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Sicard Spence had never been one to put much stock in nobility, but as Adalyn led him through the Pillars district of Ishgard, he couldn’t help but feel out of place.
“Lord Emmanellain couldn’t be arsed to come greet his own guest?” Sicard griped, shoving his hands under his armpits.
It wasn’t nearly as cold in Ishgard as it was in Garlemald, but both were a far cry from the tropics of La Noscea—and Adalyn, Lominsan born and bred just like him, looked like she was faring only marginally better.
“He figured I’d be the best one to come welcome ye to the city,” Adalyn said, her breath fogging in the air before her. She was hunched into the fluffy neck of her white coat, which did little to hide her face from passers-by; as they walked, people smiled and waved, occasionally calling out a Starlight greeting to the Warrior of Light, and Adalyn would return each one with a smile and wave of her own before going back to her shivering.
Sicard snorted. “Yeah? And what’s so important ’e couldn’t do that himself?”
Adalyn pursed her lips. “To my understandin’, he was makin’ sure the napkins were the perfect shade of Starlight red.”
A moment passed between them before they burst into muffled snorts.
“Blimey, what I wouldn’t give to worry about such nonsense,” Sicard muttered.
Adalyn bumped him with her shoulder, raising her eyebrows. “Emmanellain’s put a lot of effort into this dinner,” she said, and Sicard sighed. “He’s tryin’ to impress his father and brother, y’know? Mind, they’re already goin’ to accept you as a friend o’ mine, but the least you can do is put your best foot forward.”
“I know,” Sicard said. “Don’t nag.”
“I ain’t naggin’. Ye want to see me naggin’? Why didn’t ye wear a warmer coat, shiverin’ like that?”
“Oh, like you’re the one to talk. Besides, didn’t figure Ishgard would be as cold as bloody Garlemald, now, did I?”
“I still told ye to dress for snow!” Adalyn huffed, blowing several strands of salt and pepper hair out of her face. “Eh, it don’t matter none, now. Look—there’s the manor just ahead!”
Sicard followed her finger to the manor—and then his eyes widened when he realised the manor descended, extending down the carved mountain face by half a dozen floors at least.
A hundred candles shimmered in the frost-covered windowpanes, casting a warm glow about the immediate area of the manor and shining invitingly into the gathering dusk. Boughs of holly and ivy were hung in great sweeping arcs between the balconies, and as they climbed the slope leading up to the Last Vigil, Sicard could see a wreath of some white-berried plant hanging from the door, festooned with a red ribbon.
“Like the wreath?” Adalyn asked. “Made it meself.”
“It’s nice,” Sicard said truthfully, because there was no fun to be had in insulting Adalyn over something she was clearly pleased about. “Emmanellain show you how to do that, then?”
“Actually, it was Aymeric,” Adalyn said, when the front door flew open and Emmanellain stepped out.
He was wearing his Starlight best, and an odd expression indeed as he looked at Sicard—his mouth twitching at the corners like the beginnings of a smile, his brows drawn together in the barest hint of a frown.
“You made it, then,” Emmanellain said by way of greeting. “Good—that’s good, yes, jolly good.”
“Nice to see you, too,” Sicard drawled, and pulled his hat from his head, shoving it into Emmanellain’s hands. “Be a dear and take my coat, would ye?”
Emmanellain opened his mouth to retort before Adalyn quickly stepped between them. “Before the two of you get on with it, all I ask is this one dinner together where we make it through without too much trouble.”
“You know me,” Sicard said. “Brilliant at stayin’ out of trouble, I am.”
Emmanellain sighed, but smiled, putting his hands on Adalyn’s shoulders. “The evening shall be marvellous, old sport, just you wait and see! Nine courses of the grandest Starlight feast Ishgard has to offer, with special attention to the menu in honour of our Lominsan guests.”
He turned, trotting back up the steps and holding the front door open for the pair of them with a smile.
“Ah, yes, Sicard, there’s somethin’ you ought to know,” Adalyn said as they ascended the stairs to the blessed warmth of the manor. “One of the courses is a lobster bisque.”
Sicard stared. “Lobsters? Not those nasty little wavekin we feed to prisoners?”
“You what?” Emmanellain squawked.
Adalyn sighed, dragging a hand over her face. As she did so, her fluffy coat gave way to a white jumper and red leggings, a sprig of holly pinned to the thick-knit weave. “Lobsters are a gil aplenty in our homeland,” she said, and Sicard’s eyebrows flew up to hear her accent shift to something distinctly more highborn Ishgardian. “’Tis not uncommon for them to wash ashore in fulm-high piles after a storm.”
“They’re mostly ground up and used as fertiliser,” Sicard added, and he didn’t bother to hide his grin when Emmanellain’s eyes bulged. “On account of ’em bein’ so plentiful, they’d start rottin’ if somethin’ wasn’t done to be rid of ’em.”
“Fertiliser?” Emmanellain whispered in horror.
Adalyn patted his arm. “But here, in Coerthas, special effort went into procuring the exotic wavekin they can so rarely import, just for us,” she said, shooting Sicard a glance over her shoulder, and just like that, her Lominsan burr returned in full force. “I was in the kitchens all day helpin’ prepare the feast; I promise ye it’s proper delicious.” She lowered her voice. “Look, I didn’t find out ’bout the menu ’til this mornin’, or I would’ve warned ye sooner.”
“Lobsters,” Sicard muttered under his breath, but shook his head. “So will I be expected to meet the count covered in the grime of a good day’s travel, or am I allowed to bathe first? Wouldn’t want to upset his lordship’s delicate sensibilities,” he added, the sarcasm practically dripping.
Adalyn’s glance turned into a glower. “Artoirel’s a right bene cove,” she said. Now it was Emmanellain’s turn to stare at her as she slipped effortlessly into the Lominsan cant. “Bit upon the square, but a proper tercel-gentle as you do, mind.” She lifted her chin towards Emmanellain. “’E’s half-flash and half-foolish and a whiddler to boot, but takes better to bear-garden discourse’n other swell nobs. Best stubble the patter ‘til the elbow-rubbin’s done, eh?”
Sicard laughed, clapping Adalyn on the shoulder. “There went me hopes of talkin’ packthreads with ye over cold tea!”
“If you think I do not understand your ‘flash lingo’,” Emmanellain sniffed, folding his arms, “I’ll have you know my cant is more than up to par!”
“Sure, sure,” Sicard said, though a part of him was impressed Emmanellain had managed to catch even that much of the exchange. “So, about that bath?”
Adalyn glanced to Emmanellain, who unfolded his arms again, clapping once. “Saulette!”
The pagegirl appeared in the doorway to the entry hall within moments, bowing low. “My lord,” she said, glancing up. “Adalyn—and Master Spence, I presume?” She grinned. “You match Lord Emmanellain’s most apt descriptions.”
