#josseloux cadieux

[furymint]

send  🏠  for  a  domestic  starter . Nol n eli nol n eli nol n eli

starter prompts | wc: 553

The dinner table was thronged by confusion and family. Mathieu Cadieux, at the head of the table, was flanked by his two daughter-in laws. Their husbands sat beside them, then two of Elliot’s cousins, Elliot himself across from Nolanel, two aunts, Josseloux and a cousin, and Prenie at the foot.

During a pause in the conversation, Nolanel absently scratched open a scab under his nose. He didn't notice. A bright spot of blood shone on his face, unlocking a vampiric look to his gloom, and no one knew quite how to tell him.

Madeline said something about favoring blackberries in season, and that wine made of them was preferred at the altar of a certain Northern Highland chapel. A polite but disengaged acknowledgment rippled through the table.

Blood dribbled down to Nolanel’s lip. His tongue flashed out, and a heretofore impossible pallor struck his wan face. Something like recognition followed--but he did not raise his napkin to clear the blood away.

Elliot stared at Josseloux with wide, threatening eyes, thinking that the look conveyed that he would steal his fathers valet and never allow Nolanel to shave himself again.

Josseloux, who understood the look, also knew that loyal Antoine would never betray his master of over twenty years. Never mind for a man who was once the boy that he'd shaved a single time--when Elliot woke one morning, nineteen summers old, and was convinced that a negligible amount of peach fuzz was disrupting the line of his smile.

By this time, it would be truly rude if Nolanel discovered his shame and had not been informed of it by one of the thirteen onlookers. Alvise cleared his throat. Possibly he meant only to encourage his wife, but he never spoke. A servant interrupted by bowing at Nolanel’s side.

"Ser Feran," he whispered, although Nolanel stiffened as if he'd yelled. The servant extended an arm and twisted his hand discretely to deposit a folded handkerchief.

Nolanel stared at it dumbly.

Ives had his second greatest idea. "I propose a toast," he declared, swiping up his goblet and raising it eyelevel. "To the construction of the Firmament, and the promise of safety, prosperity, and eternal growth of our Holy City." His first great idea was monopolizing a large portion of the shingle industry.

Mathieu enjoyed rewarding fortunes and avoiding emotional responsibility, so he assented with a loud, "Hear!"

Each person at the table released the utensils they'd held for deniability, then took up their glasses.

"To Ishgard's next age," said Ives.

The party echoed him, clinked their glasses, and drank.

Blood remained on Nolanel’s face.

Alvise looked dumbfounded; Ives was trying not to look; Mathieu was turning red; every woman hid their face but Prenie, whose squint was becoming intolerable. Josseloux understood. Elliot despaired.

If the alcohol did not sting Nolanel’s cut, he must not have drank it at all.

Nolanel lowered his sleepy eyes to his plate.

Elliot took a deep breath, held it, and exhaled with a tiny hum. "Ser," he said, although no one else seemed to notice.

With eager alacrity, Nolanel woke to serve him.

Elliot demonstratively rubbed a fingertip across part of his upper lip.

It seemed hopeless. Seconds passed.

Nolanel touched his lip with his gloved hand and gasped.

Josseloux grinned like a fox. "Well, thank the Fury for that!" 

[furymint]

FFXIV Write 2022 | header | wc: 605

With a raised hand, Josseloux paused Elliot's conversation with the exuberant shop proprietor. He made a show of not counting gil when he set it into the trilling woman's palm, then tossed up an umbrella into his grip by the hook. As Elliot watched with suspicion, Josseloux marched away with the laced parasol through the crowd, beyond the heart of the Crozier, and to the side of Luciane Feran as she fussed with the stiff latch of her coin purse.

Elliot thought he would perish on the spot. He excused himself, needlessly adjusted his collar, and wandered closer to hear.

"Pardon me," Josseloux was saying, and gave his name. "Mayhap I am mistaken, but I believe you forgot this in the cathedral foyer."

Luciane flushed at being spoken to. She closed her fist protectively about her purse, stamped her heels to face him, and pulled her dress free from where it wrapped, lacking a petticoat, around her ankle. "Oh, Father, a thousand thanks," she recovered.

Josseloux dipped his head as she accepted the umbrella; Elliot rolled his eyes when he spotted that her gloves were several inches out of style in length. He wanted this to be over, to not have to see this torment of a woman a second longer, but Josseloux opened his hell-bound mouth to suggest, "The grapefruit crop is unusually fine this season. I should be certain any family would sing their appreciation for a small basket of them."

"Yes," Luciane said, unable to help herself: "Life so often is about those at home."

Josseloux nodded calmly. "You have children, then, that you must think of?"

Elliot felt his lungs twist. For some reason, he despised his father for entering this nonsense—Luciane and her bitter cruelties were Elliot's to weather, not Josseloux's to mock. Family was a web but that didn't mean it was necessary to walk each of its ropes. Josseloux had the smile of a man who liked to threaten god; this danger was out of boredom, not victory. Where Elliot sought to prove what vales Nolanel's friendship brought him to, Josseloux simply picked up a glass and looked into the dark.

He examined Luciane with noble appraisal. Her lipstick made the twitch of her frown more violent. Affecting a casual air, she popped open the umbrella and set it gently to her shoulder. "Oh no, no."

With the delicacy of a liar, Josseloux sympathetically concluded, "Ah, not at home, but the war. You must share their bravery."

"'Tis not bravery," she hurried to contradict. "Not at all."

With each short, defensive answer, she granted Josseloux the power to infer. "Responsibility, then."

"Towards the self," she clarified.

Josseloux pretended to think, using the silence to give her the chance to wish that he was gone afore he granted it. He clicked his tongue, looked over the parasol, and said in the same equal tone the word, "Selfishness."

Luciane didn't respond except to clench her hands. She had the same expression so many had given Josseloux, Elliot thought. Disbelief, and with insult so accurate it could only be accepted with wonder. Who was this man—to say this or that—this priest who should, at his core, be like every other man of the cloth—but was not. They had to look at Josseloux for the first time now that they had realized he could not be understood at a glance—despite that, somehow, he had read them truly as soon as he had introduced himself. It made one feel naked, and Elliot gloated with pride as Luciane squinted in desperate confusion, saying "Yes," as Josseloux bowed in goodbye.

[furymint]

FFXIVWrite2021 | header | wc: 542 | 10 years ago

As Elliot stepped into the sun parlor, he seemed to understand for the first time who his father was.

In the church, he belonged to other people. He was not Josseloux, but a priest--their priest, their father, the man they knew everything of. His words came from a book, his footsteps tred the same course as thousands, his smile and gentle nod were the same any person in that white robe would offer. Ritual was repetition. In a world so transient, little comforted so much as consistency. That was what Josseloux provided, and what Josseloux robbed from Elliot till now.

That suit he wore was a decade old--mayhap older. Elliot knew it from when he used to dive into the closet, batting through the jackets and yanking their colors into the light. Deep, dark blues like the ocean was said to be, and beige like silk of girls' ribbons afore dye met them. That was what Josseloux wore in his past life. He'd worn felt homburgs with the feathers of hunted pheasants, brilliant ties and leather shoes with searing red soles.

And then he became a servant, effacing his style and humor and wants to pretend to others that he lived for intangible virtue. Part of Elliot wondered if they knew how false Father Josseloux was--how little the man behind the priest cared for penance or charity. But half a sham could be enough to inspire. If he could become holy--that transgressive, disobedient hedonist--any man could.

Some of him survived it. When he sauntered through the cloisters, the same arrogance lifted his chin and lined his smirk. The altar was less holy when he paced it with the cut flowers he plucked from church vases. More than one bishop disapproved of the seven rings he wore every sun.

But now his hair was tied over his shoulder, his scarred hands were on his face, and he was crying. Despite it all, summer bloomed around him in thick pots of daylillies and nodding marigolds. The cloudless sky spread behind him. His mouth twisted in a curse when he spotted Elliot around a fuchsia tree. Through his pain, he offered his hand.

The wind tapped the fingers of a tree branch against one of the windows, and Elliot thought of Josseloux's metronome before he thought of his hand. He shuffled forward and pushed it aside, hooking his arms around Josseloux's neck. If the man laughed or sobbed, Elliot didn't know, but he clung to those shaking shoulders and cried with him.

Josseloux did laugh then, trying to unfasten each of Elliot's determined fingers from his back. "C'mon," he tutted, "Not you too." Stooping, he sighed against Elliot's crown and gave in. 

Fear shivered through Elliot from the gravelly emotion in Josseloux's voice. Those tears, like the past, felt forbidden to know. Inheriting them made him sick with grief that wasn't his, but his heart still struck the same loud beat in his chest, and he felt the same belonging in his father's arms as when under Saint Reymanaud's spires. Josseloux wasn't different now, but human.

Josseloux made no protest but to shut his eyes from the daylight glare. Rubbing Elliot's back with each sob the poor boy gave, he murmured again, "Not you too."

[furymint]

FFXIVWrite2021 | header | wc: 425

Nolanel Feran was not a jealous man. Impatient, irrational, vengeful---yes--but not jealous. He tolerated Elliot's bullshit engagement with less complaints than he was justified to give, and when it was demanded that Elliot meet for scheduled public appearances with the witch herself, he shrugged and obeyed and allowed himself to be hauled to-and-from Ishgard like a child that couldn't be left unattended. In a way, that was what he was now.

Josseloux babysat him this sun. They sat on the terrace of a restaurant, an overhang above them and pastries between them, and gossiped like old men.

"It would be easier to talk with you if you whined about something." Josseloux tipped his rosé at him. "There's no point to this without bitching involved."

Nolanel ate half of a fruit tart in one bite. "I'm not allowed to talk with my mouth full," he said with his mouth full.

"Look, if you're going to be a part of this family, you need to know how to bitch." Josseloux took his spoon and jangled it against the side of his tea cup. "If you asked him, Elliot would say he was frolicking about the Hoplon with evil itself this morning."

"Aye, and he's resolved to do so or he'd've squirmed out of it."

"You don't know how this predicament with Miss Mol will end?"

"No--only that it will once Elliot puts a stop to it. Could've raised hell if he wanted to. Turned the tables. Have me challenge Xanadu, force her to call in favors to resolve the dispute--mayhap force her damned suitor to step up--and not have to parade a farce around that'll take too long to clean up after."

Josseloux deliberately poured Nolanel tea to indicate that he wasn't going to talk.

Squinting--but knowing the routine--Nolanel plunked sugar cube after sugar cube into it. "He wants to help her--and put the conclusion off as far as possible to get me better afore it comes to blood. If that's where it goes. I don't care so long as it's over."

"The Pillars will require something else to talk of soon. As amusing as it is, one can't watch the fluttery Cadieux boy and his promenading harpy pretend to smile at each other forever."

Nolanel looked up from the fading sugar to see two familiar figures turn into the adjacent street. He tried not to smile. "Father, you rotten bastard."

"Thank you," Josseloux said, lounging and hooking an arm over the terrace's fence. "I'm not tired of the spectacle yet."

Seconds later, Elliot's resounding gasp sounded.

[furymint]

FFXIV Write 2021 | header | wc: 408 | Modern AU

"I should have known better than to expect you to behave," Nolanel said, grunting as Elliot crawled over him into the back seat.

"I was!" Elliot protested. "If I asked, I bet everyone there would have agreed with me."

