]

Edited 2019-06-14 11:15 (UTC)

[ Saying nothing, allowing him to go on, Aymeric tugs the covers up as high as he dares — just over Francel's hips — and lays his hand there, awkwardly. The impropriety hardly matters now; he's already let this slide well past the point where he should have put a stop to it, if he meant to maintain any semblance of distance.

He strokes Francel's lower back absently, staring at the dark ceiling. It's been years since he was qualified to speak of the faith to a man faultlessly true to it, but now, more than ever, he's sure his thoughts on the Fury and Her role in their luck would be unwelcome. ]

You need not fear any transformation from which there is no return, Francel, I swear to you. For a mercy, it seems unlikely that parts of you will see further change: your horns now are just as they were the moment I first saw them, and your back will not support larger wings. You may well be nearing an end to it.

[these are comforting words, accompanied by comforting actions, but they fail to address the issue at hand. the contact, at least, does francel a world of good: under aymeric's tender care, he grows subtly less hysterical, forcing himself to breathe slowly. through controlled breaths, he manages to ask:]

...But what did I do that was so wrong?

[for a moment, his eyes are dry thanks to his hands, but he blinks, and they're filled with tears again.]

I know I — I loved him too much. I shouldn't have. It was wrong — what I felt was wrong — but I didn't know it deserved hell...

[francel looks up, then, searching aymeric's expression for an answer that the lord commander cannot give. his expression is beseeching, pleading, though aymeric is only another man, one who cannot adjudicate him.]

I know my best wasn't good enough... but, Aymeric, I... it isn't right...

Edited 2019-06-17 04:51 (UTC)

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Aymeric breaks into a cold sweat. He looks at the door: too far. He looks at the window: nailed shut

he is cursed. there is no escape

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