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“Oh, dear Quimperain,” Jannequinard smiles, “‘twas no fault of yours that I perished. I gave my lifeblood willingly.”
Quimperain looks down at his feet. He cannot look Jannequinard in the eyes- not that he’s meant to, as his retainer- but he cannot look into those eyes, once the warmest shade of gold now turned pale and milky.
“Are you sure that Quimperain is still fit for service?”
“Of course he is, father,” Jannequinard had said, grinning over at Quimperain, who was standing nearby, head down in respect in the presence of the Green-man of Coerthas. Despite the Calamity having frozen the land, much of it was still tillable, and though only hardy crops could grow, the Durendaire’s connection to the land and their blessing was needed for any harvest to come to fruition. “He’s a good man, and loyal besides. He has never once complained of his duties.”
“He is on in years, my son,” the count had frowned a bit. “He may not be able to continue serving you for long.”
“I intend to keep him in my service, father, as long as I can. I told you- I trust him with my life, and the hereafter as well.”
Some trust that was, Quimperain thinks to himself, bitterly.
It was a snowy night, dusting the both of them in a fine white powder that would have to be shaken off of their coats before retiring, lest it melt and mildew in the fibers of Jannequinard’s soft velvet finery. They were returning from a small banquet, held in honor of some lady or lord’s nameday, and Jannequinard had been chattering, as he often did, to Quimperain as he trailed behind him closely.
And it was a lovely night, too- the moon high and full, illuminating the streets, and Jannequinard’s earrings were catching the light of it, his monocle glinting when he’d turn back to Quimperain and say something that would get a nod of affirmation from the retainer, as he focused on ensuring the lord’s safety on the way back to the manor.
Then the assassin’s blade had cut through the moonlight like a shadow, and Jannequinard, sweet, foolish Jannequinard- had taken it in Quimperain’s stead. Quimperain had cut the assassin down without prejudice, not even speaking a word before he had sliced the fiend open, and his insides lay on the streets, steaming red puddling on the cobblestones and staining the hem of Jannequinard’s trousers where he lay curled up in pain, barely making a noise.
And Quimperain had held him, held him as he bled ichor into his palms, as he let out soft, wheezing breaths as Quimperain had ran as fast as he could to the manor, where he burst through the gates, holding Jannequinard in his arms, his gauntlets so stained with black that they absorbed all light.
The keepers had reassured him- that a trueborn Durendaire did not die a true death, that their ties to the land were too great to be severed by a simple knife in the dark. That once Jannequinard had been wrapped in gossamer and buried, and once he had blossomed, that all would be well.
Quimperain had waited, waited like the executioner’s sword was at his neck. Waited to hear from the keepers of when Jannequinard’s burial mound sprouted and he could be disinterred.
It was three moons before Jannequinard was unearthed.
Quimperain had assisted the keepers- they had said that as he lay dying in his shallow grave, that he wanted Quimperain to be there when he rose again. The burial mound deep in the caverns beneath Coerthas, where the steam from the earth and the springs heated the soil and made it lush and green with life, was full of tiny red flowers and crimson lichens.
“Soon,” the keeper had whispered. “Do you not see how it rises with his breath?”
Quimperain had felt a distinct unease. Jannequinard was in there- in that mound covered by webs of fungi and lichen and moss and the tiny flowers, like a seething mass of nerves and flesh.
And Jannequinard was in there , to be born anew.
He thinks about the Count, his curling horns and the moss that crawls up his collar and dusts his cheeks, the strange, leaflike protrusions that framed his temples like a circlet. Would Jannequinard look like that? Have vines wrapped around his wrists and his neck, trailing past his shoulders, the scent of the earth following him?
The burial mound shifted, and the keepers all let out a murmur of delight, as the web of lichens tore open, and a clawed hand had pushed out.
“Yoohoo! Some help would be appreciated!”
Quimperain had let out the breath he was holding, and stepped forwards with the rest of the keepers to help unearth the young lord from what had been his bed for the past twelve sennights. Jannequinard had just grinned up at him, with a little wiggle of his new faun’s ears, furred and soft and the same shade of his hair, like he was being roused from a little nap snuck in between lessons at the Athenaeum than being dug up from the earth like a particularly stubborn parsnip.
“Hello, my dear Quimperain. It is so good to see my favorite retainer at my wake.”
The keepers allowed Quimperain to dress Jannequinard. He had felt a bit silly, having brought shoes and stockings and trousers for him, now that he had hooves and furred legs and a short feathery tail of crimson tipped with dark mahogany. At least the robes he brought would still fit him, though he had to be careful with his horns and comb his hair to get the last bit of dirt off of him before he tugged them over his head.
“Can you walk, milord?”
“Mm, I daresay I can. I haven’t felt quite so energetic in ages. Perhaps death suits me.”
Quimperain winced at that.
Now, sitting in Jannequinard’s bedroom, Quimperain is standing next to his bed, and Jannequinard has spent the past hour examining himself from head to hoof.
“Besides, I think my new appearance is not so bad, is it?” Jannequinard’s long ears wiggle slightly. They’re soft and furred, much like his father’s, but he has little horns now budding out of his crimson hair, barely visible. Little vine-like scars have bloomed up the sides of his face, curling along his sideburns and down his neck. “Rather dashing, if I say so myself.” He pets at his horns.
Quimperain struggles to choke out his words.