Josseloux laughed from the driver's seat.

Nolanel just groaned. "There are two rules. Don't walk on my right--"

"I don't care!"

"--And don't hug me."

Elliot screamed as he buckled his seatbelt.

Nolanel planted his hands on the seat ahead of him and leaned forward. "Josseloux, don't leave me back here with him."

"Oh no, I haven't forgotten the last time I put Ruelle with that boy. It took two hours afterward to convince him that common sense was not just the sanctum of the unimaginative--and that there was no shame in obeying it, after all. Your father rides shotgun or Elliot goes in the trunk."

Nolanel smashed his face into the back of the headrest.

Giggling in triumph, Elliot whipped out his phone and swiped into video chat. "Look, look," he cooed, tapping a blue fingernail on the call number.

Nolanel sat back and peered over the screen. "Hi Norhi."

The sound from the phone crackled as Norhi squealed their names. "When are you two getting out of there?"

Having already loaded his response, Nolanel blurted, "Thank you for the flowers."

Elliot jostled the phone to fit his face into the screen. "Once the other Feran gets back."

"Nol's dad? Where is he?"

Josseloux responded over his shoulder: "I see him now, don't worry."

Nolanel peeled himself off Elliot's shoulder to look out the window. "Oh, Christ."

"Actually--do worry." Josseloux started out of the car.

Ruelle inched across the sidewalk, his hands cupped in front of him, his thick eyebrows pressed in concentration. His awkward, nervous smile broke into laughter as Josseloux reached him. They exchanged unheard banter, and more than once either man looked to his son in abrupt confusion.

"He's got something," Nolanel finally observed. He kicked the door open and completed the baffled triangle on the asphalt.

Elliot gave Norhi a pained rictus and no further context; he had none.

When Nolanel returned, he had a look like he'd aged three more years, but his voice was excited when he shoved his dress cap, upside down, through the car door.

A squirming nestling of a bird cuddled against the rim of the hat.

"Norhi," Elliot croaked, "Would you mind if we brought a fifth party?"

[furymint]

FFXIVWrite2021 | header | wc: 694

Nolanel should have expected this, really. After that cute chapel on the hill, where Mass was so informal that it was delayed an extra twenty minutes to allow proper time for gossip, he truly should have expected that the pair of nosy chatterboxes he called family would behave. Especially now that Father Faucillien was the one droning at the altar while the Brookes made a very quiet yet very obvious scene absurd enough to rival any penny dreadful.

Elena sat beside him and Elliot just beyond her, slipping in comments between every pause in the service. For an excuse to look inconspicuous as he threatened them, Nolanel leaned to grab the hymnal at Elliot's knees. "Next time, I'm going to church by myself and leaving you two and your mouths at home."

"Oh, perfect idea," Elliot said, meeting his lean. "There shall be less people about, and we two of us may ask the dining staff at the Blue Note just what happened."

"We know what happened." Elena pushed the two of them back. "Lady Aceline didn't have enough gil to pay for her tea since she spent it all the night before at one of Yves de Toussaint's booze galas. Her brother saw her pour every coin into the violinist's hands."

"It's always the musician," asserted Elliot.

Nolanel groaned to his feet while they were asked to stand. Pushing her luck, Elena stood atop the kneeler and gripped the back of the next pew for balance. She swayed to the monotonous voice of the lector.

On the eastern aisle of the cathedral, one of the Brookes made an apology audible over the scripture. 

Elliot flicked Elena down to the floor so he could spy over her head.

In return, Nolanel flicked for her to step in front of him. "All right, enough. Elena, swap places with me."

She didn't move. "Don't wanna."

"Then switch with him, he can't be doing this."

Elliot and Elena shuffled spots as they giggled. Five minutes later, they resumed:

"Lord Brooke's face is more red now than when the letter to his mistress was returned to him at breakfast last year."

"I still wish I'd gone with you."

"You could smell patchouli over every dish. He must wish he'd stayed out to dictate cabinet installation or whatever his vulgar hobby is to keep from the house."

"Last time I spoke with his second daughter, I was told that their condominium in the south--overlooking the Fury's Mercy--would be set to market. They need funds for the next wedding."

"Wedding!?"

Nolanel grabbed Elliot's arm and dragged him down to kneel together; Elliot took Elena's hand and pulled her down with him, still laughing.

"Please, Nolanel wheezed, giving an exasperated laugh.

Josseloux arrived and Nolanel didn't know it until the smirking bastard deliberately clapped his foot on the tile for attention. Feigning the old man, he knelt and set his hand on Nolanel's shoulder for support--just for the opportunity to murmur the question, "Have you heard--"

"Yes, I know,” Nolanel spat. "Brooke over there is holding his family's reputation together by a thread. Meanwhile we're next."

Frowning his consternation, Josseloux reached across Nolanel's back and prodded his son.

Elliot had folded his hands and shut his eyes for an impression of innocence--which he totally abandoned by cracking an eye open to stare back. 

They stood in unison at the prompt.

"No, it's that father of yours," Josseloux said, being the only among them that appeared to actually be listening to Mass. "He found the tiniest angel carved of ivory in a storm drain. I think he would have asked the Twelve to pause time in order to speak to me sooner about it, but I told him I must be here first."

Nolanel told himself not to fall for the bait. Then he told himself that it was responsible to ask. Neither convinced himself. "Why?"

"I wanted to see the Brookes. And I knew poor Ruelle wouldn't listen either way." Josseloux indicated to his left with his chin. 

Ruelle descended the aisle to join the pew of distracted gossipers.

Nolanel whispered a curse. With no irony lost on her, Elena cackled. 

[furymint]

wc: 1,279 | response to bellwork plot!

Nolanel leaned his back into one of the bed columns and pinched the palm of his glove. Across the floor in various paper wraps and cheap glass bowls, hundreds of heavy buds and dew-sprayed flowers nodded at him.

"I can't understand it," he began, scuffing a wrinkled leaf under his foot. "A flea on my bird means more to me than what fortune Elliot spends on flowers--at least the hot houses get their pay. He's not here to see 'em, I'm not here to do aught about 'em, yet you find the time to pack up all 'em to be shipped back out this room for the charities?"

Josseloux laughed as he plucked a browning chrysanthemum from a bouquet. "Most things are not meant to be understood," he said, standing from his kneel and smoothing a fold in his cassock. His hands drifted out afore him, and he counted on one worn hand: "The gods, the height of the sky, the nature of beauty, and the breadth of Elliot's whims are never for us to know."

Nolanel groaned. "And, Fury give us strength, those are your job to ponder and my job to tolerate."

"Contemplation is a heavy task--and a bore asides. I'm a tired old man, Ser Feran--"

"Hell shall become paradise afore that is true," Nolanel interjected.

"Permit me my distractions, then. The world has countless fine things in it and not many of them are so innocent." Josseloux trailed from the flowers and approached Nolanel, arms crossed behind him. "Sparring with me is not your business either--should I ask why you would waste your time on my palaver, or simply allow you to spend the last of your patience on it?"

"Stow your curiosity instead. I'm fine. Just a shame being home when he's not."

"He seems comfortable in the south now."

"But in whatever godsforsaken 'east' he's at, he calls me at any free moment. I've never heard his voice so often when he's not sitting in front of me 'cept in dreams."

Josseloux knew better than to comment on any of Nolanel's sentimentality, unwittingly and sincerely disclosed. "Don't tell me that fop is without errands to take care of already?"

"As if we're ones to speak." Nolanel kicked the leaf from under his foot, and it skid a few ilms afore stopping.

Josseloux shrugged in jest. "He did learn from an authority on idleness."

Nolanel did not agree, no matter what pose Josseloux took. "The post overseas is abysmal. He has no choice."

To keep Nolanel talking, Josseloux emptily mused over souvenirs.

He scratched at his head and continued, "Far be it from myself to begrudge him what responsibilities place him in some rotten strange-land. If Halone watches over every rotten chokehold in Ishgard through to whatever rancid trench holds a knight in Gyr Abania, some ancient lighthouse must be alike in a holy squalor. He has kinder company asides."

"Not better?"

"Don't think Norhi's 'bout to throw knives at him to make sure his reflexes are working."

"We can't all aspire to be Brucemont."

"Neither can we survive so long. But--but he's  not some fool, and he values his skin. That Vicky's got a better eye than any wind-blown sentry we got, and Brave cares more about safety than results. At worst, Ser Jean is there."

"Rather than risk a coronary from worry, wouldn’t you prefer to be there?"

As Nolanel gawped to reply, his linkpearl erupted into noise. He hunched and silenced it, grousing to the open line, "You have timing like a devil, Cadieux."

Elliot laughed triumphantly. "I must say good night!" he declared, and dove into an old lullaby: "Let love weave your dreams, my dar-ling!"

Nolanel sang it back, replacing the words with "It's eight in the fucking mor-ning."

Josseloux erupted into the applause of laughter. Elliot's scandalized gasp broke over the tiny speaker.

Nolanel reported his response: "He says, 'You damn, dear old man. What bad influences are you forcing on Nolanel?'"

"The best kind."

"Unspeakably dangerous, then. Are you disparaging little me?"

"We can't talk too well of you while you're away," Josseloux said. "Or we'll miss you too much."

Nolanel butt in. "Listen, Elliot. There are flowers in your room and they're piling up like bodies."

"That's only a fortnight's shipment. The previous flowers have already been redistributed to the church's charities."

"Ah," said Nolanel, blandly. "So I've heard. For kindling, most like."

Elliot squawked and rapped on something for attention. "Don't be crude! I'm sharing knowledge today. A new word is in my vocabulary now--lupa."

"Where is this going."

"Technically I've  learned two words. That one is 'bitch' and the other is 'vale'--goodbye."

After the pair of soldiers quit their snickering, Nolanel managed to ask, "And who for?"

"Me!"

"You're the bitch?"

"Yes, apparently."

"Finally!" Josseloux exclaimed. "He admits it."

Nolanel slapped Josseloux's shoulder, grinning as Elliot rioted on the other end.

Over the chaos of too many voices and malms, a few moments of Elliot's more carefully planned segue were lost to static. "I asked--I asked our new colleagues what it meant. 'Tis Garlean, and so are they--"

Nolanel yanked away from Josseloux's calm. "You saved them?"

"In the process of attempting to is more accurate. They're a sorry group of starvation and illness, but they understand their position with us.”

"If you strain yourself over them--Elliot, promise me--"

"I swear caution and resolution. For now, no one is my worry. Norhi is taken over for me. She remains awake far easier than I overnight. Each of them keep to themselves. It takes little imagination to know the reason for our ruth in assisting the group: the most grievous case among them is a wound infection hosted by Max's sister."

Nolanel whispered, "Fucks sake," but continued to listen, scowling with a helpless dread.

"I don't yet know if she will make it. But her presence is the perfect intermediary--I expect trouble with her memory given precedence. We have more than enough supplies to spare for their sakes. The Alliance will have words with us anon, but I'm unsure of the shape their judgements will take. I only know mine own thoughts: that their silence tarries between the prisoner's contempt and the patient's gratitude, and that there is a type of safety in smiling to them. 'Tis no different than the wars."

Weaving through the flowers as he paced, Nolanel came to acceptance through the tones of Elliot's voice. He took a breath and murmured, "Remember you're not at war."

