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Jul. 15th, 2020 02:15 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mostheavenlyWe 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.
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Date: 2020-07-15 09:55 pm (UTC)the former archbishop's ascension to power may have involved declaring himself a god among men — king thordan walks the earth once more to guide his flock to the fury's hall — but unlike many in ishgard, francel is not off-put by such grandiose declarations. on the contrary, he has always been a man of great faith, and to him it seems only natural that the fury's most favored messenger, the archbishop, should become her sword and shield on this earthly plane. king thordan's existence is natural as the church's power over ishgard, natural as the dominance of the high houses over the lesser nobles.
all this, francel thinks, is simply as ishgard should be. the scions are at fault for bringing the winds of change to her gates; that adventurer — their champion — cannot be forgiven. and he wanted to blame himself for ever introducing them to haurchefant — he was called to the vault to testify about his interactions with the so-called warrior of light — but when he knelt before king thordan's throne and wept, his voice breaking on his regrets, thordan placed one hand on francel's penitent cheek, and said, rise, child. that is no sin of yours. if you would undo what has been done, there remains a holy calling still for a son of noble blood such as yourself.
perhaps, if francel were any other man, he would not have been entrusted with the position he has now. but it is politically expedient for thordan to suggest that his new rule has the backing of the high houses. and it must be said, too, that the former archbishop was always a clever man, a shrewd man — the sort of man who could size up the value of his son like a ponze of flesh and know exactly to whom that ponze might be easiest to sell.
this is why it is lord francel de haillenarte who steps into aymeric's cell, clad in the deep blue robe of an inquisitor, adorned in jewelry and accoutrements he was never known to wear, with a string of keys on his belt and a whip coiled in his hands.
the young lord walks confidently, with grace, until he stands outside of aymeric's cell. his ringed fingers click with the sound of metal against metal when he rests his hand upon the bars, and he looks at aymeric with a too-calm expression, something faintly burning beneath the surface.]
Ser Aymeric. I see you have awakened.
[his voice is low and soft. quiet. it does not bode well. like the difference between ser zephirin and ser grinnaux — the quiet men are always more dangerous than those who shout and sneer.]
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Date: 2020-07-15 10:19 pm (UTC)"Lord Francel...?" he is, at first, only confused as to what the young lord is doing here, to the point he's not sure he's really seeing him and it's not that his head is still spinning, "What...?" and then, what he is wearing registers and he goes very, very still, focused, the headache not fading so much as becoming unimportant, like a wound in battle, to be dealt with later, when the immediate danger has passed.
"My father works swiftly, or else I have been asleep longer than I thought." He presumes Francel must have been tempered, though he wouldn't dare indicate he knows the meaning of the word at this juncture. There's so much he doesn't know, suddenly, and he's aware that every last bit of it could kill him. He doesn't think Francel's suddenly acquired an Inquisitor's skills overnight, but he also knows that while men that don't know what they're doing can be manipulated, they can also be extremely dangerous, unpredictable.
He's getting the distinct impression he would have preferred Zephirin. He knows he would have preferred to know why not Zephirin. He knows he can't possibly ask.
"I am finding that perhaps it would have been better to stay asleep." He finally adds, eyes never leaving Francel's, waiting to see how this will play out.
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Date: 2020-07-16 04:13 am (UTC)[francel lets his hand drop. from his belt he produces the key to aymeric's cell, opens it with the simple turn of his wrist. the door swings open. he steps inside.]
But the time for dreams was yesterday. This, now — this is a different day.
[closing the door behind him, francel walks closer to aymeric. cautiously, he remains well out of reach of any sudden movements, even in spite of the lord commander's bruised ribs and shackled wrists. and even though he is, in truth, not tempered by king thordan, his dark blue eyes are cold.]
It is meet that you are your father's son, Ser Aymeric. I daresay you would not be alive now if you were not. You may think otherwise, but he is fond of you. He still believes in you. He would give you one more chance to see reason.
[it is impossible not to notice the whip waiting at his side against his leather boot.]
