Father and Son (Prologue)
This time, when he stepped into Bellevaux, it was in broad daylight and in full view of the town's people. And it was with a name. Jourdan.
The guards allowed him entry once he stated the purpose of his visit. One of them escorted him to the estate, less as a courtesy and more because he was, as usual, bedecked in knives. He wondered for a moment why they did not collect the knives and instead allowed him to meet with their lord so fully armed, but then he remembered how quickly that lord had pulled an aetheric blade on him the day before.
The townsfolk eyed him as he and his guard crossed the town from west to northeast. He was unsure whether these were standard-issue glowers meant for strangers or they somehow knew who he was in relation to their lord. Bellevais were warm and open yet suspicious by nature, he had heard.
He had heard this from the elementals of the Twelveswood, specifically. Earlier that morning, he had paid a visit to the Guardian Tree, to pray and to seek guidance concerning a matter of leadership and justice. He had instead received a description of Bellevaux and what is considered good etiquette there, then a brief and overly vague history of Bellevaux's connections to the Twelveswood (itself being a Coerthan town) and warnings of topics not yet safe to broach.
The elementals had been far too chatty for his taste. Though their power was indeed waxing as the Land slowly healed in the wake of the Calamity, they were still nowhere near strong enough to be as present as they were before. Nor could they carry on casual conversations. He began to suspect that his time in Bellevaux would affect more than a simple familial reunion. So he asked them the question that had been lingering amongst his thoughts of late:
Were the elementals sending him along a predetermined path framed by coincidences and contrivances designed to lead to specific outcomes?
Their response was not only vague, but guarded, even cagey. But it seemed to amount to some form of a "yes, we are doing this."
The guard remained at his side until the Lord Bonvivant arrived in the estate's foyer. The man did not arrive alone. A dragonet padded along at his side. The creature tensed and hissed at Jourdan, though. That was concerning.
"As I thought," Marce murmured in Coerthan. He approached Jourdan with a terse smile and switched to Common. "Thank you for your hasty visit. I daresay you will find your father just as eager to be about this."
"Thank you for your hospitality and the potential introduction."
Marce nodded noncommittally. "Before we proceed, you will surrender your black-bladed knife. It will be returned to you upon your departure."
Jourdan narrowed his eyes. He wore no fewer than a dozen visible blades. Why that one in particular?
The dragonet continued to hiss at him under its breath.
He handed over the obsidian knife. Marce tucked it into an unseen pocket. "Join me in my office, please."
They entered a smaller room. It seemed sparsely decorated—no, it seemed to be missing some of its decorations. But it did have a side table that bore a tantalizing array of snacks.
"Have a seat," Marce said. "Unless you'd like a sandwich or popoto chips first."
Jourdan did not care about the snacks. He had already eaten, and he was careful about his diet. But something about the moment did not sit right with him. The elementals had mentioned Bellevais hospitality — was this a test? Would it be irresponsible of him to decline the offer of food?
"I had a full breakfast," Jourdan said casually.
"Of course." Marce sat behind his desk. The man dressed in a manner that was more extravagant than most Bellevais, or even most Ishgardians, yet the attire still seemed simplistic. It was the tailoring rather than the materials, he decided after a long moment of study. The fabrics were simple cottons and linens, but one wondered how he withstood the cold with so much of his chest showing.
"We were unable to have much of a conversation in the dark alley within which we met. The knives likely had something to do with it. So," and Marce folded one leg over the other, "why don't you explain more about this plan of yours."
Warily, Jourdan gave more details on how he planned to repair the Lord Bonvivant's reputation and shift blame onto himself for the three deadly events he had caused.
"You will be a fugitive," Marce pointed out.
"I always have been."
"Aye, but previously you were backed by the Fane."
"Not really."
Marce tilted his head. "Is your little group not working under the auspices of Stillglade Fane?"
"No," Jourdan replied, though he wondered how Marce knew even of that. "Our leader is a Padjal from among their ranks, but his activities in this respect are beyond the scope of their purview."
"Interesting." Marce leaned back in his seat and smirked. "Ami will like to know that."
What a strange fellow, this Lord Bonvivant, Jourdan thought idly. "Ami?"
"Amirariah Ramadi. Your father."
He had suspected that much. "What do you know of him? How did he come to be here?"
Marce raised a finger to silence him. "That is mostly not my story to share. He will tell you as much or little as he chooses."
"Then you have decided to introduce us?"
"I'm leaning that way. But I need a bit more time." Marce gestured towards the refreshments. "Why don't you have some tea in the meantime? You must be parched from speaking so much."
