#oudine de aubemarle

[housedeaubemarle]

A House Call

(written with @escherstrange-ffxiv, without whom none of this would have existed in the first place)

Followed by 'A House Call: Epilogue du Oudine'.

~*~

"Sydney should be here," Joshua grumbles, adjusting the cuffs of his sleeve. 

"Probably for the best." Isillud thinks it wiser not to tell his younger brother of their brother's reply.

An hour ago:

Sydney's laugh was of a man who had suffered at the hands of House Aubemarle. It was long, sharp, and bitter. "HAHAHAHA good fucking luck," he said before the linkpearl fell silent.

Isillud's eyes narrowed at the fireplace, as if telepathically setting his brother on fire all the way at Radz-at-han. "Bitch."

"He could have given us some tips. I've never met the viscountess."

"Neither have I, Joshua." Isillud smooths his hair back, waiting for the door to open.

~*~

Marceaux, butler to House Aubemarle perhaps since the time of the Ancients, opens the door to two lanky Elezen gentlemen. 

The eye first takes in an absurdly beautiful face on the right, accompanied by well-sculpted - youthful - features on the left. Another second of scanning addresses the similar bone structures, Duskwight skin, points of ears, and builds of the pair before him. Yet a third instant notes the ruffles of cravats and shirts, unobtrusive cufflinks and neatly pointed shoes, while filing away for future reference, certain wrinkles in cloth that either point to a household without laundry maids or worse: untrained servants. 

“Our relatives, the Losstarots, are due tomorrow morning, Marceaux. We will not be home to anyone else till their visit is complete.”

“Very good, milady.”

He opens his mouth, just as the trained eye submits a fourth report: the pairs of eyes looking back at him - one impassive, one defiant - are shockingly green. 

“Good morning, gentlemen. Whom may I say is calling?”

Joshua straightens his back, clearing his throat and whipping out a card in between his fingers. “Lord Joshua Losstarot and my brother, Isillud. We are here to meet with Viscount Aubemarle."

The card is a crisp white card printed only with his name and a coat of arms. He looks as dignified and lordly as a young man due to come of age in 3 days (figuratively) can be. Isillud simply nods and smiles at the butler. 

Marceaux wordlessly and gingerly receives the tiny rectangle. He peers at it, absorbing that this is, in fact, the Lord Joshua Losstarot. Still holding the card respectfully in his gloved hands, he bows and moves aside to wave them through.

“Welcome, milords. If you would be so kind as to follow me, I will direct you to the Chantilly Room.”

He awaits acknowledgement of this, and at the briefest nod from Lord Joshua, neatly spins on his heel and walks down the hall at a moderate pace. He does not turn to see their reaction to the interior, though if one were to conduct an interview later, Marceaux would hardly dare suggest anything but satisfaction with the tasteful wallpaper of ivory striped with off-white, matching an elegant marble floor in swirling shades.  

The door of the Chantilly Room opens to, indeed, cream-coloured curtains, off-white painted walls and carpets of a darker grey-blue. Within, on a low table opposite a pale blue sofa, sits a full tea set. Along the walls are ornaments of various styles and sizes on sturdy shelves, while two painted lacquer screens stand at a corner. A gilded wall mirror completes the furnishing.

“Please make yourself at home, milords.”

Marceaux waits for a count of five, trusting their lordships to seat themselves comfortably, before he closes the door with a quiet thud. From the corner of his eye, he sees the barest whisper of a skirt and hears a stifled giggle.

He represses a sigh - and the thought that Lord Joshua’s brother’s reputation precedes itself - before quickly heading upstairs.

~*~

Being away from Ishgard for five summers has dulled their aesthetics towards interior decoration. Joshua shifts his weight, rocking back and forth on his heels. "How long do we have to wait, Izzy?"

Isillud glances at the decor, taking in the details as he walks past the ornaments, mentally placing them in their possible places of origin. "You don't ask, Joshua. You just sit and look around. Gives you an idea of what to talk about." He peers at some. "Hingan teacup. Gyr Abanian charm. If they don't travel, their friends do."

"How do you know they didn't buy it?"

"You don't buy a single teacup, Joshua." 

Joshua points to a row under the gilded mirror. "What about that miniature fan and those dancing figurines then? Took their friends long enough to realise what they liked?"

Isillud glances at the mirror, sighs, then sinks into the couch.

The wait isn’t as agonisingly long as Joshua anticipates. Barely two minutes after Isillud sits, the door opens again. 

“Good morning, my lords.”

The woman offering her greetings is tall and fair, dressed in a blouse of soothing dusty blue with gauzy bishop sleeves, and black trousers. Waves of shiny, dark brown hair have been woven into neat braids, then pinned into a singular tidy bun; bangs frame either side of her face. Clear grey eyes crinkle above a pointed nose; lips coloured an inoffensive shade of cameo pink form a warm smile. 

She stretches out a hand towards Joshua first, as is correct etiquette.

“I am Oudine de Aubemarle. I suppose we could be called cousins of sorts.”

Joshua straightens his jacket before taking Oudine's hand and barely touching his lips with it. "Joshua Lo-" he is interrupted by Isillud's cough. "-Joshua de Losstarot, a pleasure to meet you Viscount."

He steps aside for his brother. Compared to his, Isillud seems smoother, like he trained his entire youth for this moment.

"Milady." Isillud's baritone voice is like silk brushing across her hand. "Will your mother not be joining us?"

Oudine blinks. It hasn’t been that long since she’d received hand kisses as greetings, surely. Is she so accustomed to shaking hands on business that gallantry has become a surprise? 

Focus, Oudine.

She keeps smiling. “She will, in just a moment. Her toilette requires a little more attention, seeing as the sons of her longtime connections are here.” Oudine gestures to the sofa. “Please, do sit. The staff will bring some light repast by and by, so we will have to contend with tea first. I hope red tea is to your taste.”

As her guests sit, and she picks up the teapot to pour, she continues. “If you don’t mind me saying so this quickly in your visit, hearing of your reinstatement was personally gratifying. I’m glad the Holy See is making what amends it can, though perhaps,” she looks up at them, noting the arresting green gazes of both brothers. “Such hurts will take a longer time to heal.”

"I shan't lie, it's equal parts relief and resentment," Joshua replies. "We can't even give a proper funeral for our parents and grandfather, but at least we have our home back." He shoots his brother a pointed look. "Not entirely, but I'll take what I can get." 

Idillud picks up his teacup and inhales once before sipping. Leaning back against the sofa signals to Joshua he has no intention of carrying a conversation - he's only there to supervise the lord-in-training, nothing else - and so Joshua continues. "I do confess my surprise that you are the current viscount, milady." Joshua's voice is markedly younger, and with youth carries a tone of eagerness instead of nosiness. "I thought it would be your brother."

This is not a question Oudine has heard for a few years now. She takes a quick glance at Isillud, apparently absorbed in his tea. Is this the usual pattern? The older brother hanging back, the younger taking the lead? Then again, knowing what they do of Sydney, perhaps House Losstarot must needs rely on its youth. And youth, Oudine knows, requires training. 

“I’m sorry to hear of your parents and grandfather. It is… difficult, when one does not have the chance to say the goodbyes one desires.”

She gestures invitingly to the sugar bowl, lifting its lid.

“As for Remont, let us just say it has long been an unspoken understanding in our family that birth is not necessarily the best judge of headship. My father’s passing was perhaps the culmination of that understanding.”

She smiles at the young man in front of her. For a moment, she remembers her younger brother as he had been ten years ago, though perhaps Joshua has more palpable vitality. 

“I think, in that, we have something in common, Lord Joshua.”

“And what would that be, my love? Is the head of Losstarot too an insouciant younger brother?”

Oudine nearly drops the lid. She whips around to see the Dowager Viscountess herself standing in the doorway, attended by Marceaux. She is shorter than everyone present, but commands a presence that could even match the likes of Count Charlemend de Durendaire. Smooth, very pale blonde hair that borders on white is neatly put up. A wan but clearly inquisitive smile sits on her slightly wrinkled, but still clear, face, matched by a raised eyebrow. Two hands fold atop her cane, topped by a handle in the shape of a finely carved Hornbill head. 

“Mother!”

The brothers stand and bow respectfully to the Dowager. “Viscountess," they greet, though only Joshua continues. "It is good to see you well." He keeps up the smile, waiting for the Dowager's response, while Isillud tugs his gloves up, checking that he is still wearing them.

The Dowager reaches out, not towards her visitors as Oudine had, but for her daughter. Marceaux has already melted away, shutting the door.

“Well as can be, praise unto the Fury,” she says with a sigh as Oudine dutifully takes her hand and escorts her eight steps forward to a sturdy chair near the sofa. “Remember not to get old, young men - it brings too many inconveniences.”

She sits, waving at them to do the same. Then silence falls, awkward and spiky, as the Dowager seems to read the Losstarots’ very souls.

