Work Text:
Since Chlodebaimt’s death, the air in the Skysteel Manufactory had grown uncomfortably warm, Aelmer thought. Stifling. Not unbearable, at least not to him, but most workers’ breaks began to stretch on longer than their allotted time, people began packing up before the end of the work day rather than at time or after as they used to do, and projects that should have been easy were done with a sloppiness that indicated a lack of attention.
Sure, life was stressful as of late. Work had already begun to ramp up after the unseasonable and seemingly unending snow brought by the Seventh Umbral Calamity had occurred, the intense chill that coated Coerthas causing various Skysteel creations to stop functioning properly as they either froze over or had parts become too damp to work, and demand was at an all-time high to find solutions to the malfunctions before Nidhogg and his brood took advantage of Ishgard’s troubles to launch another attack. And when Chlodebaimt, the Chief’s younger brother and probably most receptive family member to Stephanivien’s engineering eccentricities had passed, their work only increased. Baurendouin himself had marched in the day after the funeral, insisting Bertha cannon production be tripled, and that development on a bigger, better canon be jump-started. He would get revenge on the dragon that had killed his son. If the knights refused to track it back to its lair, he would be sure that the second it was spotted overhead a cannon shot the likes of which Ishgard had never seen would bring the beast down.
Stephanivien was the one overseeing the development of the new canon. Beth, it was to be called. It was a simple name. Very Hyuran, if you asked Aelmer. He wasn’t sure what to think of that.
Stephanivien had insisted he be the one to head the development. He’d always been far more involved with Manufactory activities than his father had been, putting in the type of hands-on work that Aelmer hadn’t thought any nobles capable of, not to mention one so high as to be future count of one of the four High Houses. But Stephanivien had always been one to pile his plate high, ten things going on at once as he discovered something new that he would obsess over for half a week before moving back to an old project, maybe working on something quick and new, and then rediscovering that passion for project number one that had him diving back in for another week until it was completed. He was as hard a worker as anyone in the Manufactory. Oftentimes more.
In the past, however, his hard work had still been on the border of reasonable. Close to the edge, but still within its realm. He took breaks. Short ones, but they were still breaks. He was always there until it was time for the Manufactory to close up shop, yes, but he did leave with the rest of the workers. He’d bring little somethings to tinker with as he took his lunch with the rest of the workers, but his plates would still be left empty by the end of the bell.
In the past, Aelmer did not unlock the Manufactory as part of his morning duties only to find Stephanivien fast asleep on the pile of tarps used to cover newly finished cannons as they were transported to their destinations. In the past, Aelmer did not have to sit in the back room and watch as Stephanivien ate only half of his much-too-late lunch to ensure that the man actually got at least some sort of sustenance for the day.
In the past, he did not fear for the man’s health. Occasionally he joked about it, to be sure. Stephanivien must’ve slept a little less than most people, and the only weight he had to him was that of the muscle he’d gained lugging this thing and that around the Manufactory. He had hardly an onze of fat on him, some of the maidservants from the Haillenarte manor occasionally bursting in with extra plates because they thought he was too skinny despite his insistence that he was perfectly fine. An occasional forgotten break due to being invested in his work was funny because it was occasional.
Those jokes were long gone now. Because how funny was it to ask Stephanivien if he ever slept when Aelmer was beginning to wonder if he ever went to sleep voluntarily anymore, or if he just worked until he either passed out or until he was so close to doing so that he only managed to move himself somewhere half-comfortable to fall asleep before his body gave out on him? How funny was it to joke about how if he ate any less he’d be skinnier than a spear when Aelmer was half sure he watched Stephanivien eat the single plate that might’ve accounted for the only thing he ate in an entire day? How funny was it to joke about Stephanivien seeming a little obsessed with his current work when it was his brother’s death that had pushed Stephanivien so far into his current obsession - for it was that, an obsession, not just a passion - that he hadn’t so much as looked at the plans for the eight other things that had been sitting half finished on his desk since the day the news had struck?
And oh, what a day that had been.
