Chapter Text
Alphinaud remembers the night of Lyse’s disappearance very well. He had been a very curious child with a very poor sleep schedule, and often he had waited until all those tasked with making sure he was in bed were assured he would stay there and then slipped out through the hidden passage at the back of the closet. Usually he made his way to his own private library nearby, which he had arranged specially to make sure that a small lamp lit in the corner would not cast light visible under the door, but that night he had a specific tome in mind—after ten years he could not actually recall which—and so he braved the staircase down to the library. He had not been too worried, for it was late enough that most of the Estate was asleep, and he was decently adept at dodging those members of the staff still active. He had nearly charged directly into the library, lamp in hand, only to stop short when he heard voices.
“The girl is only nineteen,” hissed his father. “She should not be running off to confront the Empire! The conflict already took her sister and now you send her into the lion's den?!”
Alphinaud flattened himself against the wall, then nervously peaked around it. His father and grandfather both stood in the center of the grand Leveilleur Library, positioned on either side of the large meeting table that stood at its center. Fourchenault was bent over, hands braced on the smooth walnut wood. Louisoix stood as poised as ever, posture firm but eyes sympathetic. Carefully Alphinaud dimmed his little lamp and crept inside, ducking into an aisle formed by two towering bookshelves.
“I am sending her nowhere,” Louisoix said, voice calm. “She is an adult, graduated from gleaner training, and she has volunteered. Besides, her closest friends, save Moenbryda, now all reside in Eorzea. Her ties to her homeland are st—”
“This is her homeland!” Fourchenault interrupted, slamming his fist on the table between them. “She has dwelt within Sharlayan land since she was six! She has lived on the mainland since she was ten! She lived in this house for a time, until Yda achieved her archonage, and if she has few ties to this land it is because she has had you in her ear all her life, whispering about a homeland she barely remembers!”
“You assume she would have forgotten only because that is a more convenient narrative for you and yours!” Alphinaud had never heard his grandfather raise his voice. He still hadn’t, not really, but his tone held much more force than usual. Alphinaud drew closer to the shadows, though there was no sign either man had noticed his presence.
“It is sensible!” his father snapped back. “Here she is comfortable, safe, and has access to the best education in the world!”
“Not every person shares your priorities, Fourchenault. It would behoove your career to remember that.”
“Do not condescend to me, Father!” This, too, was a first—the first time Alphinaud had heard his own father refer to his grandfather with that same title. It was a shock, but instantly he rationalized the feeling away. It was silly to be surprised—he knew how families worked, knew that his grandfather was by definition his father’s father—and since Alphinaud was not silly, he must not have been surprised. Instead, perhaps, he had been shocked by the venom with which it had been said. “Father” was a respectful title, but here it seemed almost like a curse.
“I will not. I simply mean to say that if you assume all those who strive for different goals are fools, you will miss the opportunity to examine your own.”
“And have you examined your own goals, and found them worthy of sending teenagers to the battlefield? When will your grandchildren be grist for the mill of war?!”
His grandfather remained calm before his father’s rage. “No matter what Alisaie and Alphinaud choose to do with their lives, I will accept it as their own choice, the same as I have with you and even Liamaine. It is my purpose to set a possible example, not make myself a mold for any of you to break yourselves to fit within.”
Fourchenault deflated, taking a deep and shuddering breath as he collapsed into one of the library’s many chairs. Alphinaud, in contrast, felt the world open up before him. He had always respected his grandfather and father in equal turn, but it had been assumed he would follow in his father’s footsteps. His path was to achieve academic excellence, join the Forum, choose a suitable wife and have suitable children, and support both his sister and all others who fell under the Leveilleur’s sphere of influence in their own pursuits. Now, though, he realized for the first time that he did not have to simply become his father. He could be like his grandfather instead—he could forge his own path and still be respected, accepted, try to change the world instead of letting it define him.
“...Mayhaps you might have raised the issue with Lyse herself,” said Louisoix, gently, after a long moment. “But now the chance has passed. I hope you learn from this, Fourchenault. Good night, and for dear Ameliance’s sake pray return to bed anon.”
He leaned close to Fourchenault, pressing a hand to his shoulder for but a moment, and then turned to leave. Alphinaud did his best to remain still, his breath caught in his throat. For a second he could have sworn that his Grandfather’s eyes flickered to him—or perhaps it was a trick of the distant lamplight. Either way he said nothing, striding out of the library and down the hall and disappearing into the dark. Fourchenault remained for some time longer, his breathing strangely slow and regular, as if he was keeping time in his head. When he left, he showed not a sign of noticing his son.
Alphinaud waited ten minutes before he dared to step from his hiding spot. He no longer cared for whatever tome had drawn him down there. Now, he searched for those books penned by Louisoix himself; on ethics, on political theory, and on the benefits of connection with their fellow citizens of the star. He remembers that he did not sleep until well after dawn, that the staff found him curled in his private library around a pile of books. On that night, a new Alphinaud Leveilleur was born.