“Hrrmph,” she says at last. “Whatever he believed, at least Cletienne's eyes outlived him. And you,” she nods at Isillud, “I see la incomparable again in your face, so clearly you have your mother to thank for your looks. Though your reputation is entirely your own.”

There is a slightly louder clink of porcelain, as Oudine turns from where she’s pouring a fourth cup of tea to give her mother an inscrutable look. The Dowager, sitting upright in her chair, returns an impassive glance, then turns back again to her guests.

“Well, Lord Joshua? You’ve not answered my question. Or perhaps I should seek answers from another authority on the subject, eh Lord Isillud?”

Isillud's cup rests on the saucer with another audible clink. He opens his mouth but nothing comes out from it; Joshua starts instead.

"Isillud is well aware that his reputation would not bode well for the house; hence why it was agreed upon that I should bear the title." The younger man flashes his brightest smile, "We are much alike in that we have overstepped our more-deserving siblings to wear our mantles, Viscount." His tone dances lightly over the sunbeams spilling through the windows.

Isillud doesn't look at the pair, merely smiles as the lanky man leans into the sofa, crossing his hands on his lap. "Hmph," he softly laughs, snow white eyelashes fluttering shut.

Joshua's shoulders relax, sloping just enough to be noticeable. "You must be curious about what we've been up to over the last five summers, we would be glad to indulge your questions."

The Dowager shows no sign of relenting. “Ah, so the answer is no. Insouciance isn’t quite the description. Dear heart,” she says, looking at Oudine who has continued to drop two lumps of sugar into the delicate cup she holds. “Your brother’s carelessness evidently is an idiosyncrasy of his own. You are to be sympathised with, it seems.”

Oudine mumbles a form of non-committal reply, simultaneously giving her mother tea, and delicately removing the walking stick for the old lady’s convenience. 

Clearly, this was no longer the Viscount’s game. Though, to be fair, it hadn’t been from the moment she’d handed her mother the Losstarots’ formal letter of introduction a few weeks ago. Oudine glances again at Isillud, looking for some kind of solidarity between older siblings. 

There is none to be found. The older brother appears to be fully meditating on the merits of some otherworldly matter. It is a shame, thinks Oudine, she can’t bring herself to do the same since her mother has started speaking to Lord Joshua again.

“Is there possibly anything more dramatic than the antics of the Warrior of Light and the Scions?” asks the Dowager, carefully stirring her cup. “Did you too ride a dragon overhead into Ishgard, guns a-blazing so to speak? Do tell us from the beginning; we are all attention, Lord Joshua.”

Joshua's laugh isn't of a carefree boy - courtesy and restraint swaddle it. "If there are I'm afraid I wasn't privy to it. My story is simpler than that: Taken under the wing of a trader, I simply learned the ropes of her business. Aside from the usual cargo she offered safe passages to refugees seeking to flee the Garlean occupation, when she abandoned it after Ala Mhigo and Doma's liberation I simply abided by her decision. There are other trade avenues to pursue after all." Joshua is less careful with his tea, even a tiny slurp echoes in the room. "Crude, but it pays the bills for now."

Isillud leans forward, nudging his cup towards Oudine. "May I have more tea, milady?" When she refills his cup, slender gloved fingers brush against hers when he lifts his cup.

"Joshua needs to learn. He will be fine. Breathe easy, cousin." Emerald irises rise to her eyes, almost glowing with a divinity that vouches for him.

His cousin wonders when he had the capacity to notice her unspoken pleas for help. She decides to question it later. The intense gaze and silken touch on the hand are distractions enough (and suddenly, Oudine reaches a deeper understanding with her brother).

“If it’s learning you both sought here, then you won’t leave disappointed,” she murmurs in reply, though as she returns to stand behind her mother’s chair, her posture is slightly more at ease. 

The Dowager on the other hand, sips calmly as Joshua recites the undoubtedly summarised adventures of five years. 

“My, my. Refugees from the Garlean occupation, Ala Mhigo and Doma. Your youth belies your profound experiences, young man. And the delicacy you’ve offered in your storytelling is appreciated but unnecessary.” Her dark brown eyes go straight through Joshua. “Pray tell what your trade entails currently. Aubemarle claims acquaintance with any number of lesser houses that deal in commerce, though we ourselves do not have such businesses.”

Behind her, her daughter quietly shifts her weight; the ease dissolves from Oudine’s spine. 

Joshua's smile tightens, eyes set straight at the Dowager. He clears his throat.

"A variety of merchandise from the east. Thavnair, Garlemald, Dalmasca even. The trade routes are perilous and there is no shortage of demand from these nations." Sip. "I simply bring people what they want for a fee, I should be glad to give you our current catalogue should you wish." The legal catalogue is what goes unsaid in his explanation.

The Dowager tilts her head slightly. “‘Bringing people what they want for a fee’. What a simple explanation it is. Have you considered a different career, Lord Joshua? Perhaps a writer for one of our illustrious newspapers? Some of their pieces are so concise, they do the exact opposite of their express purpose: to inform the public. You would do perfectly, I shouldn’t wonder.”

A knock on the door interrupts the plummeting social temperature of the room. Marceaux silently glides in, bearing a tray full of small plates. Upon them are refreshments suited for a mid-morning interlude with distinguished guests: pastries that do not flake, but can be savoured in two bites, eclairs that aren’t overfilled so as not to embarrass enthusiastic eaters, finger sandwiches that make for dignified chewing.

(Thank the Fury for small mercies, thinks Oudine.)

The butler sets the silver tray down, right beside the teapot. The Dowager’s nod sends him gliding back out of the room.

“Do help yourselves, my lords,” says the Dowager smoothly.

Joshua laughs but the heat within tightens around his gut. He's running out of options to please her, and a choice reply remains at the tip of his tongue only because Isillud would likely kick him off the sofa if he said it. The introduction of desserts has done nothing for him, for he is mentally flipping through a notebook about what to do during social situations like this. Unfortunately, the book is still fresh and blank.

He turns to his brother only for him to notice two things: Firstly, Isillud has seen Marceaux. Secondly, the glint in Isillud's eye.

No, oh no you don't-

Isillud doesn't take his eyes away from the door long after the butler has left. He plucks an eclair from the plate and without so much as looking at what he's doing, places it at his lips and sucks the cream from the hole with no pretense what's on his mind.

Joshua's world crumples in on itself. If Isillud does not hide what's on his mind, neither does Joshua with a mortified expression on his face. He does the first thing he can think of to snap his brother out of his reverie: he elbows him really hard in the ribs. It works - Isillud jolts back to the room, blinking innocently at Joshua.

"What?"

Oudine de Aubemarle, with the seasoned practice of someone who has been trained to ignore that which couldn’t possibly have occurred in the drawing room of a highborn Ishgardian house, immediately speaks in her modulated, pleasant tone. 

“It is good, isn’t it? Though he is our own cook, I must personally recommend Mr Ofanleitasyn’s creations. Lord Joshua, perhaps you might like to try a sandwich.”

She walks forward swiftly, picking up one of each kind to place on a small plate, then turns back around to the Dowager. 

“I myself requested Cook to prepare these, Mother. They’re your particular favourites after all.”

The Dowager’s lips had already parted, perhaps to deliver a homily against the obvious dereliction of the world outside Ishgard and its regrettable influence on wayward young men. Something in the look she receives - hidden from view of the Losstarots - makes her put her lips back together and nod.

“Thank you, my pet. Such thoughtfulness,” she says, and even gently pats the Viscount on the cheek.

Oudine turns back, places two small sandwiches on a plate and offers it to Joshua. The smile that accompanies it, she hopes, would read as an apology and encouragement. 

He must and will learn, yes, but the older sister in her cannot help herself.

Joshua whips over to the plate of sandwiches. He opens and closes his mouth a few times before mustering weakly, "Y...yes, thank you." He shoves a sandwich into his mouth, breathing heavily through his nose. If he cannot say anything he might as well have something in his mouth for it.

A second of watching his brother's reaction later, Isillud shrugs and takes a dainty bite from his eclair. "A Roegadyn, then? How long has he been in service?"

“Oh, ever since I can remember, quite frankly,” says the Viscount. She looks to her mother, who hands the younger noble her still-full cup of tea. Oudine silently puts it back on the low table, and proceeds to pour a fresh, hot cup. 

“Mr Ofanleitasyn has been with us these last 30 years or so. One of my late husband’s many flashes of brilliance,” says the Dowager, the tone just ever so slightly more conciliatory. “He may be a Roegadyn, but his abilities produce thoroughly Ishgardian fare.”

The dark brown eyes of the lady gleam as she continues with, “If memory serves, your mother  quite enjoyed a variant of Dzemael Gratin he made once in the past. I believe she was carrying your eldest brother at the time, and so could not attend one of our dinners. Seeing as it was her first pregnancy, she could not help but be cautious. We had a dish delivered over to her, and she returned a most gracious note of thanks.” She pauses a moment. “La Incomparable had excellent taste.”