Aelmer remembered the exact moment the Haillenarte attendant had come in, pale as death. Stephanivien had been in one of the back rooms at the time. Aelmer had been the one to grab him, telling the attendant that it wasn’t safe to go in without being instructed in the proper safety procedures and insisting that the attendant wait despite all of their protests and claims that due to the nature of their news Lord Stephanivien was not to be made to wait even a moment more.
Stephanivien had been head deep in the prototype for a new heater at the time. When Aelmer called for him and he pulled his head out, there had been a large black stain on his cheek from the coal dust. A terrible health hazard, looking back at it. But there had been something he couldn’t quite see from the outside, or some sort of missed spot meant to be cleaned when he’d poked his head in, or some excuse that Aelmer couldn’t quite remember anymore given how unimportant it was in the face of what he was to learn. But regardless of stains Stephanivien had hopped off the raised platform with a skip in his step, unconcerned about whatever the attendant had to say. He was so close to figuring out how to swap a coal based system to an aether based system - something he thought would be the best innovation Ishgard had seen in moons given the looming coal shortages in the wake of the Calamity and the far-too-long winter they’d experienced. In all likelihood the attendant was there to tell him to make sure he was back with time to spare before dinner because his father was entertaining some guests, or some other such nonsense. The faster he spoke to them, the faster he could dismiss them and the faster he could get back to working on the heater problem. As such, he waved off the towel Aelmer offered him, choosing to instead twirl the wrench he held around one finger as he made his way toward the attendant who would not be delivering any nonsense at all. A happy walk, practically skipping, smile wide from the prospect of a new breakthrough and nary a worry on his mind.
No one had paid the attendant much mind as they waited in the center of the front room, nor did they pay Stephanivien or Aelmer any mind when they came out of the back aside from a quick greeting before returning to whatever they had been working on.
The attendant, meanwhile, looked as if they were about to suddenly combust once Stephanivien waltzed into the room, shaking and sweating and even more terrified than they had been before.
That was when Aelmer had first realized something was wrong. The Count could be harsh at times, but not so harsh as to cause the attendant to feel whatever kind of bad caused that kind of terror.
Aelmer had not gone up to the attendant with Stephanivien. Stephanivien would tell him whatever it was once he was done, he'd been sure. So when the attendant gave their news, Aelmer had not been close enough to hear what was said over the racket of the Manufactory’s daily operations, whatever words were spoken lost to the sound of fire and chatter and regular clangs.
He had, however, heard the moment the wrench hit the floor.
As had the rest of the Manufactory. Every conversation that had been in progress stopped. Every machine that could be quickly turned off was disabled. Everyone knew when metal hit a hard surface in a way that wasn’t a part of daily operation. And when that happened, it was usually because something had gone wrong. So everything stopped, to make sure whatever had gone wrong wasn’t still happening, to make sure no one got hurt.
Which meant that every pair of eyes went to the spot where the wrench had fallen. Every eye saw the look of horror on Stephanivien’s face, the way the blood had drained from his cheeks so quickly one would almost think he’d been dealt a physical wound.
“What?” Stephanivien had croaked, body beginning to shake. “What?” he repeated, voice cracking.
“Milord, I-” the attendant broke eye contact with him, looking at the floor. “I’m sorry. I know this is terrible news to bring, but your father thought it best that you be informed immediately, and-”
Whatever the attendant had meant to say afterwards was lost when Stephanivien pushed past them, bolting out of the Manufactory as if his life depended on it and then some.
All eyes then moved to the attendant. Never before had they seen Stephanivien so alarmed. So out of sorts. Something was clearly, dreadfully wrong.
But the attendant chose not to tell them what news they had delivered, instead barking at the workers to get back to work before they made a hasty retreat.
Needless to say, little was accomplished that afternoon. No one in the Manufactory knew what had happened, but surely it was nothing good.
When Stephanivien did not show up to work in the Manufactory the next morning, the rumors Aelmer and the others had heard when they’d gone home for the night the previous evening were all but confirmed. Chlodebaimt had died. Slain by a dragon.
