Emmanellain knew from a young age he was a disappointment. He wasn’t as clever and well-behaved as Artoirel, nor as strong and charming as Haurchefant, and, for a time, he preferred it that way. The lack of responsibility he had was freeing, especially for a teenager (not that his mannerisms have changed much since then). It meant that he could do as he pleased-- whether that be singing flirtations to girls of all backgrounds or drinking himself into a stupor. It was all well and good... until his eighteenth Nameday.
There’s nothing more he enjoyed more than being pampered. He was without chores today (not that he did them anyway) and was looking forward to having his favorite meal, Salmon Muffins! As he was preparing to get ready for his day, he heard a heavy knock on his door. He rolled his eyes; he had to brush his hair still! Regardless, he responded with a, “You may come in!”
Emmanellain knew the light ‘clack’ of his father’s cane anywhere, and he stood up straight immediately (“Good posture makes a good man”, after all) and turned around to face his father. He brushed some of his hair behind his ear and offered Count Edmont a wide smile.
“Father! What a delight! Are you here to--?”
“Sit down, Emmanellain. We need to talk.”
Uh oh. That was not the tone of a man wanting to wish his son a happy Nameday. With the discipline and attitude of a nervous schoolboy, he sat down in the chair at his vanity. He hoped his father wouldn’t notice the array of makeup strewn across the wood of it; what a terribly awkward conversation that would be.
“You know that I love you, and I am very proud to see you joyful and well on your eighteenth Nameday.”
Emmanellain smiled.
“...But.”
Emmanellain stopped smiling.
“I believe it’s time for you to be treated like a proper heir, if unfortunate circumstances were to come to Artoirel. For that reason, your allowance will be given to you, for the last time, today.”
Emmanellain jumped out of his seat with wide eyes, arms straight at his sides, and fists clenched. His lips parted to protest, but his father beat him to it.
“You have no right to complain, young man, and you know it. Artoirel and Haurchefant did not flinch when I declared this when they were of sixteen winters. I’ve coddled you long enough. It has been long due for you to act your age,” Edmont scolded, hitting the end of his cane against the floor with a resounding ‘clack’ that made him flinch.
Emmanellain knew then that the conversation was over and done with for good, and he would surely be smacked silly if he even thought to argue any further. He rubbed his arm anxiously and stared down at the floor, his heart beating so fast he thought he could die. “...Yes, father.”
Count Edmont nodded, turning to leave. “...I only want what’s best for you, Emmanellain.” Emmanellain pretended to not hear him, instead focusing on the heels of his father’s boots and the light tap of his cane against the marble floors as he left.
As soon as the door closed, Emmanellain threw his brush against it and muttered a curse to himself. He didn’t ask to be a bloody heir! He threw himself onto his bed and let out a yell into his pillow. It wasn’t fair Artoirel and Haurchefant had always been more capable than him; he didn’t need their father to compare them when Emmanellain already did so himself.
It must be a joke that this was to ‘better himself’. Halone knows this will only make him worse. He’d find whatever means to make money, as he couldn’t even dare to breathe without a good brew.
It wasn’t just about the money. He can’t believe that his father said he coddled him. Was all the hitting and denigration part of that? He couldn’t say that he hated his father, but… he wished their relationship was different. It always felt... distant with his father. It didn't feel right to be open with him. Their relationship was simply transactional, or, that was the intent. Emmanellain asked for affection while Count Edmont asked for a decent son. Neither of them fulfill their end of the deal. After losing their mother, it almost seemed like the sight of his own children was painful. From what he remembers, they were the spitting image of their parents. He supposed he could understand it, but that didn’t make it right. Not to mention that his likelihood of becoming heir is slim to none with how calculated and cautious he was. This, he noted, was a good thing. The spirit of his father hovering over him for the rest of his days was not a future he wanted. He'll leave that to Artoirel, it suits him.