The Dowager receives the new cup of tea from her daughter with an arched eyebrow. There. Happy? It seems to say.

Yes, returns the answering smile of Oudine.

Chewing slowly, Joshua blinks at the story. "Huh, I didn't know that. Did you know that, Izzy?"

Isillud doesn't answer; he narrows his eyes at the Dowager, lips thinned into a single line. Her words have stirred him though he clenches his fists and says nothing.

It felt like a slap, that this woman of distant relation would have a vivid story to tell of their mother. A reminder of their place: If only she knew what has become of her children. One a swindler, the other a harlot. And you dare show your face around Ishgard? For shame.

Isillud finishes his eclair and wipes his fingers on a handkerchief. "Come, Joshua. We have tarried enough."

"Huh? But we just started-" The look on his brother's face shuts him up. "Thank you for your hospitality. It was a pleasure meeting you both, we shall call upon your house in the near future."

He gives a quick bow and jogs after Isillud, who doesn't even bother with niceties as he heads for the door.

The Dowager silently watches the rapid departure of both young men with unexpected calmness, even having the presence of mind to set her teacup down on the table. 

Beside her, Oudine is less able to control herself. “What-”

“Oudine.”

She looks at the Dowager, surprise - and since they’re alone, some hurt - in her face. “Mamma?”

The old lady reaches out, and instinctively, her daughter clasps her hand.

“I know I promised never to interfere in your dealings as Viscount. But I ask you to trust me when I tell you: do not run out to seek an explanation from them, at least for the present. Will you, dearest?”

Oudine purses her lips. Part of her is itching to do exactly that - to demand an answer, if not resolution, for this abrupt end to a visit she had had every intention of helping along. People she trusted had warned her, gently, about the possibility of these being impostors, of interlopers stealing the noble name of Losstarot, and the resulting connection to the Aubemarles. They had asked her to be extra cautious, knowing that the current Viscount de Aubemarle was inclined to see the better side of others, sometimes wishing to be right, rather than knowing she was right. She had wanted, dearly, to prove them wrong, to be able to say - firmly - that the new head of Losstarot is genuine, and that their claims are true. She still does.

The other part - the one which has seen her mother work what could only be magic on the dizzying social circles of Ishgard’s lesser houses, which has witnessed the Dowager Viscountess call on, and call out, rival houses no less powerful or influential than they, without batting an eyelash - makes her grip her mother’s hand tighter.

Finally, she asks, almost demands. “Did you tell that story of their mother on purpose? Did you aim at Lord Isillud?” Neither woman hears the front door of the house slam shut. The rooms are too well-built.

“If I aim at anything, which I will pretend to understand for the moment, logic dictates I ought to aim at the head sitting right before me,” says the Dowager. “No, dearest. My intention had been to give those boys a memory they could not have had; a keepsake now that they must step into their elders’ shoes.” 

She looks back at the yawning doorway of the Chantilly Room. 

“I forget that the young - especially young, “resentful” prodigals - may not look as kindly on memories as those of my age.”

After a moment, the old lady frowns. “House de Aubemarle can only claim to be far relations. There are others who are closer cousins, in higher places, and with even more accounts of the Losstarots as they once were. Lord Isillud will need stronger armour. And more flesh on his bones, if he intends to remain in this city.” 

Oudine cannot help wanting a complete diagnosis. “And Lord Joshua needs…?”

Her mother snorts. “Time. And more polish in his address.”

Oudine shakes her head, before realising what the Dowager had said. She takes in a deep breath, releases it. “You were listening outside the door when I first entered the room, weren’t you?” 

The Dowager makes no answer, merely returning the grip on her daughter’s hand. The Viscount can only sigh, and finally sits down for the first time since she’d welcomed the Losstarots to their home. 

Still clinging to her mother’s hand, she says consideringly, “You believe them to be real then. They are the long-lost Losstarot sons, now returned.”

The Dowager looks surprised. “Of course, dear heart. No charlatan worth their salt would have stormed out so violently.”

A wave of tired regret washes over Oudine and she closes her eyes. “Then we have given offence to our own. And it involves their mother.” She opens them again to stare at the ceiling. “How on earth can we make amends?”

“My sweet girl, ever forgiving. Thus is the discourtesy already forgotten.”

Oudine lets herself frown, obviously and deeply frustrated, at her mother. It’s been a very long morning, no matter that the fiasco had really only lasted for all of fifteen minutes or less.

The Dowager smiles. “You are Viscount de Aubemarle. You will think of something. Besides,” she nods at her daughter. “You have their calling card, do you not?”

Oudine slips her free hand (it’s also annoying how she doesn’t even want to let go of her mother, despite everything) into a trouser pocket. She pulls out the innocuous white card Marceaux had given her, and stares at it.

“...hmm.”

As the Viscount thinks and plans, the Dowager leans forward towards the table. She picks up an eclair, snorts at a thought that has just occurred to her, and takes a delicate bite.

~*~

It is three days later, when there is a knock on the door of the Losstarots’ residence.

Ser Drouhont, Temple Knight-turned-steward, all of 7 fulms (possibly more) and pitch black skin opens the door. "Good morning. Whom shall I say is calling?" The wind whips his long hair about, thankfully long and heavy enough that it doesn't obscure his face.

Before this very impressive figure stand two Elezens, both in the livery of House Aubemarle. The darker skinned one wearing a small pair of gold-rimmed glasses on his face bows respectfully. The grace of his movement is unhampered by the neatly wrapped parcel in his arms. Beside him, a very lovely black-haired maid with dark eyes dips in a polite curtsey, a clearly laden basket despite its cloth covering, in hand.

“No one, sir. We are only here to present my lady Viscount Aubemarle’s compliments, and seek your goodness to deliver them to your master,” says the bespectacled footman in an even tone.

"My masters are unfortunately currently indisposed, but I would be glad to hand it over to them."

The footman bows again. “Thank you, we are most obliged.” He offers the brown paper parcel, secured by twine, to the steward first, before taking the basket from his colleague to hand it over as well. “Good morning to you,” he says with a last bow. The maid curtsies and follows the footman’s lead to go. 

They’ve only gone a few steps when, right before Ser Drouhont closes the door, the maid turns back to call out with a brilliant smile: “Don’t ignore the box at least! It’d be a terrible waste!” 

Drouhont hooks the basket on the crook of his arm, watching the servants leave with a confused look on his face. Within the house, Joshua leans over the banister halfway down the stairs. "Who was it?"

"Compliments from House Aubemarle with a reminder to not ignore the box." He looks at the twine-wrapped parcel with the same impassive face and flat tone. "T'would be a waste to do so." 

That makes the younger elezen curious enough to take the parcel off Drouhont's hands and set it on the dining table. Drouhont puts the basket nearby, turning the cloth over to reveal its contents.

"Let's see what we have here…" Joshua muses, unfolding a blade from a pocket and starts cutting the twine.

"Oh-"

Joshua stops. "What?"

"Twine can be reused…I could use it to wrap my paintings…"

Joshua simply stares at his steward. He should be used to the man's airy comments by now but he was unpredictable when he wanted to. He shakes his head and continues demolishing the wrapper to get at the contents within.

Brown paper crinkles and rustles, falling away to reveal a perfectly square but good-sized, black, lacquered box. On its lid, a spray of flowers blooming from a shapely bough, made of inlaid mother-of-pearl, grows from the bottom corner. Closer inspection easily reveals that the box is made up of three layers and the mild sweet fragrance of baked goods begins to waft upwards. A thick looking packet sits against the box, along with a thinner, lighter envelope. On both, small wax seals, no doubt from a signet ring, bear the crest of House Aubemarle.

In the basket’s case, its contents are less enigmatic. Fresh fruit of various kinds sit within: Coerthan and mirror apples, La Noscean oranges, Lowland grapes, Pixie plums, even a few lemonettes. There is also a singular pineapple, most of its spiky crown carefully cut off for convenience. In the midst of such vibrant colours, the stark white of a small card stands out.

Not even Joshua can resist the allure of freshly baked goods. "She wasn't kidding about her cook," he says as he picks up the packet and envelope, using the blade to pry the seal open.

Meanwhile Drouhont removes the fruit from the basket and sorts it into an artful arrangement, mumbling to himself, "A fine still-life subject for a painting…Master Joshua, there is a card inside here too." He passes the card firmly held between his fingers to his lord, who now has three things to read.

The thin envelope contains a single-sided letter with the crest of House Aubemarle emblazoned in the top centre of the page. In other words, the official letterhead of the Viscount. The handwriting beneath is neat and evenly spaced, flowing in black ink.

