Zephirin de Valhourdin

rp blog for Zephirin de Valhourdin from the critically acclaimed MMORPG ffxiv private | independent | selective | multi-paragraph style | heavily based on headcanons follows back from @thevii

[thevii]

I moved all my muses to a new multimuse blog: @soulsalight -- I'm still in the progress of moving stuff over but please feel free to follow if you are still interested in any of my boys!

[zephirinthejust]

Guerrique just lays beside him and puts his head on his chest. No explanation. Nothing. / @sanctummiles 💚

There was a very brief moment's worth of hesitation after the weight of Guerrique's head settled upon his chest before Zephirin reached to run long fingers through pale hair. Ere long the simple gesture slowly turns into gently massaging Guerrique's scalp.

Eventually, he quietly speaks the other's name to get his attention, only to then place fingers under the line of his jaw, pulling him up to meet him in an entirely unsuspected kiss.

It's not often that Zephirin is the one to initiate such a tender touch. Normally, it takes the other knight seeking such first before the Archimandrite relents. But sometimes, like tonight, it's Zephirin that offers what they both know should not even be thought about.

"I want you," he breathes against opposing lips.

It's true, but also not entirely what he wishes he could say. But the real truth still burns behind closed eyelids, in the back of throat, in his lungs, on the tip of his tongue and under his fingertips as he pulls Guerrique closer, parting his legs so the other knight can fit between them, his weight fully settling atop of him. He should feel trapped, but doesn't; should let go, but cannot.

"...Please."

[zephirinthejust]

@sanctummiles sent: "Yes, he has put one of the heavy blankets from his bed onto Zephirin's, no he hasn't left a note to say it was him."

Zephirin realizes something is different the moment he enters his chambers, but worn from the day as he is it takes him a moment to figure out what exactly it is.

Suddenly wary of his surroundings he moves about the room for a short while, not able to pinpoint what it is that changed. Eventually, he decides it is just his imagination playing tricks on him and begins to go through the motions of getting ready for bed.

It's only after washing up and changing out of his armor, when he finally turns to the bed, that he really takes in the blanket -- blankets rather -- atop of it.

He reaches out to fold both of them back, his own as well as the recently added one. A hand lingers on the texture of the thicker material for a moment before he slides beneath.

The combined weight of the blankets settling over him adds a layer of comfort Zephirin does not expect and almost immediately can he feel himself unwind because of it. While he's still chilled from making his way back to the Vault after having been out all day in the cold, he finds himself warm through far quicker than usual. But what truly has his shoulders untense and his expression ease from the furrow of his brow is the very faint, but still familiar scent of the other knight clinging to the blanket itself.

Zephirin briefly wonders if this means Guerrique will not come to him tonight, if this is meant as a substitute for the other's warmth and the comfort that comes with it, which then in turn leads to him wondering if this means Guerrique will never come to his chambers for the sake of resting aside him again. Mayhap he has finally grown tired of it all.

Zephirin burries his nose in the fabric, fingers curling in the material as he turns onto his side, his back to the door as his chest feels tight when his heart silently aches at the thoughts. He brushes them aside, trying to chase off the darker feelings accompanying them and simply tries to appreciate the gesture for what it is, rather than what it could mean.

Besides, they had not made any arrangements for tonight. No telling looks had been exchanged, no careful touches offered to communicate his want to have the other close. There had been no opportunity. After all, they had barely seen eachother at all today ... he shouldn't expect the other knight to seek him out at all.

Still, it's with a lingering sense of longing that a small part of him hopes Guerrique will join him at some point during the night, that he will wake up in the morning and simply have him there.

He near hides himself under the covers at that thought. His arms now moving to curl around himself in a rather poor attempt at selfcomfort.

Ridiculous.

It's the other's scent in his nose which calms him again and the ever building warmth that surrounds him lulls Zephirin to sleep eventually.

Through the night he rests easier than when he is alone, the weight of his thoughts fended off by unconsciousness at least for the time being, although his hands do reach out beside him at one point during the night, looking for something... for someone.

[sanctummiles]

zephirinthejust​:

First instinct, as always, was to startle and stiffen against gentle touches, and then to pull away. Even more so now that the other knew – but this time, he in turn also tightened his hold on Guerrique’s hand, even as his instincts had him lean away initially. Arms came to encircle him while he was still caught in a battle with himself and shoulders tensed as Guerrique tugged himself close.

Zephirin’s breath caught in his chest upon hearing the other’s words and he saw more than felt his own hand raise to eventually settle on Guerrique’s back. Gingerly at first and then with a shuddering exhale did he curl his fingers tightly in the other’s shirt.

“Guerrique–” For a long while the other’s name was all he managed before his forehead sunk onto a shoulder in turn, hold growing more desperate, eyes closing against the spinning thoughts in his head.

A cacophany of belittling comments echoed within his skull, all of which he had heard at one point or another in his past, from people close to his heart and strangers alike. The former trying to protect him, the latter meaning to hold him back from all he would achieve. All of them had only ever seen his weaknesses, hence he grew up to hide them, to compensate for them, to prove all wrong that doubted him, friend and foe alike.

Giving in to this however, to wanting, even needing it, felt like losing a battle he had fought for decades.

It was true what the other said, and while Zephirin had not once condemned Guerrique for his former need for alcohol, this was different, to him at least. Zephirin could not need something or someone to hold him up. He needed to be able to stand alone and not falter in his steps, because… because–

Then, he could feel Guerrique’s fingers brush over the part of his shoulder where the scar that started their spiralling into this mess now lay hidden beneath his shirt. On purpose or not, Zephirin wasn’t certain. He didn’t know, and for once he also didn’t care to anticipate the other’s movements or try to guess his thoughts, not when he so clearly had been wrong about what Guerrique thought of his frailty whenever it surfaced.

You likely will never need my protection, but it is there.

Zephirin took shaky breath after shaky breath, now replaying Guerrique’s words in his mind rather than those long since in the past, and eventually after a long silence he found his voice again.

“My shoulder still aches sometimes,” he confessed quietly. Depending on what he was doing he could forget about the discomfort, but: “I can barely lift my sword without gritting my teeth these days.” It hurt to admit it, hurt mayhap even more than the wound had upon receiving it. He had been in agony that day and weeks after, it was true, but this… He set his jaw, only now realising that he was trembling in the other man’s hold.

Guerrique; far easily more known as the boisterous, cocky creature he was - - remained still, remained quiet. The gentle motions of his hand continued up and down his company’s back in perfectly rhythmic, timed motions - all with the intent to soothe as oppose to harm. Though the silence between them stretches onward and the marauder feels every nerve within his person filly with uncomfortable, uncertain anxiety - he waits; from somewhere does he find patience and simply allow Zephirin the time he so obviously needed to process. 

The breaking of the silence through admittance was a relief to ears that had long focused upon the exhaled breaths of his company. Still preferring to keep quiet, the marauder canted his head sideways just enough to lightly rest against Zephirin’s, pale brows furrowed as thoughts once more bubbled fiercely within his head; 

“-Mayhap there is something Noudenet or Haumeric can do, if you were to mention it-” Lingering affects of injuries did Guerrique know all too well, and often it was his pride that refused him to seek aid; but almost always did it lead to the point where he had to. To learn that Zephirin had been suffering since that fateful day - it not only churned his stomach - but showed just how unfortunately easy the archimandrite found to hide it. 

Softly did Guerrique tighten his hold, releasing a slow exhale as he simply held Zephirin - precisely where they were; 

“–you don’t need to suffer through it.” 

