#there's a tapestry here. is it rich? mayhaps not. but

[detectiveneve]

the emrys gender.............

[cfs-melkire]

FFXIVWrite 2022 Day 3: Temper

Chambers of cold hard stone. Furnished by rugs from the south, tapestries woven here in the north. Quite a contrast to the fellow’s office, which features tiled marble and sparse hangings. There’s the timepiece, there are the lances, and little more. Can’t quite put my finger on whether the ornate desk, cushioned chairs, and exquisite drawers were sourced from the Shroud or from beyond Coerthas. The mere thought of the cold outside sends a shiver down my spine. Too used to La Noscean shores and Thanalan sands, I am, and not at all to the frigid temperatures to which the fall of Dalamud had consigned the Ishgardian heartland. More reason to be thankful for the warmth of the fireplace which brought me renewed focus. “Do be seated,” says my host in the stern yet gentle tone which I most often associated with grandfathers. He’s reading the letter of introduction carefully by candlelight, and the gleam of his spectacles hides his immediate thoughts on the matter of my employment.

I take my gods-damned seat and bite down on my tongue to arrest my nerves. 

Ser Emerissel de Sauveterre leads a minor house, here in Ishgard. This is apparently a matter of some contention, as a number of claims by several minor houses have been put forth to the name and the dispute is under review. None of this seems to touch the man across from me, whose bearing and grace suggest a long line of good breeding, great courtesy, and better etiquette. The hospitality… I’d had to fend off his… butler? Valet? The man had offered to take my bandana, had offered to fetch me tea and biscuits, might’ve even offered to shine my boots had I been wearing a pair. It had reminded me too much of Taeros and his staff.

The Elezen before me is an older gentleman with a pockmarked face, ice blue eyes, and rich brown hair – drawn back into a tail – which suggests liberal use of dye. He’s swaddled and damned near swallowed by a thick alpine coat, which tells me he’s either feeling his age and fending off the cold or else he prefers to swelter indoors. Mayhap he’ll be off to some other engagement immediately after this, and so went through the effort of dressing up before seeing me. He breaks my train of thought when he eyes me over the rim of his glasses and says, “Hmmmm. Well, I certainly was not expecting an application from a soldier. It is not as if we are lacking such people in these parts, Master Melkire. Whatever possessed you to respond to my advertisement?”

Emerissel said that last bit with a heavy emphasis on the second syllable, as most do, rather than the third. An unintentional but welcome reminder for me that this is not the Goblet, the Dauntless and the Agency are both behind me, and that I really, truly, desperately need this job.

“Beggin’ your pardon, Lord Sauveterre,” I say, and I try not to fumble the rest of my words when he waves off the title with a disdainful look, as if proper rank and title are a bother, “but my skillset runs more broad than one might expect from a military career. Your posting suggested a degree of middle management, ser, and a necessity to be discreet at times, all while running the gamut of international relations. You wanted someone with connections, ser. That’d be me.”

He turns his gaze back to the paper in his hand. “Yes, I suppose it is rather unusual for a former enlisted man of the Immortal Flames to receive commendations from the Twin Adders of Gridania, and especially so in light of a dishonorable discharge.” He glances up for a moment, but he needn’t have bothered; I refuse to give him the satisfaction of seeing me squirm. He goes on. “Good deal of community history with a number of free companies in the Goblet, I see. That would come in handy, precisely the sort of thing I was hoping for. And you’re fit to travel, I take it? No special considerations?” “None whatsoever,” I say, fighting down the bile that threatens to rise. “Fit, familiar with the south, and ready to go wherever you need me.” He doesn’t need to know the details. I’ve snuck onto Vylbrand before, I can do it again. Besides, I’m a mite too busy keeping the Lominsan accent out of my mouth. It’s a struggle sometimes, but life in Ul’dah has a way of scouring one’s tongue and I was no exception.

“Your enthusiasm and energy are much appreciated, much appreciated. Still… no diplomatic record to speak of. No mediations of note outside the military purview. At least, not that I’ve been able to glean. Your service record is sealed. Covert operations, you said.”