-

To Lord Joshua de Losstarot, head of House Losstarot, & Lord Isillud de Losstarot,

I give greeting to my cousins both, and present our apologies for this late letter.

To come straight to the point, we ask forgiveness for treading upon sacred ground without care. While it is not lost upon us how hollow that may ring after what has transpired, please believe that it is meant sincerely. 

What we should have conveyed that day, but did not, is simply this: words do not suffice for how your house has suffered great losses, in many respects. House de Aubemarle has no power to bring back what was, but we will assist - if you are willing, and should need it - in building what will be. The accompaniments to this letter are more concrete tokens of our friendship.

I hope we shall meet again in future, in more fortuitous circumstances. Belatedly, and truly, we welcome our cousins Losstarot back to Ishgard. 

Yours sincerely,

Oudine de Aubemarle, Viscount Aubemarle.

-

Out of the thicker packet comes a small collection of papers and stiffer cards of varying sizes.

One of the cards is an elegantly decorated invitation. The space for recipients has been filled in by hand: Lord Joshua de Losstarot and Lord Isillud de Losstarot are requested for the pleasure of their company at a formal ball at the mansion of House Maintigny in a month’s time. Lady Oisinne de Maintigny is to be addressed should they accept or decline the invitation.

Yet another invitation, on a marginally smaller card but no less elegant, also requests the pleasure of the lords Losstarot’s company, this time at a musical concert, intended to showcase the talents of the newest protege of the Dowager Viscountess Philomene de Aubemarle. It is to be held at the Saint Llafymae Rooms in a fortnight, with acceptances or declines to be addressed to her ladyship at the Aubemarle manor.

Much smaller in size are four narrow tickets. Identically printed on them are admittances to the latest theatrical sensation of Ishgard, Cant and Candour. The tickets read that they are specifically for box seats on any night while the play is performed.

A folded note comes next, unsealed, so it can be opened to read, in the same ink and handwriting as in the longer letter: ‘The Viscount Aubemarle presents her compliments to the manager of the Lightfeather Proving Grounds, and with great pleasure, wishes to make known to your goodself my lords Losstarot, newly returned to Ishgard. Kindly make them welcome at the usual box whensoever they desire.’  

Yet another sheet of paper similar in thickness to the note contains the simple name and address of Etoilier at the very top. Underneath the letterhead is a message from its proprietress who is delighted to know that their chance meetings in the past could be continued in a more formal fashion. Etoile Wintour reassures her lordships that new suits will be ready in good time before the Maintigny ball, and invites them both for fittings in three weeks. Though there is not much fear there since she already has their precise measurements. She presents her compliments and looks forward to their appointments.

And lastly, the smallest of the ‘accompaniments’ is a white business card. Upon it is printed ‘Marlstone Chocobos’ with an address in Ishgard below it, and another address in Tailfeather on a third line. Flexing it under the light reveals an embossed off-white crest in the upper right corner, that of House de Aubemarle. When turned over, there is a third handwritten message, in the same neat handwriting and the same black ink: 

For any reason, if you are ever in need of a fast bird, bring this to the Marlstone office here. If in Dravania, seek out Remont. You will be given one of our finest, no questions asked, no charge. - O.A.

Once the detailed contents of the packet are perused, the last small card from the fruit basket is almost comical in its simplicity. The writing is in brown ink, and a cursive script far different from all the handwriting earlier. The message is brief:

You’ve only just begun. Eat, then fight.

Joshua shuffles through the cards growing increasingly perplexed. "Oh gods, there are so many events; do these people not do anything except socialize?!"

"That is indeed what they do, Master Joshua," Drouhont answers, carefully stacking the apples into a 3D pyramid. "Networking is very important in Ishgardian high society if you wish to remain relevant. Even a soldier of middling rank is expected to be present at the Forgotten Knight once a week at least."

"Drouhont, I can't attend all these on my own." He fans out the theatre tickets. "There are four tickets here and I don't appreciate music as much as…" His eyes follow the stairs, "Him."

"It matters not which Losstarot attends…only that one does." Drouhont frames his arrangement with his fingers, moving a fruit an ilm to the right to adjust.

"In case you have forgotten," Joshua's voice rises. "The other Losstarot is currently drowning in self-pity with only a blanket to maintain his modesty."

"You seem certain he'll always be crushed by the weight of the expectations he's failed, milord."

The younger elezen sighs, turning his attention to the box. He opens each tray to find out what's inside.

The first layer is a jigsaw puzzle of pastries: danishes, butter croissants, apple tarts, jam tarts, even a fig pastry or two to complete the picture. All have been made specially to fit the size of the box, and to be eaten in a single bite.

The second layer opens up to heavier stuff: currant scones give off a delightful scent of butter and sugar; slices of mille-feuille are artfully dusted with fine sugar and cocoa powder; a row of simple pain au chocolat sits with gleaming golden-brown skins.

The third and last layer is filled with nothing but eclairs, covered in chocolate icing.

Joshua twitches visibly at the tray of eclairs; he considers pushing it aside and bringing up only the first layers but changes his mind and slots the small card from the fruit basket among the eclairs before closing it up and lugging it upstairs. "Drouhont, bring the fruits up- on second thought, do as you like with those."

He kicks the door open; the crow roosting at Isillud's head caws in surprise and hops up to the headboard. Etienne turns and raises his eyebrow just slightly. Joshua Losstarot puts the box loudly on the side table and roughly yanks his brother's shoulder over to face him.

"Wake up, Izzy. You have a society to impress."

Isillud stares blankly through dull green eyes. Joshua removes the last tray and puts it in front of him. "See this? The dowager acknowledges you. Mother would've been proud." The crow tilts its head at the baked delicacies, plucking an eclair and gliding over to Etienne's work desk to pass to him.

Joshua grips his brother's chin between his fingers; the Fury lives in his voice, in the determination writ across his face. "You want expectations to live up to? Live up to the lord of House Losstarot's. Live up to mine."

╔═════ஓ๑♥๑ஓ═════╗ 

        end 

╚═════ஓ๑♥๑ஓ═════╝

#ffxiv oc #isillud losstarot #joshua treegarden #oudine de aubemarle #philomene de aubemarle #ffxiv RP #ffxiv oc lore #poor dear Oudine #she tries very hard

[housedeaubemarle]

The Grand Hunt - Part 4: The Trophy

Part 1: The Call

Part 2: The Tracking

Part 3: The Hunt

(written with @escherstrange-ffxiv who keeps on being amazing and mindbogglingly strong - we did it! We finished it!)

~*~

“Excuse me sir, has something happened? Why does everyone look so worried?”

The airship port worker furrows his brow, scratching his head under his tweed cap. Considering how the questioner has just stepped off the ship, a thick cloak round her shoulders and luggage in hand, the question makes sense.

“Horde attack about two hours past, milady - terrible business. The guards are out there now, sweeping the grounds; Ishgard even sent the Knights, and no wonder - two blasts they threw and the ground shook like nothing else. Hear tell they’ve already sent word to Twinpools for the dragon hunters.” He grimaces. “Think there were some casualties, poor souls.”

The eyes of the lady before him widen visibly. “Fury have mercy.”

The worker shakes his head. “Once a dragon, always a dragon.”

“I beg to disagree,” is a sudden reply. It comes from an Elezen who steps up neatly beside the lady. He’s visibly taller than her, but also wears travel garb, with bags in both hands. “Nidhogg’s hordes don’t speak for those who seek peace with Ishgard.”

The dock worker is about to object, but sees the glint in the newcomer’s dark brown eyes, even as his posture is relaxed, and voice civilly smooth.

“Well, can’t blame a man when half the cliff is gone,” he says gruffly.

“No, perhaps not.” He looks sideways at the woman, whose brow is wrinkled in concern. “Come on, Dine. Sooner we get home, sooner you can get that look off your face.”

She nods, then looks back to the worker. “Thank you. Fury keep you,” she says kindly before moving away with her companion.

The worker bows shortly, still stinging a little from her companion’s remark. He turns back to his duties, not quite hearing a shocked “Cillien!” from behind him. 

Some way away from the airships, Cillien faces his employer, his face the very picture of surprise. “Lady Oudine?” His blue eyes dart to the person with her; the shock increases sharply. “Lord Remont! Wha- how-”

Remont tilts his head in some confusion. “That should be our question considering how we had planned this as a surprise.”

Cilien stares at him as if he were speaking Doman. “S-surprise?”

“Yes, Rem said he’d come home with me to visit Mamma,” says Oudine with no less bewilderment. “We took the first airship out of Tailfeather, and the wind was with us. But we just heard there was an attack-” She stops. “Why are you here?”

“I… ah…” Cillien looks back and forth between his masters, trying to find the right words. “Well-”

“Cillien, I found them!”

Everyone looks up to see a much shorter Hyur running towards them, panting from his efforts. “It took some doing but they’re-” He screeches to a halt, suddenly realising exactly who Cillien is standing with. “Milady! Milord!”