[zephirinthejust]

"It's all I know."

Suffering on his own through pain and illnesses was all he had known since early childhood. It seemed as result of extended treatment for various things in his youth resulted in few things affecting him in terms of healing magics or potions nowadays. Not to mention there were some common ingredients in tinctures and salves he was wildly allergic to even as an adult, which narrowed his options to a point where he rarely bothered to seek a healers guidance for injuries or their aftermath.

And then... there was another issue that kept him from turning to Noudenet or Haumeric for help, and it wasn't solely due to pride as one might suspect.

"I tried, but--" He was torn between biting the words back and letting himself be coerced by the warmth of Guerrique's hold into sharing yet another weakness.

He breathed deeply. "My relationship with healers of any kind has ever been a strained one." Even with those he knew he could trust, those he was supposed to trust. "Talking to them, actively seeking treatment... It's not... easy for me."

Pathetic.

The urge to hide grew stronger with every word that fell from his lips. Unwanted memories resurfaced and made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, not to mention the pit in his stomach that formed after realizing he instinctively burried closer.

Weak.

Zephirin was exhausted. Previously it had only been fatigue of the body, but his mind was now spinning after all he had admitted to. His hold on the other loosened, now less desperate than it had been before, if only because his fingers were beginning to ache from curling too tightly into fabric.

"I'm tired." Zephirin mumbled against the skin of Guerrique's neck. An almost inaudible admission, and one he didn't utter often, no matter how true it was most of the time. His head hurt, his limbs were heavy and his chest felt tight with unspoken emotions. Even his shoulder began to ache again.

"I don't want to think anymore."

[sanctummiles]

zephirinthejust​:

The walk to fetch what was needed wasn’t long, but it might as well haven taken hours tonget there. He purposefully kept his steps slow, dared not rush for the fear of someone overhearing hurried steps and coming to investigate.

But as he walked his thoughts kept going back to what had happened, to the wordless confessions and the promises made after. He should feel worried about what this meant for them, he knew, and to an extent he was, but the worry that truly had a grip on his heart was that concerning Guerrique’s injuries, and so, after getting what he came for he made his way back quickly, as he had promised.

He was surprised to find the room empty, but noted the additional blanket that had not been there before with a small smile. Soon enough he located the other in the adjourning bathroom, already well into preparations for the renewing of his bandages.

Zephirin inhaled sharply at the sight before him and immediately took note of every bruise and cut, concern now edged deeply into his features as he stepped closer. He set the supplies down and almost immediately after his hand found a place between the other’s shoulderblades.

“Sit down,” he said in a low voice. At any other time it may have been an order –requests had never been his strong suit, after all – if it weren’t for the ever so slight brush of lips against a shoulder when he leaned in.

“Stop being so worried, I’m fine.” Guerrique heard the sharp inhale ere he had completely registered his companions return, and even then it took but a moment for him to cast a glance over a shoulder as he finished drawing warm water into the basin. A hand reached for a draw, pulling forth a few washcloths - pausing as he was about to place them down, the feeling of the tender touch upon his back calming him through instantly. 

The marauder turns his head, sighting the stool within the bathroom and with an arm outstretched did he pull it closer to perch upon; finding himself more than happy to do as he was told. Too easily did his head cant towards Zephirin, seeking that contact and comfort. 

“A few cuts and scrapes, is all-” Though some, mainly upon his torso, were far worse than that - - Guerrique knew he had worse in the past; thus the present he would pass through with far more ease. Pain he could handle - well enough, and his stubbornness would see him onward from there. “–Our opponents came far worse off.” 

[zephirinthejust]

"That I don't doubt," Zephirin said in answer to the other's boasting. "This, however..." he carefully traced along the edge of the last remaining bandage. His fingertips caught the beginning of the stained fabric and slowly began to unravel it bit by bit. Touches grew more light once the last layer was about to be removed. It stuck on the other's skin with remnants of dried blood and moisture and Zephirin did his utmost to not cause Guerrique more pain than absolutely necessary as he removed them.

Thankfully, the bleeding seemed to have stopped prior to them deciding to change the wounds' dressings and Zephirin thanked the Fury that Guerrique had possessed enough sense to lay down once he arrived back in his quarters.

Zephirin took the washcloth from Guerrique and meticulously began to clean the cuts upon his torso, starting with the one closest to the shoulder and working his way down along the lines of his body. The skin that wasn't marred with injuries received equally gentle and near doting touches, although they seemed less deliberate.

Zephirin's free hand trailed down along Guerrique's side while the one holding the washcloth seemed to be moving with more intent, all his focus on the task at hand, too preoccupied to really take note of subconscious touches.

[sanctummiles]

zephirinthejust​:

Wrong? What did he do wrong? Everything about this was wrong, was supposed to feel wrong. He shouldn’t need this. Shouldn’t want this, shouldn’t feel his knees buckle when offered even the smallest of genuinely gentle touches.

Zephirin shouldn’t find solace in these things, shouldn’t crave them so thoroughly, shouldn’t seek them out whenever possible, shouldn’t feel his heart ache when Guerrique now looked away from him in frustration. He shouldn’t… He shouldn’t–!

“You…” He inhaled sharply and moved his hand from Guerrique’s hair to grasp one of the marauder’s hands instead. “You make me weak.” He brought their joined hands up to have Guerrique’s palm spread against the center of his chest, right above his heart, which was still beating wildly.

“Every time I’m close to you– every time I even so much as think of you I–” His eyes danced nervously across the other’s face before dropping to somewhere along his sternum instead.

Zephirin openly bit down on his lip, his other hand now curling tightly into Guerrique’s shirt. Frustration evident. “I’ve fought weakness all my life, condemned it, hated it–”

He was all what he was today because of the drive to never be weak again, but with Guerrique he felt safe enough to let his guard down, would allow himself to feel fatigue and stress and let himself be caught when he faltered and stumbled, but he could not.

How many times had he woken with a phantom ache in his shoulder, an echo of the shrapnel of wood lodged inside him when the physical object was already long gone. How often had he woken from a nightmare, shivering and breathing heavily? How often had he wished the other knight was with him during those times? Too many to count.

And every time he had tried to distance himself afterwards only to fail miserably, always did he falter and give in to the urge to let Guerrique into his space, his head.

“I cannot want your protection. I cannot need it–” His voice took on a defeated tone. He’d never before admitted to any of this, had never made himself so vulnerable.

Guerrique had not expected such an emotional, if not quiet, confession - his eyes not once leaving Zephirin’s expression as he continued to roll all variety of feeling. The hand splay upon his chest curls fingers slightly, gripping softly against the fabric so to disallow movement; the feeling of the heartbeat beneath wild and yet a comfort. 

Slowly did he sit himself up; very gradually; suddenly understanding why the other had acted as he did sometimes- and such began to show within honeyed eyes. The knight gave a long pause ere he simply - and cautiously, wrapped arms around Zephirin - resting his chin upon his shoulder and for the moment did naught more than hold him. 

“I do not see weakness in you.” Does he whisper, keeping his tone as low and as gentle as he could manage; “I see stubbornness… and motivation. I see determination and strength. No weakness.” But he could understand the sentiment of it, all too easily, for Guerrique had always strove for strength and brute force- it had been drummed into him since a youth and he’d never forgotten it. “But even I cannot keep that up always- we all need a comfort.” 

Just as Noudenet turned to Janlenoux’s homemade chocolate puddings when stressed, just as Janlenoux himself sank into baking- 

“I once sought that in alcohol- of that you know-” And Zephirin had replaced that; “With no outlet, we’d all seek an early grave.” He draws a deeper breath; hand now raising upward to rub circles unto the archimandrite’s back; “–You likely will never need my protection, but it is there. My strength will always bolster yours, and if one of us falls… the other is there to pick up.”  

