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frostsong · 4 years

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LUCUBRATION

Philippe Herve Donatien de Dansereau was born seven years her junior, a boy of some eight sweet summers. He had hair the same shade as her own, but in soft, smooth tufts just over his pink-tipped ears. His birth was long awaited and lavishly celebrated--the first of many indulgences he’d been entitled to, as the treasured heir.

But the expectations their elders had gathered for months while he grew in their mother’s womb fell short when he began to show signs of his fragile health, and so the dreams of him becoming an honored knight were out of the question, especially at his mother’s behest. And of everyone in the family Donatien took the news best, swinging his legs off the chair at dinnertime and retiring to his room and the books piled high on the nightstand beside his bed.

There was talk of having him enrolled in the Scholasticate, where his penchant for learning could be cultivated into a different kind of honor, but honor enough to land their surname into even better graces. The Baron grew impatient by the day as his wife and mother quarreled to keep the boy from heading away too soon, and so it became a subject of contention at their meals, which was all the more reason for the center of attention to sweep his plate clean as soon as possible.

When Euphemie found herself with nothing better to do, she always paid her brother a visit. Her parents and their servants are proper enough to announce themselves before opening the door, but there was an unspoken comfort in how she simply opened the door wordlessly, her other arm bent behind her and cradling a bundle of stolen tarts from the kitchen. The scent alone as she unraveled it was enough to draw his attention, with a starry shine in his silver eyes.

During late nights he found himself sneaking into his sister’s bedroom, his bedtime chemise layered by a warmer robe, and he’d crept into her sheets, seeking out a warmth he could find nowhere else. He would beam wide for her in the dark of her bedroom, small arms wrapped around a book heavy enough to dent her mattress over to one side, and she would always relent, not because he’s the heir but because he’s her baby brother.

Sometimes, while she’s half-asleep with the faint candlelight in the corner of her vision, she can hear him whisper syllables, repeated and practiced until they become words. They’re long words, boring words--but to him they never are. Occasionally she’d give up trying to sleep and prop herself up on her elbows, her flowing mane wild and unkempt across her shoulders rendered bare from her loose nightgown, a sight her mother would never allow beyond the bedroom door. But Euphemie knows her brother doesn’t care, despite him knowing the deeper reasons behind it--he’s mature for his age, more mature than she was.

“...How do you say it again?” She murmurs, tilting the side of her head to scratch an itch beneath her curtain of hair.

“Luh--cub--”

“Lew, sister. It rhymes with dew.” He says at a matter of factly, startlingly clear for being up at such an ungodly hour. He’s sitting cross-legged with the opened book on his lap, his thick robe too warm against her legs, and she has to slide them to the side.

“Lewk--you--bration.”

“And what does it mean.” She stretches an extended arm to the drawer of her nightstand, hand fumbling at the contents before grasping the helm of a brush.

“Study. Or an old piece of writing.” He leans into the touch of soft bristles against his head.

“Why don’t they just write study. Save us the trouble.” She snorts, brushing his hair while leaning on her side. There’s something idyllic in moments as secret as this, an odd form of rebellion in the name of extra warmth.

“I think each carries its own feeling. Like when Audrey makes tart, but puts different things on the inside.” He pipes thoughtfully, small fingers parting the pages once more. His reply is too soft and sincere for something so sarcastic, and it makes her smile.

“You do have a point there.” She lets the bristles tickle the back of his neck hidden snug under the collar of his robe, earning a peal of laughter. She’s heard him chuckle, and seen him smile, but he only ever laughs this loudly, this freely, when she’s there with him.

“What do you think of us going to Coerthas?” She words it quietly, carefully. She’s heard more than enough of everyone else’s opinion, but she hasn’t heard him voice his own, not counting the times he’d reassured their mother.

“I’m excited.” He keeps his smile, bright and dimpled just like hers, now looking directly at her with the opened book left forgotten atop his legs.

“I want to see all the snow.”

“You don’t tire of seeing it here?”