"Neither are you, ser."

"Hm."

In the emerging quiet, Josseloux approached and offered breakfast as a distraction. His manner was tentative, but Nolanel agreed with a shallow nod.

"You sleep up," he said, tugging on his bangs. "And we'll take care of ourselves here."

Josseloux swiped Nolanel's hand away and leaned closer to speak into the linkpearl. "Good night, Elliot. Here--I'll kiss Ser Feran for you."

He grabbed Nolanel and kissed his cheek. The identical caw of shock from the linkpearl and the escaping dragoon gave him the assurance he needed to laugh another time. He deflected Nolanel’s empty swipes and careened back to his task among the bouquets, feet sliding one ahead of the other across the tile.

Behind, Nolanel cradled the last minute of connection in his tangled hands, repeating back to Elliot the things they both knew about life: clustered Ishgardian streets, the taste of old coffee, deafening airship engines.

“It’s more of the same troubles the Bellworks always finds,” Elliot continued. “I know you’ll find Ishgard errs in her own consistency as always, too.

“Go sleep,” Nolanel repeated. “We’re more of the same, but we don’t need mourn it every moment.”

[furymint]

6 for the Fucked Up Kissing meme! "a kiss as a warning."

wc: 957 | kissing meme!

Elliot shut the cupboard, stepped back to admire his quick thinking, and squawked when Nolanel inched a door open to peek out.

"Bit cramped in here with all the old blankets," he began.

"Shh!" Elliot pressed the door back and fled to the couch.

The room was spacious and much too white: towering windows spanned the forward and opposite walls to view the estate's icy fields. An uninterrupted marble floor reflected a crystal chandelier, and between their glittering surfaces sat a collection of brand new parlor furniture. Perched on the ivory cushions, Elliot seemed a vibrant bird lost in snow. He did not feel at peace in his grandparents' manor—but that hardly mattered. Nolanel was not supposed to be here until the next sun.

Prenie Cadieux stepped inside with a quiet flurry of draping fur. She minced to the seat across from Elliot, fanning her hands over her hair, and asked him, deliberately, if he knew Lady Charloux. "She spent all of my evening last convincing herself of the efficacy of splitting her investments throughout the Lowlands. She's atrocious at lying." It was her way to compliment someone with an insult.

Elliot preferred insulting with compliments. "But she is quite skilled at finding young men to sponsor." He glanced over her shoulder to the cupboard. "Asides, I find most people have little skill in lying."

Prenie considered Elliot's jab. She dropped it. More pressing things to pursue. "And yourself—do you make an poor art of deceit?"

"Certainly. I may be worse than Lady Charloux in that regard."

"What of secrets? You're not keeping any from from me?"

"Tis rather redundant to ask what you already know to be true."

A dog raced into the room. It circled the couches and dove through beams of lamplight. Great bursts of steamy breath trailed from its path towards the cupboard, which it sniffed vigorously and abandoned. Prenie clicked her tongue for it to come near; Elliot stopped himself from raising his legs onto the couch and out of the beast's range.

Mathieu followed like a second coming, his face worn with a lifetime of scrutiny. He stabbed his cane into a corner of the rug, surveyed the area, and frowned at Elliot. "Dear gods, you're still dressing like a blind woman who mistook a theatre costume cabinet for her wardrobe."

Elliot lounged back into a flaunting pose. "I believe I'm missing a proper statement piece; I've discarded it at the door so I might not frighten the dog with a new color. In this house, there are not many."

"No—I saw that hat of yours on my way here. If they don't spy it from the capital I should be more surprised than when you stumbled into the library wearing your aunt's heels."

"I bet they'd fit. I could wear them now if that would replace such an ignoble memory."

Mathieu sat beside his wife and laughed in gibe. "What, were you waiting for our generation to turn over so everyone would forget your embarrassments?"

"Well yes, actually."

Josseloux walked in from the cold, already talking. "Fear not, father, my generation will not forget. I may embellish for good nature." He shook snow from his shoulders, slipped his heavy coat off, and folded it over the couch. "This is the new furniture?" he said, running a finger along the stitching.

"Your son is egregious," Mathieu declared.

Josseloux drifted, investigating the glass side table and the gilt picture frames. "Oh, absolutely true. We are a model family. He adores me despite my faults. And I adore him even as he inherits them. All my life I've done such a fine job of turning undesirable things into a palace. A tall, pretty monstrosity with too many souls inside. And Elliot has cut out all the people and replaced them with ideals. I can forgive myself in him."

"He insults others."

"He insults you, which is quite healthy. When he insults me, it is both funny and healthy."

"How are you so certain?"

"I'm not. I'm only about ninety-nine percent convinced of it." Josseloux shrugged and moved behind his parents. He started for the cupboard.

"Why not completely?"

"Naught's completely certain for man, surely."

"Surely!" Mathieu mocked, and was interrupted by Josseloux opening the cupboard.

Nolanel could have pointed a gun at Josseloux as he pulled the first door open—but his reaction would have been no different.

"Oh!" He laughed, and smiled in that too-genuine way which made him untrustworthy. The dog joined him in watching the unseen figure squirm. "Lovely piece of furniture, this. Well made." He knocked on the inside of a door, shut it, and hauled the dog back to the couch.

Elliot caught his eye and nearly screamed.

"It's too practical," Prenie dissented. "I can't think of what to put in it."

The dog burst into racket. It snarled and barked, nipped at Josseloux's hand on its collar, and lunged for freedom.

Josseloux kept laughing.

Mathieu growled as he stood to rip the animal away. Its nails clattered across the tile. He hefted the dog into his arms and stamped to the next room, locking it out.

"Don't punish just the poor dog," Josseloux soothed. "I aggravated him, and I'll go with him."

Elliot sunk into his seat.

"Loudmouths the both of you," Mathieu countered, as warm as he was cross.

Prenie bristled and watched Josseloux with concern as he crossed the room for his son.

"He can hold the fort in bantering with you pair," Josseloux said, putting his hand on Elliot's shoulder. He seemed to pause and listen for something but whatever it was did not answer. Then he stooped closer and lowered his voice. "Gods bless you," he said and kissed Elliot's crown.

[furymint]

FFXIV Write: Prompt #25

wc: 1,252 | follows this scene

Nolanel shoved the cathedral door open and held it with his shoulder. The end of his lance skid against the floor. He leaned his weight into it and hauled himself inside. His breath fogged a moment, then faded in the vestibule's warmth.

Josseloux approached from the eastern hall. The windows stained his white cassock an array of colors. He rose a hand to welcome Nolanel, gave his too-perfect smile, and surveyed the rest of the room. Three other people lingered in the hall: a Scholasticate student, a mother, and her young son. No danger, surely.

Still, Nolanel's grip around his lance tightened. Free spots gaped in the weapon holster on the wall behind him. They both glanced to it. By an ungiven look and an unspoken agreement, they ignored it. Nolanel stepped forward, using his lance to support himself, and offered his hand.

Josseloux offered his arm.

Nolanel turned toward the hallway.

Lowering his head in a nod and a smirk, Josseloux folded his hands behind him and moved to walk alongside the scuffling soldier.

"I must thank you for meeting with me," Nolanel said, glancing over before he returned to watching his feet.

"Of course. If it were my decision, my time would ever be in your service, Ser Feran. Today it is so."

"Yes. I am relieved I may see you afore I leave."

"I as well." Josseloux refused to allow Nolanel any segway which would turn responsibility of the conversation onto him.

"Elliot's got us here until the morrow. Morning service, then back to Thanalan."

"Yes, I've heard from him."

Nolanel sighed, almost in a laugh. "You hate to make things easy for me sometimes, don't you?" They approached the lift, so he took the opportunity to lean against the cool wall. Severity pricked at him. He'd not been the best patient lately.

Josseloux grinned and side-eyed him as he pressed the button for the elevator. "You don't do well making things easy for yourself," he quipped, waving a hand towards Nolanel's lance.

Nolanel set his weight into his weapon to stand from the frozen stone. "Do you know what I'm here for?"

Josseloux stepped into the lift. "Ser Feran, assumptions are dangerous to be spoken and disastrous to be acted on."

He said nothing more as he led Nolanel through the hall. Marble inlays rested above intricate wood carvings of rounded sigils and framing arcs. Against the dim neutrals and patterns, Josseloux's shoes taunted red with each assured step he took. He was always human. Holy, yes--but never angelic, never god-like. Although his composure lasted him through dismissing his door barrier and inviting Nolanel to sit, it was not by his own wish. He desired to talk--but not where others heard, not where interruption was inevitable.

Leaving Nolanel to settle, he vanished into the kitchen. A silver teapot, polished into a mirror, rested with a matching ensemble of cups and dishes atop a glass platter. One of the cups had been filled in advance. As if it mattered, Josseloux asked, "Would you like tea?"

From the yellow rim of the couch, Nolanel's head drooped and vanished in the shame of refusal. "Oh, no please. Thank you Father."

Josseloux returned with the platter, handed the filled cup to the frowning Nolanel, and poured tea for himself on the opposite couch.

Nolanel despairingly rose the drink to his lips. Then his tension fled--it was hot chocolate. He thanked Josseloux in a murmur, cleared his throat, and fixed his hands around his teacup. "I wished to entreat you. I--"

He clamped his mouth shut. Josseloux had not moved; nothing had moved. The heavy curtains above the priest's head remained transfixed. The clear sky beyond the glazed window did not shift. Nothing changed but Nolanel's confidence, which abandoned him with the twinge that erupted in his ankle. He hissed an apology. "I've chosen the least viable and convincing time to ask this of you, but I cannot tolerate myself much longer in silence. You know of my love for your son. His for me has been a spectacle since I met him five years ago."

Nolanel looked up with a simper, expecting Josseloux's usual neutrality, and met a smile. Heat rushed to his face. Feeling a fool, knowing he was one, and ultimately not caring if that's what love made him, Nolanel stuttered back into his appeal.

"And the truth is--Captain Brucemont--he--he told me some of the uppers don't like him. Elliot hates the fighting and he hates that I'm in it. And I'm sorry for that. I make him worry. I've put more targets on his back. It's taken me so long just to admit that I love him but I do. They told me to make my choice between being the jingoist they want and--and so on, or him. It's not a choice. It's not even a desire. In his words, we are the sums of our souls, not our wants--and I would deny my very life if I were not to love him, as much as I can, until the moment I die and thereafter."

Doubt returned to him partway through. He untangled his hands from the cup and drew his fingers over his mouth as he spoke. Nausea sickened him less than the way his thoughts split: this was right, this was right, this made him weak.

He resolved, then, to be weak.

"And I will. And in that spirit,  I wish to marry him. I may spend the rest of my life proving myself worthy of him, but I am willing to do so. I would do anything. He is half my soul and all my life. My heart is his. I can't deny any of it. Not any longer."

Nolanel bowed his head as tears blurred his sight and shook his voice. His hands trembled over his eyes. "I do love him, that's all."

"That's everything." Josseloux reached for him over the table, but Nolanel did not acknowledge him except, perhaps, to cough over a sob.

"There's just so much wrong right now," Nolanel said, "And I'm so sorry there's so little I can do but complicate matters with this--"

Josseloux knelt beside Nolanel and brushed his arm to stop him. "There's naught complicated about it. I'm honored to accept you, Nolanel. I have for a long time."