[zephirinthejust]

First instinct, as always, was to startle and stiffen against gentle touches, and then to pull away. Even more so now that the other knew -- but this time, he in turn also tightened his hold on Guerrique's hand, even as his instincts had him lean away initially. Arms came to encircle him while he was still caught in a battle with himself and shoulders tensed as Guerrique tugged himself close.

Zephirin's breath caught in his chest upon hearing the other's words and he saw more than felt his own hand raise to eventually settle on Guerrique's back. Gingerly at first and then with a shuddering exhale did he curl his fingers tightly in the other's shirt.

"Guerrique--" For a long while the other's name was all he managed before his forehead sunk onto a shoulder in turn, hold growing more desperate, eyes closing against the spinning thoughts in his head.

A cacophany of belittling comments echoed within his skull, all of which he had heard at one point or another in his past, from people close to his heart and strangers alike. The former trying to protect him, the latter meaning to hold him back from all he would achieve. All of them had only ever seen his weaknesses, hence he grew up to hide them, to compensate for them, to prove all wrong that doubted him, friend and foe alike.

Giving in to this however, to wanting, even needing it, felt like losing a battle he had fought for decades.

It was true what the other said, and while Zephirin had not once condemned Guerrique for his former need for alcohol, this was different, to him at least. Zephirin could not need something or someone to hold him up. He needed to be able to stand alone and not falter in his steps, because... because--

Then, he could feel Guerrique's fingers brush over the part of his shoulder where the scar that started their spiralling into this mess now lay hidden beneath his shirt. On purpose or not, Zephirin wasn't certain. He didn't know, and for once he also didn't care to anticipate the other's movements or try to guess his thoughts, not when he so clearly had been wrong about what Guerrique thought of his frailty whenever it surfaced.

You likely will never need my protection, but it is there.

Zephirin took shaky breath after shaky breath, now replaying Guerrique's words in his mind rather than those long since in the past, and eventually after a long silence he found his voice again.

"My shoulder still aches sometimes," he confessed quietly. Depending on what he was doing he could forget about the discomfort, but: "I can barely lift my sword without gritting my teeth these days." It hurt to admit it, hurt mayhap even more than the wound had upon receiving it. He had been in agony that day and weeks after, it was true, but this... He set his jaw, only now realising that he was trembling in the other man's hold.

[sanctummiles]

zephirinthejust​:

Zephirin pointedly tried to not think too closely about what they were doing, what they continued to do. Enjoying another’s company was one thing, but the intensity with which he often found himself longing for the other knight’s presence quite another, and not something he dared to inspect the implications of.

He went through the motions of changing, decidedly less tense when lighter fabric finally fell over his shoulders and covered his torso, and he welcomed the comfortable pants as well, feeling like he could finally unwind.

It was a notion only furthered when Guerrique’s warmth pressed against him next, and for a moment he felt his knees grow weak with sudden relaxation, leaning heavily against his company, arms raising in quiet alarm to steady himself against the other man. It wasn’t quite a stumble, but it could have been were Guerrique’s arms not wrapped around him.

He blinked, surprised and fought to bring some control back into his limbs, but at the same time the unwillingness to do so and simply sink into Guerrique’s embrace was overwhelming.

“I–” missed you. He didn’t say, but it was on the tip of his tongue nonetheless. He closed his eyes, fingers gingerly curling into the fabric of Guerrique’s sleeves.

“–I think I need to sit down…” He said after a moment in which he turned his head just enough so he could let it rest gently against Guerrique’s. It had been a long day, and he could almost pretend that this was the only reason for his sudden weakness.

Tighter still did arms hold onto the other, pale brows furrowing downward as he notes his company’s stumble; his cheek presses to Zephirin’s head, attempting to see whether he was feverish or simply exhausted to the bone. Even with the admission of needing to sit down, Guerrique remained as he was for a few further heartbeats as his consciousness attempted to think quite what he ought to do. He didn’t wish to let go and simply walk upon the fear that the archimandrite would simply drop to the floor -

So he drew a deep breath, moved enough to loop one of Zephirin’s arms around his shoulders and then in a rather quick motion (-so to attempt to not gain much retaliation-), did he scoop him into his arms entirely. Feet were swift in pacing across the room, placing the other down upon a couch as soon as he reached there - crouching before him; 

“–Are you feeling alright-?”

[sanctummiles]

Though his company didn’t particularly look as if he was completely fine, Guerrique did find some comfort in the fact that Zephirin was perfectly coherent. The nervousness and worry that had so easily swelled within his chest gradually began to dissipate, his expression offering only the lightest of smiles.

Too easy was it for the marauder to lean closer, to softly brush the tip of his nose against Zephirin’s cheek in an affectionate gesture, to completely relax in the embrace they shared for the next few heartbeats ere he heard the soft speaking of his name and the utterly blissful feeling of fingers within his hair. Guerrique was entirely at ease, fully relaxed and about ready to utter something about getting his company a drink of water when his world was rather quickly flipped.

All ease was replaced by immense tension quite swiftly, an ache suddenly occupying his spine as he came into contact with the floor. His expression was entirely questioning, brows furrowed as if he ought be overflowing with immediate anger and instead he simply looked… Confused.

Eyes stared, and for a good few heartbeats refused to relent ere casting his gaze off to the side:

“What did I do wrong this time-?” As far as Guerrique could see, he had moved the other quickly before he had fallen: a protective streak having flourished once more and it was only when he made that connection - similar to their earlier spat - that he entirely distanced his eyes.“ Fine - - next time I’ll just let you fall on the floor. Better?”

[zephirinthejust]

Wrong? What did he do wrong? Everything about this was wrong, was supposed to feel wrong. He shouldn't need this. Shouldn't want this, shouldn't feel his knees buckle when offered even the smallest of genuinely gentle touches.

Zephirin shouldn't find solace in these things, shouldn't crave them so thoroughly, shouldn't seek them out whenever possible, shouldn't feel his heart ache when Guerrique now looked away from him in frustration. He shouldn't... He shouldn't--!

"You..." He inhaled sharply and moved his hand from Guerrique's hair to grasp one of the marauder's hands instead. "You make me weak." He brought their joined hands up to have Guerrique's palm spread against the center of his chest, right above his heart, which was still beating wildly.

"Every time I'm close to you-- every time I even so much as think of you I--" His eyes danced nervously across the other's face before dropping to somewhere along his sternum instead.

Zephirin openly bit down on his lip, his other hand now curling tightly into Guerrique's shirt. Frustration evident. "I've fought weakness all my life, condemned it, hated it--"

He was all what he was today because of the drive to never be weak again, but with Guerrique he felt safe enough to let his guard down, would allow himself to feel fatigue and stress and let himself be caught when he faltered and stumbled, but he could not.

How many times had he woken with a phantom ache in his shoulder, an echo of the shrapnel of wood lodged inside him when the physical object was already long gone. How often had he woken from a nightmare, shivering and breathing heavily? How often had he wished the other knight was with him during those times? Too many to count.

And every time he had tried to distance himself afterwards only to fail miserably, always did he falter and give in to the urge to let Guerrique into his space, his head.

"I cannot want your protection. I cannot need it--" His voice took on a defeated tone. He'd never before admitted to any of this, had never made himself so vulnerable.