“That merchant Father spoke to says it’s different there. No buildings as tall as here for malms on end. All just white, even the rivers.” The way her brother describes something he hasn’t seen is endearing. And yet she can’t help but be selfish as he loses himself in what he knows through another’s eyes, selfish and comparing it with what she knew of it to be. It’s fair to say that neither of them know what the countryside of here and now looks like, and in that they can both be, at most, pleasantly surprised. There still may be wide open spaces, and Euphemie can presume that there will be less of sharing, more of claiming the good parts. Fifteen years of eagerly waiting to break free from the city walls and relishing in the wind with the tall grasses soft against her legs and Euphemie never once felt that the wide expanse of land could be easily divided, like a pie on a platter. But it was still done, and even more stubbornly so after the calamity, with the landed lords scrambling after the favored pieces as scavenging mice.

“...and the karakuls! I want to see them.” Donatien’s cheeks are warm just thinking of the fluffy round creatures that skittered and bleated, having only encountered a few on a visit to a relative. Embarrassing for the son of a family who has them by the hundreds.

“Well. I’m certain you’ll fit right in.” Euphemie smirks and dances her fingers in a tickle against the fabric of his nightshirt, sending him into a fit of laughter, but she stops short to keep the others from waking, casting a cautionary glare over her shoulder. He, too, crawls back on his knees and ducks under the sheets, eyeing the doorway, but when no one comes the two of them sigh in relief.

“I think you’ll like it in Coerthas.” She concludes with her own verdict, blowing the candlelight dead and pulling the duvet over the heads. Donatien’s smile opens in a yawn as he settles in with the book against his bare feet.

“I think I will too.”

#ffxivwrites2020 #eggpens #euphemie de dansereau #donatien de dansereau #sweet little sibling feels...#i went wild with this one tbh i didn't mean for it to get that long #i have my own baby brother and we have about the same amount of years between uso this one hits me hard

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ecoamerica · 2 months

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ascalonsmercy · 9 months

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9/02: BARK.

noun: to make the characteristic short loud cry of a dog.

rating: g

characters: donatien de dansereau, archombadin de dzemael, douceline de dansereau (mentioned)

tags: post-heavensward, character study, chomby pays a visit and finds donny instead of dou (unfortunate)

summary: an unexpected social call.

wordcount: 733

The end was sure to come for anyone—or anything—that would part Donatien de Dansereau from a good night’s sleep. Regardless of how many bells had passed since he laid head to rest the night before, the lordling was wont to spend as long as he could in the comfort of his bed and the several layers of furs and sheets that practically cocooned him through the cold Coerthan night. He had finally received respite from his work at the offices housed in the Tribunal—albeit a forced one—and since he and his peers were unsure of when their duties would resume with even a modicum of what they once knew it to be, he was sure to make the most of his free time doing as he pleased.

The hounds of Cygne Cross thought otherwise.

He groaned and bent his ample pillow over his ears. Jean-Luc led the charge with a bark that outdid his underlings tenfold and the others—the rumbling growl from Aubergine and the short but rapid-fire yapping from Nougat. Something—or someone—had stirred them awake.

Not long after came the hurried feet of the House Steward accompanied by what Donatien assumed to be two of the servants.

His lips pressed thin for one, two seconds before he swept the sheets and furs off of him, braving the cold floor with his bare feet. Maybe ‘gonde had brought a new pet home and the rest of the household had come to bid it welcome—or Dou had brought home a dragon, and their hounds were simply doing as hounds in every Fury-fearing house was wont to do. Even then, old habits were hard to break—and seeing as none of his siblings had come to properly greet their guest, he ought to share in some modicum of responsibility with their mother still indisposed.

In naught but his sleep clothes and deep-blue robe he peered down at the staircase with its subtle-spiral, noting the wag of tails and the flurry of newly-brushed fur at the entryway as the figures by the door became clearer as he took one, two, three steps down. Almost halfway down the staircase and Donatien found his earlier assumptions by ear correct—all but the snowy-haired Elezen

Donatien smiled. His morning was saved after all.

“Lord Dzemael! What brings you here so early on this fine day?” Few would know the delight in seeing a scion of House Dzemael taken aback like a cornered rabbit. And Donatien would enjoy it in full.