When Stephanivien returned the day after Chlodebaimt’s funeral, Baurendouin hot on his heels and doling out orders for the new cannon development, no one had known what to say.
Stephanivien’s bright smile had disappeared. That constant air of joy and determination had rushed out the door with him on the day he learned of Chlodebaimt’s death. He worked as hard as ever, harder even, but unlike before it did not motivate anyone to try to match his pace. It only made them fear for his health.
And so breaks for all but the Manufactory’s chief became longer as people began to avoid him, worried to talk to a man so frighteningly determined, and the air grew too warm under the constant fires powering the Manufactory’s constant projects and aiding the shaping of steel. Conversations became infrequent and quiet, remaining muted even a moon later as the workers still couldn’t find the right things to say.
How in the world were they meant to console a man whose brother and best friend had died? Ishgardians were no strangers to loss. A good half of the Manufactory’s workers had lost a direct relative to the Dragonsong War. Everyone knew at least someone who had died. But Stephanivien was a noble, and while he was far friendlier to commoners than any other noble folk they knew, he still belonged to a different world. How to console a man who they still sometimes struggled to understand, grateful as they were for his company?
So Stephanivien continued to put his all into his work, coming out less and less often, taking fewer and fewer meals with the rest of the Manufactory, letting all the side projects he used to consider the passion of his life fall to the wayside for a new obsession that seemed to consume all he had to offer.
Sooner or later, Aelmer thought, something would have to change.
And it did. But not in any way he would’ve wanted.
For one afternoon, on what would’ve been a refreshingly warm day for Ishgard were it not for the fact that the heat of the Manufactory turned what was almost a pleasant temperature outside into something practically boiling inside, the low hum of work in the Manufactory was ground to a halt by a scream.
If the wrench had made everything go quiet, the scream turned the Manufactory into a void of absolute silence. Everything stopped. Everyone froze. They didn’t even stop their machinery. Just stopped themselves, until the first move was made and people were broken out of their trance just enough to shut things off as quickly and safely as they could be.
Aelmer was the one to take that first move, finding it in him to rush toward the sound of the scream some five seconds after it had happened, sprinting through a set of doors until he was in the room he thought it had come from.
Stephanivien’s back was to the door when he entered. Joye, the only other person in the room, was facing him. Splayed hands covered a wide eyed, open-mouthed face. The scream must have been hers. There was no one else in the room at the time, the two workers who typically worked with Stephanivien on the Beth project taking their first day off in nearly five weeks.
Between her and Stephanivien was one of the machines they used to cut steel. One of its supports had broken, and it leaned precariously to one side. By the look of it the support had been inserted incorrectly before use, likely causing it to falter. It must’ve just come crashing down.
And, more jarring than the sight of the broken support, a good chunk of the main blade was stained a deep red.
“That was a bit careless of me, wasn’t it?” Stephanivien breathed, stumbling backward a step. Aelmer lunged forward, catching the much taller man in his arms before he could fully process what he’d seen. It was as he wrapped his arms around Stephanivien’s torso, hands slipping under Stephanivien’s raised arms, that he realized just why Joye had screamed.
The upper half of Stephanivien’s right arm was missing.
Aelmer turned to the door. He didn’t dare look down. He didn’t want to see.
“Call a medic!” he screamed as loud as he could, mind racing as he began to put the pieces together. Panic rose within him, a thousand things running through his mind at once. “Call a medic! A healer! Fury help me, we need a conjurer , not just an apothecary, and we needed them ten seconds ago! Someone find the med kit! Get an elixir in here! Now! Now!” His voice broke, screams rubbing his throat raw as he pitched it as loud as he could make it go, and he heard the frantic sound of half a dozen pairs of boots sprinting either out of the Manufactory to catch whoever the closest healer was or to the corner of the Manufactory where all the medical supplies were kept in case of an accident.
An accident. A simple accident. Like when someone got too close to the forge and had to grab some burn salve for their carelessness, or maybe caught the edge of their palm on a saw and had to get a few bandages and not use it for a week but was ultimately fine.