"Oh, gods." Nolanel set the teacup to the table afore he could drop it. He let his hand be seized by Josseloux, and paused crying to start in shock.

Josseloux stood, removed something from his pocket, and pressed it into Nolanel's palm. Wrapping Nolanel's fingers around it, and waiting for him to calm to release him, he said, "I want you to have this. Take it as a reminder. I hope it may be a strength as well. You are family, Nolanel, and I never want you to forget that."

"Heavens' sake." Nolanel withdrew and opened his hand to a familiar gold ring set with an emerald and plated with a hydrangea. Terror ripped him from reason. "This isn't my goal--the name--"

"I know. Focus only on your happiness with Elliot now--but do spare some consideration for your health, too."

Nolanel trembled as he gasped, "You knew."

"I truly didn't. I supposed."

"Just--don't tell Elliot."

"You have my word, blessing, and love."

Nolanel swallowed his reflex to say that was more than he could have asked for. Some part of him still screamed that he was deceiving them, that these too-kind people were destroying themselves for him, and that this whim of his would send him to ruin--but his hands clenched in denial, and he felt the new weight of Josseloux's ring, and by the Fury he would have another.

[furymint]

“He has dreams… robust dreams, which take him, not to heaven, but to another earth. There…I know that everything is to be itself, and not practically something else.” E.M. Forster, Other Kingdom.

FIRST AU

Part I / WC: 7,488

Minor SHB MSQ Spoilers (LVL 71) below.

CW: Brief child abuse, death mention, mild violence.

Here is the first part of my ongoing First AU! I expect about five more segments. The new character who takes POV is Galden Gardas, an irl friend’s OC! Although a few parts are and will be based on MSQ, such as the Battle of Holminster Switch in backstory, I’m following a largely original timeline that will add and remove certain plot elements. I hope you guys enjoy it as much as I did writing it.

—-

Galden did not like this man. He followed at the informant’s side, head slightly bowed against the midday sun. The crystal glass of the Musica Universalis blinded him as he walked along the suspended path. Chatter rose from the market stalls. The night’s return a week ago had shocked new life into the Crystarium–and Eulmore’s immediate threat of invasion turned revelry to sobriety.

The usual suspects crowded the Wandering Stairs, grins shone from the merchants selling lanterns, soldiers bumped shoulders and discussed plans to visit the Spagyrics or Hortorium. People making last minute preparations annoyed the market regulars, and children shrieked their envy at gimmick items on back shelves. Despite the noise, the informant from Eulmore–Varian Craetin, he called himself–spoke clear and evenly as he walked.

“The people of the empire are not unwitting. ‘Twould take more than a few week’s campaign to have them rallying for our destruction. Their morale is naught to ours, and naught is of any fear to us but the sin eaters. Even so, I believe we are stronger than their false might.”

His footfalls landed perfectly, never crossing the metal grates of the bridge to keep his steps silent. His hands were crossed behind his back; strips of scars coated his palms and fingers. The pale silver of his long hair blended easily with his white suit. A smile never seemed far from his thin lips. He embodied the upmost confidence–his chin never lowered, his gaze never traveled, and naught could affect him to pause. It seemed he could ask someone to damn themselves for him, and gladly they would, praise at their mouth in thanks for their fall.

“It has been long since their vaunted campaigns. Despite their imperial proclamations, Lord Vauthry is unable even to fully dominate the hills of Khulosia beyond a few malms of his palace. Only the sin eaters within his vicinity are subject to his influence–and intent. Beware them if you come across them, but you should not have to contend with their claws. Those will be dealt with by another.”

Except he totally seemed like an asshole, too. Naught drew his attention away from his path–naught could interest him. He never let Galden get a word in to comment. His long bang swung in front of his face several times, but he cared more for the mystique of the look than seeing fully. What other type of person would wear a completely white three piece suit with red shoes? No, this man was not to be trusted.

“Your foe is the Eulmoran army and their crystal generator. Most spells in the city are facilitated by the crystal in its heart, the Mainstay. Shut it down. Since the guard does not specialize in magic any longer, jamming the generator will prevent the weaker of their mages to take silence. Still, do not doubt their drive to fight back: ‘tis not that they can be convinced more easily than the citizenry, but that they can be forced.”

But all he said made sense. Everything from his mouth was truth–except, mayhap, his own name. That was the only thing Galden could not confirm. It all made him want to ask, just who are you? but he doubted Varian would answer with aught more than a perfect smile.

Their walk halted at the top of the Rotunda. Varian’s rant had been timed to the very second. “Ser Feran will explain your role in more detail. May you ever walk in the shade,” he said, keeping one arm tucked behind him as he swung the other into a flourishing bow. His focus lay beyond Galden, however, which caused the druid to turn around.

A man approached in the uniform of the city guard. He walked stiffly, not of injury but self-consciousness, and his upper lip twitched as he reordered himself to speak. But he couldn’t; he gaped at Varian a moment longer before he met Galden’s gaze and gave a salute. The extra seconds found him his composure. “Ser Nolanel Feran. Captain of the guard’s seventh.”

Galden responded on habit. Working with the Alliance taught him to respond to any city-state’s salute with his own–he crossed his arms and bowed as an Adder. “Galden Gardas. I’m with the Scions. A pleasure.”

Nolanel swallowed. “Aye,” he started, then trailed his focus to a glint in the ceiling.

For a mercy, Galden turned away–but Varian had disappeared.

Behind, Varian descended the stairs into the Aetheryte plaza, giving a languid wave and a knowing smirk. Gone without a word–or a sound. Galden scowled at his oversight. “A slick one, huh? That bastard.”

Nolanel prodded a curl of his hair behind his ear and grunted his assent. “He gives the impression he’s from another time, but he’s forced to make his way in this one.”

“What a concept.”

“I never claimed imagination. Experience is mine, though, and I believe it has value aside yours. You’ve my thanks for your help at the Switch.”

Galden scrunched his nose at the memory: flames over fields, the sickening beat of stone wings, the sap of bone and blood that spilled from a chrysalis when he tried to free a woman afore she turned. “You don’t fight the easy battle here.” He started down the stairs for a quick distraction, pausing for Nolanel to redirect him.

“No sir.” Nolanel rubbed the scratched metal of his ear clip and joined Galden towards the plaza. Hunks of crystal loomed passed, humming with energy, looking as if they could strike the stairwell in their jagged orbit. Nolanel payed them no mind.

Galden did. He followed one of the crystal’s paths and asked, “How long’ve you been at this fight?”

“Eight years. I was a shepherd afore Captain Brucemont trained me.” He took an audible breath and shook his head. His mind clung to the script he’d had to abandon since introducing himself, and he spoke quicker now: ���Many have worked themselves into a frenzy of excitement to work with one of the Exarch’s homeland. You are something of an inspiration to them. But I shan’t allow myself that blindness when I must watch mine own back–not yours. I pray you understand. I must lead.”

Galden wondered if that was the most polite, roundabout, and passive-aggressive way to say 'stay out of my way, hotshot’ he’d ever heard. He told himself not to be offended by it. He still was. And though he tried to stop himself, he still scoffed. “Do what you want.”

Nolanel understood this and apologized. “Forgive me. If nerves must be my master, let it be today, not the morrow.” He tugged on his bangs and sniffed. The temperature shifted as they descended the northern path. Among the underground lanterns, plants shone with luminescent greens and blues. Water reflections danced across the tunnel walls. From the far wall of the Hortorium, the well turbine hushed and squeaked. Nolanel spoke over it. “In any case, once we reach the city, our task must needs split. You are meant to take the Mainstay. That the army headquarters is there is not by coincidence. Their lives are meant to protect the generator. We expect that zone to host the worst of the fighting. You can see well in the dark?”

Galden stretched an arm over his head and sighed, bored of preambles. “I must brag that I’ve more experience in it than most.”

“Good. As do I, which is one more reason they split us. Get to your place and shut it down. Destroy it if you have to.”

“Uh huh.” No new info yet, really.

“Their army will be forced to prioritize the citizenry–although mayhap in appearance only. Nevertheless, my contingent will cause hell in the upper level to force as many of  their men–by courtesy or no–to defend the feckless nobles. That and the sin eaters will demand my attention; you shan’t see me again. I trust you’re familiar with crystal jammers?”

Galden liked the sound of his thick shoes against the metal Hortorium floor better than Nolanel’s hoarse voice. “Aye, used plenty of 'em back home.”

Nolanel didn’t bother to give an acknowledgement. Almost done with this performance, anyway. “We need to just grab you some potions from here. Most of us are outfitted with ethers or…”

Every alchemist in the area was either overseeing an experiment or hiding–no one was available to help.

Nolanel and Galden groaned.

“Antidotes,” Nolanel sighed. He crossed his arms tight across his chest. “Might as well go over boarding as we wait. Someone’ll deliver a written notice to your lodging, so at least I’ll save you the reading. We’ve three ships we’re taking to Kholusia tomorrow. You’ll be on the Acheron with me. Vanguard. Our flagship is the Noah and our reserve is the Plegethon. Asides myself, there are three other captains on the Acheron: Idristan, Aubrane, and the actual ship captain. From there, I and the others have four boats apiece and fifteen men to each.”

“You’re not talking airships, are you?”

“No. Water ships.” Nolanel replied humorlessly–whether he was humorless or it was a result of his eternally piqued tone, Galden wasn’t sure. “We’ll land on the eastern beach, assemble by Gatetown, and begin the siege soon after.”

Nolanel tried to retreat into his mind. But the glowing plants, this stranger aside him, and the stress of tomorrow made him restless enough to continue talking. His lips pursed. “Are you a plant person?”

It was probably the first question Nolanel asked that wasn’t meant to confirm information from the source. Galden treated it no differently. “To a degree.” He shrugged.

Nolanel swiped at a low-hanging frond. “Not a fan. Don’t know how these folk keep them livin’ when plants don’t complain when they’re hurt.”

Staring after the plant Nolanel hit, Galden replied, “Believe me, they do.”

—

Elliot shut the lid of his piano and pinned the playing stool to his hip. With his free hand, he waved to the booth at the rear of the Beehive. “Tryph, let there be light, would you?”

A machine clicked somewhere above. All light from the gentle rose-oil lamps faded. Darkness reigned for a moment.

The stage erupted into darting colors and flashing spotlights. Piped-in music flooded from hidden speakers, and the room shook with each drum of the rapid bass. Elliot whined, dropped the seat, and leapt to the glossy floor.

“For the gods’ sake, at least play something tolerable.”

Tryphon’s silhouette vanished under the table. His long ears still stuck out. “The gods aren’t around anymore. Asides, the Queen hired me to keep this place flashy. Try harder with your demands next time.”

Elliot leaned over the counter and squinted at the upside-down control board. He pressed a random button, turning a nearby light green. Pulleys screeched above. A curtain tumbled to shroud stage left.

“And your patrons hired you to hit piano keys, not fumble around the control booth.” Tryphon slapped at Elliot’s hand from the floor, like a cat.

“Just turn the lights on for the stage team. I can’t leave until that piano is back where it belongs.”

Tryphon stood. He pushed Elliot back, reset the curtain, and replaced the dancing lights with the overheads. “Why the rush?”

Elliot fixed the crease in his tie from hanging over the counter. “I have an engagement. A woman approached me after the show. I explained things to her and she says she thinks she knows my father.”