[sanctummiles]

zephirinthejust​:

Zephirin pointedly tried to not think too closely about what they were doing, what they continued to do. Enjoying another’s company was one thing, but the intensity with which he often found himself longing for the other knight’s presence quite another, and not something he dared to inspect the implications of.

He went through the motions of changing, decidedly less tense when lighter fabric finally fell over his shoulders and covered his torso, and he welcomed the comfortable pants as well, feeling like he could finally unwind.

It was a notion only furthered when Guerrique’s warmth pressed against him next, and for a moment he felt his knees grow weak with sudden relaxation, leaning heavily against his company, arms raising in quiet alarm to steady himself against the other man. It wasn’t quite a stumble, but it could have been were Guerrique’s arms not wrapped around him.

He blinked, surprised and fought to bring some control back into his limbs, but at the same time the unwillingness to do so and simply sink into Guerrique’s embrace was overwhelming.

“I–” missed you. He didn’t say, but it was on the tip of his tongue nonetheless. He closed his eyes, fingers gingerly curling into the fabric of Guerrique’s sleeves.

“–I think I need to sit down…” He said after a moment in which he turned his head just enough so he could let it rest gently against Guerrique’s. It had been a long day, and he could almost pretend that this was the only reason for his sudden weakness.

Tighter still did arms hold onto the other, pale brows furrowing downward as he notes his company’s stumble; his cheek presses to Zephirin’s head, attempting to see whether he was feverish or simply exhausted to the bone. Even with the admission of needing to sit down, Guerrique remained as he was for a few further heartbeats as his consciousness attempted to think quite what he ought to do. He didn’t wish to let go and simply walk upon the fear that the archimandrite would simply drop to the floor -

So he drew a deep breath, moved enough to loop one of Zephirin’s arms around his shoulders and then in a rather quick motion (-so to attempt to not gain much retaliation-), did he scoop him into his arms entirely. Feet were swift in pacing across the room, placing the other down upon a couch as soon as he reached there - crouching before him; 

“–Are you feeling alright-?”

[zephirinthejust]

Being rather swiftly lifted off his feet and relocated left Zephirin wildly disoriented for a moment. As such, his eyes grew wide and arms instinctively reached to grasp at Guerrique throughout the process, short as it may have been, and even once seated and with the other before him did his hands not move far from his shoulders, fingers still curled into fabric.

Blinking, he fought to calm his racing heart and eventually managed to ease his hold, trying not to think about how effortlessly the other had just picked him up. He turned his head to look off to the side, the daintiest of flushes upon the tips of his ears from the sudden embarrassment he could feel brewing beneath his skin.

"I'm fine," he muttered. "...Simply not used to all this." The latter was spoken quieter. All this being all he could now feel coursing through his head. Thoughts and feelings he would not dare inspect further, but that were still undeniably there and demanding attention.

His gaze shifted back to find Guerrique's, recognizing the look in the other's eyes within a blink: concern.

Because he showed weakness.

Something shifted within his chest, tightening. "Guerrique..." A hand moved to burry in the other's hair then, and equally swift as the other had lifted and maneuvered him, he in turn now shifted off the couch to pin the other man to the ground. The hand that wasn't tangled in the other's hair now pressed down upon his chest, his legs positioned on either side of the other's waist.

"Do not do that again," he said. It was close to a whisper, and while it should have been a threat, it still lacked any real bite. The gaze of green eyes was not as sharp as it ought to be and his grip upon Guerrique was almost gentle.

Why? He wasn't certain. And only after did he become aware of the tension now building between them.

[sanctummiles]

zephirinthejust​:

The smallest of smiles tugged at the corners of his mouth, but worry soon overtook it again. “You would,” he echoed.He understood the sentiment, in fact he felt very much the same, but despite his own reluctance to depart he knew that he’d need to be the one to put the other’s health first where Guerrique himself would not.

For that reason did he withdraw, if not without reaching up to Guerrique’s face to gently run two knuckles along the side of it. Fingertips brushed against light hair as he did, absentmindedly catching a small strand between thumb and index finger and immediately committing the feel to memory in a way he had not been able to before. Eventually, he tugged the strand behind one ear.

“A few minutes,” he assured the other knight then. “No longer.” He only had to make his way across the hall to gather fresh bandages from the supplies and things to clean the wounds. After that, he would return and stay.

He hoped to express as much with a last gentle brush of his thumb against Guerrique’s cheek. Once again a gesture instead of the words he could not speak.

“Always.” Dainty was the whisper, scarce moving his lips to utter- scarce loud enough for the two of them to hear yet there, nonetheless.  Once, not so long ago, Guerrique would have put his own wellbeing before anyone else simply because he wanted to be constantly be at his very best to prove just how strong he was. But now? Now he would sooner see Zephirin smile again- and would thus willingly do what was needed to see it. 

The tender movements upon his skin, the sensation of hair being looped behind an ear - it all had him close his eyes and bask within it - unable to say aught in reply, unable to reach out to stop his companion from leaving - no matter for how long. Why? So relaxed, the knight was nigh malleable beneath the gentleness of touches. Should any other attempt it was likely that he would have lashed out with ferocity, and yet like a calmed beast he eased against Zephirin’s, and his alone. 

Softly did he raise up a hand to brush against the other’s hand, quietly hoping that the tenderness would continue once the agitation of tending to dirtied bandages came to cease. Rather suddenly however, did he sit himself up and brush his nose against Zephirin’s, softly bunting the tips together with a gentle smile unto his lips; “Promise you wont be long-?” 

[sanctummiles]

The utter need for the closeness was nigh all Guerrique could think about - the beautiful feeling that seeped through his bones and into his marrow on the nights they rested alongside one another, the utter addictive nature of stolen, gentle touches and the sense of comfort it bought to hear the others beating heart in his ear… It was indescribable.

Finally, though he evidently did not want to, did the Knight relent his grip - offering a softened sigh from nostrils as he watched Zephirin leave the room, truly hoping he would be back. In the mean time, he stood to collect a bedshirt and slide a bin across from the other side of the room for the dirtied bandages he wore - and, an extra blanket was drawn out from beneath his bed and placed atop the duvet; knowing well that Zephirin easily became cold in the early hours of the morning.

Quietly, then, did he pace to the bathroom - From there, he gradually began to unwrap the soiled bandages from his bicep, the one on his torso far worse and thus he left it as it was for the moment. ‘Twas sore beneath, the few stitches closing the majority of the partially healed wound seeming fine to his eyes, if not mildly irritated from his excessive movements.

Hands reach for the tap, running warm water into the basin so he could easily wash the blood aside: simply waiting for Zephirin’s return.

[zephirinthejust]

The walk to fetch what was needed wasn't long, but it might as well haven taken hours tonget there. He purposefully kept his steps slow, dared not rush for the fear of someone overhearing hurried steps and coming to investigate.

But as he walked his thoughts kept going back to what had happened, to the wordless confessions and the promises made after. He should feel worried about what this meant for them, he knew, and to an extent he was, but the worry that truly had a grip on his heart was that concerning Guerrique's injuries, and so, after getting what he came for he made his way back quickly, as he had promised.

He was surprised to find the room empty, but noted the additional blanket that had not been there before with a small smile. Soon enough he located the other in the adjourning bathroom, already well into preparations for the renewing of his bandages.

Zephirin inhaled sharply at the sight before him and immediately took note of every bruise and cut, concern now edged deeply into his features as he stepped closer. He set the supplies down and almost immediately after his hand found a place between the other's shoulderblades.

"Sit down," he said in a low voice. At any other time it may have been an order --requests had never been his strong suit, after all -- if it weren't for the ever so slight brush of lips against a shoulder when he leaned in.

