( voice ) delivery

[haillenarte]

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.

Comments

[civicbooty]

[ 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.

[haillenarte]

[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”?

[civicbooty]

[ 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. ]

[haillenarte]

[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...

[civicbooty]

[ 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. ]

[haillenarte]

[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.]

[civicbooty]

[ 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.

[haillenarte]

[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.]

[civicbooty]

[ 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.

[haillenarte]

[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...

[civicbooty]

[ Aymeric nearly interrupts him, quietly firm. ]

I am no priest — nor have I the authority to speak of Halone's will — but I believe wholeheartedly that this is not Her judgment.

[ He brings his other hand up to the back of Francel's neck, drawing his fingers soothingly across the cool skin and cooler scales there. ]

No man, or god, could reasonably condemn you for having loved a friend.

[haillenarte]

[but it wasn't that, francel thinks, immediately; it wasn't like that. if he had just loved haurchefant, then that would have been the end of it — but he'd loved haurchefant selfishly, sinfully. he had loved haurchefant to the point that he knew haurchefant the individual no longer coexisted with the haurchefant in his thoughts. he had loved haurchefant so much that he could have accepted haurchefant's death without protest if only haurchefant had died for him.

and that isn't love, he knows now. that was just my conceit. that happened because i loved him as an object, and i could not accept him as a man. the truth is that the world owed me nothing, and i did nothing to earn his love.

but aymeric has said what he wanted — no, what he needed to hear, even though he knew it wasn't true: this isn't his fault, and the fury doesn't hate him. he closes his eyes, nodding, and rests his head upon aymeric's shoulder.

it takes many minutes, some of which might feel like hours, but after a long, long time, francel resurfaces, dry-eyed but still sniffling. he sounds a little congested when he speaks, but he seems calm, and in control of his faculties once more.]

...Thank you, Aymeric.

[a mournful exhale.]

I apologize. I am... better now.