Oudine’s mouth opens again to see another familiar face, in a completely unexpected place. “Lamb?”

Remont’s eyes jump from the dismay on Cillien’s face, to the horror in Lamb’s, to the utter stupefaction of Oudine’s. He puts a hand on his sister’s shoulder bracingly, as he asks, “Who exactly have you found, Lamb?”

~*~

“Isillud…? Izzy.”

The exhaustion is too deeply set, so it takes a few more shakes before the grey Elezen can bring himself to bleary consciousness. Stiffness and aches begin clamouring for attention across his body, resulting in a heartfelt groan. The waking world is too cruel for someone who’s been through as much as he has in one morning. Eventually, very eventually, his eyes focus.

A very tall, rather tanned Elezen, with short chestnut hair and an undercut, vaguely familiar dark brown eyes and attractive cheekbones, looks back at him. He wears a small smile as he places a mug on the bedside table.

“It’s been a while, cousin.”

It is a familiar scene with a familiar feeling: The languid tone like silk in his ears, the aroma of coffee tickling his nose, and too-bright sunlight pushing through the thin curtains.

The only difference is that Isillud Losstarot isn't buck naked; he checked.

That's when he realises he's still in the present: He's at Falcon's Nest, he brought Rewelle here. He sits up but the room begins to spin and he falls back onto the pillow. "Rewelle, will she be alright…?"

That that should be Isillud’s first question makes Remont’s smile grow. 

“She’s been stabilised, the healer told us, but still not awake,” he says, putting the back of his hand against Isillud’s forehead, gently brushing his bangs aside, to check for a temperature. He puts it to the side of the patient’s face as well, for good measure. “We won’t move her home until she regains consciousness.”

Satisfied that there isn’t a fever, he settles a thin blanket back over Isillud, now a little paler from his exertions. Remont sits back in the wooden chair next to the bed.

Isillud leans into Remont's hand, reluctant enough to look a little pained when his cousin returns to his chair but awkward enough to not look him in the eyes. "I see," he simply says.

“I’m sorry to wake you, but the innkeeper said you’ve been out cold since you got them to see to Rewelle. Had to check if you were rational, in addition to being alive. Also to keep Dine from worrying herself to death over you.” The smile becomes rather rueful. “Her concern also involves your brother despite his absence. Do you wish us to let him know where you are?” The dark brown eyes take on a curious gleam. “Or are you expecting him shortly?”

Remont's question assures him that Joshua and Escher weren't around at least, though he silently prays they made it to Ishgard without rousing suspicion. "Just tell Joshua we are…well." His pretty face frowns a little, "...What are you doing here?"

The other man considers his response. Izzy looks like he's been crumpled up and thrown about like a - while still beautiful - scrap of paper despite the stoic message for his own brother. Whatever agreement they'd had in the past - when they’d found out exactly whose son each of them had been - doesn't preclude a little levity to try and ease the tension.

So he just says lightly, “Taking care of you, since it seems you can't be trusted to do it yourself.”

The tips of Isillud's ears flush slightly pink at Remont's answer. He's still your cousin, Izzy, he reminds himself. "I just do it differently," he retorts, sulking slightly. Remont might remember that he sleeps in and used to neglect regular meals but it doesn't mean he'll admit it. Not to family, anyway.

Remont chuckles. In culinary terms, it’d be a dark chocolate brownie of a laugh: delightful, warm, maybe just a little too rich for comfort. Just a touch.

“Very well, little cousin, though I’m not sure I agree with your methods.” He leans back in the chair, looking as comfortable as if it were the plushest armchair known to man. “I’m here to visit my dear old mother - a surprise from her darling boy whose new haircut I’m sure she will adore.” He turns his head left and right rather proudly.

Isillud can't help but smile at the cornrows in the side. "She will certainly have much to say about it. I don't think I fit the style, though I do see its appeal."

Remont almost asks whether his cousin sees the appeal in the haircut itself, or on him specifically, just to see if the smile will become a blush. 

Instead, he continues, “Also I wanted to see my celebrated cousins for myself. Dine says you’ve been acquitting yourselves well in high society.” 

Isillud twirls a lock of his hair, partly flustered and partly proud at Remont's compliment. "It's all Joshua, really. He has a knack for it I never had. And you? Are you still adventuring?"

“I'm flattered that you think me, a spoiled highborn son, an adventurer,” says Remont with a boyish grin. “Say rather I've not been travelling much, not since we’ve expanded the Ranch’s breeding facilities to keep up with demand. Even I’ve had to be on hand, getting up at odd hours to help feed the chicks and check on the nests. Yet I never thought I’d see orders coming from the likes of Doma, so it's worth it.”

"Never thought I'd see the day Remont de Aubemarle becomes a chocobo rancher instead of bounding off on the next adventure. Perhaps you might take up the mantle of Viscount too?" Isillud teases.

The other Elezen just smiles; he's not about to take easy bait like that. “Hardly. ‘Tis Dine’s good management, I believe, much like Joshua’s knack.” He gazes at Isillud for a short minute, as if looking for something. Then his smile seems to grow quite gentle. “Such reliable siblings we’ve been blessed with, Izzy. Strange, isn’t it, that they care so much for us in spite of our own opinions?” 

Isillud snuggles back into bed, loosening a button on his collar; he's not slept fully clothed in bed since childhood and it smothers him so. "As we do for them. It goes both ways."

Remont doesn't miss the flash of neck and collarbone, and also doesn't take such bait, sitting quite comfortably in his chair.

“Will you tell me what happened, if I ask nicely?” His tone would be more suited to asking whether Isillud prefers tea or coffee.

Isillud's beaming smile is half hidden by his pillow and the soft strands of white hair falling over his face. "Let me hear your best attempt first, cousin." Even if Remont is a cousin and older by a year, he's not going to let him off easy.

Remont snorts in amusement, enjoying the look of angelic innocence radiating off the other Elezen. it's the white hair, he thinks - quite a halo-like appearance. He moves his chair, just so he can lean closer.

“If you wanted a bedtime story, you could've just asked.” And because Remont can't help himself, he reaches out to stroke Isillud's soft hair, like he's soothing a child to sleep.

“The innkeeper says a man carried the lass in, and said he'd been hired to escort her to her cousin's in the Nest. They'd gotten caught in the attacks and she'd gotten hurt terribly. Please get a healer at once, the man had said, and a clean, airy room. Don't bother about him; he would shift for himself. Of course that wouldn't do, so this most compassionate proprietor had one of his workers give the man a room while they hastened for help for the poor young lady.

“Cillien and Lamb, the reason we found you, say the innkeeper perhaps had misheard. Lord Isillud had merely been kind enough to offer his escort for Rewelle to her cousin's at the Nest, particularly since her ladyship the Viscountess requested for both the lords’ assistance. They are here because they'd heard of the attacks and became worried.”

Remont's fingers don't stop their slow, languorous movements, just like his calm, even voice.

“It is extremely curious why you didn't take the easier route of the airship, and somehow ended up just outside the Bridge where the cliff got destroyed.”

His touch reminds Isillud of when his mother used to put him to bed, her long fingers gently massaging his scalp as she told stories of illustrious and noble ancestors.

"Extremely curious indeed," he murmurs, hovering over the edge of sleep with such gentle ministrations. "Why, it almost seems like it was entirely orchestrated to get rid of some ne'er do wells who had attacked one of the Viscountess's staff…and perhaps as a warning sign to the ignoble who employed them."

Remont just hums in reply, saying nothing more. He watches his cousin's eyes close fully again, making sure to keep patting Isillud's head till the breathing is slow, and even-paced.

“You and your brother have done much for us, Izzy,” he whispers. “I wonder if you even knew the risks you undertook.” He drops a quick – and to his credit, quite fraternal – kiss on Isillud's brow then rises to quietly leave the room.

Outside, his sister stands, hands crossed, staring at the door of Rewelle's room as if it had committed a cardinal sin. 

Only when he calls her name and touches her shoulder does she look up. The glare softens at once. “Is he alright?”

Remont nods. “Come, we shouldn't talk here. Let’s take a walk outside.”

The siblings head downstairs, where Cillien is having an overdue bite to eat. He stands when he sees his masters appear, but Oudine waves him back down. 

“It’s alright, please carry on with your meal. I must confer with my brother on what to do next.”

“Yes, milady.”

Remont throws him a smile as he nods at Cillien's plate. “Any good?”

Cillien returns a helpless grin. “Aubemarle has spoilt me hopelessly, milord, but it will do. Cook would have an opinion or three, I shouldn't wonder.”

Remont chuckles, and even Oudine finally cracks a smile. “Good man.” He gives Cillien another nod and walks with his sister out of the inn. 