[zephirinthejust]

@ritterblood sent: 🌪️ - a starter where our muses are trapped together during a storm. / maybe a blizzard in a cave? heh

"It's no use," he tells him. Looking out from where they found shelter from the snowstorm there is little more than an ilm of sight before it gets cut by a seemingly solid wall of turbulent white flakes of snow. "Going out there again now will be our death."

He turns to head a little furrher into the cave, away from where icy winds can easily pick at armor and cloth alike. Zephirin shivers, but fights to suppress it. But already is the cold seeping into his bones, his hair and armor still covered in bits of snow which he now works to get off of himself before wrapping his arms around himself in a futile attempt to preserve warmth. He'd always ran cold and he had always hated it, but right now it might not only be an inconvenience, but also prove to become a danger over time.

[sanctummiles]

zephirinthejust​:

The smallest of smiles tugged at the corners of his mouth, but worry soon overtook it again. “You would,” he echoed.He understood the sentiment, in fact he felt very much the same, but despite his own reluctance to depart he knew that he’d need to be the one to put the other’s health first where Guerrique himself would not.

For that reason did he withdraw, if not without reaching up to Guerrique’s face to gently run two knuckles along the side of it. Fingertips brushed against light hair as he did, absentmindedly catching a small strand between thumb and index finger and immediately committing the feel to memory in a way he had not been able to before. Eventually, he tugged the strand behind one ear.

“A few minutes,” he assured the other knight then. “No longer.” He only had to make his way across the hall to gather fresh bandages from the supplies and things to clean the wounds. After that, he would return and stay.

He hoped to express as much with a last gentle brush of his thumb against Guerrique’s cheek. Once again a gesture instead of the words he could not speak.

“Always.” Dainty was the whisper, scarce moving his lips to utter- scarce loud enough for the two of them to hear yet there, nonetheless.  Once, not so long ago, Guerrique would have put his own wellbeing before anyone else simply because he wanted to be constantly be at his very best to prove just how strong he was. But now? Now he would sooner see Zephirin smile again- and would thus willingly do what was needed to see it. 

The tender movements upon his skin, the sensation of hair being looped behind an ear - it all had him close his eyes and bask within it - unable to say aught in reply, unable to reach out to stop his companion from leaving - no matter for how long. Why? So relaxed, the knight was nigh malleable beneath the gentleness of touches. Should any other attempt it was likely that he would have lashed out with ferocity, and yet like a calmed beast he eased against Zephirin’s, and his alone. 

Softly did he raise up a hand to brush against the other’s hand, quietly hoping that the tenderness would continue once the agitation of tending to dirtied bandages came to cease. Rather suddenly however, did he sit himself up and brush his nose against Zephirin’s, softly bunting the tips together with a gentle smile unto his lips; “Promise you wont be long-?” 

[zephirinthejust]

The sudden proximity between them came as a surprise and one Zephirin was not immediately able to process. It took a moment to have him find his breath and yet another to truly register what had been said. Too distracted was he by Guerrique's eyes, the spark of brightness within them.

"You have my word," he said, not quite able to prevent his gaze from flickering down to Guerrique's lips forbthe fraction of a second. But in the end, whatever thought he had that motivated him tondo so dissipated and he only tilted his head forward to rest their foreheads together.

The smile this time was genuinely amused when the other man still held on to him. "You'll have to let me go now." Otherwise they'd never be ablento take care of strained wounds. "I shall stay after I return." The words fell from his lips before he properly considered them, but he meant them, truly.

And with this he finally managed to withdraw, albeit reluctantly, and step away from the bed and towards the door.

[sanctummiles]

zephirinthejust​:

In the absolute silence of the room Zephirin would have needed to cover his ears in order to not hear Guerrique’s quiet words and even while his reaction was imminent, eyes slightly widening and lips parting in silent surprise, Guerrique would only be able to see it once he turned back to face the marauder.

For another moment he still did not, simply remained quiet and at a loss of what to say. It took Guerrique’s footsteps approaching behind him for Zephirin to even consider to move. He did eventually, although he simply turned to face Guerrique again, instead of making room for him to leave.

“You… misunderstand me.” He said then, somewhat hesitantly, unwilling to show what he thought to be a weakness. He still didn’t know what to do with this vulnerability that reared its head whenever Guerrique was close and so his first instinct was to pull away, and to push the other away in turn.

His brows remained furrowed in slight confusion. It seemed even the Archimandrite himself wasn’t certain of what he wanted. “I don’t–” want you to leave. “– mind the company.” He closed his eyes and inhaled deepy before letting that same breath out in a sigh.

Then, he met Guerrique’s eyes, that same confusion still somewhat evident in his gaze. The fingers that kept holding his shirt worked themselves into the fabric before loosening again until barely holding on. An action reminiscent of a nervous tick as he kept thinking, and there were various thoughts inside his head, none of which he could voice. Now, or ever.

Another deeper breath and then, finally, a decision: “Stay.” He looked away again as he realized how much softer his voice had suddenly become. “Just–” He cleared his throat, struggling to find back to his usual stern demeanor. “Just let me finish changing.”

Often did Guerrique misunderstand a situation, read things wrong- he wasn’t as particularly perceptive as his brother, or as intelligent as his mother had been. He ran simply on instinct, and when met with silence and uncertainty did he simply fall to the habit of leaving, regardless of what his dear heart was screaming at him. 

He didn’t want to leave - the very beat of his heart called for the company of the archimandrite that evening, and he had entered his space with the intent of spending time alongside him - - but mayhap he had overstepped. 

Confusion - Guerrique’s own honeyed eyes mirrored Zephirin’s; uncertainty near dripping across his expression. He knew he ought not be indulging in the comforts of closeness; but what true harm did a cuddle or two do? With intensity did the knight attempt to ignore the swelling of affections within the tightness of his chest, a deep breath following so to steady his nerves, the uncertainty in the pit of his stomach. 

Guerrique found that he could only give a small nod - reassured that his company was wanted with the confirmation and with yet another hum did he simply busy himself with undoing the laces of his boots so to remove them, get more comfortable while his company finished changing into something much more comfortable to rest within. 

He waited - just long enough for Zephirin to finish changing before quietly embracing him from behind, nuzzling silently into golden hair.

[zephirinthejust]

Zephirin pointedly tried to not think too closely about what they were doing, what they continued to do. Enjoying another's company was one thing, but the intensity with which he often found himself longing for the other knight's presence quite another, and not something he dared to inspect the implications of.

He went through the motions of changing, decidedly less tense when lighter fabric finally fell over his shoulders and covered his torso, and he welcomed the comfortable pants as well, feeling like he could finally unwind.

It was a notion only furthered when Guerrique's warmth pressed against him next, and for a moment he felt his knees grow weak with sudden relaxation, leaning heavily against his company, arms raising in quiet alarm to steady himself against the other man. It wasn't quite a stumble, but it could have been were Guerrique's arms not wrapped around him.

He blinked, surprised and fought to bring some control back into his limbs, but at the same time the unwillingness to do so and simply sink into Guerrique's embrace was overwhelming.

"I--" missed you. He didn't say, but it was on the tip of his tongue nonetheless. He closed his eyes, fingers gingerly curling into the fabric of Guerrique's sleeves.

"--I think I need to sit down..." He said after a moment in which he turned his head just enough so he could let it rest gently against Guerrique's. It had been a long day, and he could almost pretend that this was the only reason for his sudden weakness.