Sicard suddenly felt very hot beneath the collar. “Pleasure, I’m sure,” he said, mentally trying to gauge how young the lass was. Twelve? Nineteen? It was never easy to tell with elezen. Sicard supposed it didn’t really matter, since the work was almost certainly cushier than becoming a deckhand at the tender age of eleven summers like he himself had done.
“Saulette, would you show Master Spence to his chambers?” Emmanellain said. “Oh, and Master Spence, once you are finished, you will join us in the drawing room for hors d'oeuvres.”
“Oh, Master Spence will, will ’e?” Sicard said automatically, and Emmanellain pursed his lips.
“The course shall start in a bell. Do try not to be late.”
Sicard hefted his bag and followed Saulette through the manor. The smells of roasting meat, of mint and holly, and something sweet—cinnamon and honey?—wafted through the halls, all mingling with one another and overlaid by the even more tantalising aromas of baked goods and chocolate.
Hells. He’d known how the upper crust lived in theory, but walking into Emmanellain’s home felt rather like he was intruding in a palace.
It was no wonder the man was such a bellend.
Still, he wouldn’t have even considered an invitation to Starlight dinner at Fortemps Manor, let alone accepted it, if he didn’t enjoy Emmanellain’s company. That Adalyn would be there was only an added bonus; they had been lovers, once upon a time—over a decade ago now, come to think of it, when neither of them had more to worry about than their respective crews catching on to their clandestine meetings.
Now, with Lord Aymeric’s ring upon her finger, such dalliances were a thing of the past, but Adalyn was always a welcome sight to see whenever she dropped by Limsa Lominsa to visit her brother and old crew of the Kraken’s Arms.
(Probably for the best. He had better things to worry about than getting involved in the Warrior of Light’s mess of a love life. He’d heard enough gossip—most of it from Emmanellain—to know he wanted no part of that.)
After a good deal of swearing under his breath, he managed to figure out the numerous taps in the bathroom, and sank into the tub with a sigh to begin scrubbing away the grime of travel.
Had Sicard been raised in luxury like this, who knows how he might have turned out? Probably an utter twat; money tended to have that effect on people.
Not wanting to be late for the start of dinner, Sicard was out of the bath faster than he would have liked, and dressed in his own best shirt, which he’d admittedly only just bought for the occasion. Even still, it felt horribly underdressed compared to the finery Emmanellain was wearing.
But when Sicard met Adalyn in the hall, still wearing her knit sweater and leggings, he decided if it was good enough for her, then this was good enough for him.
“Well, don’t you clean up nicely? Emmanellain won’t know what hit him,” she said, and Sicard scoffed. She lifted her chin in the direction of the drawing room, and they began walking. “So, once we’re at the table, the real trick is just usin’ the silver from the outside in. If you’re ever uncertain what to do, just follow my lead. They ain’t expectin’ a big show of manners, for what it’s worth,” she added. “They’re decent sorts for nobles.”
“Wouldn’t be here if they weren’t,” Sicard muttered.
Adalyn bumped him with her shoulder, grinning. “Hey, if nothin’ else, at least tonight—you’ll be eatin’ like a king.”
“Time to see how our betters live,” Sicard agreed, then smirked. “Though now that you’re Lady de Borel—”
“Oh, stop that,” Adalyn said, gesturing rudely. “I kept me surname. Earned it fair and square. And I ain’t a lady,” she added. “Knock that shite off, Sicard, you know I hate all them fancy women titles.”
Sicard’s smile just widened. “Sure, sure.”
Adalyn rolled her eyes, but her smile returned when they reached the drawing room, and she pushed the doors open to announce, “Sicard Spence, acting captain of the Bloody Executioners, here to celebrate Starlight!”
The drawing room was likewise decorated for the holidays, and already filled with the other guests; Lord Aymeric de Borel sat on a low sofa by the fireplace, his conversation with the former count Edmont interrupted as they looked up at the newcomer. Artoirel and G’raha Tia were in armchairs across from a small table of pastries and wine laid between them, and Emmanellain practically leapt to his feet from the second sofa when Sicard entered.
Sicard couldn’t help but feel a little gratified when Emmanellain’s eyes flew wide at the sight of him—then travelled very quickly up and down his body before fixing on his face. Emmanellain's throat bobbed, before he moved around the sofa he’d been lounging on, snatching up a pair of fluted glasses as he went. “Sicard! Good of you to join us!”
G’raha gave Sicard a little wave and a smile, which did more to set him at ease than he’d like to admit.
All eyes were on Sicard in that moment, and he gave a little half-bow at the waist, because that seemed the polite thing to do. “Thanks for the invitation.”
“It is good to finally put a face to your name,” Artoirel said, setting his own glass of wine aside and rising from his seat, inclining his head. “My brother has spoken often of you.”
“Only terrible things, I’m sure,” Sicard said, and Artoirel and his father exchanged glances.
“There was some praise to be mixed in with the rest of the commentary,” Edmont said dryly, and Emmanellain rolled his eyes. “But it is clear my youngest has naught but utmost fondness for you, and it is good to meet you at last.” He smiled, though remained seated, his hands folded over the head of his cane. His old knee injury ached in the cold, Emmanellain had said. Of course, that meant little ever since Coerthas was buried in eternal snow. “Welcome to our home. I trust the journey was not too taxing?”
“Weren’t too bad, no.” Sicard grinned when Emmanellain passed him the glass of white, bubbly wine. “Cheers.”
Adalyn moved to sit beside Aymeric, claiming a glass for herself that she raised to Sicard. “Bet you’ve never seen a Starlight like this.”
“They tend to be a bit warmer,” Sicard agreed, and seeing no better options, joined Emmanellain on the second low sofa set around the table. “Less snow and holly, more midday rainstorms.”
“Truthfully, this year, Starlight will be a little different for Ishgard as well,” Aymeric said, wrapping an arm around Adalyn’s shoulders as she leaned into him. “Ordinarily, the Vault is opened for public celebration, but seeing as there is no archbishop to lead the mass, the priests have instead decided to offer a space for people to gather in prayer and give thanks for the year’s blessings.”
Sicard privately felt he was glad to have missed out on sitting through a three hour Halonic Orthodox ceremony. The horror stories he’d heard from Emmanellain were plenty, thanks.
“I, for one, am not about to complain,” Emmanellain said, reaching for one of the pastries set on the fancy silver tray that could have paid for a moon’s worth of meals on its own. “Oh, yes,” he added to Sicard, “the first course is bubbly wine from the Champagne region of the Eastern Highlands, and for the canapés—cranberries, brie, and thyme on puff pastry.”