It was true. Jourdan rarely spoke, but he had had to explain his Plan at length. But he was still suspicious of the man's motives. "I will be fine. Thank you."
"As you wish." Marce waved his hand. "Give me a moment, then."
The lord then spent what Jourdan felt was an excessive amount of time neatly writing something in a book.
Jourdan waited patiently. Or at least, he waited in complete stillness.
"Have you studied magicks?" Marce asked after a while, albeit still writing without looking up.
"Only defenses against magicks, ser."
"Curious. Your Padjal taught you nothing else?"
"Not my Padjal." Jourdan bristled. "No, he taught me no offensive spells."
"No healing spells either?"
"No, ser."
"Hmm." The lord said nothing further after that quite judgmental sound.
Jourdan took a risk. "Few know of the Fane's more clandestine initiatives."
"Aye, Marce replied. "I was one such initiative."
Jourdan blinked at that very strange phrasing.
"I have unusual aether," Marce said, providing the understatement of the year. "Stillglade Fane learned of my existence while I was yet a child. Without my knowledge or consent, they assigned me a handler who then kept a general watch over me for influences that might nudge me into world-ending territory."
This revelation intrigued Jourdan for very many reasons. After some moments of trying to guess at the nature of this aether and what made it world-ending — he could indeed sense a dangerous umbral taint shrouding the man, but there was more to it than that — he forced his mind back on track. Marcelloix must have explained this personal experience because it held some relevance.
"My father," Jourdan said.
"Yes."
Jourdan frowned. "That was his work for the Fane? And this was all without your consent?"
Marce lifted a hand. "This was part of his work for the Fane. His skills and his list of successes are legendary among Gridanian operatives of all kinds. Which is why his offspring was targeted for experimentation, I would wager. As for my consent, he broke protocol and told me who and what he was once I was old enough to understand its significance."
Jourdan bowed his head. "I see."
"No," Marce replied. "You don't. The Fane wanted to save everyone the risk and resources and simply kill me. Amirariah convinced them otherwise. He continued to convince them otherwise, year after year, even when my actions should have genuinely earned me a death sentence. He saw in me what it took me forty years to achieve. That is the nature of the man you are about to meet."
Jourdan let a silence fall between them as he absorbed those words, imagined the example they set. "Then you have chosen to move forward with the introduction," he said at length.
"Yes." Marce pushed back his chair and stood. "But first, are you sure you wouldn't like even an apple? You're so thin, your father will curse me for not feeding you."
Jourdan paused yet again. By his count, Marcelloix had now made this offer three times. He understood the cultural significance of that number. Whether he accepted or refused, his response would be cemented beyond this point. He took his time working out the hints, the context, the consequences.
"You are said to be Fae-touched," Jourdan eventually said. "Should I accept any measure of hospitality from you, I will be bound by your tenets to do no harm, on pain of swift retaliation."
Marce smiled. It was a warm, genuine, pleased smile. Yet it also felt mocking, with its corners upturned in cruelty. "This is the way of the Fae. It is also the way of we Bellevais. So you would be twice bound."
The archmage came to a stop in the center of the room, a few yalms away from Jourdan. His gaze was expectant. Waiting.
Jourdan looked at the display of snacks. Then he turned to Marce again. "The Bellevais tradition remains confined to theory unless its intention is made explicit. Based on what I understand of magicks, the Fae version should behave similarly."
Marce's expression remained generically warm and interested.
"You have set this up as a precaution in the case that I mean harm to my father."
"I also bear a responsibility to protect my people from any assassins I might invite into their town. Amirariah is a world-class mage, to say nothing of the mages he has humbled simply by slipping past their guard. You appear to have similar talents, but I am willing to gamble that you do not appreciate them in that context."
Jourdan pursed his lips. "You are still concerned for my father's safety. But it is driven by sentiment in place of duty."
"Sentiment without duty." The slight correction seemed to bear some significance to Marce. He took a step forward, but did not offer any further questions. He had already given the invitation thrice. A fourth instance would not be forthcoming.
Jourdan moved toward the refreshments and picked up an apple. Then, with his gaze meeting Marce's, he took a bite of it, completing the motion in full.
Marce closed the distance between them and took the apple from Jourdan's hand, not roughly. He bit from the other side of the apple. The way his lips glided over the apple's skin as he did so was full of intent.
No swell of magicks arose to signify Jourdan's submission to the hospitality rites. But a wave of heat did threaten to distract him for a moment.
Marce handed the apple back to Jourdan without breaking their shared gaze. "Welcome to Bellevaux," he rumbled. "You will please wait here while I find Amirariah." Continued: Father and Son, Part 1