[sanctummiles]

@zephirinthejust​ asked:  [ SEE ] for receiver to be hurt and realize sender loves them because of the way they’re taking care of them. - from Zephirin to Guerrique

It had been but only eight weeks since the marauder’s detox, his person having gradually built back upward in order to fully continue his duties with scarce a problem. ‘Twas a mission in which had sent him and a handful of Temple Knights that had ended in quite the dire state; the obscene circumstance that had met them, unexpectedly, deep into the highlands near slaughtering three-quarters of their gathering. 

Those of whom got away with their lives only did so due to the interruption made by the Convictors - thankfully close enough to be of aid - but even those of whom drew breath still carried injury. In his state of heavy bleeding, Guerrique had requested an airship from the city itself and had himself (and those still breathing upon its arrival-) taken back to safety and into the confines of the infirmary. 

Once stitched and bandaged and tended to as much as the Marauder would let the healers, he signed himself out of their care and returned to the Vault where he gave a half-assed, verbal report over to Noudenet to pass on to the Archimandrite once finished with the Archbishop.  

It had been a very slow walk through the chantry to get back to his quarters, the long series of steps putting strain upon fresh injury and flourishing bruising but onward he walked, stubborn as always. 

To lay on his bed felt sensational, to put his feet up and find comfort in not having weight upon them naught short of bliss and for a short time did he simply doze off - - until he was very gently awoken by the feeling of fingers pushing strands of hair away from his face. 

Eyes opened, immediately resting upon those of vivid green opposing his own: yet not sharp, but instead… worried? Vision wondered, noting the bloodied spots upon his shirt where a stitch or two had slipped during his effort to get back, the dressings unable to hold the seeping blood beneath; thus Guerrique offered up no resistance when it was asked if he would accept aid in changing them. 

The gentleness he was met with… the softened glances, the tenderness - - it stirred a feeling deep within his chest in which Guerrique had cast aside and buried deeper (to a degree-) and yet now it rose right up so it bubbled and simmered beneath his skin; seeing the same look to Zephirin’s expression as the marauder knew he housed himself when even so much as thinking of the other. 

The realisation took over him gently; from the depths of his chest did a warmth arise and gradually spread throughout his person - to the tips of his ears and the poise of his toes and after a moment of silently basking within it did he reach for one of Zephirin’s hands and hold it to his bared chest, above his heart; hoping it spoke enough of his feelings without having to spoil it with his fumbled words.

[sanctummiles]

Warmth and comfort - ‘Twas what came to Guerrique’s mind as his fingers settled within Zephirin’s hair, the weight of his head settled against his chest one in which he enjoyed immediately. It bought a sense of belonging, of closeness: a quiet, unspoken Intimacy where the marauders own heart could speak directly of his adoration without a single vowel being uttered to the world. And exactly so could the marauder have remained for any length of time into the future.

Upon the others movement away did Guerrique’s eyes open anew, their honeyed tone able to read the variety of emotions written across Zephirin’s features as easily as Noudenet would read the entire contents of a book. Too easily was he distracted by the nigh extinct display, however, when his palm was pressed to a warm cheek, only to be met with the gentle contact of lips a few heartbeats after.

It feels as if the very warmth and intent from the kiss soaks into his palm, as if it travels through veins and towards his chest where it tightens once more with the sheer strength of emotion. He knows not what to do with it, knows not quite how to direct it properly - but what he does know is that he wishes such injuries did not exist: they’d spoiled that quiet Intimacy and already was the Knight craving it once more, pining for it.

“They were treated properly…” For once he had not done it himself, but with the state he had arrived within it was no surprise he had not the strength to rebel. Making it all the way back to the vault afterwards, however, may not have been a bright idea but it had been driven by his perfect stubbornness and want to rest in his own bed. Only when his own eyes glanced down did he even note the staining upon the cloth.

Quite suddenly he didn’t want Zephirin to leave: his standing, his words - despite knowing he would be back momentarily - had him squeeze his hands in turn: heart pounding loudly enough that it echoed in his ears.

“-Please, don’t be long-” He wanted him back there, desired him close, to relax and be at ease within one another’s presence, to find the only sound surrounding to be the others voice or steady breath. “I would sooner forfeit clean bandages in favour of you being here.”

[zephirinthejust]

The smallest of smiles tugged at the corners of his mouth, but worry soon overtook it again. "You would," he echoed. He understood the sentiment, in fact he felt very much the same, but despite his own reluctance to depart he knew that he'd need to be the one to put the other's health first where Guerrique himself would not.

For that reason did he withdraw, if not without reaching up to Guerrique's face to gently run two knuckles along the side of it. Fingertips brushed against light hair as he did, absentmindedly catching a small strand between thumb and index finger and immediately committing the feel to memory in a way he had not been able to before. Eventually, he tugged the strand behind one ear.

"A few minutes," he assured the other knight then. "No longer." He only had to make his way across the hall to gather fresh bandages from the supplies and things to clean the wounds. After that, he would return and stay.

He hoped to express as much with a last gentle brush of his thumb against Guerrique's cheek. Once again a gesture instead of the words he could not speak.

[sanctummiles]

@zephirinthejust​ asked:  [ SEE ] for receiver to be hurt and realize sender loves them because of the way they’re taking care of them. - from Zephirin to Guerrique

It had been but only eight weeks since the marauder’s detox, his person having gradually built back upward in order to fully continue his duties with scarce a problem. ‘Twas a mission in which had sent him and a handful of Temple Knights that had ended in quite the dire state; the obscene circumstance that had met them, unexpectedly, deep into the highlands near slaughtering three-quarters of their gathering. 

Those of whom got away with their lives only did so due to the interruption made by the Convictors - thankfully close enough to be of aid - but even those of whom drew breath still carried injury. In his state of heavy bleeding, Guerrique had requested an airship from the city itself and had himself (and those still breathing upon its arrival-) taken back to safety and into the confines of the infirmary. 

Once stitched and bandaged and tended to as much as the Marauder would let the healers, he signed himself out of their care and returned to the Vault where he gave a half-assed, verbal report over to Noudenet to pass on to the Archimandrite once finished with the Archbishop.  

It had been a very slow walk through the chantry to get back to his quarters, the long series of steps putting strain upon fresh injury and flourishing bruising but onward he walked, stubborn as always. 

To lay on his bed felt sensational, to put his feet up and find comfort in not having weight upon them naught short of bliss and for a short time did he simply doze off - - until he was very gently awoken by the feeling of fingers pushing strands of hair away from his face. 

Eyes opened, immediately resting upon those of vivid green opposing his own: yet not sharp, but instead… worried? Vision wondered, noting the bloodied spots upon his shirt where a stitch or two had slipped during his effort to get back, the dressings unable to hold the seeping blood beneath; thus Guerrique offered up no resistance when it was asked if he would accept aid in changing them. 

The gentleness he was met with… the softened glances, the tenderness - - it stirred a feeling deep within his chest in which Guerrique had cast aside and buried deeper (to a degree-) and yet now it rose right up so it bubbled and simmered beneath his skin; seeing the same look to Zephirin’s expression as the marauder knew he housed himself when even so much as thinking of the other. 

The realisation took over him gently; from the depths of his chest did a warmth arise and gradually spread throughout his person - to the tips of his ears and the poise of his toes and after a moment of silently basking within it did he reach for one of Zephirin’s hands and hold it to his bared chest, above his heart; hoping it spoke enough of his feelings without having to spoil it with his fumbled words.