“Yes, ser.” It was true, but it was still a bitter draught. A half dozen turns of experience that I could claim but not prove, and all because a turn or two had been spent in the black.

“Please correct me if I am mistaken, but no mercantile expertise to boast of.”

“No, ser.” A galling lack, given his requirements. “But I’m willin’ to learn, and I learn fast.”

Piss ‘n’ shite, there’s that accent again.

He sets the letter down on his desk and leans back, hands coming up to slip the spectacles off his face. He folds the arms of the frame together and taps them against his bottom lip a few times before he looks to me.

“I have seen better applicants, and I have had my fill of interviews.” He pauses, and I feel the weight of the moment bearing down: emphasis. “Tell me why I should hire you.” Nothing for it but the truth. All hands to sheets and braces. “My wife is struggling to start up her own business, ser, and until she can get it off the ground and into the clear, it falls to me to make up the difference for ourselves and our daughters. I’m desperate, lord, and that means I’ll be workin’ twice as hard as any merchant, barrister, or diplomat you could bring onboard. I’ve enough of what you’re after, and can pick up the rest. I’ve no prior engagements, no main business t’distract me, I’m not in demand… I’ll be working for you and you alone. You want t’contract with free companies? I will get you free companies. There’ll be a sheaf o’ papers detailing every brass tack down to the size of their grandmother’s dentures ‘fore I knock on their doors, and they won’t be able to say no.”

I stop. It’s a good boast to stop on, but the truth is that I’ve run dry. No more words come to mind, none with the weight I want.

No matter. He’s smiling from behind his spectacles. I’ve won. 

[heavens-light-and-hells-ice]

Home in time for Starlight.

This late in the Moon of Nophica, the pale sun cannot even keep its head above the horizon through dinnertime; it nods, and the early winter cold falls with it. 

The walkways of the lower Pillars, spotted with ice-puddles in every unevenness of stone, are perilous indeed this time of year. They might even be deadly, save for the faint light streaming down from the Crozier, gaily twinkling every bell of the night, by which the traveler picks a careful path to his destination, gingerly testing the ground with his cane before committing a foot to it. 

Late he may arrive, but with no broken bones. 

The inside of the building is joyously warm, the heat and aroma of the kitchen billowing out into the street when the door is opened for him. His host first scrapes, then leaps up to take his hat and greatcoat. "T-t-t-to think you walked in this weather, milord!" 

Both of them glance outside, where, from the window of his two-bird hackney, a fur-wrapped driver peers back at them, scowls, then draws the black velvet curtain shut. 

They look back at each other; a moment passes, and then Rosaire inclines his head and murmurs, "I am sorry to have kept you both waiting."

"No t-t-trouble, no trouble," the traiteur chirps as he, too, draws the curtains shut. An awkward pause; when he turns back to the highborn, he wrings his hands, hunched and smiling. "Your... guest, ah, is at the table." 

The former inquisitor's keen eyes spot what crosses his face when he says that, prompting a laugh. "Thank you, but, pray," he chuckles, "don't fear for my lady at home, Master Denisot. We are here only to talk; there will only be the usual sort of stains to scrub out of the tablecloth, I promise you." 

"Yes, milord," with a blush and another low bow -- though as soon as Rosaire turns to step into the next room, he shuts the curtains of the other window as well. 

The dining parlor glows, golden light bouncing from surface to silver surface. A large mirror hangs over the fireplace -- a new addition, he notes, since his last meal here -- and the substitution of beeswax for tallow gives him pleasing evidence of the host's prosperity. Careful inspection would, of course, reveal the wallpaper to be painted-on and the domanerie to be imitation, and one of the tapestries upon the wall appears to be a repurposed rug -- but the colors, rich and lovely, provide an adequately decadent atmosphere for the traiteur's usual highborn clients, who, Rosaire imagines with a tinge of amusement, would be less pleased if the decor outshone their manors', anyway. 