Throwing himself into his chair, Tryphon groaned.

People emerged from backstage in ebony uniforms. They chattered indeterminately as they swept the aisles, refilled the oil lanterns, and hauled the piano from center stage. Footsteps drummed on the catwalks above, where stereo equipment and strobe lights underwent tests. The Beehive steadily transformed from a concert hall back into a strip club as Elliot fiddled with his tie pin. He spoke at it rather than to Tryphon: “No–no matter how unlikely, I must check any leads to him.”

“All right, inspector extraordinaire. What’s her name?”

“Mrs. Retherford. Her estate is in the western towers.”

The fashionable side, at least. But Tryphon’s expression twisted to distaste. “Her husband is a souse.”

“I’m not there to meet him.”

“Well, shall we make a bet? Is she hopelessly in love with you or not?”

The stage curtains parted to swallow the glossy white of the piano. Tryphon jabbed one of the far buttons to ignite the backstage lights. A muffled thanks called from somewhere. The room lightened further with the raising of the curtains around either raised stage, revealing glossy poles.

Elliot scowled, frozen to the spot, and managed to counter, “That’s ridiculous.”

“Well, you’re a performer. Being too good to be true is part of your act. Who could help falling in love with you?”

“That’s too surface level for me.”

“I’d call it skin deep.”

Elliot rolled his eyes and leaned back on his heels. “No matter what it is, I don’t want it. But if it is my lot, I wish it would at least bring me someone I would want.”

Tryphon put his elbows to the counter in interest. Gossip time. “And who would you want it to fool?”

“Not fool but–No, never mind. I can’t waste time when I could be getting ready.” Elliot nodded in finality. “Good luck with the next show.”

Staring uninterested as the last of the Beehive transformed, Tryphon griped, “Back to regular business for now, then the opera tonight.”

“Oof. Spotlight hell.”

“Only hell there is. Now go, I need to hear about this meeting when you get out of it.”

By playful habit, Elliot jeered, “Apostate,” and twirled away to the exit.

His eyes adjusted swiftly to the Skyfront’s glare. Wind flew by, carrying the scent of brine, and it did little to satisfy Elliot’s want to hear the water. But to imagine the sound of the surf, he must also hear the tinker and groan of progress–labor–penury. Elliot indulged a patronizing nostalgia that had little right to be his: bright mornings near the beach and sea foam, food caught nearby and home-cooked fresh, the intimate community driven by unity instead of competition. He knew it all once–but he long had forgotten it for purple and gold.

Now he knew not to go below, where the stench of gutted fish and squalor would appall him; the wooden walkways over mud would scream beneath him; the strangling humidity and furious glares would choke him if hypocrisy did not. The world beneath and beyond the ivory tower of Eulmore was not his. It would never astound him like the admiration is his audience’s eyes as he performed; he could not wake in warm blankets to a ready breakfast there, or know his gilded life was safe from monsters, brigands, sin eaters… Too many things that would hurt him when he had only one external worry here: to ensure his patrons were pleased with him.

Something haunted them. Although they were husband and wife, they did not speak love or laugh over dinner together. They drifted through different worlds without pretending that they could ever reunite. The lady tapped impatience with her restless hands, swore beauty in each rib she could count through her skin, and swung from fixation to fixation with each turn of the day. Among the clock collection, the mountain of painted scarves, the half-melted array of candles that his wife assembled in the last month, the lord would sometimes pull his watery eyes from his feet to undo the closet’s combination lock. He often vanished inside it for hours, emerged to gorge himself on what the lady did not eat, and trudged outside to watch for seabirds.

Elliot did not ask questions. He knew the lives of every other person in the Canopy in lieu. Still, they did not keep him for that–they never listened to him, only to his music. Each morning and evening he would play the piano in their solarium, thank them, smile to them, watch them silently leave to their half-lives, and escape to the Beehive’s backstage. He talked with the dancers between their sets, read in the prop seats and beds, and sang for the crowds whenever he could secure a time slot.

The routine was murderous, the conversations pointless, but the attention he received banished enough of his longing that he could live content on the regular.

Elliot hated settling for this. He continued back to his patrons’ estate, thinking of lighting his votive candles to not think about his father. But he missed him. Five years alone in the city had not treated his sensitivities well, and more then ever Elliot ached for someone who loved him.

—

As the sky shifted from morning gray to eternal gold, Galden stopped paying attention to the talk about him for the sight of the shore. He stood from his circle of soldiers, strode to the Acheron’s side, and put a hand against the railing. Salt stuck to his fingers. Rubbing it off, he leaned to watch the water crash and torrent from the bulwark, left boiling white astern.

Kholusia appeared on the horizon during his idyll. Whistles screamed. The crowd laying around deck leapt to attention. People surged from below deck, chattering for fresh air and action. Nolanel appeared on the forecastle, silhouetted with another against the glaring sun. They spoke inaudibly, then the stranger broke away and hollered for the tender boats to be readied.

She stepped easily to the lower deck. At every step, the sword at her side taunted with a clink. A frown seemed her eternal expression; the scar perched on her nose shone a fresh red. If she was not death, she was certainly friends with it, and apparitions walked in her shadow. Her course cut straight to Galden. She stood near to his height despite the constant tilt of her head–the result of an old injury.

Galden stood still in the chaos. Tired of the confused stares to the Adder salute, he gave a slight bow and introduced himself.

The woman observed his weapon instead of his face. When she spoke, her voice had the deep timber of organs. “Vera Chastain,” she said, and saluted him. “Feran’s second. We’ll array–arrive–by the end of the bell. Get yourself to Feran by then. You’re with him 'til we land.”

“And yourself?”

“The opposite. But if things go stale at the top, I’ll be coming to split heads with you.”

“Understood. I won’t promise to save a few of them for you. But where’s Nolanel?”

“Praying.” Her reply brooked all seriousness and no room for question. “He doesn’t have much time left for it.”

Everyone about them began hauling out supplies and bearing ropes to order. Galden shrugged. “Then I just busy myself with what everyone else is doing.”

“Aye. Lovely volunteer,” she chaffed.

It was easy to speak with her. Prompt. “I call it impatience. Still, good fortune, then.”

Though sincere, Vera smiled like a grimace. “Glory to you. Hell to them.”

She marched passed him to the next task. He turned to the join the others, stringing lines, checking supplies, loading weapons, securing oars and anchors. As the shore neared, the towers of Eulmore rose in tandem. Anxiety strung the air about the crew with lead, but no one would give voice to anything but an echo to Vera’s enthusiastic roar.

The ship captain soon took to yelling commands for anchoring. Nolanel emerged in silence to view the gig. With a word from him, pulleys screeched to loose it with boat after boat into the water. Still, he boarded last, speaking hushedly with a person in a nurse’s garb. Vera smacked his shoulder as she passed him and swung over the railing into her boat.

Nolanel bowed his head and marched to his gig. The others looked up to him, throwing their arms in the air in cheer and pounding the ship’s side for luck. He tsked as he snatched the rope netting and descended, japing, “What’ve we done to get this job, huh?”

One of the hands grabbed him by the scruff of his cape. Nolanel leapt the rest of the way, unsettling the boat’s balance. Spray spat over the edges. The man who tried to rip him from the net tripped; Nolanel elbowed him into the crowd and kicked him aside. An oar splashed into the water. A scuffle followed to retrieve it. Visibly unaffected, Nolanel took his place at the tiller. “'Naught good’ is the answer,” he said. “But you’re with it and you’re with me. They didn’t tell us to go get ourselves bloody 'cause they thought we’d all go small at the prospect. We get to Eulmore, you stand like the Crystarium knows you can. This is for home and the stars, and all the Warrior of Darkness has done for us. Don’t let them down. I sure as hell ain’t letting you all go to hell without me.” Barely taking a breath, he whistled to the ship that he was ready. A pair of whistles sounded in reply.

Galden curled his legs under the thwart brace he sat on, knocking his boots into the stored boxes of fresh water and tack. The starboard oars rose skyward as the opposite line dipped into the water. The boat seemed to stay against the ship for several strokes longer, then enough distance had been gained for every blade to have room enough to row.

Nolanel voiced his approval curtly, then added to the renegade man: “You’ve had a week to decide if you dislike me, and if that’s your idea of me, go right damn ahead. But if you want to compromise this mission when you only have to put up with my presence another few bells, I have no qualms throwing you under that fucking ship. You understand?”

Barnacles peeked from just under the waterline of the Acheron. So close, anything in the water would be dragged into the ship’s wake, ripped across its hull, and drowned afore a rescue line could be thrown.

A grumbled “yes ser” was his admission. Nolanel let it go. The boat lurched over the waves, oar blades flashing through the water. Absently, Nolanel scratched at the peeling varnish with his free hand. He disliked doing naught in comparison with the others.

Galden, excluded as well by status, fared no better. He guarded his face from the glare of the exposed ocean and counted each second in time with the united rowers. The waves beat at the hull and spilled into the boat, half-soaking them all with spray.

The first boat to leave–one of Idristan’s–plowed through the last barrier wave and rode to the shore. Its keel dragged on the sand and scraped along inland. Its occupants cheered and called, then set to unpack their supplies for transport. Their lieutenant squeezed forward to the bow. The boat exploded.

Wood burst and splintered, stabbing into the soldiers behind. People rushed into the water, screaming, sand clumps and wreckage showering in with them. Smoke plumed from the smoldering vessel, red with heat and blood.

Nolanel wrenched the tiller aside. The boat groaned and dipped precariously. Water sped into the boat. Half the crew abandoned their oars to bale it out with noisy tin buckets. Curses and growls arose amongst the ruckus of sloshing, knocking, and grunts. They stopped by Nolanel’s bark for silence.

Galden slammed his fist against the railing. “They knew we were coming. Godsdamned double-agent.”

Over the din, Nolanel ordered, “No one touch that beach.” He released the tiller to drag a hand across his face. His fingers barred his mouth as he took an audible breath and hissed, “That smell’s dynamite.”

The Echo, like an arrow, stabbed into Galden’s mind, paralyzing him as if it were death. His senses warped, peaking and crashing, until their dissolution. He knew nothing. The world seemed to cave and crush him, and all was white; the empty air seared his nostrils and parched his throat, the silence rang in his head like bells. He shut his eyes, and like a vacuum, the emptiness fled away, replaced with darkness, smoke, and ash. Yet the hells had not risen. He felt that he stood now in the earth’s embrace–his lungs seized from the pressure–but it was the clatter of pickaxes in the distance that confirmed so.

Dust filtered his vision and cluttered his breath. He rubbed his eyes to adjust them to the gloom, and his hands scraped the rock walls for guidance. An unsteady light blinked far away. The tunnel seemed to stretch on forever and to nowhere at once, but Galden resolved to follow it. Above him, the ceiling dipped and rose with no order. He set a hand against it at its lowest point, where he had to crouch under the rock like an unwitting titan, and the rock trembled from an unknown source.

Scraping began behind him. Galden swung to face the source, fighting the urge to draw his weapon. Nothing could perceive him here–this was the Echo’s power, but naught could dispel the terror he felt in this place.

A boy emerged from a hole in the wall. Red scratches burned on his hands and knees from crawling, but he moved unheeding of them, a package clutched to his chest. He wiped his arm to his blackened forehead, glanced to the light with a look of resignation, and bounded the opposite way into the darkness.