Then again… he didn’t have the right to complain. He’s very much aware of the privilege he has; he could never truly understand the suffering of the Brumites. Perhaps this was all his fault to begin with. He knew he was a failure, a mess, lazy, selfish, and every other flaw that was to exist, that was not a surprise, so why did it hurt so much when his father acted like he was all of that and more? What a joke he is, a sad little noble boy crying because his father was harsh with him-- Wait, crying? When did he start doing that. The front of his pillow was already wet with warm tears by the time he noticed. He’d have to redo his makeup and his hair. And look for any job openings that will take a son of a high house with no skills whatsoever.
Motivation was never reliable, but pure spite would get the job done. Maybe. After a few weeks. Or months.
So much for a happy Nameday.
The Fortemps’ family had cheese gratin for dinner that night.
“Gibrillont! I must request… another drink! I promise I have the coin for it!” Emmanellain drawled, slamming his empty mug against the counter.
”You said that last time, Emmanellain. Your tab is getting might expensive.” Gibrillont replied, back turned. While humorous at first, with visit after visit, Emmanellain’s stays were grating at best. It was like dealing with a child, empty wallets and even emptier brain.
“I meeeean it this time. I swear to Halone herself!” Emmanellain giggled, kicking his feet up and down while he leaned closer, cheek pressed against the old wood. “This is your last one for tonight,” Gibrillont said, defeated, punctuated with a sigh. Emmanellain looked giddy, a lopsided smile on his flushed face. He fetched his mug and poured him a hefty amount of mead, then placed it beside the younger Elezen’s head.
“There.”
Emmanellain practically squealed, grabbed the mug with both of his hands, and chugged it down, as if someone were about to take it from him. He nearly choked on the last gulp. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and placed the mug back down. He was tempted to ask for just one more, but whispers hit his ears. He couldn’t resist the sound of gossip. Turning around in his seat, he looked around, as best as he could with his blurred vision. No, it wasn’t them, or her, or him, or— Ah—He found his culprit! Or rather, culprits. A group of Brumites seated around a large table in the corner spoke with hush voices, and by the expressions on their faces, it looked downright juicy.
He weakly pushed himself off his stool, stumbling for the first few steps as he strayed toward the group. He thought he heard Gibrillont call out to him, but he couldn’t be arsed to check; he had to hear about whatever these men spoke of! Once he, eventually, made his way over, he coughed to grab the gentlemen’s attention.
“G… good sirs, I cannot hhhhelp but overhear you! I must ask what you all are chatting about… It must be intriguing for you all to… have such… stern faces…?” Well, this was odd. They looked content a minute ago; why are they so grumpy now?
The group stayed silent, simply staring up at Emmanellain with glares, raised eyebrows, and deep frowns. One, who looked like their leader, stood up and laughed. Finally, some joy! Perhaps they were avid gossipers, too. The tall Elezen clasped a hand onto Emmanellain’s shoulder, nearly sending him tumbling onto the floor. Quite rude, but he can make exceptions. “We were actually talking about you, boy.” Emmanellain’s face lit up— what a surprise! For someone he didn’t even know to be singing praises about him… he really is becoming an outstanding citizen! He couldn’t wait to tell his father just what—
“…About how much of a pompous prick you are.”
Oh. This did not look good. He tried to pull away from the stranger’s grip, but he held firm and squeezed hard onto his coat.
“You really like flauntin’ your daddy’s money, don’t you?”
“I-I—”
“Shut up, brat! I’m talkin’ here. Do you know how much of a sick joke it is for a noble kid like you to be here buyin’ cheap beer? You should be with your rich friends, suckin’ each other’s cocks off as you get off to how much money you’re usin’ for your fireplace. I can’t stand you. No one here can. And it’s about time you get the fuck out of here.” The Elezen let get only to push Emmanellain back, making him stumble and have to cling to a wall to keep himself steady.
“N-no, you don’t understand, I— well—”
“Do you ever stop fuckin’ talking? You just don’t get it, do you?” He moved closer, rolling up his sleeves, fist clenched.