“Milord, I-”
“Do not self-flagellate in my presence, Quimperain.” He sighs and puts down the hand mirror. “Durendaires never truly die, you should know. We are the roots beneath Ishgard, and have been since its founding. Some call it a blessing- others a curse, that we can never know a true death. Even when our whole bodies flower, we simply return to the earth, and sprout into the great forests that make up the land. As we speak, my kin breathes the same air we do. I can put my ear to the ground and hear their words, feel their emotions. Would you call them dead?”
Quimperain swallows hard.
“I cannot service you any more. This was evidence as such. Your father was right.”
“My father is rarely right about anything regarding my wishes.” Jannequinard turns to him as his fingers, nails now long and sharp on slender fingers, trace along the mirror. “Quimperain, I want you at my side. I trust you more than any other. What shall it take for you to learn this?” He rises from the bed, cloven feet hitting the plush carpet with a soft little thump , and he draws himself up to his full height. He’s only grown an ilm or so, Quimperain guesses it has to do with the different way he must carry himself on his new legs, but he still barely reaches his chest.
And it’s still Jannequinard- his voice, his smile, but his eyes-
“Quimperain. Look at me.”
Quimperain does, but he avoids his gaze.
“In the eye, Quimperain.” Jannequinard’s voice goes stern.
He looks.
And Jannequinard loops a clawed hand around the back of his neck, and pulls him close, until their noses nearly touch. Quimperain can feel the short, velvety fur that has sprouted upon his nose and up to his brow, and he can smell his breath- like damp soil and something like the nectar of flowers.
“Quimperain, my love,” Jannequinard says, voice soft. “I can die, and I can return- you cannot. I would take the blade every time in your stead, if it meant you lived, so I can be back in your arms, no matter how many moons it takes.”
Quimperain feels something prickle in the back of his throat. He continues holding Jannequinard’s gaze steady, no matter the way his stomach twists into knots, or the way he feels like he’s going to break out into sobs.
“I dreamt of us, you know,” Jannequinard continues. The hand not around his neck slowly drags a claw over his chest, and Quimperain feels like it's drawing a line of fire down his skin, even through the fabric of his shirt. “Such lovely dreams. Do you remember the highlands before they froze? I dreamt of them, we were together there. You were in such dazzling armor, like a mirror reflecting the sun, so radiant.”
Quimperain finds his voice.
“And you?”
“Oh,” Jannequinard hums softly, he closes his eyes as if he’s trying to recall, “oh, I was all around you. I was the grass and the trees and the flowers, and I could feel your every footstep, I could see you from the boughs and from the vines, and you’d put your hand on my trunk or my stem, and ‘twas as if you were holding my hand.” He opens them again, and Quimperain breathes in sharply.
“Is that so?”
“Yes, it is so.” Jannequinard’s smile has turned into something softer, less obvious, a little tilt of his lip, and Quimperain can hear his breath start to quiver in his lungs as though he too, is trying to hold back his tears.
“Quimperain, if you had died that night- I daresay I would have buried myself forever, to hold you in my embrace unto eternity. I would have dashed myself upon the stones until I was nothing but the softest soil for you to be laid to rest upon, as befits my loyal knight.” Jannequinard’s hand stills just upon Quimperain’s chest, above his heartbeat. “I know you would want me to continue living, so your death would not be in vain- but how could I, knowing that you would be so alone beneath the earth, when I could be there too?”
Jannequinard kisses him, and Quimperain breaks down.
He holds Jannequinard tightly against himself, as he weeps silently. Jannequinard’s arms are now tight around his shoulders, and he can feel the faun’s tears wetting his shirt, as Jannequinard too, cries with him.
“I’m sorry,” Quimperain utters, voice rasping. “I’m sorry for leaving you.”
“You did no such thing,” Jannequinard laughs out, though breathless from his tears. “If anything, I left you. I cannot imagine spending so long without you- I had to dream of you lest I go mad with grief.”
“You didn’t deserve- the agony-”
“It hurt little, when the alternative would have been your death.” Jannequinard pulls back and looks at him, and now Quimperain can see his eyes for what they are, without feeling guilt, shame- they’re as clear and shining as the moon, pure silver and bright.
Quimperain lets Jannequinard lead him down onto the bed, holding his gaze the entire time. Soft fur brushes his cheek as Jannequinard nuzzles into his shoulder.
“I missed you so. My loyal and darling knight, my sweet Quimperain.”
“Janne,” Quimperain whispers. He breathes deeply, fingers trailing through his hair and catching on the horns, down to his ear, floppy and soft. Jannequinard giggles quietly. “I missed you too.”
“Well,” Jannequinard kisses his cheek, kisses the corner of his mouth as he slowly rises to all fours, and now he’s kneeling over Quimperain. And some things don’t change- his soft breasts and the curve of his belly, pressed to Quimperain as he drapes himself atop him, his hair soft as Quimperain can’t resist and he tucks it behind his ear with a brush of his fingers, and he strokes it across a fuzzy cheek.
“Why don’t you show me just how much you missed me, my love?”
Were it any other moment Quimperain would be groaning in distaste at Jannequinard’s little quip.
As it is now, he can only smile and hug Jannequinard tightly, and Jannequinard lets out a delighted sigh of his name as Quimperain kisses his cheek, feeling the curled scars on his skin beneath his lips.
“As you wish, milord.”