Galden pursued him. The boy’s footsteps scuffed against refuse and dirt, leading Galden on. The tunnel took a sharp curve and opened into a massive cavern. Lanterns hung about the wooden supports, illuminating the tattered miners clinging about thin scaffolds and ladders. Black veins of ore struck out against the dead gray stone like a river, glittering in the yellow candle flickers. Smoke and dust swung about, rising from the earth and pouring from the walls with each crack of a sledgehammer. Men panted as they called out to one another, cursing, laughing, heaving life from two hundred fulms beneath the surface.

The boy skittered passed them. He pulled the package from his embrace and tore it open beneath a lamp. Slime from oil dirtied the panes, but the light it gave was enough for the boy to see his work–and see that something was wrong with it. Crystals broke free of the paper wrapping and stuck to his clothes. He rubbed them off, ran to the nearest miner, and handed over the delivery.

The miner tousled the boy’s dark hair, said, “Thanks, Canary. Back up top with you,” and sauntered off. He cupped his mouth and yelled, “Dynamite, you bastards! Pack it up!”

The Echo fractured. Sound and sight frayed, but all other sense died; shrieks split the mine apart and swallowed reason. Images flashed and joined: smoke and complaints, men scrubbing skin raw from dirt, sighing in the stale air of the surface, plodding muddy paths, smacking aged storehouses as they went, spitting, turning, screaming, running from black smoke.

Fire at the pit entrance, horses tearing from cars and trampling young trappers, gunshots in vengeance, broken glass in the rock, men spewing free of the lift, legs tangled beneath them, bleeding.

The boy fled from the smoke. A call from one of the miners froze him. He bolted to the entrance and shoved a dying horse from the way. The wooden supports of one of the eastern shafts trembled. Lips moving with an inaudible, repeated prayer, he ran into the growling earth.

Everything shattered from blinding sunlight to darkness and bubbling charred skin, groaning, bodies burst and crushed, maimed arms, missing legs, singed hair, howling cries, searing steam and fire, mouths mawed, red, eyes red, and death-thick smoke.

Explosions burst in deeper shafts. Unnatural wind howled through the chamber, pelting the remaining miners with hot dust. The boy tore at the wreckage. Men tramped passed him. He grabbed one of them by the arm; they pushed him off. His mouth twisted with rage. He ripped a lantern from the nearest escapee, tucked it against his burning chest, and scoured floor again.

A screech severed the sound of the mine–They’ll run us out of Gate Town! We’ll–and cut to silence. Galden’s vision tattered. The rock and smoke vanished for rotted wood walls, a man’s bloody body lain across the dirt floor, and a woman clawing at her face. Red lines scored her death-pale cheeks, and dark bags made her yellow eyes seem almost white. Gray streaks marred her tangled hair, and pain wrinkled her forehead–but fury controlled her, not sorrow.

She snatched the boy by his hair and wrenched him to the floor. He toppled, all awkward limbs, and she beat him until bruises lifted, purple on his filthy skin. Her lithe fingers coiled around his arm. She pulled him back, shouting wordlessly. The boy writhed, batted weak fists at her, and wheezed for breath. She released him and swiped at his face; he dived to protect himself, but her long nails caught his ear.

The woman’s lip pressed together in disgust as she flicked red from her fingers. She tramped away, tan skirts catching beneath her steps. The door growled open and shut, leaving Galden, unpercieved and helpless, alone with the body and boy.

On the floor, the boy shook in hatred. He clutched his head, blood spilling between his red-raw fingers. It was only then Galden noticed the fresh burns on the boy’s arms and feet. Panting, animalistic in rage, the boy turned to the man’s body, eyes all ice. Sorrow for the day had abandoned their blue; betrayal and confusion had left him long ago; he saught only blame with his glare, and this time, it would not be towards himself.

Whiteness like a pall enveloped Galden and pitched him back to the Kholusian shore. People shouted and bickered, water slapped against the ducking hulls of the boats, and the unnatural heavens glared their castigating heat. The beach warped and joined with the pale of the sky. Salt stung in Galden’s eyes. Water continued to dot his clothes and slick his skin.

Somewhere between the seconds where the vision seized and left Galden, Nolanel had jumped into the water. Waist-deep in the ocean, he held his poleaxe by the end of its shaft and swung the blade’s face into the water. A wave hurdled to shore. The sand soaked itself brown. Nolanel stomped inland and, muttering about how he still hated the godsdamned ocean, traveled along the surf to the next boat. He called, “Captain Idristan, the beach is loaded with gunpowder!”

From where he sat alert at the tiller, Idristan laughed and swiped at the part of his thin hair. “No shit, Lieutenant!”

“That’s no shit, Captain, thank you! I mean to return to the Acheron–there are barrels aboard of grain we may displace. Fill them with water, and we’ll defuse the bombs by drowning them through their caps. Simple enough.”

Idristan motioned over his shoulder to the northern cliffs. “I’ve send a squadron to check for a landing beyond this one.”

“They won’t find one, sir. Our scouts confirmed so already days ago–asides what I know.”

Idristan muttered to the soldier beside him, presumably to send them in pursuit of the departed group. Talk swarmed up again as their conversation swept through the restless army. Nolanel waved for Vera to relay his plan to the flagship Noah while he began requisitioning barrels.

Galden leapt into the water. The cold barely registered in his focus. Beneath the bleached sand, roots of railway vine and sea oats stretched through the earth. Their aether glew and pulsed like veins, sea-blue, across the shore–curtailed in places by the sharp heads of spades and shovels. He started for the glow.

A knife shrieked as it grazed his pauldron. Nolanel’s voice followed, cracking with rage: “Get back!

Galden ignored him to check the knife–its hilt stuck sideways from a patch of dull sand. If the blade had been longer, the mine beneath could have detonated. He groaned and left it there. “Althyk as my fucking witness, are you mad?”

“You really want to ask that from where you are? We’re lucky we didn’t see this entire beach blow with our heads. Fire travels fast underground. If it reaches the next bomb, you won’t have time to complain.”

“You throw things around like that and we won’t have to worry about the fire or aught else either, kid.”

“Get back. We don’t have time for this.”

“We’d have more time if you’d stop this shit and listen. I can tell where the mines are underground. There’s tunnels, too.”

“Like hell the mines’re here. You don’t know a damned thing about this place.”

“The bomb mines. Just stay where you are and I’ll get across.”

Nolanel whistled for attention. The corner of his mouth twitched when he ordered, “Shoot him.”

Despite the muttered protests from the others, a woman astern rose a wooden bow. As she knocked an arrow, the bow trembled and warped, its wood stretching until it lassoed around her wrists. The boat pitched as people fled from it. Nolanel jerked to help, but authority froze him; he cursed himself and held his ground. The woman screamed and slammed her hands into the boat rim to crack the wooden shackles.

With the army’s attention split, Galden wrung his cloak of water, stretched out his shoulder, and followed the aether-lit path. Seafoam marked his way for the first few yalms, then he walked alone. The wind scored into the sand and blew grains against his legs. Caution skipped his heart, not guilt–if it took scaring a few soldiers preemptively to get them across this damn beach, so be it. After each step, he forced a root from the ground to mark the way. Rumors hissed from the water: spy, witch, saint.

Unwillingly, Nolanel seemed to understand. He walked to the beginning of the path and asked, almost tiredly, “Why do you keep secrets?”

From atop the grasses of Kholusia, Galden said, “You weren’t a shepherd, Feran.”

Nolanel’s lips smashed together. Naught but a miracle could have divined him to cross the beach as Galden did–at this moment, he was powerless and disgraced. He didn’t survive this long trusting others at their word, but Galden’s word continued to be truer than his own. It didn’t make sense. He was a fool for begging logic to help him in half a battlezone–logic avails naught in chaos–and he knew it.

Galden operated on his own rules. Order be damned–except in his head. It was as simple as their natural ignorance, his incongruous existence in this world, and the need to move on without confronting either. Like him, his gift was an anomaly that belonged to the Source–he could no sooner explain his being here than he could how he saw past buried explosives. Even the simple version–Lar Nimloth, a sentient tree, gave him the power to manipulate plant life in exchange for his fealty–would baffle everyone in earshot and really turn him away from trust.

Nolanel reeled and hated. Let him. At least he will come up the bank and on to Gatetown with his anger, and not wrack his brain in the ocean.

And so he would. Nolanel stabbed his lance into the ground and turned to whistle at his company. “Listen! Follow the path he’s set up. No deviating, no shoving–or I swear to the gods and whoever else is waiting for us below that I’ll send you to them.”

As they turned to gather the supply kits from the boat and bring them forward, Nolanel returned his attention to Galden. Ahead of the group, he stepped onto the path.

Part of him expected a ruse. Levitation magic, a subtle change in the path, old-fashioned devilry. But he soon stood with Galden, overlooking the operation. He frowned, almost upset he wasn’t blown to pieces to unmask a spy in this “scion.”

“Don’t waste your breath explaining to me,” he said.

Galden shrugged. “I won’t ask aught from you then either.”

Without further word or indication, they both started back towards the water to help.

—

Elliot knocked twice on the door. The gold door handle stung his hand with cold. A heel struck the floor tile within the villa. When he turned the handle, he found it turned on the other side by his host.

Mrs. Retherford beamed. She spun to lead him inside, her skirts swirling around her heels in dizzying pinstripes. She shielded her laughter with a slim hand arrayed in jewels and lace. Elliot mimicked her smile. “I apologize for having you wait.”

“No, no! You’re on time. I was just discussing you with my maid.” Behind her, a small woman in monochrome dress floated into the next room.

He inclined his head. She had no friends over, then, and he was alone with her. “All good things, one prays.”

“I could never say a word against you!”

She rose her hand to his lowered head, then kissed him on the cheek in assurance.

By politeness, he returned the gesture. But the heavy powder of her blush clung to his lips, and he knew for certain that this meeting would not end well. Though anyone could say she was beautiful and mean it, she was older than him–and insecure of it–so her discreetness payed the price.

“What a darling!” she exclaimed.

So much shouting. Elliot sidestepped, heel striking the polished floor, and drew his thumb comfortingly across his ring. The green hydrangea in its face matched nothing of his burnt orange outfit, but it was one of few things his father left him.

Mrs. Retherford led him to the parlor. Blue wallpaper stretched to the domed ceiling’s fresco, fleur-de-lis pointing to uninspired clouds and frightening cherubs. The furniture, too, was of the same dark blue as the walls. Gold trim interrupted the overwhelming monotony on both things, but the doors provided the only true escape by their simple carving. Elliot banished a frown as they shut after him.

Windows overlooked the sea at the end of the room. But the water was gray; the eternal day’s white drained color from the world, reminding Elliot of his ache for darkness. Mrs. Retherford swayed into his sight. Her dress was the same color as the walls. Good gods. At the very least, vases of large chrysanthemums marked each table.

A couch stood out from the rest in canary yellow. By a comforting impulse–or spite–he approached it to sit at her invitation. She gave it.

Then she sat next to him. Elliot kept still a moment to shut his eyes and assure himself. She openly studied his profile. His earring attracted her interest–at least, it was the only thing she could compliment aloud. Part of it she recognized: the white quartz of the Church of Light. Because she did not understand the obsidian clasp, she ignored it.