Emmanellain began to panic. If only he had the time to explain, but no one ever wanted to hear his excuses. Perhaps that was for good reason, but— Oh no, the stranger was getting closer-- he was scared, now, heart thumping hard against his chest. His breath was caught in his throat, and his hands started to tremble. With the confidence of an anxious drunk, he ran forward and pushed the Elezen. He shouted as he fell over onto the table, plates and silverware falling onto the floor. The rest of his friends stood up, ready to defend their leader. A Hyur slammed the bottle he was drinking against the wall, glass shattering everywhere. He held the nose of the bottle, the broken end pointed directly at him.
Ah. So this is how he was going to die. He had hoped to die in a more… simple manner, but it was his choice no longer. Before he could even think to run, his vision grew dark, spots of black overtaking the scene. His body felt light… It was quite nice until he felt himself falling over.
This was the end, it seemed.
The first thing that Emmanellain saw when he opened his eyes was the bright moon peeking through his window. Wait— his window? He jolted upright, feeling his body for any sign of injury or a halo, if he was lucky. Not a scratch on him. That was… strange. Perhaps it was all a dream? Or rather a nightmare?
“Drink this.”
“Thank you.” Emmanellain couldn’t say no to a glass of cold water. It soothed his dry throat and the pounding in his head as he gulped it down. Wait. He recognized that voice.
“Artoirel? What ever are you doing here?”
His older brother pulled up a chair to his bed, sitting with perfect posture as he cut a Faerie Apple onto a glass plate. He looked dignified, composed, even with the large bruise on his cheek.
“What happened--”
“You lost consciousness during your bar fight. I came to find you, coincidentally why you were in that mess. One of them threw a punch at me before Gibrillont came to settle it. I took you home and put you into bed. You’ve been sleeping at day. I paid off your tab. It is currently 2 A.M.”
Leave it to Artoirel to give such a succinct summary. Though, he was quite embarrassed that the eldest had to see him in such a state, even more that he was in debt to him. No doubt that their father was going to hear about this. His shoulders drooped as he hung his head.
“Eat this.” Artoirel held out a plate of evenly cut apple slices to his younger brother.
Emmanellain took one into his hand, contemplating if he even deserved it, but Artoirel’s intense stare compelled him to. He ate in silence, trying to not make eye contact with his brother; he would be in for a scolding for sure.
“Emmanellain.” There it was.
“Hmm.”
“Let me tell you a story about our mother.”
Artoirel had his full attention, now. Emmanellain was very young when their mother had passed, so his memories of her were fleeting. It was cute to see how interested he was in hearing about her. “When she found our father with another woman, she had much to say, but she did not say a word to our father. Instead, she repressed it, kept her sorrow and anger to her heart. It showed in ugly ways. She despised Haurchefant when he was born, his existence was a stain of what she believed was a perfect family. Still, she fell into the role of a loving, forgiving wife.” He paused and furrowed his brows. “…She began to drink.”
Emmanellain did not like where this was going.
“She drank until she felt something else, drank until she felt nothing, and drank until it killed her.”
Emmanellain dropped the apple he was about to eat onto the floor.
“Father told me she died of illness!”
“He wanted to protect you from the truth. You would have not taken it well at your age.”
Emmanellain bet that he told Haurchefant and Artoirel the truth, regardless.
“The point,” Artoirel continued, “…is that you cannot keep doing this. It will be the death of you, whether it be from the finest wine or the next person you anger. I will be telling our father, but I will state that you did not start it.”
“…”
“And. I… know that you are not happy, try as you may to pretend otherwise. I may not feel as you do, but… I do not wish for you to suffer through this alone. I understand we are not as close as we should be, but… as your older brother, you should know that… I’m always here to help you.”
“…”
“I will be leaving now. I advise you to stay in bed until at least noon tomorrow.” Artoirel stood up, turning away from Emmanellain and walking to the door.
“Artoirel?”
“Yes?”
“Were you hiding your hands from me so I wouldn’t notice your bruised knuckles?”
“…Eat your apples and go to bed, Emmanellain.”