This however…this…
He thought back to the support. Thought back to what Stephanivien had said. Thought back to the dark circles that had lined the man’s eyes, the slight tremble in his hands when Aelmer had greeted him that morning. Carelessness. Carelessness, he’d said. Like one tended to be when they worked themselves too hard as they fell too far into an obsession that they began to forget about the little day-to-day things they were supposed to do, like ensuring supports were properly placed and all safety checks were met.
Joye wasn’t there to do any of that. She was just a maid that the Haillenartes had sent to keep an eye on him. How was she supposed to know something had been done incorrectly?
Stephanivien had been murmuring something while Aelmer had been screaming his lungs out, drowned out by Aelmer’s frantic cries. When Aelmer went quiet, Stephanivien’s words became audible.
“-Chlo, I didn’t…mean…” Stephanivien gasped, voice quiet and trembling with his body, “Oh, Fury, was this…how you felt…as you…?”
Aelmer’s heart dropped even further. Choked and incomplete as they were, he could decipher what the words meant.
Chlodebaimt had been killed by a dragon. That much was public knowledge. What a few close to the Haillenartes knew was that it hadn’t been a quick death. He’d bled out after receiving a wound to the stomach too large for any of the healers under his command to help him. They’d tried. Oh how they’d tried. But too much flesh had been lost, and the wound was too large to close, the blood loss impossible to stop. And now here Stephanivien was, sliding to the floor alongside Aelmer as the strength left his body with every second the blood flowed from the stump that had once been a perfectly serviceable arm.
Someone burst in with a medical kit. They froze at the door.
Joye had thankfully gained enough clarity back to grab it from them and rip the lid off, pulling out the kit’s elixir and somehow getting Stephanivien to drink despite the fact that he was fading fast. Aelmer tried to talk to him, tried to get him to stay awake. He was no soldier, but he knew that the injured weren’t supposed to go to sleep.
Where was the medic, Aelmer thought. Where was the damn medic? The dragons could attack at any time so there were always medics all around Ishgard. How had no one managed to find one and bring them back already? It was impossible to go twenty yalms without finding either a medic or someone who knew one!
With none in sight, Aelmer began to babble, praying to the Fury that maybe the elixir could buy them enough time to keep Stephanivien up until a medic arrived. “Say, what’s your favorite project that you’ve ever worked on?” Aelmer asked, trying to hide the way his voice shook, as if that would make everything okay. “I think the prospectometer was pretty interesting. Do you think you could make one for me one day? I think it would be a lot of fun to run around with one like you do!”
“Project?” Stephanivien slurred, nearly his weight entirely supported by Aelmer at this point. Except his right arm. Somehow, he was still pointing what little was left above his elbow up. “The cannon…I’ve got to work on the cannon…for Chlo…”
Fury. He was wrapped up in that. Aelmer didn’t want to think about the damn cannon. Not a bit. But if it got Stephanivien talking, if it kept him awake, then he’d suck it up and do it.
“How’s this cannon going to be different from the Bertha? What special something are you thinking about adding?” He already knew. He wasn’t working on it himself, but he’d seen the plans. Still. This wasn’t for him. This was for Stephanivien. Stephanivien, who was somehow getting heavier and heavier in Aelmer’s arms.
“There's more…g’npowd’r in it…” Stephanivien breathed, head lolling forward. Joye was doing her best to tie a tourniquet on his upper arm. “So w’v…changd th’ br-, bar’l- shape. B’gg’r…”
He was near incomprehensible. If Aelmer didn’t know what kind of words were used to talk about cannons, he probably wouldn’t have understood a thing Stephanivien was trying to say. The thought terrified him.
“And do you think we’re going to stick with the four barrel design, or are we going to increase it? Or decrease it, maybe, to account for the increased barrel size?” Aelmer pressed, staring at Stephanivien’s fluttering eyelids.
“...” No response.
Fear lanced through his heart. He tried again. “I said, are we going to change the number of the cannon barrels? The one you’re making because of Chlodebaimt, remember?” It was a low blow. Aelmer regretted it the instant the name left his lips.