“A pious soul!” she began. “What an endearing vanity. Religion does wonders to people. 'Tis the only thing that highlights wrongs so well as to make them irresistible.”

Elliot hummed and squinted at the painted clouds. “I find it teaches gratefulness for what is left of the world.”

“One should think you’d be more grateful to Lord Vauthry and your generous patrons for your life here, not some long-gone mythology.”

“I shall endeavor to give thanks where it is due.”

Desperate to change the topic, Mrs. Retherford turned to the side table and selected a flower from it. She spun the stem in her hands, then dropped it suddenly to speak. “Well, I must thank you for your show today. Your playing is truly a gift.”

“One I owe my father for. He taught me all I know, from piano to medicine and religion.”

“At least the first two have use!”

He ached to leave more. But patience was his virtue. Evidently, it was not Mrs. Retherford’s: she tucked her noisy skirts away, skimming her fingernails across his thigh. Neither of them reacted to it–not visibly.

She ignored the mention of his father and spoke only of what was charming and beautiful. Lakeside picnics and fresh caramel, winding up delicate music boxes, spreading lace under dinner plates and silver utensils, growing morning glories and learning dance steps, eating cherries on a tree-swing. Her memories alighted her face in joy, and though Elliot found himself passively enjoying her stories, he came here for a reason. Tedium blurred his vision as she dove into an anecdote about a feathered fan. Charming woman, but false. He nodded along, fingers tapping his crossed knee in an aria.

She wanted a captive. She had one in him, and she found him thoughtful because his mind wandered, and shy because his replies came lower and less often. To get him to look at her, she adjusted her collar necklace; to get him to touch her, she rose her hand and asked him to walk to the window with her.

Elliot did not care for collars, but he rose and accepted her hand. As she stood, grinning victoriously, she pulled her hand up to his mouth to kiss.

Letting go, Elliot asked how well she enjoyed the ocean.

She scurried to the window without him so he wouldn’t spy her frown. The lock clicked and shrieked from the salt crystallized in it, but it yielded to part the paned glass. Even without its filter, the gray expanse remained lifeless from this distance. “Very well,” she said, though the lock betrayed her. “When you sing or write, do you ever take it as inspiration?”

“Not ever. I rely most on my faith.”

“How silly!” she chastised. “Couldn’t you write about me? Couldn’t you find it possible to make a muse of me?”

“One must worship their muse.”

“You could worship me.” She snared his hands and brought them pleadingly to her heart. Her fingers tangled with his, trapping him. Finally, he was forced to look at her. She smiled jerkily, perhaps too aware of her boldness, but she turned radiant at his returned unease.

Worship was simple, but it could not be requested. The heart gives itself fully and without reason to what it chooses. It could not be directed, only obeyed–and hers saw in Elliot the opportunity to love herself.

Elliot understood this. He could not fault her. The woman begging him for acceptance had been made wretched by years of yearning, loneliness, and station. He knew he was exactly the same. But she was brave in her adoration. Elliot never knew love strong enough to banish fear, never a love worth forsaking society for, and beyond those things, he never knew love for a woman.

As if it would help him, he stopped breathing.

Her thumb stroked his hand and his entire being rebelled. He ripped away, gasped a breath, and shut his eyes from her despair.

“I’m sorry, I–” His shoulders rose against his neck. Nausea spun his balance, and fear towards her weakened his knees. Sighing, he rubbed his face. Through his hands, he asked her to shut the window. “The seagulls’ caws sicken me. I can’t listen to them any longer. And I mustn’t–”

The door creaked open. A black-toed foot poked around the corner. The maid from before emerged, curtsied, and cleared her throat to speak.

Elliot interrupted her: “What is the time?”

In a divined answer, the bell for the ninth hour rang. The world paused to count each toll. After silence came and the tension grew thicker, Elliot blurted, “Forgive me mine observance; 'tis the time for me to conduct morning prayer. My regret is that I must go. You’ve all my gratitude for your invitation to meet you. Another time, if it pleases you, we may speak again.” He tucked a hand behind him to flourish with the other as he bowed.

Without waiting for more than Mrs. Retherford’s distant “Of course,” Elliot withdrew past the maid for the golden-handled door. In his heart, he cursed his stupidity and cowardice. He knew to say yes to her was to invite destruction. To say no as he did was to hate himself–all because he could not bring himself hate her. A mistake was all their meeting was. He knew that too from the start. Though he tried, he had no hope she had any information on his father. Being proven right was his agony. He could have continued the attempt–kissed her, told her yes, yes he could love her, and given her the words she wanted in exchange for the ones she promised him–but he feared her bravery for its cruelty. Denying himself was a misery he would allow only himself to do–that was what strength made him flee, vulgar solace that it was. He did not think he had strength otherwise.

And clinging to his thoughts, he did not hear the maid announce just beyond the door that war had come, and that Elliot was walking into a battlefield.

[furymint]

FFXIV Write: Prompt #10

wc: 1,341 |

From within the cabinet, the clock struck ten pm. Stars reigned beyond the windows of Josseloux's quarters, freckling the armor of glass knights with light. Though the parlor chandelier burned, the other rooms faded into darkness, and the two men arranging themselves at the carpet's center seemed isolated from reality. Along a darkened wall, a pianola ticked through the beginnings of a sheet.

Elliot stood on his toes and matched his father's height. "You haven't shrunk, have you?"

Josseloux put a hand to Elliot's shoulder, both to push him down and to assume position. "Naught belongs to me, even my height. I could not say, although I would not be surprised." For all his words, his tone was almost cold--he did not like the concept. "But you've grown. That makes things a bit easier."

"Not many things," Elliot pouted, setting an open hand to Josseloux's back. "Although this, it does for certain. I can lead without looking too much a fool." He twined their free hands together, stepped closer, and spotted the intricate lacing in Josseloux's cravat.

Catching the look, Josseloux warned, "My youngest sister bought this one for me; if you should steal it, she would hound you at every dinner for the next twelve years."

The pianola clicked to indicate that the first song would begin. Elliot slid his foot aside to anticipate the start of the beat. "She doesn't scare me," he said, chin raised.

"She should."

"You forget I've learned to make enemies."

"Have you been poisoned over a vintage yet?"

"I've received spiders in my mail." He flit to the left a half second before the song swelled to a start, dragging his father with him.

Josseloux's expression purposefully shifted to something like confusion, pride, and worry all at once. The time of the song rung in his head like an unnatural hesitation. He thought of irregular signatures, broken earring clips, and how, upon taking his arm at the airship landing, Elliot confessed he didn't know what to say.

Then keep talking.

"What type of enemies are you making?"

Elliot laughed and twirled along the ridges of the carpet. "Former Halonic Inquisitors."

Dangerous. Blackmailing, tempting fiends, standing on the border of hell with their scale-lined shoes, badges on pockets that singed into skin, a predator's grin. How many had he warned against?

Josseloux smiled and let his voice take a familiar, deceiving confidence: pride. "Oh good," he said, falling easily into the correct, gliding step. "Those have all the right qualities. Righteous to the core, no sense of amity, and at least a dozen secrets to defend. And they drink mint tea."

Lists of memory rove through him, striking at his indomitable composure like knots through a comb. Drawn purple blinds, discussions behind cold marble pillars, the reverberation of countless shoes and voices in the Tribunal hall, the snap of an abandoned fan underfoot. 

He wished the pianola was louder, but Elliot's grip on him tightened, and if Josseloux did not feel dread, he felt sorry.

"Don't be caught alone with them and time."

Elliot did not step on the priest's shoe as he'd planned. "I know," he said, shortening his steps and tsking to assure himself.

"How is Ser Feran?"

Elliot’s shoulders rose. He muttered, "His friends are at Ghimlyt."

"That says it all."

Apparently, it didn't. Elliot released Josseloux to pace. The windows illuminated him in patches as he walked into their path, giving him a dizzying quality to watch.

"Ephemie hasn't the time or ability or something to send more than one letter. She writes to her family, then leaves a postscript for Nolanel. They rip it off and send it, then he receives that little update a full week later. The dragoons don't write. Ishgardian news is under stricter censorship than the other city-states, but past the propaganda and the time it takes to reach us, it holds more revealing appraisals of the fight than Ul'dah's constant call for donations and bonds. He avoids traveling beyond the Goblet, and generally beyond the mailbox. His ankle keep stiffening from such prolonged swelling. The most I've seen him use his crutches is to throw one at a lizard that snuck into the kitchen. At night he barely sleeps. I had bowls of water out for my piano, and he tripped over one and it was just a complete disaster. Swearing, yelling, the whole bit."

There's Elliot. Frenetic, tired, desperate, and in love, worried to tears over his lack of control of the world and of others and of the man he let dominate his waking thoughts and distant dreams. By now, all pressure drained from the pianola. It fell to silence. Elliot tugged his collar from his neck and continued.

"I had to threaten him. If he didn't use his crutches, I wouldn't take him home with me. His lips pressed together in that way and he cursed me, but when the day came he stood ready at the door with them."

Josseloux grabbed his son by the shoulder. He pushed him down, this time to get him to kneel and sit on the floor. In his moment of confusion, Elliot recognized the death of the song he so easily spoke over. He had not spoken so easily in weeks. As Josseloux joined him on the rug, he swayed and pulled at his embroidered socks.

Josseloux took a breath and returned to his damning neutrality. "Where is he now?"

"The youth chapel. 'Tis where he's comfortable; I shan't complain; I gave him my thickest blanket and he threw it and himself at the floor. Asleep afore I locked the door behind me."

"Leave him be. Just give him the day to himself. Tell him so, but don't badger him."

Elliot let himself topple onto the rug. His cheek dug into the plush cloth and muffled his reply. "I'm not trying to be an aristarch or a victim. I just don't want him to do anything stupid."

"And he won't. You act as though he would sabotage himself. I'm sure he wants to be better as soon as you."

“I know, but--” He couldn’t finish. He knew, but he didn’t want Nolanel to idle, fester, and hate--hate was the worst thing one could do to themself--and go spitefully to his terror to say that it was right, he would never walk again, he failed, and he should admit so now rather than fake hope. That was the thing Elliot could envision. What he perceived was different: since Nolanel returned from the Dusk Vigil, he seemed changed.

“Changed” sounded better than “worse.” He moved sluggishly, distracted by something beyond sight and sense, spoke only when necessary, scratched his worn legs raw, rarely noticed the bleeding, shied from sunlight, shivered in the shade but sweated in blankets, complained about blurry lettering and how often his cracked fingernail caught in his hair. The list kept going, relief never came more than a few bells, and Nolanel would not speak a word about the fortress except that it was a mistake.

Home usually made Nolanel worse, but-- “I don’t know.” Elliot rolled to his back and tried tapping at Josseloux’s leg with his foot. “Promise me you’ll speak to him afore we go back?”

Josseloux smiled as he moved out of reach and poked Elliot for himself. “Of course,” he said, offering his pinky to shake.

Unwilling to remove himself from the floor, Elliot leaned up and hooked his pinky around Josseloux’s after a few tries. “Thanks.”

“Any time.” Josseloux put a hand to his heart as if he hid the faces of cards. The promise was barely his to make; Nolanel already asked him to meet, and he would; but Elliot seemed calmer at the thought that his father would intervene and solve what he could not. Josseloux drifted away to the edge of the parlor. He hovered about the light switch, deliberately caught Elliot’s attention, and plunged the room into darkness.