When next he wakes, it is to his mother’s gentle voice and only slightly less gentle touch.
“Alphinaud, sweetheart, we need you to wake up,” she says, shaking his shoulder so lightly it’s really more of a rub. He nods, softly, and peels his eyes open against their protestations. The only light that greets him is the artificial glow of crystal lamps, but that is to be expected; after all, there are no windows in his bedchamber. He cannot quite make out the face of the chronometer opposite him, but judging by his mother’s clothes—comfortable, but still suited for leaving the house in style—it is mid to late afternoon. The room is quite full, a veritable crowd of chirurgeons (well, six) standing in a loose line between the bed and the door. Most are unfamiliar, but two Alphinaud recognizes. The first is the family doctor, of course. Teru Felyene took over for her mother, who was a close friend of his grandfather, and she has known the twins since they were born. The next is one Alphinaud has never met in full, but is certainly recognizable. Viachent Prelanoix is a Forum member and a frequent friend and ally to his father- but Alphinaud knows that before he joined the august body he was a medical researcher. He never looked into the man’s expertise, but from what he has heard Prelanoix was highly acclaimed in his field.
Closer to hand is his family. Liamiane and Lyse are both absent, but his mother is bent over him, her long hair trailing over her shoulder and just barely brushing his arm. Behind her his father stands vigil, straight backed and straight faced, and Alisaie sits by his bedside. Her bangs are untouched, but beyond that her hair has been cut quite short, especially in the back. It rests in a place between spikes and waves, and suits her quite well. The sad remains of his own hair certainly don’t look as good. “It seems you found someone possessed of scissors,” he teases, and she rolls her eyes.
“Liam ended up cutting it for me,” she says, and Alphinaud can tell she’s a little bit sore that she needed help from their aunt. He hadn’t known his aunt was so good at haircutting. To be honest, he hadn’t known she was good at anything besides carousing.
He turns from Alisaie and nods to his mother and father once more, then says a word of greeting to Miss Felyene, who thankfully is a touch closer than the rest of the chirurgeons. With a barely repressed grunt, he pulls himself up further, and Ameliance rushes to help prop him up with a profusion of pillows that seem to have been stacked nearby for this very purpose. “Thank you, Mother,” he says quietly, and then he summons his strength and addresses the rest of the room. “Thank you all for coming to my aid. Forum Member Prelanoix, I hope my father did not pull you from important work in his anxiety.”
Prelanoix laughs. He has a reputation as an amicable man, Alphinaud knows, and a committed moderate. He voted against the plan to let the Scions assist in completing the Ragnarok, but for their ultimate use of it to reach Ultima Thule. “Nothing of the sort. As I’m sure you have surmised, aetheric injuries were actually the subject of my research! I never tried for an archonage, but I was heavily involved in most of the studies on how aetheric injuries come about and the best methods of treatment. I was actually putting together a study that I hoped would make a solid foundation for a thesis on finding ways to lessen the physical toll of somanoutics, but when I was elected to the Forum I was advised to stop such research—too close to suggesting sages should be more suited to battle, which was already a hot issue with the then-recent development of the Kardia bond. But now that the Bibliothecs are expected to lose their stranglehold on the Forum quite drastically in the next election, it seemed an opportune moment to resume the research! Besides, I’m all out of debates about spaceborn illnesses to occupy my time.”
Alphinaud takes a deep breath, and smiles. He hopes its weakness comes across as a simple lack of strength. Prelanoix’s tone is amicable indeed, so amicable it verges on glib. Abandoning research for politics—unfortunately, it is far more common than one would hope for the supposed city of knowledge. Still, this man will be a critical part of his ongoing treatment, and it would be wise to avoid making an enemy of him. “Then I am in your care—”
“How can you call yourself a healer?!” In an instant, Alisaie has quit her place by his side and is instead as close to yelling in Prelanoix’s face as she can manage at her height. “You abandon life-saving research for politics? To avoid upsetting the damn Bibliothecs?! Was it worth it, to abandon any standards you might have to chase the prestige of working for a bunch of rabbits?!”
Despite the height difference, her speech works to her desired effect—Prelanoix has backed up against the wall, eyes wide even as he tries to regain his easy smile.
“Ah, Lady Alisaie! I see the years have not dulled your spirit—”
“Is spirit what we’re calling principles these days?” she growls. Her hand twitches dangerously close to her rapier, then clenches into a fist instead. Alphinaud hopes she’s not planning on punching the man.
“Alisaie!” Fourchenault finally calls out, recovering first from the collective shock that fell upon the room. But Alphinaud knows she will not stop for their father, not for a second. With some small reluctance he pushes down any satisfaction he has at her outburst.