It was delicious, which was the worst part. Sweet and salty, the pastry was light and flaky, and paired perfectly with the wine. How the hells was he supposed to make fun of the ridiculous fancy food of nobles now, especially when it was something so comparatively… normal?
He tried not to think too much about the upcoming lobster course.
“Are we eating all the courses in here?” he asked.
“Oh, goodness, no,” Emmanellain chuckled. “This is merely something to whet the appetite. We’ll be moving to the main dining room for the rest of the meal.”
The main dining room. Absolutely mad.
“So, Master Spence,” Artoirel said, “I hear you have been leading the Bloody Executioners on behalf of Captain Hyllfyr. How has his health been?”
“Been keepin’ steady,” Sicard said after hastily swallowing another mouthful of pastry. “’E was fit as a fiddle ‘fore age started catchin’ up to him, so the sickness in his lungs hasn't hit as hard as it would a weaker man. ’E’s still got the final say on matters, still runnin’ a tight ship from his bed.”
“None of which would be possible without a good second in command,” Aymeric noted. “You do your crew proud.”
Sicard resisted the urge to scowl at the flattery, laid on far too thick for his liking. What did Adalyn see in him, anyway? He was far too much of a typical noble for her tastes, Sicard would have thought. Then again, Sicard also had eyes, and Aymeric was beautiful, and seemed to have a bit more going on upstairs than most nobles. “The crew does me proud,” he said, very diplomatically in his opinion. “And their captain. Has Emmanellain also been tellin’ everyone about our newest business arrangement?”
Emmanellain pouted at him, but Artoirel smiled, sitting up a little straighter. “Indeed, he has,” Artoirel said, looking between the two. “When he first approached me with the idea, I could not have been more pleased. House Durendaire has already gotten a foot in the door establishing trade with the Kraken’s Arms, and it would not do for us to neglect to keep up with the changing times.” He glanced at Adalyn out of the corner of his eye. “I won't deny that it would have been nice to know of a certain someone's prior affiliation with the crew earlier.”
Adalyn spread her hands. “I knew as much as you did at the time,” she said. “Francel and Charlemend were the first to approach me about establishing trade. The Krakens just fortunately happened to remember me.”
“The Krakens’ Arms are run by an Ishgardian ponce of a pirate,” Sicard said, meeting Adalyn’s scowl with a smirk. “You’ll be glad to have the Bloody Executioners’ trade, I can guarantee. We’re currently negotiatin’ with Admiral Merlwyb for rights to islands in the Cieldalaes. With Lord Emmanellain’s support, we’ll be able to extend the reach of our trade, to both our benefit.”
Emmanellain tapped his glass against Sicard’s. “Whatever happened to just Emmanellain, old boy?” he asked. “Have we not fought side by side upon the Magna Glacies and shared the warmth of a guttering heater, swapping tales of hardships?”
Sicard laughed, making a show of looking around at the lavish decorations and fine food. “You’ll forgive me for expressin’ some doubt you’ve ever experienced hardship,” he said, and grinned when that got a chuckle from the room.
“It gladdens me to know my youngest son has found such a commendable business partner,” Edmont said. “Adalyn speaks quite highly of you as well. To hear tell of it, the two of you go back some years?”
“Met when we was about, what—fifteen summers?” Sicard said, and Adalyn nodded, sipping at her wine. “In a seedy back alley tavern in Limsa Lominsa. Nothin’ to your lordship’s sensibilities,” he added pointedly. “I’ll spare you the sordid details.”
He glanced at Aymeric, who looked wholly unsurprised by this information. Sicard wondered how much Adalyn had told him about their shared past.
(Seriously, what was she doing with someone so… posh and pious? He’d be shocked if that man could even tie a basic bowline knot.)
“Tell me,” G’raha chimed in, his tail flicking as he leaned forward. He had pinned a sprig of holly in his hair, and it glistened with magical snow. “How startled were you when we turned up in search of your stolen crystals, again?”
Sicard scoffed. “Look, I’ve already apologised, and we’re square,” he said.
“Don't mean we can't tease you none,” Adalyn said, shooting G’raha a grin.
Artoirel’s eyebrows crept higher. “I don't believe I’ve heard this story,” he said, and Sicard let out an exasperated sigh when Emmanellain sat up imperiously straighter. “Would anyone care to tell the tale?”
Sicard helped himself to another canapé, glancing between Adalyn, G’raha, and Emmanellain as they eagerly chimed in. Though Emmanellain had not been present when the Scions came sniffing about, he’d pried the details out of Sicard one night over drinks.
It was astonishing how much the man remembered, Sicard thought as he settled in on the sofa. Emmanellain’s leg pressed against his own, and he swallowed, taking another hasty sip of wine when he felt his heart quicken at the touch.
Shiteshitebuggerandshite.
Sicard felt a hand land on his shoulder, and he looked up to see Emmanellain grin at him.
“I said, shall we take this to the dining room?”
Sicard arched an eyebrow, hoping it wasn’t too obvious how long he’d been distracted. “Which one?” he asked.
Adalyn, at least, laughed, which made Sicard feel a little better when nobody else did.
“The main one,” Emmanellain said as he stood, like it should be obvious. “As I said before.”
“Just how many dining rooms does this place have?” Sicard muttered to Adalyn as she passed.
She paused, held up three fingers with an embarrassed grimace, and hastened to catch up to G’raha, looping her arm through his and chattering about the kitchen preparation she’d been helping with earlier.
Sicard’s eyebrow crept up as he glanced sidelong towards Aymeric, who seemed wholly unconcerned that his new spouse of scarcely two weeks had latched onto another man, instead remarking to Edmont that he was looking forward to the feast.
He’d have to ask Emmanellain later; that man seemed to know everyone’s business in Ishgard, and while Sicard was not ordinarily nosy by nature, his curiosity had been admittedly piqued seeing evidence of the rumours for himself.
(And he recalled how close Adalyn had been with both G’raha and the Azure Dragoon himself on their mission to Garlemald. On second thought, perhaps those rumours had more merit than he’d originally believed.)
But first things first.
He followed the group—Emmanellain, really—down the hall. It was only a brief walk, and Sicard soon found himself seated at a great table laden with fine plates and far too much polished cutlery. For a mercy, he’d been himself seated across from Adalyn; when she winked at him, he realised this had likely been planned, and he scowled down at the forks like they had personally offended him.
Who the hells needed three forks on one side, three spoons on the other, and one more of each above the plate?
The kitchen staff brought in the second course of the evening, and there it was: lobster bisque, pinkish-red and steaming hot, sprinkled with something green and leafy for a garnish.
It at least looked nothing like lobsters, and the smell wasn't bad. Sicard eyed the broth in his mercifully small bowl, glad that it seemed the guests were waiting on everyone to be served before eating. It gave him time to mentally prepare himself for what was about to go into his mouth.