Elliot scrambled to his feet and charged, knocking both of them into the next room’s wall.

[furymint]

Yet each man kills the thing he loves     By each let this be heard, The coward does it with a kiss,     The brave man with a sword.

[furymint]

FFXIV Write #3

wc: 494

Josseloux stood near the chapel entrance. The candlelight shrouded his face as he spoke with another priest--some choir girl from the Brume ran off with her scapular. He said the act was reasonable: the storm two suns past doubled the snow bank sizes. The cold could only become worse with that much ice--

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Son.”

With a comforter three times his size, Elliot squeezed through the cathedral lift’s door. The cage caught part of the fluffy cloth--he yelped when it tugged him back. A portion of the comforter spilled to the floor. He reeled the embroidered blanket into his arms and he stumbled onward. Then he remembered how unwise it was to ignore Josseloux. Elliot rose his voice as he spoke, muffled by seven tons of cotton: “Father.”

Josseloux purposefully sounded tired, although a part of him was amused. “Do I need to ask?”

“No.” A corner of the pile slipped from his arms. He tried to kick it into the air and pin it with the rest. “You don’t.”

“And is this necessary?”

Elliot gave a noncommittal whine and continued his blind charge through the hall. Other students veered from his warpath, muttering their confusion or impatience. He vanished through the next door.

Josseloux made a mental note of scapular girl and professionally ignored the rest of Faucillien’s gripes. He counted seconds, and then the minutes, until a drop of wax fell from the candle. Then he had an appointment to take care of.

Josseloux looped into the eastern hall and followed what he was certain were Elliot’s footsteps to the youth ministry room. He knocked on the door and entered without a pause, already running his mouth: “’Tis truly not so cold outside--” he broke for a moment as he took to room in“--to carry blankets around. Or to make pillow forts in church.”

In the center of the fort, lounging on his stomach with a book before him, Elliot said, “Next time make it harder to build pillow forts when we build a church.” He returned to his tome, frowned, and asked what ‘adytum’ meant.

Ephemie pinned the comforter tighter to the pews and over the aisle with weight candle holders. She quipped, “I’m thinkin’ this is the best of use for this place yet.”

Somewhere in the chaos of red flowers and argyle, Nolanel’s muffled voice said, “Comfy.” The top of his head poked out behind Elliot, from where he cocooned himself in the blankets.

Without turning, Josseloux reached for the handle behind him. He said, “Fine--I’m locking the closet of kneeler cushions then.”

Elliot screeched, scrambled to his feet, and threw himself into the exit. “No,” he gasped. “We need those!” His socks slipped on the marble as he barreled out the door.

Josseloux approached the fort. Careful not to touch it, he leaned over the top and presented Ephemie with a small brass key. “Check the pantry. This morning someone dropped off almond cookies.”

[furymint]

8. The way cold glass fogs when you press your hand against it.

(wc: 813)

Nolanel pulled the hand lantern closer from across the table. The tiny panes burst into white at his touch; he sighed and fished through his pockets for a rag. Moisture smeared across the paneling. He redoubled his effort and picked the object up, noticing its new weight. He shoved his letters aside and set the  tiny lantern down.Nolanel opened the latch and a storm of cloth burst from the door. His eyebrows furrowed as he raked the cotton free. Tiny glass bottles sang against each other in the sea of white. Nolanel reached inside and pulled a vial free. The short cork caught on the door frame and the bottle clattered from his hand to the table. He slapped his palm over it to keep it from rolling away. The glass fogged and he rubbed it, too, clean.

Dry red and brown shavings shifted inside. Nolanel set it at a safe distance on the table and extracted the remaining six. Entire leaves plastered against the glass in one; another held tiny stalks of yellow, and the others were more like the first: burgundy, gray-brown, maybe purple. He waved them all away, groaned about medicine, and snatched the final bottle, which was empty save for a slip of paper.

A doodle of a tea cup accented the top, followed by Elliot’s handwriting in vibrant blue ink:

Now Dearest Nolanel,My curious recluse of teas:Here collected are a few for you;Help yourself to them, please!

Lemongrass: you’ll find in stalksLemonbalm: you’ll look for leavesA rule of thumb: for swifter sleepAnd anxiety, pick from these.

Bur the cold inflames your throatCinnamon – rejoice! – is your go-toOr look for pale tan, like bread:Sharp ginger may perform in lieu.

If glory aches anew or suddenFind chamomile and turmeric--Their potent gold or shallow orangewill give those pains a direct fix.

Rosehip, vibrant and romantic!Followed by mint, cold and sharp!The first, I admit, is only for sweetness.The next will crush fever and nausea’s harp.

Allow these four minutes to steepAnd your simple drink is complete!Don’t you scowl over my instructionsI swear this tea cures all corruptions.

E.C.

P.S. Don't tell my father.

Nolanel dragged his letter pile closer and flipped through them. Ephemie, Elliot again, Kayden, and-- Josseloux. He slit the top of the envelope with his knife and ripped it fully open. It read, to his fatigue:

Ser Feran,

Little more than a moment passed since your Departure than I discovered your dear father pacing a trench into my floor. It is not my place to give mine observation why or my conclusion thereof, but I will expound Ruelle’s reason for coming. He gave me permission to do so. I am certain you know why he wanted this conduit instead of speaking to you directly.

Plainly speaking -- you are a busy man, and my Son’s letter is likely to demand your Time and Care -- he is concerned over shirking. Being that he is the lone Person occupying your Apartment while you are off, it is more than he can bear to not offer to foot some portion of the rent. Particularly, your assurance that you would sell your Military Medals for funds distresses him.

I understand that it is not about Morality so much as Money for him;  he did not enjoy admitting it. In a way of penance he asked me if I might assist him in mending the former: could he, um, if it pleases, help around-- shine the windows, or, somesuch...

Pray, don’t be angered. I do not write this to upset you. Your father had the same intention when he came to me.

But I refuse to belittle him as he desires. With your Permission, I should like to fund the Apartment so it may no longer a Burden of Thought or Money or Conscience. I will not make more of a case. It is your Decision to make when you wish.

In the meantime, I Remind and Assure you that you are my Smile as I write this. My Thoughts never find you absent, my Prayers always have your name, and I will always be alert for your knock at my door. If it takes Halone to convince you, let Her: you are not alone in this World.

Thank you, Ser Feran, for your Time and for your Kindness.

Blessings and Love,

Josseloux Cadieux.

P.S. Elliot’s hand is not in this at all. This is entirely my interference-- and my shame for adding this trouble to your Duties. Do not blame him, but do feel free to involve him if you like. It is puzzling: he has been raiding my cabinet this past sennight. I suppose you know where my tea has gone. Don’t boil the water when you heat it, good ser.

[furymint]

📂📂 GIMME SOME FACTS

Nolanel and his father are very similar even if you meet them separately, but if you have them in the same room, the resemblance can get a little boggling. They operate extremely mechanically while at work together and can anticipate each other’s words and actions so nothing actually has to be said or implied. Despite that, their conversations are more awkward than substantial. Nol goes to unnecessary (and plainly, cruel) lengths to avoid talking with Ruelle (mostly bc he sees that his life could easily be Ruelle’s due to their similarities, but i have a lot of thoughts abt it).

I like to describe Elliot’s father as a more powerful and not dumb ver of Elliot, but I think that’s mostly bc he embodies a lot of what Elliot thinks he is. Josseloux has been through more societies than most: he’s been a soldier, a noble, lover,  seminarian, writer, priest; at the end of the day he’d call himself a successful sinner. He’s perceptive, manipulative, glib, and, most importantly, represents a member of the faith that can genuinely understand others. That word tips Elliot off more than any other. Put that in any sentence and you’ll see him deflate.

[furymint]

FFXIV Writes Entry #7

Characters: Nolanel, Josseloux | Word Count: 642 | TW: None

Context: Nolanel visits Elliot’s father for an errand and gets his ear chewed off instead.

Nolanel refused a cup of tea. He watched the silver-plated pot, and followed the thin steam upwards to Josseloux’s eyes.

The priest smirked as he returned the lid to the sugar bowl. He allowed the drink to steep longer. Lacing his fingers together, he leaned into the yellow saffron of the sofa and asked, “Do you trust me?”

“Without question, Father.” Nolanel straightened his posture. He slowly regained his hunch as Josseloux allowed the silence to stretch.

Josseloux nodded. Reflection did not stir any portion of his manner; Nolanel thought that naught could ever force Josseloux to betray neutrality. A chronometer hidden in an ivory dresser chimed for the Hour of the wolf.

Josseloux finally poured himself a cup, which he set aside. He motioned for Nolanel to stay seated and removed the tea tray. He laid it on a vanity and returned. “Would you empty your pockets and place everything on the table, please?” Josseloux tapped a hand against the white marble surface.

Nolanel noted the scars and rubbed his own gloved hands. He shifted and rubbed one ankle against the other. Without question or complaint, he gradually checked each pocket and pouch in his arming coat. He stopped a minute later.

Atop the table: a rosary, a pocket Enchiridion, a broken leaf, a string-drawn pouch of gil, and a piece of coal.

Josseloux chuckled at the collection and teased, “That’s all?”

Guilty, Nolanel admitted, “There’s a knife in my boot, Father. The left.”

“Leave it.” He took a sip of his tea. “Now, why do you think I ask you to do that?”

“I don’t know, Father.”

“Why did you do it? And why don’t you ask me to?”

“Because you told me to do so, and because I trust that you don’t have anything--” Nolanel’s throat closed-- “--dangerous on your person.”

“So you think I don’t trust you.”

Nolanel frowned, and like a child, asked to move on from the subject. Josseloux gave an imperceptible shrug, and with theatrical sluggishness, deposited the contents of is pockets on the table: a handkerchief, a tiny key, a rosary, and a bent quill. “What strikes you, Ser Feran?”

Nolanel pursed his lips and pointed at the key.

“Oh no, that’s a secret.”

Nolanel apologized.

Josseloux assured he was joking. “It unlocks a drawer in my desk. My son would call it ‘the key to my heart.’ He can be so uncreative.”

“I’m unsure of that. I would call it only ‘a key.’”

“That said, the purpose of creativity is not to tell the truth.” Josseloux laughed, then frowned, and left Nolanel puzzled and staring at the table.

Josseloux grabbed his things, tucked them away, and instructed Nolanel to do the same. “My point today is that every man has his secrets, and one should not think lesser of a man for them. I’ve revealed one to you, but kept the greater mystery locked up; and you will not inquire after it. It may be nothing at all. Your secret may not be physical or able to be carried, but you have one, and that is not a fault, and neither is it something you are obligated to share.” He stood. Having enough of Nolanel’s rueful stare, he offered his hand.

Nolanel hovered his fingertips over Josseloux’s fingers rather than touch the scars. Despite noticing, Josseloux made no acknowledgment; he only waited for Nolanel to sort himself enough to speak.

Nolanel did, partway to the exit. “Sins are not secrets, though.”

“No; they cannot be kept or hidden.” Josseloux snapped his finger, eliciting a flinch in the fleeing man. Nolanel stopped. Josseloux handed him a a trio of slim candles. “But you’ve forgotten why you’re here. These will work with your lantern. Leave it to Elliot to give a gift one must rely on him to use. Let’s not allow him to win.”