“I love you, too.”
Artoirel closed the door behind him… and smiled softly. He can’t remember the last time that Emmanellain has said that to him. It felt… good to hear. He rubbed his knuckles with his thumb. He had a good aim, if he must brag.
"I must say, old boy, that was some fine playing of yours! Such a shame you kept such musical prowess to yourself! I have no doubt you will be swarmed with suitors after this."
The praise and the hand patting his shoulder brought Francel out of his thoughts. After the bustle and boom of the Firmament's completion and the concert that followed suit, he was exhausted. Not tired enough to stop his work, mind you, as the young noble was already conjuring ideas for how the Firmament were to continue flourishing. While he was quite worn out from the social aspect of the past few hours, he did not say a quick thanks and politely excuse him, as he had been for the multitude of commoners and nobles alike. Seeing as it was Emmanellain at his side, he assured himself that he wouldn't metaphorically collapse from another conversation, especially since the two have not spoken at length for quite some time.
Francel softly laughed and bowed his head as thanks. "The same goes for you, my friend. The concert wouldn't be the same without your involvement. I must say I am surprised you had not mentioned your ability with the flute sooner... 'Twould be a skill to captivate the ladies, would it not?" Francel replied, feeling the tension in his body grow faint. He didn’t feel the need to put on a professional front in front of the other Elezen. Nothing about Emmanellain even remotely resembled ‘professional’, after all.
“W-well. Truth be told, I was hoping for a certain someone to notice my expertise…” How odd for Emmanellain to be so skittish. Even when discussing his love conquests (more like failure of such), he didn’t shy away from the topic. Could it be that he’s finally found someone?
“Oh? Is that so? Could it be my sister, perchance?” He had to admit, he was curious.
Emmanellain shook his head. The blush that started at his cheeks was growing to tint his ears.
How shocking! Emmanellain’s crush on Laniaitte had been obnoxiously consistent, regardless of her interest. “Hmm. Do I know this individual, then?”
A nod, now. Francel hummed in thought.
“I… am rather stumped, Emmanellain. I have not seen or heard you interested in another woman—”
“Francel!”
Francel jolted at the sudden shout. “Er— yes!?”
“I— I am sorry to interrupt, b-but this topic is not what I came to you for. I was, er, hoping that… you would be… interested in showing me more of your personal recitals…” Emmanellain proclaimed, closing his eyes and clenching his fists, as if he was afraid of Francel’s answer.
Emmanellain’s passion was surprising. Why did Francel feel like he was being subject to a confession of sorts— Perhaps…? No, he shouldn’t be presumptuous… Still, it was… rather pleasant to be asked of something unrelated to business or Ishgard’s future. He would be foolish to turn down an opportunity to relax. So, he nodded, feeling a blush burn his own face. “…I would enjoy that, Emmanellain.”
The usual bright, cheeky grin Emmanellain usually wore finally returned to his face as he let Francel’s answer reach his brain. He pumped his fist, then realized Francel was still very much present and awkwardly coughed and put his hands behind his back. “I’ll see you tonight, then? I hope your guards won’t be suspicious if I wait by the Haillenarte manor.”
“I believe they will be more suspicious of me pacing around the halls, waiting for your arrival.”
The two nobles laughed, freely and unreserved. They both realized this was the start of something very new.
Soon after, bards among bars began to sing of forbidden love, spurred by rumors of two certain high houses having a pair of star crossed lovers in their midst.
Emmanellain knew that his dear servant wasn't going to stay a boy forever. Honoroit was expected to grow in age, stature, and wisdom, eventually. Still... that didn't mean that Emmanellain expected him to shoot up in height so early. Honoroit wasn't even of eighteen summers yet, and here he was, already towering over his lord! Emmanellain didn’t start growing until he reached twenty years of age. It wasn’t fair, and he could tell that Honoroit was going to use it plenty to his advantage.