Instinctively, Oudine tucks her hand around Remont's elbow as they begin their aimless stroll. The streets bustle with activity - people are running back and forth, spreading news and rumours alike. Several armoured men move amongst the crowd.

“It seems we owe our cousins thanks,” says Remont in a low voice, unfazed by his surroundings. 

“How so?” 

“Izzy alluded to an attack on one of the staff, and an ‘ignoble’ whom the attackers worked for.”

Oudine stares out into the street, swiftly putting theories and possible pieces together. “Ajax.” Her brows meet in a fierce glare. “That bastard arranged an attack on Rewelle?”

Remont is probably the only person who wouldn't bat an eyelash at Oudine swearing. “I am unsurprised. Even Tramault can't make things disappear if Ajax is involved directly.” He narrows his eyes. “The Losstarots must have lured Rewelle's attackers out of the city. I assume they had plans to get rid of them somehow, but dragonfire would have changed everything. I can't quite account for Joshua, but then, it's best for the head of the Losstarots not to be seen.” 

Oudine’s mind races with this new information. “Then that means they used Rewelle as bait. Joshua and Isillud might have been discovered. They could have been killed.” Her grip around Remont's elbow tightens. “Idiots.”

Remont pats her tense hand. “Rewelle wouldn't have agreed if she didn't want to.”

She shakes her head. “She's a maid in our employ. There is something to be said for power imbalances.”

“Like the one between us and the Gaussains,” replies Remont calmly. “I think they had little choice.”

Oudine falls silent, but her hold on his elbow does loosen a little.

“Why?” She asks at last. “Why would they do so much for us? For Rewelle? They're finally starting to see progress within Ishgard - the name of Losstarot is becoming more known for their generosity amongst the lowborn and abilities to the high. Why risk all that for… for such distant kin as us?”

Remont looks at his sister. “I thought you liked them.”

“I do like them, hence I refuse to treat them as tools to be used when convenient and put away when not,” says Oudine with frustration. “Rewelle too is not an object for us to move as and when we please.”

“...Dine.” now he pauses, so he can look her in the eye. His voice is gentle.

“Have you considered, perhaps, they also like our family enough to help us? That when they heard Rewelle was in trouble, they helped because it was right to do so, Gaussains or no?”

Oudine stares up at her younger brother's serious expression. Then she looks down, shaking her head at herself. 

Remont pulls her into a tight hug. “I'm sorry I left you with those Ishgardian beasts for so long, Viscount. You seem to have forgotten that there are trustworthy men even here.”

She closes her eyes, leans her forehead against his shoulder. “Then stay longer this time, Rem. At least long enough to help me hunt down one of them.”

He smirks. “You're set on it then.”

“Yes.” She raises her head, and the expression on her face resembles the Dowager's when provoked. “Gaussain has overreached.”

Remont's smirk widens. “Understood, milord. First, we have to take care of our injured.”

She nods. “I have some ideas.”

~*~

Early the next morning, a carriage draws up to the Losstarot residence. While Remont remembers Isillud's tendency to sleep in, they also want to check on Rewelle and Lamb who's been tasked to watch over her while the Aubemarle party returned to Ishgard the evening before.

Remont jumps down to go knock on the front door. 

“Remont de Aubemarle,” says the Elezen to Ser Drouhont. “Apologies for such short notice, but we're here for Lord Joshua de Losstarot. We'd like to bring him to Falcon's Nest, if he would be so kind as to accompany me and Viscount Oudine.”

"Mine apologies, but the young lord was entertaining an eminent Sharlayan scholar until late last night and is now nursing a dreadful headache. He has given express orders to not be disturbed." Drouhont bows deeply. "May I have the honour of passing him a message when he wakes?"

Remont only just manages to bite back a laugh at this frank declaration. He knows of Joshua enough to conclude Isillud isn't the only one paying for their part in this scheme.

“I understand. Pass him my sympathies, and an invitation to the Polar Head inn, in Falcon's Nest. If he can't rise, please reassure him we will return his brother safely before the day is out.”

When he returns to the carriage alone, Oudine just raises her eyebrows inquiringly. 

He grins. “Joshua is indisposed, but I've left the message. I'm sure he'll come find us.” Or not, depending on how long his head keeps pounding.

Oudine casts a doubtful look at him. “I know it's early but isn't he worried about Isillud?”

Remont snickers as the carriage goes on its way to the airship port. “Don't fret, Dine - those brothers have their own way of taking care of each other.”

Meanwhile, Drouhont closes the manor doors with a quiet click then drifts to the drawing room where Joshua lies with an ice pack on his head, shoes kicked off haphazardly and resting at a table leg.

"Fuck you Izzy, you left me with a fucking madman," Joshua mutters, the few short years spent in Limsa showing in his colourful language. He doesn't even move his head to look at Drouhont. "Who was it?"

"Lord Remont de Aubemarle came to bring you to Falcon's Nest to see your brother. I told them you are unwell as per your orders and he said he will return Isillud safely before the day is out."

Joshua tenses. He moves his head but moans when the room spins, returning to his initial position on the pillow. "So he's well, and they've found out."

"That would seem to be so, milord. Shall I prepare a carriage?"

"What for, to yell at him? We all know what happened. I'll yell at him when he comes back." Joshua turns to the backrest - the patterns are more soothing to sore eyes - and curls up. "Keep telling people I'm sick, Drouhont."

"Very well, milord." Drouhont bows and drifts out the door. He wonders briefly if his ex-commanding officer is aware of it yet.

~*~

Ser Lucille sighs at the slightly wider gap between Black Iron Bridge. "Dragonfire, you say?"

"Well, there was a report of a Sharlayan scholar at The Pike doin' some research."

She rolls her eyes. If it's who it is, the dragons are less paperwork. "We'll find them if we have the time. For now focus on weeding out the dragons. They must be around somewhere."

~*~

Sydney takes a sip of Thavnairian chai - hot, burning, and creamy, just the way he likes it. A half-folded letter is tossed carelessly onto a side table. "Nasser."

A tall broad-shouldered Raen pokes his head out from the kitchen, wiping his spice-laden hands. "Sir?"

"Our guest should be reaching the airship landing soon. Could you pick him up and bring him straight to his destination?"

"You do not wish to meet him?"

"I don't want to hear a common thug's desires." He removes his pince-nez to wipe the lenses.

"Very well." Nasser hangs up his apron by the door and heads out.

~*~

Back at the Polar Head, there is a knock, then another, on the door of Isillud's room. 

Lamb the footman had also been tasked to see to Isillud's needs. While it might have been a chore some days ago, Lamb now would run to Dalmasca and back if Isillud wished it. Anything could be done for the one who saved Rewelle.

“Lord Isillud?” 

Isillud groans at the door. Not even when he was in exile was he subject to so many interruptions. Instead he throws the pillow over his head and sleeps some more.

Lamb can’t help grinning when he hears the groan from within. Instead of leaving, he opens the door quietly. Without another sound so as not to disturb the snoozing figure in the bed, he leaves a can of hot water, an enamel basin and a fresh towel on the bedside table. On the chair, he drapes a clean shirt and trousers - originally Cillien’s - since he’s fairly sure Lord Isillud would prefer a change of clothes when he wakes, even if it’s just humble cotton and linen. 

He leaves as silently as he entered, then moves onto another room. Its occupant doesn’t open her eyes until he hovers over her.

She blinks awake, focuses on his face, and offers a smile. “No luck then?” she asks in a hoarse, weak voice. It’s still music to Lamb’s ears after her entire ordeal. 

It is well after midnight, in some blessed hour, when Lamb is jolted awake from where he’s bent over, half sleeping on Rewelle’s bed. His lower back yells mutiny at him, but it is nothing since he’d just felt someone touch his hair.

The candles have gone out, but he can vaguely see her looking at him.

“Thank the Fury and all the gods,” says Lamb fervently, grasping her hand and pressing it to his lips without thinking. He gets up to see her face closer, still holding onto her hand. 

“Where…” she tries, but the sound is weak and creaky. She winces at a pain that shoots into her torso.

“Falcon’s Nest. Lord Isillud rescued you.” 

She breathes out, relieved. “Is he… safe?”

“Yes, he’s alright. He’s fine.” 

“Good…” Her eyes begin to close again, sleep regaining its hold. “Stay, please?”

The grip on her hand gets tighter. “I’m not going anywhere. Not without you.”

Rewelle smiles, then drifts back to sleep.  

He shakes his head. “Think milord’s sleeping off the amount of heroics from yesterday.” 

Rewelle chuckles, though it aches to do so. “No armour, yet a knight.”

Lamb tucks a loose strand behind her ear. “For which I’ll be eternally grateful.”

She looks at him with her dark eyes, taking in his expression. “...thank you, Lamb.”

“Whatever for?”

The smile, even with lips as pale as hers, is rather like early summer: lovely and bright. “Everything.”

