![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Jul. 15th, 2020 02:15 pmWe failed. She yet lives. They are coming.
It's all there was time for before Estinien was gone again, but Aymeric knows enough of his friend to hear every last unspoken word, knows why he left before he could respond. If Aymeric leaves with him, then they know that they know, that someone survived to bring them the news. If Aymeric leaves, they would know to pursue, know the victory was not assured and the battle not over.
If Aymeric stays...
He tells Lucia, gives her completely plausible and unsuspicious orders that take her outside of the city, gives a completely plausible reason to take some of their stoutest allies with them. It gives them a chance at least. And then he sits back down at his desk and calmly does paperwork, his mind racing, his eyes not seeing the letters, until the Heaven's Ward comes for him.
He knows how to show people what it is they want to see of him. This is no different. The surprise is not real, but the panic is, even so, he makes sure it's Zephirin who takes him down. It is both a gift and a survival tactic, he does not think the other will kill him outright, at least not in accidental zeal like some of the others.
Still, it is somewhat a surprise to wake at all and more of one that he is sore and hurting beyond the ability to remain asleep any longer but that nothing immediately seems to be broken. Keeping his eyes closed, he takes stock. His wrists are shackled behind him with iron and he's laying on something that's making a passable attempt at being soft, with a similar pillow under his head. His shoulders protest the position in a way that suggests he's been here a while. He still has feeling in his fingers and toes (except for the arm he's laying on) and he seems to be clothed, though he can tell he's no longer wearing his armor. A deeper breath, taken cautiously, confirms he's badly bruised in the ribs, but he doesn't think anything is broken. Really, other than the blow to the head, which throbs, he's hardly been beaten at all.
The thought brings no comfort. If they have left him alive and unharmed, it is not out of mercy. It is to make sure that, when they harm him, he feels it. He's already endured one round of their torture, which left him almost too wounded to stand and his mind screams in fear at having to face it again. Even so, if he can stay calm in the terror of staring down a dragon, there's little reason to not remain calm in the face of this one. Aymeric opens his eyes and looks at the bare room around him, bars, crates, stones. It is slightly more comfortable than his previous Vault accommodations and he's picking over what that might mean when there are footsteps-- shoes rather than greaves-- and the curiosity of his first visitor not being of the Heaven's Ward makes his decision to not pretend to be asleep, but rather to keep his eyes open and see who's coming for him, though he doesn't quite trust himself to sit up just yet.
It's all there was time for before Estinien was gone again, but Aymeric knows enough of his friend to hear every last unspoken word, knows why he left before he could respond. If Aymeric leaves with him, then they know that they know, that someone survived to bring them the news. If Aymeric leaves, they would know to pursue, know the victory was not assured and the battle not over.
If Aymeric stays...
He tells Lucia, gives her completely plausible and unsuspicious orders that take her outside of the city, gives a completely plausible reason to take some of their stoutest allies with them. It gives them a chance at least. And then he sits back down at his desk and calmly does paperwork, his mind racing, his eyes not seeing the letters, until the Heaven's Ward comes for him.
He knows how to show people what it is they want to see of him. This is no different. The surprise is not real, but the panic is, even so, he makes sure it's Zephirin who takes him down. It is both a gift and a survival tactic, he does not think the other will kill him outright, at least not in accidental zeal like some of the others.
Still, it is somewhat a surprise to wake at all and more of one that he is sore and hurting beyond the ability to remain asleep any longer but that nothing immediately seems to be broken. Keeping his eyes closed, he takes stock. His wrists are shackled behind him with iron and he's laying on something that's making a passable attempt at being soft, with a similar pillow under his head. His shoulders protest the position in a way that suggests he's been here a while. He still has feeling in his fingers and toes (except for the arm he's laying on) and he seems to be clothed, though he can tell he's no longer wearing his armor. A deeper breath, taken cautiously, confirms he's badly bruised in the ribs, but he doesn't think anything is broken. Really, other than the blow to the head, which throbs, he's hardly been beaten at all.