“Alisaie,” he says, his voice infinitely quieter than Fourchenault’s. Still, she stops in her tracks, rocking back on her heels to give Prelanoix some much needed breathing room. She’s still scowling, but her shoulders drop, and after a long second she takes a step away and towards the door.
“I can’t be here right now,” she mutters. “I—I’ll be back later, Alphinaud.” And she’s gone, the slam of the door behind her the only thing that dares to break the silence she leaves in her wake. After a long moment, Alphinaud realizes it's up to him to bring the discussion back to where it needs to be.
“...Then I am in your care,” he says, unable to find a more graceful transition than repeating himself. “And I will be happy to cooperate with any and all requests your research makes of me.”
“Within reason,” Ameliance says, quickly. Her eyes, which had still been focused on the door, flit back to Prelanoix, and for a second he looks as if he is being lectured by Alisaie once again. But Mother has an easy and welcoming smile, and while he still seems on edge a bit of the tension dissipates.
“Within reason, of course,” he says, finally stepping forward to stand with his team. “You are quite sick, Lord Alphinaud, and we would not want to place undo burden on your recovery. Our top priority is your health, and the health of the rest of the former Scions. We have invited them all back to Sharlayan—although I am sure they were already planning the trip, for your sake!—we have invited them all back so that we can use the Studium’s medical equipment and make sure none of them have any traces of aetheric injury.” His eyes flick to the door Alisaie just slammed, and Alphinaud’s relief that the rest of the Scions will be tested is perhaps laced with just a hint of smug pride at how hard Alisaie has shaken him.
Still, though, while Alisaie can say what she wants, it behooves Alphinaud to be diplomatic. “I appreciate all you are doing for us, and I am sure my comrades will say the same. Expertise such as yours is valuable beyond words, and I can think of no greater privilege than for such a wealth of information to be put to my care.”
Prelanoix relaxes, finally, and smiles down at Alphinaud. “Well! Any chirurgeon would be pleased to have such a polite patient. Now then, since you still seem to be awake enough to converse, do you mind if I discuss your current condition with you? I am sure the Thavnairians did their best, but I want to make sure we are on the same page.”
Alphinaud suppresses a sigh. Sharlayan’s sense of superiority is legendary—a sin he has inherited from his homeland, and must work every day to temper. Even Thavnair, in many ways their closest ally (to the extent that Sharlayan can historically be said to have close allies, of course) cannot escape its gravity. “Trust me, my care team in Radz-at-Han was quite thorough,” he says. He isn’t lying, but he is leaving out that beyond the conversation when he was first cognizant he doesn’t remember most of it. He’s sure that they spoke to him and reasonably certain that he probably seemed awake and alert, but years of poor sleep have given him a marked ability to affect wakefulness even when quite faint. He knows this is something he should rectify, but he doesn’t particularly wish to give Prelanoix the pleasure.
Prelanoix’s brow furrows. “I really think it would be for the best,” he says. Had the man always had such an obnoxious little smile? It almost reminds him of Hancock. He tries his best to shake that thought off before it can take root. The last thing he needs during a lengthy recovery period is constant reminders of that worm of a man.
“I assure you,” he says, “I am well informed, and will be making efforts to continue as such.”
Prelanoix relents. Sharlayans usually do, in the face of a calm but confident demeanor. It was perhaps the earliest lesson Alphinaud ever learned. Back then he thought it was all adults, but his travels across Hydaelyn and beyond have taught him that it truly is a Sharlayan weakness. Prelanoix bows and says his goodbyes, mostly directed towards Father, and then he and his team are gone. Alphinaud sinks back into bed. Never had he thought there would come a day when simple conversations leave him so exhausted, and now that such a day has come he is quite ready for it to pass.
Miss Felyene moves to the instruments, getting to work examining the information they present. His parents share a glance. After a moment, his father speaks.
“....I understand that you are tired,” he starts. His voice is not exactly soft, but the harshest of its tones have dulled. Alphinaud supposes this is Father’s version of the voice Alisaie uses on animals. “And I will not ask you to push yourself further—but I do believe it best you discuss your current condition with Prelanoix. He is an expert, and while I understand you almost certainly share Alisaie’s feelings towards him…” he sighs.
From the look on both their faces, Alphinaud is fairly sure they can tell he wasn’t entirely honest with Prelanoix. A different tact, then.
“I just didn’t wish to take up too much of the Forum member’s time,” he says. “While I was in a bit of a daze during my time in Radz-at-Han, I do remember most of the general points, and I am quite sure both Lyse and Alisaie have the picture in full. I hope to request literature on the subject as well. Trust me, Mother, Father, I do not intend to wallow in ignorance, nor do I intend to turn my face from the truth.”