Lamb can’t say anything to that, so he just leans over to kiss her forehead. “Could you keep anything down, do you think?”

“Not yet. Maybe… maybe after her ladyship arrives.” Rewelle sighs. “She knows?”

Lamb smiles helplessly. “I think she and Lord Remont worked it out. She said she had a plan for you.”

“...am I going to lose my job?”

Lamb laughs the first hearty laugh he’s done in weeks. 

~*~

“I left him some things in case he woke up before you arrived, milord, but so far he hasn’t stirred.”

While a much-relieved Oudine has gone in to visit Rewelle, Remont laughs outside in the corridor. He holds a box in one hand. “I expected as much. I’ll take it from here, Lamb. Thank you.”

The footman bows with an amused smile, letting his master be. 

“Izzy, I’m coming in whether you're ready or not,” he says out loud. 

Within the room: "If you're not naked and down to fuck, I'm not accepting," Isillud mumbles softly into his pillow through gritted teeth. What does he need to do to get some proper sleep around here??

The door remains shut. From experience, Remont has to surmise he's being cussed at. 

“I've no idea what you're saying, but it can't be good,” he says with much amusement. “Do I have to eat all of these eclairs myself then?”

Oh, to be torn between sweets and sweet slumber, Isillud's eyes snap open but only to consider whether Remont meant literally or figuratively. "Urghhh," he groans, rolling out of bed (still in his previous clothes because he's lazy like that) and shuffling to the door, swinging it open.

To Remont, Isillud is, in a word, amusing: the messy hair, tired circles under his eyes, clouded green irises - no one would believe this was the absurdly beautiful Lord de Losstarot who visited the Viscountess just three days past even.

He takes about five seconds to absorb the details of this shambling husk of a noble, then grins.

“Dear cousin, if you're going to insist on being a hero, then you'll have to bear the consequences.” Remont holds up the box. “Half a dozen of ‘Lord Isillud's favourites’, with Cook's compliments, since ‘his lordship actually asked for it a while ago’.”

He ruffles Isillud's bedhead affectionately. “Have a few of those, then get dressed if you please. Rewelle and Dine would like to see you.”

"I didn't ask for it to turn out that way," Isillud mutters, scratching his hair and his crotch with the coordination of a seasoned pro before taking the box. "...give me half a bell."

After scarfing down three, he finally feels human enough to wash his face, wipe the grime and dirt from his body and change into the clean clothes laid out on a chair, though the gloves stay on. He claps his hands to dispel the dust as best he can, pockets the ear clasp, then heads out to meet everyone, prim and proper as he can look in the given circumstances.

In the corridor, Remont smiles approvingly at Isillud’s improvements. “This way, my lord.” He leads the way to Rewelle’s room, and opens the door.  

Inside, on the same kind of bed Isillud wishes he was still in, Rewelle lies under some blankets, covering her up to her shoulders. Her complexion has barely any colour in it, and the morning light shows scratches and bruises across one side of her face. But her eyes are open and clear, looking at Oudine who sits closely by her bedside.

When those same eyes catch sight of Isillud, Rewelle gives him the widest, warmest smile she can manage. She would have done the same even if he had been covered in slime and mould. 

“Lord Isillud,” she says hoarsely, but in a welcoming tone. 

Oudine glances up at him and though she doesn't really smile, she wordlessly vacates her chair, gesturing towards it. 

Thinking it a courtesy that should last no more than a few minutes (Rewelle needs her rest after all), Isillud stands at the foot of the bed, politely declining Oudine with a shake of his head and a raised palm. 

"How are you holding up?"

Oudine steps aside as her brother uses one hand to gently push him forward. “You won’t hear her from there,” says Remont.

Isillud is duly moved closer to where Rewelle’s head rests on the pillow. She can’t help a tiny laugh at the way the nobleman seems so hesitant, quite unlike any highborn she’s seen before. “Alright enough, milord.” Her eyes shine up at him despite the lack of strength in her voice. “More than I would be without your help. Thank you for saving my life.”

He is about to speak, but stops. What does he say?

You're welcome.

It was nothing.

'Tis your courage that saved you.

Nothing works. She must not know it didn't go to plan. Oudine will have our heads if she knows how much danger Rewelle was in. But they already know she was out where she shouldn't be, and he brought her back; the circumstances are too suspect; too timely.

Between the choice to tell all or to leave questions, he answers the only question that needs answering: He takes out the ruby clasp and gently places it on her blanket. "They will harass you no more, Rewelle. Breathe easy."

Remont sees the ruby glint under the light, and recalls years ago, when he was still regularly haunting all the smoky clubs and lounges highborn Ishgardian sons patronised, how often Ajax's older brothers had complained they couldn't wear other jewels in front of their father. That everything was about those ‘damned Thavnairian rubies’ they couldn't get rid of. Seems like the baby of the family was allowed to bend the rules, thinks Remont with some wry amusement.

His sister is reflecting on a different memory. He said that to me when he visited us the first time, thinks Oudine from where she stands behind them. I wonder who gave him similar reassurances. Why it was needed.

That last question is answered as soon as it is asked. It had been five years in exile, five years of shame; five years of having your family torn apart and scattered to the winds, not knowing if anyone had survived. Not knowing if you could survive without hope of regaining what you'd lost.

Breathing easily, concludes Oudine, would have been a luxury.

From where she lies, Rewelle looks down at the valuable earring. Her eyes widen at the implications. She tries to lift her hand but her body still feels too heavy. So she wiggles her fingers from out of the blankets at least, managing to pinch Isillud's loose sleeve (Cillien's shirt had been a few ilms wider in just about every measurement - a common occurrence when your frame is as rake-thin as Isillud's).

“Then… it's over?” She even glances at her masters, as if to seek confirmation. Remont smiles, Oudine nods. Rewelle looks back up at her rescuer, whose face is all kindness, and tears cannot help but spill over.  

Months of torment ended. Yisa avenged. There is hope again for the normalcy she had once enjoyed before all this. She could walk freely again, on her own, without fear.

Though it hurts to do so, Rewelle breathes in, so she can speak a little louder, with more emphasis. “I can never repay you, milord. Not in this lifetime. But you will be in my prayers every night. Thank you, truly.”

Isillud's sleeve slides a little off his shoulder, gooseflesh showing on his grey complexion. He simply nods. He doesn't deserve her gratitude, not when he's the reason she's in bed. He looks at Remont, silently pleading, ‘Can I go now?’

Without missing a beat, Remont steps forward. “Come, Rewelle. Lord Isillud is a rather shy individual,” he says, winking at her conspiratorially, and moving her hand gingerly back under the blankets. “And Lamb will turn us into porridge if we keep you up any longer. Do us a favour and rest; there’ll be time later.”

Rewelle smiles through the tears. “Yes, milord.”

Remont puts both hands on Isillud’s shoulders, not bothering to put the sleeve back. “Almost done, cousin. Courage now,” he murmurs as he steers Isillud out of the room, without letting him go. 

They wait outside, Isillud confused – more courage? Again? –  while Remont is poker-faced and keeps his hands on Isillud’s shoulders. Then Oudine emerges from the room a minute later, shutting the door behind her. 

She gazes at Isillud, more serious than he has ever seen her. Every time they have met before, whether in public or private, Oudine has always had a welcoming smile and a kind greeting for him and Joshua. This… is new.

“You risked so much more than your lives, do you know?” she says, low-voiced, her grey eyes directed straight at his green ones. “This is Gaussain we face. Gaussain, with direct line to Durendaire. Gaussain, with such wealth and power, Haillenarte had to be extra careful in rejecting their offers - Count Baurendouin himself would have capitulated, if not for Lord Stephanivien.”

Remont squeezes his shoulders; warmth goes through Isillud’s skin. Courage.

“Gaussain holds us Aubemarles in his hands, at least until recently. I was too young and desperate to understand when he offered to help after our father died, but that is Tramault’s way: find the weak, hold them by the neck until they go limp or die.” Her fists are clenched tight, white at the knuckles. “And Mamma decided it was fine to ask you to do this, to endanger yourselves for us, when you and Joshua have worked so hard…!”

In one swift movement, Isillud is yanked from Remont’s hold into a tight hug, Oudine’s fierce whisper beside his ear and her arms around his shoulders.

“Don’t you dare do this again, Isillud de Losstarot. We could have lost all of you…!”

She knocks the wind out of him with her sisterly embrace and the implications of his involvement begin to dawn on his groggy mind.

The rules have changed. They are no longer commoners where what the rich do have nothing to do with them, nor does getting rid of a spoilt brat's thugs simply stop at the thugs. In Ishgard, the chain is long, sometimes obscured by multiple links as it trails up, up the long ladder of command, winding and doubling back on rungs.

They have yanked the chain. Once Tramault de Gaussain cottons on to what he and Joshua are doing, there is no turning back.