...Thus did he send me hence as Lord Inquisitor in place of — for example — Ser Charibert.
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Date: 2020-07-16 01:49 pm (UTC)But all of that can be thought of later. Now, he needs absolute mastery over himself and that's not going to happen if he thinks about the past. Resolved, he opens his eyes and processes information again-- the look in Francel's eyes, the almost casual way he's holding the whip, the words.
"Another chance to see reason..." he cannot be brought before his father. If he can temper people, Aymeric has no reason to believe he wouldn't immediately be tempered. It's a chance he cannot take, something to be avoided as long as he can. Still, there's so much about the entire situation he knows nothing about, no way to know how to play the game when he cannot see the shape of the board.
"A mercy," he says, and it's not wry or sarcastic in the slightest, he's deliberately showing he understands what's being offered, at least in part, before he continues, "At least, a mercy for me. I know not yet what it is for you, Inquisitor," the title switch is deliberate, "Is this a punishment or a pleasure? Are you hoping I will make this easy for you, or praying to your new god that I will not?"
There are some reasons for Francel to be here where such a statement doesn't immediately acquaint him with that whip, but not many. Still, he'll trade the pain for the knowledge of where he stands, what he can expect.
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Date: 2020-08-09 09:19 pm (UTC)I serve only the Fury in Her grace, Ser Aymeric. Pleasure and punishment have little to do with piety and purity.
[ ...which means he might yet be reasoned with, in the right terms, for the right price. He steps closer. ]
And you, Ser Aymeric? What manner of prisoner do you intend to be?
[ His fingers catch the bottom of Aymeric's chin, tilt his eyes and his handsome face upward. Oh, the Lord Inquisitor may claim that he is here for piety and purity, but there is a smug satisfaction to his countenance. Pleasure, perhaps — perhaps there is a kind of pleasure in this for him. Perhaps only the power-hungry revelry of a man who has never before held true power — or perhaps something else, something darker. ]
Will you be obedient for me, or do you plan to bite?
[ His touch brushes lightly over Aymeric's bottom lip; his bare fingers in their fingerless gloves are within reach of Aymeric's teeth. But suppose Aymeric were foolish enough to bite... ]
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Date: 2020-08-11 07:24 pm (UTC)It still leaves the question of what has happened to Lord Francel, though, because it is certain something has. He has never been over-familiar with him, but he's seemed so mild, that to see him like this is still more shocking than it is horrifying. Aymeric knows he is easily seen as a traitor and, for a noble, perhaps he truly is, at that. But that doesn't seem to fully take into account everything he's seeing in Francel's expression, doesn't explain his reactions, his presence here.
He doesn't jerk away at the touch to his chin, though he certainly could have, has enough slack in the way he's bound to at least flinch away, doesn't fight the almost gentle tilt of his head upward until he more easily meets Francel's gaze. He has no idea what can be seen in his own face, if anything at all, but only because he is also not wholly certain what he, himself, is feeling right now to show there. He does not feel as though he's feeling anything at all-- a strange, alarming sort of quiet around a sea of panic and fear suppressed so deep that he's not even sure he could convincingly pretend to be afraid. It's a battle tactic, something learned in the field that lets him remain calm in the midst of overwhelming odds, but it serves well enough here. His mind churns through possibilities, what to say, how to get the largest amount of information while giving the least away... and then Francel's thumb just barely grazes his lip, like a goad to bite when combined with his words and all of that goes utterly silent.
The touch is shockingly intimate, whether Francel means it to be or not, and Aymeric is, in turn, shocked by it, eyes going just a fraction wider. In the moment, it doesn't particularly hit him as anything specifically sexual in the slightest, just personal, unexpected, and that's enough to throw him for a moment. Perhaps it is so swift that Francel might not even catch it, or might see it but not fully understand what he's seen. Whether it's obvious or not, however, he regains himself very quickly,
"My obedience lays dependent on what is asked of me," he says, carefully, "Whatever they have told you I am guilty of, surely you know I have never been the sort of man to bite without cause."