But then some sort of mumbling left Stephanivien’s lips, and he decided that even if it was a sin to use the names of the dead like that, which he didn’t think it was but oh had it been ages since he’d attended a service which he was absolutely going to remedy that night, then maybe the Fury might forgive him because it worked.
“Chlo…” Stephanivien repeated, over and over until it was basically just gurgling and someone finally slammed open the doors.
A second later a Temple Knight holding a birch crook was kneeling at their sides and Aelmer let out a long breath and a fervent prayer.
“It’s going to be alright, Chief. Okay? You hear me? It’ll be alright. Stay with us now. It’ll be okay. It’ll be okay…”
Stephanivien had gone quiet. Aelmer’s reassurances were really just for himself and Joye at this point.
The conjurer didn’t tell him to stop. They simply muttered prayers under their own breath as they held that crook over Stephanivien’s arm, the bright glow doing its best to stop the bleeding.
And so he kept repeating his assurances, interspersed with prayers, until the door swung open again and stopped them as a new voice entered the fray.
“Oh Fury,” the voice of one Count Baurendouin de Haillenarte said, cracking and high and terrified. “Not him too. Please. I already lost one son. Not him too-”
The prayers of Aelmer, and the conjurer, and the Count, and Joye, and the rest of the Manufactory must have been heard, because the Fury did not allow Stephanivien to die that day. He was spirited away by a group of conjurers, taken to the Haillenarte manor in the dead of night once he had stabilized enough to be moved. Apparently they had a fully stocked infirmary in the mansion. Why, Aelmer did not know. He’d heard rumors once upon a time that it was because of the poor health of the former Countess, Fury rest her soul, but it still didn’t make sense why they didn’t take Stephanivien to the main infirmary in Ishgard, where injured knights were usually cared for. Sure Stephanivien wasn’t a knight himself, but he was a member of the High Houses, and his wound was as grave as any a knight might get. He imagined the main infirmary had to be better staffed and stocked. Didn't they want to make sure Stephanivien got the best care possible?
That was, he didn’t understand why Stephanivien had been taken somewhere so non-standard until the next morning when the attendant who had originally brought Stephanivien the news of Chlodebaimt’s death what felt so long ago appeared and told Aelmer and the rest of the Manufactory that they were to be a part of a grand lie.
The public was not to know of Stephanivien’s injury, they explained. All of the outside medics who had been contacted, of which there were only three in the end, had been paid to keep their silence. One, the one who had reached the Manufactory first, was in the Haillenarte’s employ anyway, and had remained at Stephanivien’s side even as the other house healers were brought in. Word would inevitably break out that someone had been injured. Already word had begun to circulate. Not because of the Manufactory employees, though - before leaving the night before, they had agreed to speak nothing of the incident to anyone, family, trusted companion, or otherwise, until it was confirmed that Stephanivien was no longer at risk of dying. To speak of it was to risk inviting death in. Still, the rumor mill had begun to churn, and there was no stopping it.
As such, a new story was to be spread. Aelmer, who had been seen leaving the Manufactory covered in blood, was to have been injured while working. Stephanivien, concerned for the health of one of his workers, had stayed with him while he sent the rest of the Manufactory employees to get a healer before the worst occurred. Hence why he had not been seen outside the Manufactory immediately following the incident. By their help Aelmer had been saved. Healed enough to return home of his own power. All was well.
Still, for Stephanivien, who had already just lost his brother, the stress was near overwhelming. The shock of a death of a family member in combination with the severe injury of a companion would get to even a seasoned Temple Knight, Ishgardians knew. As such, Stephanivien had decided to take a break from the Manufactory for a time. As had he declared the Manufactory was to close for a week, to allow the workers to recover from their own shock at seeing the injury. Few would blame Stephanivien, save those who were inclined to mock the Haillenartes regardless of the situation. But they could never be pleased, so there was no point in trying to please them.
So the attendant spoke.
Aelmer had nothing to say at first.
Nor did any of the other Manufactory employees. Joye was not there, having remained at the mansion for the day. She mostly just stuck around Stephanivien while in the Manufactory anyway. There was nothing for her to do without him around.