“...I wanted to.” He cleared his throat.

“Congratulate the Lady Douceline—”

“I’m afraid there’s a bit of a queue.” Donny grinned.

“Though I would hate to put you through such efforts for nothing. Care for some tea, perhaps?” At the word Thibault turned to have the refreshments made ready—perhaps a bit too quickly for their guest’s liking. The hounds aside—there was only him and the youngest Dansereau at the base of the staircase, and no dear Douceline in sight. Archombadin knew there was no winning to this situation. He was in a home not his own, after all—the only slim advantage he held was that the Dzemaels ranked higher as counts rather than the baronial Dansereaus. But, as all of Ishgard knew—the status quo had changed so swiftly after certain events—and the validity of their so-called ranks were now called to question. Also, Douceline would no longer be a mere lady of House Dansereau—she had now been dubbed the Savior of Ishgard. Much more was now at stake for an otherwise spare heir, even from one of the Four High Houses—a fact that Donatien relished. “Tea would be lovely. Thank you.” The welcomed guest cleared his throat as he acquiesced, still unable to look directly at his host For better or for worse—these last days had been an exercise in learning to swallow his pride.

“Shall we, then?” Donatien extended his hand, his mood soaring to new heights. He hadn’t bothered to change out of his sleep clothes and robe and now he had no intention to. Archombadin had entered his house, high-necked overcoat and buttoned boots and all—and Donatien would appear as effortlessly comfortable in his own environment. Once in a while the petty power games so prevalent in the Pillars were fun to play—especially if he held the higher ground.

With a subtle nod, Archombadin followed the younger man suit, with the dogs eager and wanting at their heels.

#ffxivwrite2023 #eggpens.#donatien de dansereau #archombadin de dzemael #it's a little late but I FINISHED...#donny putting chomby through the gauntlet if he wants to date his sister

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ascalonsmercy · 9 months

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9/06: RING.

noun: a small circular band, typically of precious metal and often set with one or more gemstones, worn on a finger as an ornament or a token of marriage, engagement, or authority.

rating: g

characters: prince haldrath, radegonde greystone, euphemie de dansereau (mentioned)

tags: modern au, engagement ring shopping, gonde puts hal through the gauntlet(™)

summary: one could hardly call it equivalent exchange!

wordcount: 388

“No gold.”

On any other occasion, the proprietor at the establishment would have turned them away for the wine-flavored cigarette in her fingers—but the Dansereau family’s reputation won them entry. Not that Haldrath wasn’t embarrassed by the unabashedness of his most-certainly-sister-in-law-to-be. But he wasn’t confident in his judgment for what would be a life-changing event for both him and his beloved. He had silently hoped that her mother would assist him in his cause—or better yet, entrust an heirloom. But that conversation had gone exceptionally well—and ended far shorter than he’d anticipated. Though Donatien did mention something about the questionable personalities of the past men his sister had dated…

“I just thought the cut suited her eyes.” Haldrath had removed one glove so he could scrutinize the sample ring with more ease, bringing it up to the light of the jewelry store’s ceiling. Starlike were Euphemie’s eyes and he would have nothing less of an engagement ring that emulated such a sparkle. And he knew she would appreciate a piece that complimented her eyes.

“Then get it in silver. Or alloy with mythril or whatever,” A pressed puff fled her pursed lips, painted a bright red that left a mark ‘round the cigarette between her fingers.

“Honestly. Why does everyone make this more difficult than it has to be.”

“You know your sister.” He eyed her deadpan in his peripheral vision, and she smirked. Haldrath wouldn’t dare imply such a thing within earshot of his hopefully wife-to-be lest he valued a good night’s sleep in her own bed and not the living room couch.

“Touché.”

“But a mythril and silver alloy with this diamond would be perfect,” He nodded towards the sales associate with a courteous smile as he ceded the ring.

“And the two small amethysts at the sides. Thank you.” Haldrath felt the raven-haired beauty eye him like a hawk as he removed his wallet from the pocket of his dark overcoat, and readied his card for the payment.