The thought brings no comfort. If they have left him alive and unharmed, it is not out of mercy. It is to make sure that, when they harm him, he feels it. He's already endured one round of their torture, which left him almost too wounded to stand and his mind screams in fear at having to face it again. Even so, if he can stay calm in the terror of staring down a dragon, there's little reason to not remain calm in the face of this one. Aymeric opens his eyes and looks at the bare room around him, bars, crates, stones. It is slightly more comfortable than his previous Vault accommodations and he's picking over what that might mean when there are footsteps-- shoes rather than greaves-- and the curiosity of his first visitor not being of the Heaven's Ward makes his decision to not pretend to be asleep, but rather to keep his eyes open and see who's coming for him, though he doesn't quite trust himself to sit up just yet.
(no subject)
Jun. 28th, 2020 11:23 pmIt is, as such things go, an exceedingly boring party.
Republic though Ishgard may now be, the High Houses are still technically nobility and still afforded all the pomp and circumstance that entails, so when one of the more notable eligible ladies of House Dzemael gets married, it's the social event of the year and, of course, anyone who's anyone would be directly snubbing the house and all who live there to refuse to come. Even if that were not the case, certainly it would be foolish to miss it, considering how many deals are likely to be struck in side conversations, plans made out of the seat of government that will be carried into it in the coming days.
Aymeric feels like he's going to go hoarse if he has to talk much more than he already has and the combination of all of the politician nobles who want to speak with him and all of the unmarried ones who want to dance with him has him frankly looking for an escape route with a near desperate fervor despite the placid, attentive disposition he gives both categories. A slightly stumbling Francel de Haillenarte isn't the best of excuses, but any port in a storm.
"Excuse me, my lords," he ducks out of the conversation, dodges three requests to dance and makes it to Francel's side just in time to catch his elbow with a steadying hand before he can run into a server with a drink tray.
"Ah, just who I was looking for," he turns the young noble easily out towards the back gardens and starts to lead him away, "I have a few questions about the restoration project I've not been able to quite catch up with you to ask." It's an absolute lie, but it keeps the circling social coeurls away, hopefully for long enough to get them both outside, if the young man will cooperate.
Republic though Ishgard may now be, the High Houses are still technically nobility and still afforded all the pomp and circumstance that entails, so when one of the more notable eligible ladies of House Dzemael gets married, it's the social event of the year and, of course, anyone who's anyone would be directly snubbing the house and all who live there to refuse to come. Even if that were not the case, certainly it would be foolish to miss it, considering how many deals are likely to be struck in side conversations, plans made out of the seat of government that will be carried into it in the coming days.
Aymeric feels like he's going to go hoarse if he has to talk much more than he already has and the combination of all of the politician nobles who want to speak with him and all of the unmarried ones who want to dance with him has him frankly looking for an escape route with a near desperate fervor despite the placid, attentive disposition he gives both categories. A slightly stumbling Francel de Haillenarte isn't the best of excuses, but any port in a storm.
"Excuse me, my lords," he ducks out of the conversation, dodges three requests to dance and makes it to Francel's side just in time to catch his elbow with a steadying hand before he can run into a server with a drink tray.
"Ah, just who I was looking for," he turns the young noble easily out towards the back gardens and starts to lead him away, "I have a few questions about the restoration project I've not been able to quite catch up with you to ask." It's an absolute lie, but it keeps the circling social coeurls away, hopefully for long enough to get them both outside, if the young man will cooperate.
(no subject)
Jun. 26th, 2020 10:08 pmHe wonders if this was inevitable, in the end.