When he did find his words, they came out harsher than he meant them to.
“While I understand trying to save face, I doubt the conjurer’s managed to grow back the Chief- that is, my lord’s arm. I will lie if that’s what the Count has decided, but what of when Lord Stephanivien appears in public? What of when the week is up? He can’t hide it forever. Arms and hands are quite visible things.”
The attendant huffed. They looked furious. “We will decide when we get there. For now, you all know what you are to do.”
Aelmer let out a huff of his own, stepping forward. “But think! This is to maintain the Haillenartes' reputation, is it not? If news is to break eventually, isn’t it better to be honest from the outset? What happens when they learn that not only has Lord Stephanivien lost his arm, but that we and all of House Haillenarte have lied about it!?”
“That’s enough from you!” the attendant snapped, irate. They took a deep breath. When they resumed speaking, their voice had calmed considerably. “As I said. We will decide when we get there. For now, you all are to return to your homes. If we do not deliver any further correspondence in the meantime, you are to report back here in a week’s time to resume your duties. So orders Count Baurendouin. Do you understand?”
“...yes,” Aelmer conceded.
One by one, the rest of the Manufactory employees said the same.
Then they departed.
Aelmer didn’t know what to do. Would productivity improve at all, with a whole week’s rest behind it? With the stress Stephanivien exuded gone for the time being?
Then he berated himself. Who was he to even think that last part? He’d take all the stress and more if it meant Stephanivien was there with them.
Because even if he did return… Stephanivien loved to create. He planned, yes. Half of the inventions in the Manufactory were of his own design. But not only of his own design - the originals were of his own making. His was the hand that crafted those grand inventions. The copies and most of the day-to-day items were made by other members of the Manufactory, yes, but Stephanivien was the one who first breathed life into those designs. He’d claimed many a time to never be so happy as when he had tool in hand. So what would it be like now that that pleasure was taken away from him? Could the Manufactory ever return to how it had once been, with Stephanivien…
Aelmer shook his head. He had not looked at the floor that day. He would not think of the future this day. He didn’t have the strength.
A week and a day after the Incident, the Manufactory workers returned. The attendant was there. Aelmer realized he hadn’t the slightest idea what their name was.
But it didn’t matter, because they simply told everyone to resume work on the cannons. The Beth design was to be abandoned. Production of Berthas and whatever else they were working on was to continue.
There was no Stephanivien when the doors were opened.
For once, the Manufactory was cold. As Aelmer lit the first kiln, he found himself missing that stifling warmth. It was better than the chilled silence that dominated the Manufactory from sunup to the lunch bell.
Then, as Aelmer was finishing up the rather pitiful sandwich he’d brought for lunch with him that day, the doors to the Manufactory opened. Everyone in the Manufactory took lunch at the same time, Stephanivien always insisting it promoted bonding even if it didn’t always promote efficiency, so everyone looked to the creaking doors with him.
And so everyone saw as Stephanivien slowly walked in, Joye at his right side. Carefully. Cautiously.
He was dressed in proper noble’s attire for once, a thick coat engulfing his form. With the way Joye clung to his side, if he hadn’t been looking for it Aelmer likely wouldn’t have noticed the glove missing from one arm. As it was, Joye was clutching the bottom of Stephanivien’s right sleeve as if there were something inside. Any casual onlooker would assume she was gripping a hand.
Then Aelmer noticed Stephanivien wasn’t wearing his usual eyeshadow, and his heart broke.
It was such a small thing. Such a tiny part of his appearance. But if anything revealed his physical and mental state, it was that.
Once upon a time, Stephanivien had told the story of how hard he’d fought his father for the right to wear such a bold green. Baurendouin had, unsurprisingly, completely opposed his son’s desire to express himself in such a manner. Thought it wasn’t fashion befitting a nobleman. Apparently he’d had servants ransack Stephanivien’s room for a while, until Stephanivien learned to keep it hidden in the Manufactory and apply it once he arrived. Eventually Baurendouin dropped the matter, deciding there were other battles to be fought, other battles to be won. And so the green became part of Stephanivien’s daily attire, just as common if not more than the outrageously low-cut necks he favored. The only time he wasn’t seen with green on his face was when said face was covered with black from sticking his head too far into some ashy thing he shouldn’t have. Never by choice.