“Where to for lunch?”

“I thought I’d leave that up to you.”

“Dangerous. But fair,” Radegonde followed behind him after he’d made his order.

“It’s good practice for you anyway.”

Haldrath paused and looked at her over his shoulder, just as she lowered her cigarette once more.

“For getting used to indulging me along with my sister.”

#ffxivwrite2023 #eggpens.#prince haldrath #radegonde greystone #when i write modern au . it's to relax

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ascalonsmercy · 9 months

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9/01: ENVOY.

noun: a messenger or representative, especially one on a diplomatic mission.

rating: t

characters: prince haldrath, euphemie de dansereau, donatien de dansereau, siegfroi de mondesirre

tags: post-heavensward, oofie bound for the churning mists, and hal can’t come :c

summary: vignettes of a diplomat-to-be.

wordcount: 1396

How does one dress for a dragon?

Perhaps in the olden days (which was actually not very long ago) a fellow knight would have guffawed at such a notion. Perhaps even joked that a dollop of mustard and honey or clam-cream would do the trick.

But here she was, wondering very seriously for an answer—with her sunshine-haired nephew at her side, pondering on the very same thing.

“Is it wrong about the ones that keep lots of jewels and gold in their caves?” Poor Siegfroi. The littlest minds like his had both the advantage of starting anew and the disadvantage of knowing so little of what had once been. Fortunately Siggy was among those who chose to be braver—who chose to be hopeful—whether or not he knew what that meant.

“I, for one, have never seen a dragon’s lair.” Euphemie shrugged with her lips still pursed in thought.

“So what are dragons like, then?” Siggy had a knack for asking simple questions that were, in fact, not very simple at all. Never mind that his forefathers had spent life and limb slaying the damned things that threatened their hearth and home, when in reality it was those very beasts who had those very things threatened—taken—from them.

“...They can be fearsome. Like us.” It all starts with a truth. Her right hand fell upon his mess of blonde hair while the other remained caught between one hanging garment to the next.

“...Can they be scared, too?” He raised his head to look at her. His eyes were a deep, pure amber—something of his father’s before he and her sister’s untimely death.

“I would imagine so. Being scared can make you do many things. You’d be surprised!” She smiled down at him, despite how well aware she was of said many things and how undeserving they were of such levity, let alone a smile.

“...Maybe they would like what we wear, then. Maybe less spiky and scary.” She couldn’t help but laugh.

“Maybe like the pretty dresses you wear.” Siegfroi spread his arms wide and spun.

“Like you’re a flying cloud! Dragons like to fly, right?”

“They truly do.” Euphemie turned to the wall where the gowns—shimmering, pristine whites and sparkling blues that mimicked the skies of a winter morning. “But I’ll be traveling lots. And Dou says that it’s a lot of walking and climbing.”

“Oh…” Disappointed that his suggestion had led to yet another dead end, the boy sighed and fell to his bottom, between the opened-suitcases and disorganized necessities—and found a silver-engraved mirror to busy himself with. Euphemie couldn’t help but smile at how his mind drifted from one thing to the next; what tutors would scold as inattentiveness she found charming; she hadn’t been so different in her girlhood days.

“I think we’re due for some cake.” She shut the door to the partitioned area of her closet. “We can think on more after. What do you think?”

Siegfroi nodded, raising his arms up high for her to pick him up. Most pages his age would decry such a childish request—but here he was amongst family.

“Will there be tarts?”

“Rolanberry, I heard.” With the edge of her boot-clad foot she gently tucked a hatbox to the side before she exited her dressing-room, with Gus-Gus following quickly behind.

__________________________________________________________

“...Siggy.” The name on his uncle’s tongue sounds like a playful chide, and with a mouth-full of berry-tart did the lad look towards him.

“Why don’t you find Lance and the rest? Surely they must be famished with all their…lounging about.” Haldrath snickered as Euphemie planted a kiss on his cheek before she took her seat at the table beside him. The fair-haired child nodded, and tucked one more tart between his lips before scurrying off the table and out of sight, out of mind.