Sicard was offered another further moment of respite when Artoirel, at the head of the table, held out his hands. Edmont, to his right, and Emmanellain, to his left, took them, and Emmanellain held out his other hand to Sicard as everyone at the table followed suit.
Sicard, not really sure what was going on, wrinkled his nose. “What—?” he began under his breath.
“’Tis custom to give thanks to Halone before a meal,” Emmanellain muttered back, and Sicard took his hand, swallowing back a groan.
“O Halone, the Fury,” Artoirel began, “we give thanks to You this Starlight meal for the blessings of the year. Through Your grace and guidance, we have known a new era of peace, and look to You once more as we go forward into the new year…”
Sicard sensed Adalyn shift out of the corner of his eye, and he glanced up just in time to notice the guilty look that passed between her and G’raha.
He squinted.
Adalyn caught his eye, and her own narrowed. Sicard decided it would be best to continue staring at the lobstery liquid while Artoirel droned on about the goddess’ guidance for the year ahead.
“...Bless this meal, that we grow in strength and in faith, and continue to humbly serve You. In the Fury’s name, we pray. Amen.”
The table lifted their heads, and Edmont reached for his cutlery. This seemed to be the signal for everyone else to begin eating as well, and Sicard glanced over at Adalyn’s place setting before snatching up the appropriate spoon.
The bisque really did smell delicious. Sicard still hesitated before putting the spoon in his mouth, trying not to think of the way lobsters scuttled. Wavekin be damned, those things moved like vilekin, and looked like it to boot. Why in the world a bunch of stuffy nobles would consider them a delicacy was beyond him.
It was as delicious as it smelled, which was the worst part. The buttery broth was rich and salty, piping hot without burning. It was, in a word, perfect, like damn near everything else served thus far.
Elbows off the table, he reminded himself as he spooned up another bite. The second was easier than the first, and by the third, he decided this wasn't so bad as long as he didn't think too hard about the ingredients.
“You like it, then?” Emmanellain asked hopefully just as Sicard took another mouthful of bisque, and he was forced to hastily swallow.
“It's not the worst,” he admitted grudgingly.
“Not a fan of lobster?” G’raha asked sympathetically. “Adalyn mentioned they're not often used as food in your homeland.”
Sicard wondered if he could reach far enough to kick the miqo’te under the table as three noble heads swiveled to look at him. “Hey, when in Ishgard and all,” he said, trying to play it off. “And new experiences are supposed to be good for the soul, or so I’ve heard. So, thanks for givin’ me the opportunity to try somethin’ new.”
“Nicely handled,” Emmanellain whispered.
“Shut.”
The bisque was paired with a dry white wine. Sicard helped himself to his glass, as much to take the edge off his steadily-fraying nerves as anything.
“You know,” Adalyn said, glancing up at Sicard over the rim of her own glass, “there’d probably be a tidy profit to be made transportin’ lobsters to Ishgard.”
Sicard considered, looking at Emmanellain, who, it seemed, was likewise considering the possibility. “The main issue would be keepin’ ’em fresh, I’d imagine,” Sicard said. “Unless rotten lobster’s another Ishgardian delicacy no one’s told me about.”
Emmanellain chortled. “Goodness, no,” he said. “And truly, lobster is best kept as fresh as possible before cooking—which means transporting live.” He wrinkled his nose. “It seems almost like more trouble than it would be worth.”
“Lobsters can survive out of the water for a few days,” Adalyn said. “They actually seem to die right quick if you put ’em in buckets of water. I think they sort of suffocate.”
“Suffocate? In water? But are they not wavekin? Aquatic creatures?” Emmanellain asked.
“I rather imagine ’tis not unlike locking a person in a sealed room,” Aymeric mused. “Before long, the air is used up.”
“Water has oxygen in it,” G’raha pointed out, his ears flicking. “Wavekin merely process it differently than us air breathing fellows. Adalyn notwithstanding, of course,” he added with a faint grin.
Sicard squinted. “Beg pardon?”
Adalyn waved a hand. “Long story, I can breathe underwater.”
Edmont, to his credit, did not choke on his drink, but his eyebrows flew up as he hastily lowered his glass. “Truly, my dear, just when I think you’ve run out of ways to surprise me.”
“I think we’re getting a touch sidetracked,” Emmanellain said, a touch exasperatedly. “Shall we put a pin in the matter of crustacean transportation?”
“To hear my brother speak previously of your other ventures,” Artoirel said, steering the conversation back to the original topic of the night, “you’ve established a contract with Mistress Taru?” He inclined his head, a faint smile on his face. “She was a guest in our home along with the Warrior of Light. Well do I remember her fearsomeness!”
“Aye, Tataru’s a force to be reckoned with,” Sicard said, and shot Emmanellain a rather wicked smile. “You should’ve seen the look on her face when she told me you put on the client samples, prancin’ around in those leathers.”
Emmanellain gasped, putting a hand to his chest in affront. “You speak as if I did it on a dalliance! No, old boy, I was merely the most suitable model at the time, and I can assure you it did wonders to convince the clients of the quality of the product—”
“Lady Laniatte might recall otherwise,” Adalyn said mildly.
Sicard’s eyebrows slowly crept up, and Emmanellain’s own face fell. “What?” Emmanellain said defensively.
“Nothing,” Sicard said, not at all liking the unpleasant lurch in his stomach at the mention of the Haillenarte daughter. It was old news by now that Emmanellain had carried a hopeless torch for her for years; goodness knows he’d waxed poetic enough about the ruby red of her hair and sapphire blue of her eyes. Sicard rather felt he might be able to pick the woman out in a lineup despite never having met her. “I should have guessed you Ishgardians would be all about that fashion. And leather.”
“Fashion and practicality, remember,” Emmanellain said, puffing himself up. “Mistress Taru prides herself on delivering top-quality gear for adventurers—”
“Save the business pitch for someone who needs it,” Sicard laughed. “Besides, it all worked out in the end, didn’t it?”
“The Rose Knights and Redbills both were among our first clients,” Emmanellain said proudly, looking up the table towards his father. “I would daresay it has done wonders for furthering our relations with House Haillenarte.”
And there it was again, that unpleasant lurch. Sicard snatched up his wine glass, knocking back its contents without a care for propriety.
It was just annoying having to listen to Emmanellain swoon over some noblewoman. It would almost be funny if it weren’t so pathetic.
“And I would daresay you have done House Fortemps proud,” Edmont said as staff came in to clear the soup course away, and Emmanellain positively swelled at the praise. Edmont looked to Sicard, his eyes crinkling in a smile. “I must say, I’m glad my son has found such a steadfast business partner. I will admit to no small curiosity when he said you were a pirate of Limsa Lominsa; to learn you met as comrades of the Ilsabard Contingent makes me gladder still to know I was right to send him when I did.”