Which meant that when Stephanivien walked in without that eyeshadow for the first time in more than a few winters, Aelmer’s heart dropped a malm.
“It’s…good to see you,” Aelmer began, voice sounding so less sure than he’d meant it to. How to greet the man? How to convey, ‘I’m so glad you didn’t die in my arms?’
Stephanivien’s eyes drifted over to him. Fury, the man looked exhausted. Dark circles, somehow worse than they’d been despite all his sleepless nights before, painted his face. Hollow cheeks had somehow been dug out even further. His face had lost its color, that golden glow he’d been known for gone. Had it really only been a week? Did blood loss do so much?
“‘Tis good to see you as well,” Stephanivien practically whispered. He was so quiet. He was never quiet. But this time, he was. “But don’t let me distract you, enjoy your meal as you were. I have something calling for my attention. I’ll be in my office if you need me, though I ask you do not distract me unless it is truly urgent.”
“Of course, Chief!” Aelmer nodded fervently, hoping that maybe if he was lively, some of that liveliness would rub off on Stephanivien too. He didn’t think it would be an exaggeration to say the man looked like death.
The smile Stephanivien offered back was more like a sad quirk of the lips. It looked like he was trying, at least. Aelmer wasn’t sure if that made it better.
But the smile Joye offered back was real. Something good was happening. Probably.
If you asked Aelmer, Stephanivien had no business being back in the Manufactory so soon. Not after what had happened. Health wise he thought it had to be too soon to be walking around, not to mention how traumatizing Aelmer thought it should have been. Even if the Haillenartes had decided his presence was necessary to propagate a lie, this seemed like too much.
But Stephanivien did arrive at half past noon, as did he leave a bell before closing. A far shorter stay than he was used to.
And so the pattern continued for another three weeks.
By the end of the second week, Stephanivien had procured a wooden hand from somewhere. Aelmer did not ask where from, nor did he ask why Stephanivien wore it. It allowed Joye to move a little further from his side as she led him in and out, though she always stayed close enough to catch him were he to falter. It wasn’t a perfect solution though. At some point Stephanivien would have to do something in public, revealing the fact that under the long glove was a hand that did not move because it was fake. Someone would find out eventually. He half-wondered why Stephanivien bothered.
On the fourth week Stephanivien started coming in shortly after opening. Not exactly at or even before, as he’d done in the past. He took his lunches at the Haillenarte manor too, likely to ensure he ate well, but returned for the rest of the workday. Last to arrive, first to leave. Not like before. But closer.
Each day, the smiles he offered when he greeted Aelmer grew a little wider, grew a little more real. The eyeshadow had reappeared the third week, though it looked a little less even than it had before, his coats getting a little more open the fifth.
And during the fifth week, Aelmer discovered why that happiness had begun to return.
Halfway through the week, a cry from Stephanivien’s office had Aelmer barging in regardless of the orders not to enter unless directly called for.
It hadn’t been a true scream, like Joye’s had been on the day of the Incident. This one was just a yelp. Something small, and something he would’ve likely ignored in the past. Stephanivien could be very vocal when he was excited. But given all that had happened…
Aelmer threw the doors open and was treated to a sight that blew his eyes open wide.
Joye was standing by the large desk that took up most of Stephanivien’s office. It was supposed to be for paperwork, not any sort of manual labor, so there wasn’t any room for machinery in it. On the other side of the desk sat Stephanivien, his right arm on the desk.
And at the end of that hand was a metal hand. One with a twitching finger.
He and Stephanivien made eye contact. Joye swung around, leaping forward to slam the door shut.
“Ye can’t tell anybody!” she hissed, holding a finger to her lips.
Stephanivien, meanwhile, had broken out into laughter, hysterical. “It works! It works!” he giggled, tears building in his eyes.
The thumb of the metal hand then moved a slight bit. Just barely. But it was movement.