For a second he worries that it won’t work. Neither of them look particularly convinced. They share another glance, and then, thankfully, his father nods and steps away, going to converse with Miss Felyene. Ameliance sits down in the spot Alisaie vacated.
“...I understand that it might be hard on you,” she starts, and Alphinaud finds himself already dreading whatever will come next, “But I think it would be very nice if we could all have breakfast and dinner together. Fourchenault promised to eat two meals a day at home, for the time being, and why not make the best of it?”
He blinks. Whyever would having breakfast with his family prove any more of a problem then the rest of the situation he finds himself in? Aside from his fatigue- but is omnipresent regardless, and he should hope they would not begrudge him a touch of rest at the table. “Of course,” he says, relieved that this is all it was. She smiles warmly and leans forward, kissing his forehead.
“Then we’ll let you rest for now. Those instruments will let us know if you have any sort of trouble, so you can sleep easily, my litt—my sweetheart.”
He is not Alisaie. He lets the lapse go by without comment, and kisses her on the cheek with what strength remains, and as soon as he is left alone he is once again asleep.
He wakes so slowly and gently that he cannot even tell the difference between sleep and reality. Even without a window, he can tell it’s night.The lamps are all off, the room lit entirely by the light cast by the monitoring equipment. His eyelids are too heavy to open all the way, and he lets them flutter shut. There are voices in the room with him, deep in a conversation that he doesn’t yet have the wherewithal to decipher. Instead he just basks in their presence, the ambiance of soft voices during a gentle rest. He’s usually a very light sleeper, like to wake at any noise in his immediate vicinity, but it seems that for the time being his injury has cured him. It’s surprisingly nice, he thinks, to be surrounded like this. Of course it cannot last forever—he knows how painfully susceptible he is to being spoiled—but for now he is almost tempted to relax into it, to let their care wash over him. It can’t set him too far back, right? He breathes deeply, settling back into sleep—
“Are you or are you not a parent, Fourchenault?!”
Oh, it was an argument. Well.
His father’s voice remains calm, but Alphinaud has traded barbs with the man oft enough to know when one has hit its mark. “Of course I am. I want my children to succeed, to be the best they can possibly be, and in this regard they have far surpassed any expectations I had of them.”
“And do you want them to be happy?! Healthy?!” It’s his aunt’s voice, he realizes. He had thought the idea of his mother actually arguing with his father was odd indeed.
“Obviously!” Liamaine is rewarded with some real venom in his father’s voice—she really is getting him worked up. Alphinaud is almost impressed at the craft on display. “That is why my son is home, being treated by the best chirurgeons in the world!”
“I’m not talking about what’s happening now, Fourchenault—”
“And when he obtained the injury he was following his own path, living according to his own ideals. He is an adult, Liamaine. His choices are his own—or would you rather I have kept them trapped in Sharlayan?”
She laughs. “As if the thought didn’t run through your head a thousand times! Don’t preach to me about how accepting you are of your children’s choices; I know all about the little disownment stunt. And I’m not talking about that either. I’m talking about letting two eleven year old children into our stars’ grand temple of overworking yourself!”
“That was their decision as well! Alphinaud applied and wrote his admittance thesis without even telling us!”
“And he was eleven! Tell him no! Tell him it’s an absolutely idiotic idea and that there’s a reason nobody enters the damn place so early!”
Alphinaud is starting to get quite tired of his aunt—but that is no obscure feeling to those acquainted with Liamaine Leveilleur.
“They were both perfectly capable of making their own choices and following their own convictions!” He can hear his father pacing. For a man who technically makes his trade debating, his tells have always been laughably obvious. Alphinaud would even think he doesn’t actually care for arguments, if he wasn’t always so eager to start one with his own son.
“And it certainly looked good for you, didn’t it?! Two babies with their noses already to the grindstone—how very Sharlayan. Almost makes up for the fact that they have minds of their own!”
There is a pause. He can almost see his father rubbing his temples, though he certainly isn’t going to open his eyes now.
“This is irrelevant, Liamaine. The injury was not sustained in his time at the Studium. I am going to consult with Prelanoix, and I would ask that you leave as well. He is a very light sleeper.” Footsteps ring out and the door opens, but Fourchenault pauses before he goes through. “Perhaps you could have been there for them yourself, if you had not abandoned this family as soon as Father wasn’t around to make excuses for you.” Alphinaud’s quiet gasp is covered by his father’s loud footsteps, and his aunt’s own sigh.
“Well that went well,” she mutters, once Father is well and truly gone. “If you really can’t see how it’s related—gods, Fourchenault.” He hears her move to the door, but she pauses before she goes through. “...Hate to say I told you so, kid,” she says softly, and then she is gone, and the door shuts behind her.
It takes a long time before Alphinaud can fall back asleep.