Rising from one of the two chairs at the table is the woman he has come to meet; he returns her curtsey with a bow. In some ways, her appearance surprises him; already she is back in lush red wool satin with lace at her sleeves and throat, and her head is heaped with blond curls that he can’t imagine are her own. Her lips curl in the way they always do -- but her cheeks are hollow and her color, though hard to judge in the candlelight, pale, and that is as he grimly expected. 

"Inquisitor," she greets, in a low murmur.

"Madam." 

The traiteur, stepping into the room behind him, pulls back a chair for him to be seated. He does not do the same for the woman; she seats herself, paying it no mind. Then, heading for the kitchen, he left them to sit facing each other in silence. 

She speaks up first, in a tone of coy amusement: "Well -- what is your conclusion, after all this observation?" 

He smiles. "That it has been but eighteen moons since I saw you last, yet you've grown remarkably old." 

She bursts into bright laughter at that. "I have? No, milord, I have but neglected to put on my face, as it is only you I am meeting tonight. No," and she eyes him up and down again, "I fear you are the one a single year has greatly aged."

He chuckles quietly. "You are right." His one good hand reaches out to touch the head of the cane leaned against the table. "... You are right." 

The chef and his apprentice bring out from the kitchen what has been long awaiting the second guest’s arrival: a single course, but well-appointed, with trays heaped high. While the seated woman may sigh at how the plates no longer steam as hot as they might have, the man across from her gives no sign of being anything but pleased, and takes up a manchet in hand before the wine is poured. She shakes her head and extends her fingers to pluck a browning slice of apple off another plate; "And I shall soon be as young as I ever was, after a few moons on this diet," as she dips that slice into a bowl of syrup. 

Rosaire chuckles again, though this time with only feeble humor, and does not speak until that manchet is nearly gone. "... And how is your situation?" 

She hums a note, setting a pie-lid aside. "Losing the location was most unfortunate, yes. Really quite sad. My girls had to scatter across the city, very inconvenient for them. But my top students did well and kept the business afloat without me, bless them, and at this point we’re nearly recovered." 

"That… is good," he supposes. After a long pause filled only with uncomfortable chewing, he at last adds, in a low murmur, "I am… sorry I could do naught for you." 

She hums another note; this one is flatter. Yet there is no other sign of bitterness in her face when she answers placidly, "You warned me of the outcome, and I proceeded -- and though I did my best for Mother Ishgard, 'twas not enough." 

"No," he sighs. 

And she, too, falls silent, taking a long sip of wine. 

"... I pray the privations you suffered were not too great." 

She snorts. "They were considerable. But not as bad as I might have expected, I admit. Your little nephew seems to have spoken in my favor, and they treated me gently." 

"Thank you for keeping him safe." 

She dismisses his sentiment with a gesture and a laugh. "It benefited me to do so, didn't it?" 

"Even so, he is blood… for weal or for woe," and he rubs the bridge of his nose. 

She smiles but falls silent. When she speaks again, her voice is soft: "It seems as though you, too, did your best for Ishgard, and that yours was also not enough." 

"... Yes." 

"And so what shall you do now, Master Marguerite?"

"Survive," he answers, sagging with resignation. "Remember the truth and keep it alive. Someday the time will come -- in our children’s lives if not our own -- when the people are ready to hear it again." 

She looks at him, pauses, and then suddenly laughs again. "Is that why you are now, of all things, married?"

He gives her a weary, unamused look, even as his cheeks erupt into an unbidden flush. 

"I seem to recall, from many years ago, some words to the effect of your troth being long-ago pledged to your profession -- or at least protestations that you would never wed. And yet," she wags her spoon at him as she teases, "what is the first news I have of you once I am out? That you had a stroke and then were married." 

"Ha," he replies. 

"So was it the happenings at the Vault that brought about this sudden change of heart, or the apoplexy?" 

He grimaces at her horrid joke, but then he lowers his gaze, falling silent. As he contemplates his stew, his face, characteristically grim and creased with tension, begins to soften. 

"I had thought," he answers, distantly, "as a young man in Her service, my heart too full to admit another. And then, to my surprise, she fit into it, perfectly." 