[sanctummiles]

He had wanted to prove himself, wanted to shun the ill words and snide remarks from other members of their Holy few and show that he was back to his seemingly unstoppable, ferocious self. Battle had been a way, always, for the male to get out his anger and built up frustrations - to force every onze of energy he had into becoming the best and most respected. Whether or not it had always been his dream, he could no longer recall for the lines were blurred, but it was a part of him regardless.

To have almost fallen to the obscenity was akin to dousing open wounds in salt, no doubt once word reached the others would Guerrique be met with further questions regarding the true density of his strength: was it only a fad, had it now faded? And, as ever, did the worry that alcohol had made him better swim within his consciousness, even then.

Yet it was all forgotten for the moment, unceremoniously cast aside in favour of focusing on the silent conversation at hand - on his wordless admission. It was beginning to turn easier to note the minute changed in the archimandrites expressions, tiny telltale signs as to what he was feeling and even then could Guerrique see quite the mix, some too intermingled to name.

His grip upon Zephirin’s hand tightened in turn - keeping it against his chest as his heart thrummed fiercely beneath, free hand untucking itself from its previous rest to instead move enough to slide fingers through golden hair: to settle there, to keep the other close, if only for a moment longer.

“So be it.” His whisper was soft, not followed it with an explanation: simply an air of acceptance. He had tried, time and time to ignore or bury that in which had been flourishing beneath the surface and yet with each stubborn attempt had he failed. Naught had ever broken his stubbornness. Naught but this. But him.

Though he’d not admit to it, the drivel his dear brother often sprouted or wrote had a ring of truth to it, the marauder night frightened to read more lest he relate and fall further to its grip. As he lay there, however, he could do naught but relent: his feelings for Zephirin were now in the open, known, and regardless of consequences did he accept them. They had bested him, and for that he had to give them respect.

In silence does he press a kiss to Zephirin’s temple, lingering for as long as the strain of his neck would allow ere dropping his head back unto the pillow.

[zephirinthejust]

Far longer than he should did Zephirin remain where he was, quietly breathing, if somewhat laboured with how his mind was spinning. Gentle touches in his hair were foolishly welcomed and yet still so unfamiliar in their nature that he turned his head slightly to the side, not to avoid the attention, but to calm himself by listening to that which he knew, the other's heartbeat, and to ground himself in his warmth.

Eventually, and with a shuddering breath, he pulled himself up from the other's chest. He felt raw with emotion and for the first time in years could not even hope to mask all he was feeling.

But he also couldn't meet Guerrique's eyes just yet. Entirely out of his depth, he kept his gaze fixed on their joined hands for a moment before tugging at Guerrique's to pull it up and press his cheek into the open palm.

Green eyes closed against the sensation, and eventually he turned his face into the touch in order to press a kiss into Guerrique's palm. His heart still raced despite the simplicity of the touch, but to him it was far more than he had ever thought to freely give to anyone, far more than he'd ever wanted to give anyone. Well, anyone but Guerrique.

It could have been a moment of true solace, but soon enough his eyes fluttered open again and his gaze caught on a stain of red against otherwise stark white bandages. It was this that finally had him regain some of his composure; had him try and find back to clearer thoughts.

"Your wounds..." he said, eyes only now properly taking stock of all there was to the other's injuries and bruises. He reached out his free hand to very gently trace fingertips along the edge of one of the bandages.

Then, finally, he found Guerrique's gaze again, eyes shining with worry. "I should--" It had faintly it registered in his mind that he'd need to get up and gather some supplies in order to replace now ruined bandages, but he felt entirely reluctant to let go just yet.

He had to force reason to the forefront of his mind. "...I'll be right back." He promised, before moving to get up. Still somewhat shaken, he was unsteady on his feet and it was with hands trembling that he guided Guerrique's own back down, giving it a light squeeze in parting.

[sanctummiles]

@zephirinthejust​ asked:  [ SEE ] for receiver to be hurt and realize sender loves them because of the way they’re taking care of them. - from Zephirin to Guerrique

It had been but only eight weeks since the marauder’s detox, his person having gradually built back upward in order to fully continue his duties with scarce a problem. ‘Twas a mission in which had sent him and a handful of Temple Knights that had ended in quite the dire state; the obscene circumstance that had met them, unexpectedly, deep into the highlands near slaughtering three-quarters of their gathering. 

Those of whom got away with their lives only did so due to the interruption made by the Convictors - thankfully close enough to be of aid - but even those of whom drew breath still carried injury. In his state of heavy bleeding, Guerrique had requested an airship from the city itself and had himself (and those still breathing upon its arrival-) taken back to safety and into the confines of the infirmary. 

Once stitched and bandaged and tended to as much as the Marauder would let the healers, he signed himself out of their care and returned to the Vault where he gave a half-assed, verbal report over to Noudenet to pass on to the Archimandrite once finished with the Archbishop.  

It had been a very slow walk through the chantry to get back to his quarters, the long series of steps putting strain upon fresh injury and flourishing bruising but onward he walked, stubborn as always. 

To lay on his bed felt sensational, to put his feet up and find comfort in not having weight upon them naught short of bliss and for a short time did he simply doze off - - until he was very gently awoken by the feeling of fingers pushing strands of hair away from his face. 

Eyes opened, immediately resting upon those of vivid green opposing his own: yet not sharp, but instead… worried? Vision wondered, noting the bloodied spots upon his shirt where a stitch or two had slipped during his effort to get back, the dressings unable to hold the seeping blood beneath; thus Guerrique offered up no resistance when it was asked if he would accept aid in changing them. 

The gentleness he was met with… the softened glances, the tenderness - - it stirred a feeling deep within his chest in which Guerrique had cast aside and buried deeper (to a degree-) and yet now it rose right up so it bubbled and simmered beneath his skin; seeing the same look to Zephirin’s expression as the marauder knew he housed himself when even so much as thinking of the other. 

The realisation took over him gently; from the depths of his chest did a warmth arise and gradually spread throughout his person - to the tips of his ears and the poise of his toes and after a moment of silently basking within it did he reach for one of Zephirin’s hands and hold it to his bared chest, above his heart; hoping it spoke enough of his feelings without having to spoil it with his fumbled words.

[zephirinthejust]

The order had not come from him. The task assigned not gone through his admission. He had not been the one to send the marauder on his way for this. Guerrique had decided on his own that he would step forward for this task when the Archbishop brought it forth. Zephirin didn't know if it made things better or worse.

He only knew that from the moment he received word of Guerrique's return, his mind was filled with naught but the want to go to him, reassure himself of the other's well-being, feel his warmth under his fingertips, hear his breathing, see his chest rising and falling, see him alive. But he would not leave his post until his work for the day was done, would not allow himself the weakness of leaping to his feet and rushing to the other's side immediately. He had no right to it, anyway.

Instead, he set his jaw and shoulders and carried on with his tasks, ignoring the dark and deep pit that had formed in his stomach from the moment the other knight left.

Zephirin had rid himself of his armor earlier, feeling the heaviness of it was for once not a source of comfort, but felt like it suffocated him instead. Nearly everything felt like it did as of late.

...He'd long since put a name to what he was feeling for the other knight, if only in his mind. It was the same feeling so many naive writers held in the highest regard, that which so many starry-eyedly named the strongest force on this star. How often had Zephirin scoffed when forced to read of lovers in poems and stories alike for his lectures? And now when faced with the exact same thing nestling within his own chest the scorn for those praising it only intensified. How could it be that this ridiculous feeling was subject of so many hopeful texts and hymns when all it ever brought him was despair, and anger and helplessness.

Love.

He dropped his pen.

There was no room for it here.

He got up from his chair and made his way outside the room and down the hall.