Euphie sent her younger brother a look of pity for their nephew’s sake, though Donny’s omnipresent smile became a touch more contented as he poured himself a glass of lemonade.

“I take it tea with the Count went well?” Donatien’s eyes fell to them both, bringing the glass to his lips, his own brows raised. Of course both men sensed the climb of tension from the way the hand ‘round her fork shuddered—

“He told me to behave. Imagine!”

With an arc of her fork did the newly-dubbed diplomat repeat the Count’s barely guised plea.

“As if I were capable of besmirching the Order—”

“Or all of Ishgard for that matter.”

Haldrath couldn’t help but chuckle as her sharp glare turned to her brother—the younger, of course—who merely forked another cakeful between his lips without so much as a crease in his smile. The Count Charlemend de Durendaire—the man who had, for all intensive purposes, become a more formal foster father to him in all his thirty-two summers—had invited them for tea the day earlier. Both were right to assume it would be concerning Euphemie’s recent appointment as an ambassador to Dravania who would take part in the delegation bound for the Churning Mists in a week’s time—though in Euphemie’s eyes the patrician’s advice bordered on insult.

“I would never.” She lowered the knife by the blade so that it rested along the scalloped-edge of the dessert plate.

“Especially now of all times.”

“They’re very smart or very desperate to send a dragoon to make peace.” Donatien shrugged with a tilt of his head, plucking another petit-four from the tierstand that stood at the middle of the table. Haldrath noted how omnipresent that thing seemed to be whenever he entered the main dining room of the manor. He’d seen it more often than the Dowager Lady Benedicte herself (though he was led to believe her absence was not without reason).

“Should negotiations turn south—”

“They won’t.”

“Boundless optimism has no share in diplomacy, sister.” Donatien’s chuckled.

“The men in Vylbrand would eat you alive.”

“Don’t you have someone to interrogate?” Her patience had finally worn thin, and by the elbows did the new Baroness de Dansereau rise from her seat.

“But you volunteered.” He blinked, his smile fading and feigning innocence all the same as his eyes followed her departure from the table, and it was all but the two Elezen men that remained with the crackling fire.

“I take it that she’s traveling light.” Behind the musing Haldrath sensed what he meant—his own absence in the retinue of advisors, translators, historians and all else they deemed suitable—and sighed with a defeated smile. “I wouldn’t have anything to offer. Certainly something as…delicate as this—”

“Of course you would! Yourself! As dragon fodder!” “And I would prance right in with my drachen mail.” Haldrath rolled his eyes as his brother-in-law-to-be’s grin widened.

“There’s still time…”

“And that leaves the manor to you.” He crossed his arms.

“...I’ve been had.” The younger man across from him raised his hands.

“Now that I’m one step further down the line of succession.”

“You’ll always be welcome.” Haldrath’s smile was half jest, half genuine—though in the Inquisitor’s eyes his attempt at humor was pitiable to say the least.

“I should hope so. I doubt ‘gonde would tell you of what dwells in the basement.”

“I am aware.” The dragoon rose from his seat, setting his plate and neatly-placed silverware aside.

“...Do you know his name?”

“Pressy. And he only takes abalone.” With one last glance in the lordling’s direction he left the room, as both men knew too well of the precious few days he had left with his bride-to-be before her departure.

__________________________________________________________

“Three days.” He murmured into her hair. Though half-asleep his hand knew its way ‘round her waist and goaded her closer against his chest.

“Don’t know what to wear.” She whispered back, awfully bitter at her dilemma for keeping her up so late.

“Tomorrow.” Though on the verge of falling back to sleep once more, Haldrath persisted: every nerve of unease in her skin was wont to seep into his own.

“...I want to be done with it so th—” Her words fell apart as their eyes—half-lidded and worn from the day’s exertions—met.

“....so we could just. Do nothing. Until I leave.”

“...We will.” With her having turned the hand at her waist moved upwards her back and into her hair, fingers spread-wide in a loose cradle at the back of her head, and she settled into it better than her own pillow.

#ffxivwrite2023 #eggpens.#TAKE IT #I WANT TO GO TO BED

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