In certain ways, he's always fought to be "above" politics, not in the sense of not using them, but in the sense of not being used by them. He's made his own name for himself, risen up in such a way that he's been beyond reproach. Certainly, the whispers have followed him, about who and what he is, about him receiving special favors for it. But if anything in his life has been given to him due to an accident of birth, he's done everything in his power to earn it, to be worthy of it, to be beyond the reproach that people so want to give. He's never been sure if he's wholly succeeded, but no one ever raises any objections as he rises higher and higher, until he's arguably the second most important person in the realm and certainly in the top few. There are whispers, of course, of him taking the Archbishop's seat eventually and most of them positive in nature.
Not bad for a bastard, he supposes. It's a position that has been hard won and a small bit hard kept in that he must keep one step ahead of the politics of the realm, but no hard kept than any other in Ishgard. He's never really considered it to be unassailable, by any means, but he's also rarely felt as though it were in danger.
And then comes the Empire, in numbers unexpected and on the heels of a surge of dragon activity. A war on two fronts, when they'd scarcely be able to handle a war on one with any chance of success and, in light of the oncoming dragons, a bit of negotiation was in order. And suddenly everyone who had previously been dismissive of who, exactly, could lay claim to Aymeric's parentage was now clamoring for the truth.
There are no princes in Ishgard. Truthfully, it should have been a son or daughter of one of the four houses. But once the seeds were sown, opinions swiftly turned, and despite some small protestations on the part of a few concerned parties, it had been decided all too quickly and the orders came from the Archbishop himself. Exile was an option, he supposed, and he couldn't lie and say he hadn't considered it. But ultimately, if this would even buy Ishgard some time, it was worth it, and if that time could be used to turn the tides of battle-- either against the dragons or the Empire-- even better.
And so here he was, standing on an observation deck on an airship, looking out into Garlemald. His... home, now, he supposes. The thought makes something turn over in his stomach, but he doesn't allow it to reach his face, though perhaps his hand tenses the slightest bit on the railing. They would be landing shortly, he knew, and the trial was just beginning.
In certain ways, he's always fought to be "above" politics, not in the sense of not using them, but in the sense of not being used by them. He's made his own name for himself, risen up in such a way that he's been beyond reproach. Certainly, the whispers have followed him, about who and what he is, about him receiving special favors for it. But if anything in his life has been given to him due to an accident of birth, he's done everything in his power to earn it, to be worthy of it, to be beyond the reproach that people so want to give. He's never been sure if he's wholly succeeded, but no one ever raises any objections as he rises higher and higher, until he's arguably the second most important person in the realm and certainly in the top few. There are whispers, of course, of him taking the Archbishop's seat eventually and most of them positive in nature.
Not bad for a bastard, he supposes. It's a position that has been hard won and a small bit hard kept in that he must keep one step ahead of the politics of the realm, but no hard kept than any other in Ishgard. He's never really considered it to be unassailable, by any means, but he's also rarely felt as though it were in danger.
And then comes the Empire, in numbers unexpected and on the heels of a surge of dragon activity. A war on two fronts, when they'd scarcely be able to handle a war on one with any chance of success and, in light of the oncoming dragons, a bit of negotiation was in order. And suddenly everyone who had previously been dismissive of who, exactly, could lay claim to Aymeric's parentage was now clamoring for the truth.
There are no princes in Ishgard. Truthfully, it should have been a son or daughter of one of the four houses. But once the seeds were sown, opinions swiftly turned, and despite some small protestations on the part of a few concerned parties, it had been decided all too quickly and the orders came from the Archbishop himself. Exile was an option, he supposed, and he couldn't lie and say he hadn't considered it. But ultimately, if this would even buy Ishgard some time, it was worth it, and if that time could be used to turn the tides of battle-- either against the dragons or the Empire-- even better.
And so here he was, standing on an observation deck on an airship, looking out into Garlemald. His... home, now, he supposes. The thought makes something turn over in his stomach, but he doesn't allow it to reach his face, though perhaps his hand tenses the slightest bit on the railing. They would be landing shortly, he knew, and the trial was just beginning.