Sicard snickered. “Oh, don’t you worry, me lordship, he was complainin’ loudly about said decision every chance ’e got.”
“That is not true!” Emmanellain protested.
“It is,” Adalyn and G’raha chimed in, and Emmanellain pouted magnificently.
“Well, it would seem you are no worse off for Father’s decision,” Artoirel said airily, and Emmanellain turned his pout on his brother.
“If you had been there, you would know how utterly wretched an experience it was! If you think Coerthas is cold, why, Ilsabard would make our blizzards look like gentle tropical rains! I was freezing, do you understand me? Freezing in ways that our modern tongue has no words with which to convey its bitterness!”
“You came through with those tinctures, though,” Sicard said, and Emmanellain swung around in his seat to look at him, mouth falling open.
“I—yes, you’re very correct on that account,” Emmanellain said, sitting up a little straighter and smoothing down his doublet, looking very pleased with himself.
“I’d daresay they saved more than a few lives out there,” G’raha said, and Emmanellain nodded imperiously.
It didn’t miss Sicard’s notice how Emmanellain glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. “What? I already said the tinctures was a good idea. Don’t tell me you’re expectin’ me to lavish you with praise, too?”
“As if,” Emmanellain scoffed. “If you had, I’d think you replaced. Why, I’d be shocked if you knew anything other than lowbrow insults!”
Sicard’s brows drew together, his lip curling as he said, “I’ve been on me best behaviour tonight, I’ll have you know.”
“Well, at least we made it to the appetizers before they started in on it,” Adalyn muttered as the staff brought in new plates.
“Dear brother, ‘twould seem you are the one insulting your guest unprovoked,” Artoirel said, inclining his head. “Master Spence has been quite well-mannered by my reckoning.”
Sicard smirked at Emmanellain. “See? Well-mannered, me.”
Emmanellain arched a lofty eyebrow, but was temporarily interrupted by the plates set down. The third course consisted of mushrooms stuffed with salty buffalo cheese from Summerford Farms, garlic, and bread crumbs. Sicard glanced at the exterior fork, then up at Adalyn; upon seeing she had, in fact, grabbed the fork he was anticipating, he snatched it up for himself, digging into the food with much more enthusiasm this time.
It wasn’t unlike something one might find at the Bismarck. Not that Sicard had eaten there often, but when the money flowed and the Bloody Executioners had a little more coin in their purses, it wasn’t unusual for them to indulge from time to time. In fact, Sicard thought to himself as he took another bite, he wondered if the recipe might not have been cribbed from that very same restaurant.
He was content to let Aymeric take over the conversation as talk turned to the matter of his and Adalyn’s upcoming honeymoon; though their wedding had been two weeks ago, they’d opted to stay in the city for the holidays (and to let Aymeric catch up on his never-ending mountain of paperwork). They would be spending Heavensturn on an island in the Cieldalaes.
“Hold on,” Sicard said, sitting up a little straighter. “I remember hearin’ Admiral Merlwyb was plannin’ on developin’ some of those uninhabited islands. Is that…?”
“A wedding gift,” Adalyn said, her cheeks pinking as she glanced up at Aymeric. “Well—as much a gift for savin’ the star, too. I still don't rightly know what I’ll do with an entire island.”
“What sort of pirate are you, then?” Sicard said, arching an eyebrow, and Adalyn stuck her tongue out at him.
“Now, now, we’ve been privateers since the Galadion Accords were signed,” Adalyn said. “Who said anything about pirates?”
“Oh, come off it,” Sicard said. “I remember sharin’ complaints over drinks too well. ‘We’re pirates, not bloody privateers’, I distinctly recall you sayin’.”
Adalyn snickered, glancing around the table. “Well, maybe I’m tryin’ to make ye sound more respectable in front of our hosts.”
“There's a certain romanticism to be had in the word pirate, though,” G’raha said, and Sicard was thrown for yet another loop when G’raha and Aymeric shared a fond look that rather made him feel like he was intruding on a private moment. “Bringing with it a sense of nostalgia for far-flung lands and seafaring tales of glory.”
“Well said!” Emmanellain piped up, and Sicard’s gaze snapped back to him as Emmanellain grinned toothily at him. “No grand tales or epic songs were ever written about privateers!” He lifted his glass. “To the pirates of Limsa Lominsa, I say—and to our guests.”
Sicard’s ears burned as he drank.
The fourth course was brought in, and with it, Sicard’s growing suspicion that this dinner hadn't just been intended to impress Emmanellain’s father and brother. The salad was undeniably La Noscean: tender fiddlehead ferns, olives stuffed with lemon, finely-sliced red onions, crumbled feta, and drizzled with a tangy Lominsan vinaigrette.
They were only one spoon and two forks in. Sicard had rather wondered how in the world one was supposed to survive nine courses, but the smaller portions, he was beginning to realise, wasn't just some ridiculous noble’s idea of serving size. It was to stretch the meal out as much as possible.
Just how long had Emmanellain been planning this dinner?
Sicard picked at his salad while listening idly to Artoirel, Aymeric, and Adalyn discuss Francel’s plans for the Firmament District in the coming year. He’d never particularly been one for rabbit food like this, but what was on offer was a far cry from the limp, hot salads of shredded lettuce he might have turned his nose up at in port. He still wrinkled his nose as he took another bite, rolling the olives around in his mouth.
Emmanellain nudged his knee beneath the table, and Sicard glanced up, irritation flashing across his face. “What?”
“Is the salad also not to your liking?” Emmanellain murmured.
Sicard swallowed and blinked at him. “Eh? 'S’fine. It's a salad, innit?”
“You rather looked ready to scowl a hole through your plate. I feared the ferns had found some way to cause offense, too.”
“The ferns are fine,” Sicard bit out, and pointedly chased the last of the salad up with his fork, stuffing it into his mouth and chewing exaggeratedly.
Emmanellain wrinkled his nose. “Must you be so crass and uncouth?”
Sicard opened his mouth to retort, when across the table, Adalyn let out an enormous belch that rattled the crystalline chandelier above. Any conversation at the table abruptly stopped, eyes turning to her as she held up her hands.
“Most sincere apologies—I think the bubbles in the wine got the best of me!”
Sicard hid his grin as he took another drink.
“’Twas quite the impressive eructation,” Aymeric said, most diplomatically in Sicard’s opinion. He bit back a snicker. How the man could keep a straight face saying eructation was beyond him. “More water, dearest?”
“Please.”
Sicard leaned out of the way as the staff came in to clear away the salad course. He glanced at Emmanellain out of the corner of his eye, and Emmanellain’s own narrowed in return.