But this is what Joshua wants. For noble House Losstarot to be where it was. Where we were. If it means knocking House Gaussain off its pedestal, it is the path we choose to walk.

A hand slowly, carefully creeps up Oudine's back and pats it. Once, then twice. 

We will rise, we will rise. And when we return then the reckoning begins.

"Thank you for your concern, cousin."

The End (for now).

[May the Rood ever flourish.]

-

#ffxiv oc #ffxiv rp #isillud losstarot #joshua losstarot #oudine de aubemarle #remont de aubemarle #rewelle laubaut #lambin forrest #oudine my love how are you so kind but have so many trust issues (I know how but still) #she had a Very Long Word with her mother the night before #not that the Dowager was remotely sorry for getting others involved but the point was made #the entire Aubemarle staff now is going to think Izzy is honestly really shy in private #Joshua you poor boy what did Escher DO

[housedeaubemarle]

A House Call: Epilogue du Oudine

Follows after the events of 'A House Call'.

~*~

On the same day that two servants of House Aubemarle delivered their employer’s messages in the morning, two highborn Ishgardians sit down to afternoon tea in the Viscount’s personal study. The Dowager is having her afternoon repose, so there is no danger of being interrupted. 

Which is why there is no hesitancy in one of them speaking in a rather disbelieving tone, “Let me see if I have this right. As penance for this social transgression, you dropped right into their laps: invitations to events where you undoubtedly will introduce them personally to your inner circles, access to two extremely popular entertainment venues to increase their chances of being noticed and spoken to, new custom designs by one of our foremost fashion houses and free, efficient transportation. And you even included treats.”

Oudine breathes in the sweet fragrance of her mulled tea, tinged with spices she couldn’t name. Ishgardian tea was all well and good, but the stronger taste of Ul’dah’s beverage is a better comfort in times of consternation.

“Yes. Though Etoile is already acquainted with them by happenstance, and I'm not entirely sure what such experienced traders and travellers who’ve seen the ravages of a Garlean occupation would need with mere Chocobos, so perhaps those don't count.”

“Oudine de Aubemarle, you’ve basically handed them the key to the city.”

“Don't exaggerate, Vliaisse; House Losstarot is still related to all four High Houses of Ishgard. This is just-”

“Just? What is ‘just’ about these favours they have received? This isn't even counting how often and how much you've mentioned ‘my lords Joshua and Isillud Losstarot’ in such glowing terms as to directly contradict the rumours of their false claims to the title. I was right there when you told Lord Hugenot himself you had had the pleasure of their visit, hoping to further their acquaintance, a fresh addition to the usual faces in Ishgard etcetera etcetera!”

Oudine has to smile. “Your memory is truly a marvel, my dear.”

“For Fury’s sake, debutantes would have sold a kidney for a box at the theatre, their soul for the invitation to the Maintigny ball - I hear that Valentione and Lanencourt are already answered for. There're rumours speculating which of the Fortemps themselves will be there -  not just if they'll go, look you. Then there's your mother's concert. Your aunt de Hellyes always attends with Lord Domin himself, and let me guess: your aunt Vaillant and her progeny have said they will come.” When Oudine nods, Vliaisse throws up one hand in exasperation. “That puts everything in place then, from Aubemarle to Vaillant to Durendaire if they know what they're about. And from what you've told me, at least one of them knows how to do this little highborn cotillion of ours. They'll go from heretical outcasts to belles of the ball in a month!”

“I doubt a month will be enough.”

“Three months then, after the child lord attains majority,” says Vliaisse dismissively. “Are they cognisant of the honours given them? Have you considered what will happen if your efforts are for nothing? If they squander all the apologies you thought necessary?”

Oudine sighs. “I have. It still ought to have been done, even if they give me the cut direct in future.”

Vliaisse raises an eyebrow. “Good gods, darling, you didn't murder the man in your home. Was it really so bad as that? Your mother, respectfully, is famous for her uncongeniality. If they are as highborn as they claim, and have intention to make headway in your circles, they ought to have been more prepared. You just said the Losstarots are kin to all the High Houses - why then begin with Aubemarle?”

Oudine doesn’t answer, merely looking coolly at her friend. A pair of sharp eyes, blue as the waters of the Rhotano Sea, return a steady gaze. 

She breathes out, setting her cup down. “I can only suppose they heard of the Viscount de Aubemarle’s naivete.”

Vliaisse tsks disapprovingly. “Come now, self-pity is not the thing. You are a grown woman of thirty two, not a child.”

“If you persist in cutting up my good offices and casting shadows over the pieces, then I shall indulge in as much sulking as I like.”

The other Elezen frowns a little more at her before relenting. “Very well. Still, let us have the full account. I’ll not make a peep till you are done.” Her hand reaches across to pat Oudine’s soothingly.

Mollified, the Viscount narrates the short but eventful morning call that day, her mother’s testing of the new head of House Losstarot, the mystifying perspicaciousness of Lord Isillud and the unintentioned offence which had been committed.

Vliaisse does as she promised, listening patiently and keenly. For Oudine’s sake, she holds back a laugh at the part about the eclair, then frowns towards the ending.

“So, Vliaisse? Did the error merit such apologies?”

The darker skinned woman shakes her head slowly. “Well… if I were in your shoes, an invitation to the concert and Mr Ofanleitasyn's pastries would honestly have answered. But,” she says quickly when Oudine looks distressed. “We all know of your usual generosity in normal circumstances. Now that you are the one who has erred, I understand better.”

There is a short pause before Vliaisse continues, carefully. “You must realise that in the grand, crude, scheme of things, they have won. If they don’t act accordingly…” it will be the fault of House Aubemarle for pushing their reintroduction.

Oudine twists her lips in a grimace. “Yes, if one must put it that way. But I would rather be a gracious loser.” The memory of Joshua's eager curiosity and Isillud's soothing reassurance cannot but surface. 

“I want to believe in them, Vliaisse. When men return from the dead, I would rather not bury them back in the earth. Besides, sins of the father should not be inherited by the sons.”

Vliaisse notes the faraway look in Oudine's eyes. She and Remont had always been close, and closer still after their father's death; to have her brother necessarily faraway created a space within Oudine that no one else really filled. And for one who exerted herself so much in public, those she could be at ease with behind closed doors were fewer than Vliaisse thought was healthy. 

She sighs. “I suppose the hammer that accidentally strikes fingers instead of the nail still produces bruises, in spite of its intentions. And for someone as composed as Lord Isillud, it must have been a particularly large one.”

“Yes. And if I think of someone bruising me in relation to my own mother…” Oudine makes a low dissatisfied grunt. 

“...the Dowager does not deserve you.”

Oudine has to smile at that familiar phrase. “Don’t be too hard on her. More than half of those apologies were through her sole arrangements.”

“What, even Cant and Candour?”

“Even that. She promised her patronage for one future production in exchange. Not,” she lifts her hand to forestall Vliaisse's next comment. “Aubemarle money. Her own.”

Vliaisse closes her mouth. “Hmm.” There’s a moment’s pause, then she leans in, whispering theatrically, “I don’t suppose she’s lost a marble or two?”

“Vliaisse!” but Oudine is laughing now, and at least the air is some degrees lighter. They resume sipping their teas in a comfortable quiet.

Vliaisse stirs her cup contemplatively. “Still, at the end of the day, one has to wonder why such a story set him off. I see no harm in learning what one’s mother was like before one’s birth.”

Oudine shakes her head. “I meant what I said in my letter: sacred ground. ‘Tis not for you nor I nor Mamma to touch.” She takes a swig of her warm tea, pauses and says, “Mamma said Lord Isillud needs more armour if he is to stay here. I wonder if he has not already too much armour in some other way - the kind that makes his eyes glow so… preternaturally green.”

“...Oudine, you’re related.”

The Viscount instantly swats her friend’s hand. “I was not going in that direction, and you know it. Ridiculous to even suggest it.”

“Yes, since you don’t specialise in eclairs-”

“Vliaisse Vilauclaire!”

Vliaisse giggles. “Whatever Lord Isillud de Losstarot is or is not, he had best be ready. Even without your involvement, his appearance alone has stirred up the hornet's nest, as has Lord Joshua’s youth, to say nothing of the unspeakable reason they vanished from Ishgard five years ago. The gossips will have much material to work with in the coming months. To think I only anticipated explosions from the Fiouront affair. What, have you not heard the latest? Seems the heir has…”

Oudine props her cheek up with one hand, letting her friend draw her into the familiar but ever-roiling rhythm of other highborn scandals. Her own brush with it has taught her she has more stomach for being a spectator.

I have done my part, Losstarots, and so has Mamma. It shall not be the fault of Aubemarle if you do not regain your footing.

-

End.

#ffxiv oc #ffxiv rp #ffxiv oc lore #oudine de aubemarle #vliaisse vilauclaire #isillud losstarot #joshua losstarot