Emmanellain had an exhaustive day-- All he wanted to do was drink a pint or two of his favorite mead, but some damned maid put his bottle higher upon the cupboards than he could reach! Even as he stood on the tips of his toes, his fingertips were just barely out of reach. Just a bit more, and he would have it!
”Whatever is it that you are looking for, my lord?”
”Ah, Honoroit! Be a dear boy and reach for that wine for me, if you would be so kind!” Emmanellain still insisted on using childish pet names for his servant. Even if he had grown physically, he would always be his littlest old boy! He’d hold his seniority for as long as he had lived.
Honoroit unspokenly bowed his head and strolled to his lord’s side, easily able to reach up and wrap his hand around the base of the bottle.
”I must thank you--”
”I believe,” Honoroit started, pushing the bottle further back into the dark shadows of the cupboard. "Lord Artoirel forbade you from indulging in fine wines before noon, did he not?”
Now the bottle was too far out of Emmanellain’s reach. He bit back a cheeky retort, knowing well that Honoroit was, unfortunately, correct. His ears noticeably drooped, and he stuck out his bottom lip into a pout. He felt like a child more than ever before, and he swore he could see Honoroit smirking to himself as he left him to stew by himself in the dining room.
“My lord, look out!”
Emmanellain raised his sword and shield to the stampeding beast, but realized too soon too late that the biast was aiming for his throat, jaws unhinged and ready to strike on its victim. He closed his eyes as he awaited the warm, wet pain of blood dripping down his shoulder but found himself… unharmed. Perhaps his stance scared the beast off? He peered open one eye, jolting back in surprise and falling onto his arse. Honoroit’s sword had been driven through the creature’s head, blood splattered onto his servant’s sabatons. Honoroit wiped the sweat off his brow and ran to his lord, offering a hand.
“Are you alright? I shall see you to a chirurgeon, if you are injured, my lord.”
Emmanellain shook his head as he took his hand, and he was easily pulled up onto his feet by Honoroit. He had to say, Honoroit was growing more knightly by the day, and to think there was a time that the boy couldn’t even read. A sense of pride stirred his heart.
“I’m swell, old boy! Let’s get you cleaned off before dinner, shall we?”
Honoroit was allowed to accompany Emmanellain on his drunk escapades, as he was of age to defend himself and his lord, along with tug his lord around if he got too much to handle. Thankfully, the night was uneventful, except for Emmanellain being too intoxicated to walk in a straight line. Regardless, Honoroit stuck close by his lord, knowing that Emmanellain’s impulsive nature was even worse in such a state.
Speak of the devil-- Emmanellain giggled as he darted off to the edge of the city, placing his hands upon the short railings that separated him from the depths of Coerthas. His clumsiness knew no bounds, so it was no surprise that when Emmanellain took a closer step, he lost his footing and nearly tumbled over the edge. Before his body could fall far down the cliff, Honoroit quickly outstretched his arm and grabbed Emmanellain by the scruff of his coat. The young man huffed to himself and pulled Emmanellain back. His arm moved once more, this time wrapped around Emmanellain’s hip, and Emmanellain yelped as he was thrown over his servant’s shoulder like a bag of popotos.
“You are being put straight to bed, Emmanellain.”
Ah, he was angry. That sobered him up real quick. It was rare for Honoroit to address him by his full name. Not only that, but by the way his voice wavered, he was scared, too. It wasn’t new for Emmanellain to put himself into danger, but now Honoroit was directly responsible to keep him from harm’s way.
...Emmanellain realized he should-- no, needed take care of himself. He couldn’t be burdening his servant with his whims and mistakes forever. He deserved to move onto bigger and better things than being his babysitter for the rest of time.
”...Yes, of course, Honoroit.” He couldn’t promise that he would change overnight, but Emmanellain knew he had some growing of his own to do.
...Maybe Honoroit’s growth spurt wasn’t too bad after all. The boy was more helpful now more than ever, and, hopefully, in time… Honoroit would be more than just his servant. Halone would be glad to have another soldier under her wing, and Emmanellain would be even moreso to see the boy he raised keep on the good name of the Fortemps house.