“And here you thought it’d be me causin’ a scene,” Sicard said. He glanced up at Adalyn, smirking faintly. “What happened to all those fancy manners you learned from that fop of a brother?”
“Eructated with the wine,” Adalyn said cheerfully, but froze when Artoirel inclined his head.
“You made mention of learning Ishgardian customs from a member of your old crew,” he said, “but I don’t believe you ever regaled us with the specifics. I’ll admit to no small curiosity, now—especially since I do believe this is the first time I’ve heard about your brother in more than passing.”
“It’s really not that excitin’,” Adalyn said, and Sicard stared when he realised sweat was beading at her temples. “I just pestered him ’til he agreed to the lessons.”
“How does an Ishgardian with table manners go about becoming a pirate, anyway?” Emmanellain asked, leaning forward. “’Tis most unusual for my fellow countrymen to take to sea!”
“Indeed,” Edmont said, peering down the table at Adalyn. “Ishgard saw a sharp decline in seafaring travel after the Count de Durendaire’s son was killed at sea by pirates, some twenty years prior.”
“Ah, yes, Charlemend made mention when we were negotiation’ trade rights with the Krakens,” Adalyn said, giving Edmont a strained smile. “Terrible business, that, but it weren’t my crew, I’m sure. No offense, but Ishgardian ships rarely had good loot compared to what Garlemald’s had to offer. It just ain’t worth the trouble of sackin’ ’em.”
“Really?” Emmanellain said, looking almost put-out.
“When the Galadion Accords were signed, it was more of a formality than anythin’,” Sicard said. “All the pirate powers was already hittin’ Garlean ships long ’fore the decree. Those Imperial bastards were interferin’ with trade business, which made it personal.”
“Privateers,” Adalyn muttered derisively under her breath.
She was mercifully spared from having to dwell much longer on the decline of piracy when the fifth course was wheeled in—an enormous Starlight dodo, glistening with a honey-bourbon glaze, stuffed with chestnuts, and surrounded by baked apples and citrus fruits.
“Gosh,” Sicard said, voice dripping with sarcasm as a pair of servers began carving into the bird, “I do hope everyone’s hungry.”
Emmanellain chortled. “What does not get eaten today will be repurposed for yet more delectable meals. Fret not, my friend—today is a day of excess, not waste!”
Sicard wondered if Emmanellain was just blowing hot air, but he nodded, deciding to take his words at face value.
“Oh, but do remember we have four more courses after this,” Emmanellain added. He lifted his glass—this time, a fullbodied white wine to complement the meat. “That said—the citrus was sourced from none other than Summerford farms, and ‘twould be a shame to not enjoy it at its freshest.”
“You should come to La Noscea sometime and enjoy it fresh for yourself,” Sicard said. “Do a bit of honest labour, pick ’em right off the tree. They don't get much fresher’n that.”
Emmanellain laughed. “And break my back toiling beneath a sweltering sun? Could you imagine? Not I, old boy, certainly not I!”
“Perhaps a bit of honest labour would do you good,” Edmont said, peering at Emmanellain over his own glass.
“Father, must you threaten me so?” Emmanellain whinged. “I am still recovering from my ordeal in Garlemald, I’ll have you know! And it would not do to leave Camp Dragonhead without its commander for long! Previous circumstances notwithstanding of course, but that was only the fate of the entire star at stake! Surely you understand that I am as of now ill-prepared for yet another one of your assignments meant to grow my character?”
“Now that is hardly talk befitting a knight of Ishgard,” Artoirel said. “One would almost think you trying to shirk personal responsibility, Brother.”
Emmanellain gasped, putting a hand to his chest. “I would never!”
“If you tried to get away with half the shite you do on a ship, ye’d be whipped into shape right quick,” Sicard said, and Adalyn inclined her head in agreement. “Gods forbid you dirty your delicate hands pickin’ fruit, though.”
“Delicate?” Emmanellain said indignantly. “I’ll have you know I’ve built up some impressive calluses over the many years of wielding a sword!” And thus saying, he grabbed Sicard’s hand, turning his own over and placing Sicard’s atop his.
Sicard had not been expecting this in the slightest, and let out a sharp squawk of protest before finding his fingers flattened over Emmanellain’s.
He supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised at the faint ridges of calluses, though if you’d asked Sicard before, he would have imagined Emmanellain’s hands were pointlessly soft from lotions and oils and the like.
Not that he spent a lot of time imagining Emmanellain’s hands. Just if you’d asked him in the moment, mind.
Still, he’d many a time watched the man throw himself at the training dummies in Camp Broken Glass with an enthusiasm inversely proportional to his skill, so who could blame him for not expecting much?
He hadn’t been paying attention during the prayer, but he was certainly paying attention now.
Sicard realised his mouth had gone dry, and he hastily pulled back, reaching for his wine glass. “Yeah, yeah, they’re certainly existent.” When Emmanellain pouted, he defensively added, “What? You’d tear your hands to shreds frappin’.”
Emmanellain looked scandalised as he hissed, “Not in front of my father!”
Across the table, Adalyn snorted into her plate. “Frappin’ lines tie down other things,” she said. “Or, y’know, hold the ship together in a storm.”
“Or help lower the dinghies,” Sicard added. “It's a versatile word.” He smirked at Emmanellain. “Nothin’ like a bit o’ frappin’ to get the blood pumpin’!”
To her credit, Adalyn made a valiant effort to keep a straight face, but it was G’raha who broke first, desperately trying to swallow down a mouthful of dodo around his stifled laughter.
“Lord Aymeric, how have the bishops been taking the latest House of Lords proposal to tax the church?” Edmont said, raising his voice, and Aymeric, grateful for the topic shift, turned to begin droning on about religious tithes and tax codes. Sicard tuned him out in favour of stuffing his mouth with food.
He definitely wasn’t thinking about Emmanellain’s calluses.
Nope, he was definitely thinking about Emmanellain’s calluses.
Shite.
There was something almost endearing about how proud he was of them, Sicard thought, glancing over at Emmanellain. The man was a load of hot air in a fancy doublet most of the time, but Sicard would be lying if he said he wasn't fond of the young lord.
He wouldn't have accepted his invitation otherwise.
Emmanellain glanced over, meeting his eyes, and he raised his eyebrows, glancing down at the dodo and then up at Sicard in a silent question.
“Hm? Oh, it's good,” Sicard said, spearing an orange wedge on his fork. “Do you normally serve this with citrus?”
“No, that is something new for this year,” Emmanellain said, beaming. “I’d heard it was the traditional La Noscean take on the dish.”