"I am sorry I asked," she groans. 

It is his turn to laugh now. "Then I shan't go on, save to ask your advice on one specific matter -- and not that sort of matter." 

At this she leans forward, grinning again. "Well, this will be interesting. What on earth could I advise you about if not that sort of matter?' 

He shakes his head with a sigh, the color lingering in his cheeks, and chases a piece of mutton around his bowl for a moment while he thinks. Then, softly, he begins, "My wife… is Hyuran, as you may have heard." 

"I did indeed." 

"... And it is not done, in Ishgard, for Elezen to marry Hyur." 

"No, it is not." 

"But that it is not done is not of consequence to me," his voice finding its confidence. "I would rather measure my actions by Halone's laws as She gave them to us, not by the secular concerns of our inbred nobility and its obsession with blood. And as I know no coherent theological argument against a marriage of two faithful, chaste and orthodox in all other ways, I am not afraid of opprobrium from the ignorant." 

She holds up a hand. "And you will have none from me, Inquisitor, as you should already know." 

"I do," and he inclines his head. "Forgive me for going on. What I mean to say is… I have no legitimate cause for shame in my marriage… though there is one cause for anxiety. That being, that… as common as you and I know it has ever been for highborn, despite their protestations of disgust, to get children on Hyur, it has ever been the custom to discard such women and forget their children. Noblemen have never cared -- or dared, mayhap -- to record the histories of those women and their pregnancies, nevermind any complications thereof. And so--" 

"-- you seek my expertise, as a woman of that industry that has seen more Hyuran women bred by Elezen than any other." 

"... Yes." 

She hums with thought, leaning back in her chair. "Well, you're not mad for asking me, though I've tried as little as possible to be a midwife. I call in someone else to deal with it, either to get rid of the girl's problem or help her deliver it. But, let's see… what exactly are you asking?" 

He flashes a brief grimace, but in a moment his expression is returned to calm solemnity. "My fear is that… my wife's health might suffer, should she be forced to carry my child. If it should be too large for her, either in the carrying or delivery. She…" he swallows, "is a small woman, even for Hyur. And…" 

"And a half-blood might be too big to get out." She taps her spoon thoughtfully to her lips, missing -- or else ignoring -- his twitch at her use of that word. "Well… again, you're not mad to wonder. Even purebred babies kill their mothers from time to time. But..." Her gaze wanders to the ceiling, and then, after some long consideration, settles back on Rosaire. "I must ask our midwives before I can say for certain, but -- you've not seen many half-bloods as children, I imagine. But those I have known -- when they are small, they're not much different from Hyur, save for the ears. Most of their arms and legs -- like Elezen kids' -- come in as they're just maturing. So there's that; and none of girls I knew who died in labor were Hyur carrying half-bloods, 'least as far as I can remember. And so when you said Halone has no objection to your marriage, you may have already been right. Society may punish you for it, but mayhap the Twelve will not."

He exhales a long-held breath, reflecting in silence. Finally, he murmurs, "I must pray that you are right." 

"I'll speak to our usual midwives. Shall I send them direct to your address?" 

"Yes, you may." He reaches for his glass -- then pauses. "And…" 

"Yes?" 

"As you re-establish your business… if you find that any of your girls have come to be in search of a different profession--" 

"-- you are, as ever, here to serve?" She pops a sweetmeat in her mouth. "I know." 

He sighs -- but then, he smiles. "... Truth be told, I am glad you are back." 

"As, of course, am I." She takes up her own glass, raising it jauntily towards him. "Let's have a toast, then: to freedom." 

"Aye." He lofts his glass in answer. "To freedom." 

"However long it lasts… which," she adds with a merry sparkle, "shan't be very long for you, Papa Ledigne." 

"Pray, madam--" he groaningly objects, and she laughs. 

And they talk, and they eat, and light seeps from the windows, smoke from the chimney. Outside, ice twinkles on the rooftops and the streets; the wool-barded chocobos snuffle in their standing sleep, and the stars turn slowly above. 

And, despite everything -- all seems, once again, to be almost as it should be.