Onesided as it was it had no right to keep a hold of him for this long.

Footsteps echoed on age-old stone.

It should have passed by now.

A hand turned a doorhandle.

So... Why--?

He paused in front of the bed.

Guerrique.

A sharp breath escaped him upon seeing the other lay there, splotches of blood seeping through bandages, bruises painted across skin. Zephirin reached out. He couldn't stop himself.

Fingers brushed back the other's hair, seeking contact with skin. Warm. Only when he realized this did he feel himself untense somewhat, only then was he able to hear the other breathe over the thundering of his own heartbeat in his ears.

He blinked, his vision having blurred but a second earlier. He barely saw the other shift, but still somehow managed to ask if he would let him change the bandages, the question falling from his lips on instinct alone. But then his eyes truly met the ember before him and a hand took hold of his to pull it close.

For a moment Zepherin could not fathom what he was so clearly --if wordlessly-- being told, but then his heartbeat thundered anew and he shut his eyes against that which he could read in Guerrique's eyes, what he knew the other saw in his own in turn.

Zephirin sunk to his knees beside the bed then, near crumbling under that which he could not bear voice. His fingers tightened around Guerrique's in a vice grip and his forehead came to rest against Guerrique's chest. While hiding his face, his lips parted.

"You... godsdamn fool." He rasped. Too many emotions were coloring his voice for anyone to discern even just one of them. He wasn't referring to the mission, or the injuries, not even the pulling of his stitches.

No.

You're a fool for loving me.

[ritterblood]

zephirinthejust​:

Zephirin gives a curt nod in acknowledgment of the other’s words, but remains uncertain about all this. Not normally one to jump to conclusions or make assumptions without knowing all the facts, Zephirin now remains quiet as he mulls over what little he knows of the phenomenon Lord Haurchefant described. It is true after all, illusions will dissipate once the one conjuring it is struck down, so how can this be?

“I shall keep my magic at the ready in any case,” he says after listening to yet another possible explanation offered, but the involvement of voidsent too, is just a theory, albeit a concerning one. But be it dragons or voidsent these heretics are in league with, they still need to be dealt with.

“There is little use in theorizing,” he says then, tone remaining thoughtful before it gains in firmness. “We can but brace ourselves for the worst.” –And pray for the best.

In the fleeting moment between the roar sounding across the area and Haurchefant’s words Zephirin quietly raises a hand, fingers curl into a loose fist. He tilts his chin down and briefly closes his eyes to quietly mutter a prayer; psalm often recited before battle. Under his breath, he whispers: “Fury guide my hand,” before he urges his chocobo onward as well, keeping pace with Haurchefant’s.

Zephirin briefly meets the lord’s eyes again and bright green shines with determination in response. Then, his attention shifts to the battlefield. He will do anything to see this mission through . “Lead the way.”

little use in theorizing, indeed.  they’ll not know for certain the cause of this fell magic until they can slay one of the dragons and keep hold of the corpse for examination  ━ or find a way to infiltrate behind the enemy’s lines and witness such transformation up close.  if there is a trigger,  a catalyst that would set it off  ━  then haurchefant would know it.   the very thought of the heretics getting their hands on such abilities,  whether through magic or voidsent,  fills him with dread.

with anger too.  how dare they? have their people not suffered enough?  was it not enough to forsake kith and kin to join the very foes that had sown torment for nigh on a thousand years,  without needing to become like them in turn?   he knows not what had driven them to such madness,  but he will not see it continue.  much like ser zepherin,  he too is determined to see this mission through  ━ no matter what it takes. 

he makes quick work of directing the new forces to where they need to be,  knights with sword,  shield and lance strengthening the front lines while those with bow and arrow or even staffs bringing up the rear.  ‘tis with mounting dismay that he sees that winged dragons have joined the enemies’ ranks,  though yet again a manner of aevis unlike he has seen before.  

with each of the temple knights set to their respective task,  he dismounts and unsheathes his own sword,  looking once more to ser zephirin.  “ i wish for us to look for a weak point in their defense that we may break through.  they have the viaduct too strongly covered,  thinking it would create too much of a bottleneck,  while placing archers along the river bank to prevent us from passing  ━ but even their number cannot be so great to disallow us an opportunity. “

to the north his gaze goes,  arm lifting to point t’ wards an area further ahead.  “ i have had my men scout and they found a passage further down the river that we may try to cross with a smaller number. i am loathe to take mine own men,  for they are tired and worn down;  who then,  would you recommend join us? “  

[zephirinthejust]

Zephirin listens to Lord Fortemps giving orders, making sure they get carried out accordingly while the other man moves on to direct the rest of their forces. Eventually his gaze follows that of the commander to the sky, eyes narrowing at the wyvern in the air above them. He focuses on the one closest to them, taking in the patterns of its movements.

If he could just get close enough he might be able to use his magic to hurl a spear of white magic at one of the wings, grounding it--

But it seemed they were not going to join the fray just yet. No, the commander had another plan of action. Zephirin directed his attention back to him as he spoke, nodding at his assessment.

Again his gaze follows that of the other man, considering his words. Zephirin had ever been one to rely solely on his own strength rather than another's, so the idea of choosing anyone beside himself to accompany them was not one he favored. "We should not weaken our numbers by taking more than necessary. We cannot allow the enemy to push our forces back." His gaze trails along the river, its sharpness assesing the terrain easily and effectively.

Zephirin agrees with the other man. Smaller numbers allow for faster movement and therefore bear less danger of being discovered. "If it were my decision, I would choose to go on my own..." Then, bright green finds blue. For a moment, he wonders if the other knight had a similar thought. "...Or with one other at most."

[zephirinthejust]

Variety of Headcanons

Zephirin is not afraid of pain, nor death, but weakness and wasting away due to an illness or even poison. Watching himself wither is what he fears most. He has worked long and hard to overcome the weakness he has known from childhood and he will never be that weak again.

Zephirin does not consider his body to be particularly attractive. He's come to understand over the years that a variety of people find his face -- and his eyes in particular -- to be something to remark on with compliments, but the rest of him was never praised for its appearance. Growing up he was told he was too thin, too scrawny, too weak and subconsciously he carried this insecurity with him into his teens and well into adulthood; and even though he eventually overcame his once sickly state he always felt he was too lean in comparison to his peers. Nowadays, he is not selfconscious about his form per se, but despite his above average height he does not consider his stature to be imposing enough for the position he holds, a fact which is easier concealed while in armor rather than out of it.

Despite the fact that it was a great honor to be considered for the Heavens' Ward, Zephirin's decision to accept the position was influenced heavily by the frustration and anger he felt after Aymeric de Borel was chosen as the next Lord Commander over him.

Even though people liked to call him a prodigy for winning the tournament held by the Temple Knights at the young age of fifteen, Zephirin's swordmanship was not something that came easily to him initially. He spend hours training to the point of exhaustion to even be able to carry his weapon of choice properly and seeing as he was the only one in his family with an aptitude for magic he was forced to figure most of his unexpected second combat ability out on his own as well.

Zephirin was offered a scholarship for the Scholasticate and would likely have taken the cloth to serve Ishgard and the Archbishop in that way instead of as a knight had the tournament not worked out in his favor.

Zephirin is very slow to wake up in the morning and will likely spent at least an hour half awake in bed before even considering to move from it.

The more sleepy he gets the more apparent it becomes that he used to be surrounded by commoners rather than nobles growing up. Stilted language, learned over years and decades, bleeds away and shortened words and sentences make up his responses then. Right before falling asleep, or right after waking is also when he is most honest.