Sicard’s own eyebrow crept a little higher at this confirmation. Emmanellain was clearly trying to impress him, and while any business partner would want to put on a good showing, this felt deeper than that. He could have just as easily hosted a traditional Ishgardian dinner with all the decadence that would entail and Sicard would have been suitably impressed—but to go to all this trouble to make dishes in the hopes he’d like it?
No. Surely not. He was far too infatuated with Lady Laniaitte.
“Well, maybe you heard correctly for how the fancy folks eat,” Sicard said, realising he was staring, “but this is the first time I’ve had dodo for Starlight.”
“Really?” Emmanellain’s mouth fell open. “Well, then—what did you normally eat?”
Sicard shrugged. “Whatever was on offer from the galley?” he said. “If we’d made port near the holiday, we’d celebrate with dodo stew, but preparin’ a bird like this on a ship?” He laughed, shaking his head. “Ain’t happenin’.”
Emmanellain looked helplessly towards Adalyn.
She glanced up when she realised he was looking at her, and lifted one shoulder in a mirror of Sicard’s shrug. “The Starlight I spent with you lot after kindly takin’ the Scions in was the first time I’d seen a full dodo like that, yeah.”
“Well, why didn't you say something?” Emmanellain exclaimed. “We could have done something even more special for the occasion!”
“Not like I remembered, did I?”
“Well—no, but—”
“And now I’m gettin’ to enjoy it two years in a row,” Adalyn said, grinning. “Don't worry yourself so much, Em, it's fine.”
She addressed him so casually. Sicard wondered how well calling Emmanellain Em would go, coming from him.
“If that is the case, then I shall be certain next year’s dodo is sufficiently impressive,” Aymeric said, smiling. “After tonight's dinner, I would be delighted for a chance to host House Fortemps in return.”
Edmont chuckled. “If you insist, then far be it from us to stop you, but please—enjoy this holiday before you start fretting over the next!”
Aymeric smiled ruefully. “I cannot seem to help myself; even when I am supposed to be not working, I find myself coming up with yet more things that need doing.”
“You work yourself too hard,” Emmanellain said, tsking as he shook his head. “I understand full well that all you do is for the good of Ishgard, but surely running yourself ragged is not the way to go about it. You need to remember to still have fun, you know.”
“Oh, don't worry, we’ll have plenty of fun soon enough,” Adalyn said brightly, and Aymeric’s ears pinked. He nonetheless obligingly bent over to place a gentle kiss against her lips when she leaned up towards him. “And I’ll want to enjoy meself while I still can,” she added, reaching for her wine glass. “Soon as we get back, I’ll be gettin’ ready to go into the Studium.”
Sicard blinked. “As in—Sharlayan?”
Adalyn grinned. “Louisoix put the idea in me head, ’fore the Calamity,” she said.
“Some idea,” Sicard said. “You can barely hold a pen.”
Adalyn’s cheeks went a blotchy red. “Me penmanship’s gettin’ better,” she said defensively, and Aymeric reached over to give her hand a reassuring squeeze. “And I already know how to read.”
“I’m sure everything will go perfectly smoothly,” G’raha said, sitting up a little straighter. “The instructors already know to extend some grace to the Warrior of Light should you miss a lecture due to saving the star again.”
“Oh, don't,” Adalyn groaned. “We deserve a proper break after flyin’ to the edge of the universe. If anythin’ makes me miss a lesson, it’ll regret ever bein’ born.”
Sicard, however, wasn't about to let it go so easily. “Them fancy elites in their fancy school won't take offense to the fact you ain’t had a lick of proper education before? Or are ye countin’ on ’em passin’ you regardless?”
Adalyn scowled. “They know not to give me any leeway when I defend me thesis. And Raha’ll help me make sure I’ve done it right.”
She called him Raha. Another feather for Emmanellain's gossiping cap.
“And you’ll have other friends to help, too,” G’raha chuckled. “Full certain am I that our old colleagues would be delighted to assist you, should you ask.”
Sicard knew when to let a topic go, and so he shrugged, sitting back to let the servants clear away the dodo course as Artoirel and Adalyn got into some very technical conversation about music and her thesis on bardic magic.
The sixth course was much lighter, a lemon sorbet to act as a pallet cleanser for the next. There was scarcely a mouthful of the tangy dessert, and Sicard almost wished there was more—until the seventh course came out, the Starlight log Adalyn had made. The rolled cake was dripping with a chocolate and raspberry ganache, and accompanied by a rich, dark cream sherry.
The excess of sugar made Sicard’s teeth hurt.
“So, Master Spence,” Artoirel said, and Sicard hastened to swallow, “my younger brother has of course regaled us with his own tales of the Ilsabard Contingent, but I think I can speak for the rest of us when I say I would be delighted to hear a tale or two of your own.”
“Oh, I dunno,” Sicard said, and flashed Emmanellain a grin. “You know how much this one likes to natter on. I doubt there’s anything I could tell you that ’e hasn’t already covered—with thorough embellishments to make him sound better, of course,” he added, his grin widening.
Emmanellain gasped, putting a hand to his heart. “You wound me! Suggesting I would recount such historic events with naught less than exacting detail to the truth?”
Sicard’s grin widened. “How many Imperials did you tell ’em you killed?”
Emmanellain spluttered. “That,” he said, “is entirely beside the point!”
“Emmanellain led a group of knights to take down a particularly nasty magitek armour,” Adalyn said, giving him a very gracious out, in Sicard’s opinion. And then she turned to Sicard, lifting her chin. “Think I passed your unit as I was runnin’ to the front, as a matter of fact.”
“And that is… how you met?” Artoirel asked, inclining his head.
Sicard and Emmanellain glanced at each other.
“Not exactly,” Sicard opted for. “I knew of him ’fore words were ever exchanged, mind, ‘cause he wouldn’t let anyone forget it. Emmanellain de Fortemps, good friend of the Warrior of Light, renowned knight of Ishgard—I remember seein’ him makin’ a right prat of himself in Ala Mhigo—”
“Demonstrating my phenomenal footwork, thank you very much!”
“—but I don’t think it were ’til the Ilsabard Contingent set up at Camp Broken Glass what we actually started talkin’,” Sicard said, rubbing his jaw as he studied Emmanellain. “I can’t rightly recall.”
Emmanellain sniffed. “You tried to have your Lominsan smiths claim credit for all the hard work Lord Stephanivien and his Skysteel engineers did on the generators.”
“That,” Sicard said, jabbing his fork at Emmanellain, “was a team effort. Your engineers and ours, workin’ together.”
“Well, I suppose some credit where credit is due, then,” Emmanellain said. “Oh, but that must have been…” He snapped his fingers. “Just before Adalyn was snatched away by the Garlean prince’s pet Ascian!”