“How…?” Aelmer breathed, staring at the thing. He looked up, making eye contact with Stephanivien once more. Realization formed in his head. The tears had begun to fall. “Are you doing that? Are you…” Almer began to gesture wildly with his own hands, unsure of how to convey what he was thinking.
No one had ever made a prosthesis that could move. All they did was fill a gap.
But here Stephanivien was, a metal hand at the end of a half-arm, and its fingers were twitching.
Aelmer hadn’t known Stephanivien was even working on a prosthesis. He’d assumed Stephanivien had simply come in each day to reclaim a sense of normalcy while doing paperwork.
“Yes!” Stephanivien exclaimed, poking the twitching finger with his flesh-hand. It stopped twitching for a moment. Then it began to move slower, more deliberately. Two more fingers moved. Then there was nothing. Stephanivien pursed his lips, his face bearing a look of intense concentration. Still no movement. He sighed, but it was more one of frustrated acknowledgement than resignation. “It’s not perfect at the moment, far from it, but I’m sure I’ll be able to get it there. I just need another week, maybe two-” He began to mutter under his breath as he often did, words only becoming clear as he mumbled something along the lines of, “Perhaps if father lets me stay late for a day or two-” before Joye shut him down with a harsh “No!”
Stephanivien sighed again. This one definitely of resignation. There was no getting past Joye when she set her mind to something. Aelmer let out a laugh of his own.
Stephanivien looked away from his hand to gaze at Aelmer once more. His eyes held a light Aelmer hadn’t seen since before Chlodebaimt had passed away.
“Aelmer. My most wonderful of associates. Can you keep a secret?”
Aelmer nodded, elated. “Anything for you, Chief.” Anything to bring back that cheer.
Stephanivien smiled. The excitement in it almost made Aelmer want to cry from joy. “Good. Then may I ask a favor of you? There are a few parts I would like to get that I think will help me in my endeavor, but I would rather not arouse suspicion…”
And so the two began to plan.
By the end of the sixth week, Stephanivien had a fully functioning hand. Well. Mostly functioning. It wasn’t perfect. Far from it. Occasionally a finger would start to twitch and wouldn’t stop, and sometimes there was a bit of a delay in Stephanivien trying to get it to do something and that something actually happening, but it was good enough for him to do minor tasks with, and all the parts worked in some capacity.
Midway into the seventh week, two days after a ball that Stephanivien had been forced to attend in which he’d danced with at least a handful of ladies, there were absolutely no rumors about any issues with his hand. Nothing to imply that under the gloves he wore anything was different from normal.
Which meant it had worked.
By the Fury, he had done it.
It took another moon of tinkering before the hand was working well enough that Stephanivien claimed it was just as good as his original. A moon more before he was allowed to operate any Manufactory machinery, with careful supervision.
And it took another moon of good use and being let off such a tight leash before Stephanivien decided that he wanted to add a little something extra.
The first time Stephanivien accidentally crushed a piece of steel he was holding, Aelmer just about screamed in surprise. Because apparently Stephanivien had thought that increasing the force output capabilities of his prosthetic hand would be a fun and perfectly logical addition. He simply hadn’t mastered controlling that force yet. As evidenced by the pile of crumpled metal bars in the corner of the room he used for his personal inventions. Which meant that he had misjudged his strength many, many times before. But it was no matter of concern. They could be melted back down and recycled, Stephanivien insisted. No harm done.
While Aelmer had a feeling that whatever future antics Stephanivien would get up to with his hand would probably take a year off Aelmer’s life, it was all worth it.
Because Fury, he’d been terrified the man would die that day. He’d been terrified something terrible would happen the moment Stephanivien had dropped that wrench and run from the Manufactory in the wake of the news of Chlodebaimt’s death, and the dread had only grown in the weeks between then and the Incident.
But life had returned to Stephanivien’s eyes. The Manufactory was no longer stiflingly warm, no longer uncomfortably cold.
It was lively again. Fun and friendly and productive. And it was all Aelmer could ask for. He only hoped that Stephanivien didn’t go too crazy with his newest invention.