Adalyn’s face paled, and she set her fork down. Aymeric looked unsurprised by this revelation, but Edmont and Artoirel both turned to look at her, no small curiosity in their eyes.
“...Nothin’ happened,” Adalyn said after a moment, looking vaguely ill. “I escaped. We stormed the Tower of Babil not long after.”
Emmanellain opened his mouth, very likely to share with his father and brother the tale that Sicard had only heard in whispered bits and pieces before Emmanellain had spilled the whole nightmare. He trod on Emmanellain’s foot beneath the table, hard, and Emmanellain jumped, his knee hitting the table’s underside and sending the dishware rattling.
The attention turned to the pair of them, but Emmanellain, scowling, at least had the sense to say, “’Twas nothing. A sudden jolt of the knee—you’d know how that goes, Father,” he added, and Edmont let out the smallest of sighs, but inclined his head in agreement.
Adalyn caught Sicard’s eye from across the table, and quickly flicked three fingers beneath her chin towards him. He didn’t speak her sign, but recognised it from their expedition as thank you. He nodded, and went back to picking at his dessert.
G’raha turned to Edmont to begin inquiring after his pain management, and Emmanellain frowned at Sicard. “The foot trod was entirely unnecessary, you know,” he said under his breath. “I do have a little more sense than to go into the gruesome details in such polite company.”
Sicard pursed his lips, but decided not to pursue the matter further. He didn’t particularly feel like getting into a furiously whispered argument with Emmanellain’s family scant paces away from them. “I didn’t break your delicate little toes, did I?” he muttered instead, which got a scoff and an eye roll from Emmanellain.
“Careful, Master Spence. One could almost believe you were concerned for my wellbeing!”
“We’re back to titles, are we?” Sicard asked, quirking an eyebrow. “I should’ve trod on your foot sooner, Lord Emmanellain.”
Emmanellain stepped on Sicard’s foot by way of response.
Sicard snickered as he returned the stomp with another of his own, paused when he realised Artoirel was eyeing them from up the table, and continued when the young count’s attention was drawn back into conversation by his father. “Y’know, this is why we’re friends,” Sicard said to Emmanellain. “You might be a spoiled second son, but you can keep up with the banter alright.”
Emmanellain rolled his eyes and leaned out of the way for a servant to remove his empty plate. “Yes, well, one does not survive long in Ishgard if one is incapable of holding one’s own in a verbal spar.” He paused, glancing almost guiltily over at Adalyn, who was engrossed in conversation with Aymeric and didn't notice.
Sicard just smirked and shook his head. “Well, one of these days, you’ll have to come ’round Limsa just to rub elbows with the rifraff we pirates entertain. When you think about it, it ain’t all that different from Ishgard. The language might be less flowery, but the games are much the same.” He wrinkled his nose. “Bein’ acting captain came with a few expectations I hadn’t rightly anticipated at the time.”
“I suppose the politics of pirate lords would be quite complicated,” Emmanellain mused as the cheese course was brought in. “Rights to who can sack what ships, I suppose?”
“We all had the same rights to raid Garlean ships under the Galadion Accords,” Sicard said, and didn’t bother to hide his grin when he saw Adalyn’s head snap up at the name with a sour scowl. “But there was a lot of territory to cover within those rules. Us Bloody Executioners mostly concerned ourselves with the stretch of ocean between the south cape and Ilsabard.”
“The Krakens roamed further out,” Adalyn chimed in. “Garlemald already had a presence in Othard when the Accords were signed, so it was just an extra stroke of fortune if we happened ’pon their ships while makin’ the usual trade routes. The Sirens mostly stuck to the coasts ’round Eorzea,” she added. “Though now that the war with Garlemald is over, they’re a bit hard up for other options, not like the Krakens and the Executioners.”
Emmanellain drummed his fingers thoughtfully on the table. “The Sanguine Sirens are a crew composed entirely of women, to my understanding?”
“Whatever you’re thinkin’,” Adalyn said sharply, “it’s a bad idea, Em.”
Emmanellain pouted. “You haven’t even heard it!”
“Trust us,” Sicard said firmly, “do not. If nothin’ else, because my crew wouldn’t be caught dead workin’ with our rivals.”
Emmanellain sighed heavily, but inclined his head in acknowledgement.
The platters of cheese were laid out, and once again, Sicard was struck by how Lominsan the spread was. Aside from a hard aged cheddar and a rich, buttery Chaurce (also from the Champagne region of Coerthas), the rest of the cheeses and chutneys were selections he wouldn’t have found out of place in the markets of home. A soft yak’s cheese rolled in cranberries, a heavily-veined blue cheese, and—no.
“Is that what I think it is?” Sicard asked, his eyebrows flying up as more staff appeared with bottles of wine.
“Bacchus wine, courtesy of the famed sommelier Byrglaent,” Emmanellain said proudly. “Would you know, we have Adalyn to thank for the return of that particular variety? Why, these were bottled in 1577, shortly after the long-believed-to-be-extinct Bacchus grapes were rediscovered by none other than our very own Warrior of Light!”
Adalyn’s ears had started going faintly pink as Emmanellain spoke. “Not to say that ain’t true, ’cause it is,” she said, “but who in the blazes told ye about all that?”
“Master Byrglaent himself, of course,” Emmanellain said, looking particularly pleased to be the first one to know these things. “When I contacted him with inquiries about a suitable vintage for our little celebration, he was all too delighted to send a pair of bottles from that first batch produced from your discovery.” He beamed.
Sicard was quiet as he used the silly little cheese knife to help himself to the new course. Something gnawed unpleasantly in the pit of his stomach; the end of the meal would be coming up soon, after which he assumed the conversation would move back to the sitting room until everyone grew weary. And then what? He’d confront Emmanellain about the menu?
Even just thinking it to himself, it sounded stupid.
Sicard nibbled on his cheese and crackers, idly listening to Emmanellain filling Adalyn in on how Honoroit’s latest book was coming along. Sicard had already been offered the chance to see an early draft, but Sicard was never much one for reading, and had so declined. Emmanellain never missed the opportunity to mention he’d been the one to teach the popular young author how to read and write, and Sicard rather privately felt it showed in the lad’s florid prose.
But that prose was practically printing him gil, so there must have been some merit to it. Sicard glanced over at Emmanellain, pondering him over his wine glass. Sicard doubted he himself would have the patience to teach anyone how to read. Gods know he wouldn't have guessed it of Emmanellain.
That was why he was so fond of the man, he realised. As fun as he was to wind up over being a pampered noble, there was a great deal more going on beneath the surface.
Fond. Sicard snorted into his drink. That was certainly one word for the feelings he could no longer keep stubbornly denying. Gods damn him.
When the ninth course of candied pecans with cinnamon spice glaze was brought out, Sicard pushed his chair back.
“I need some air,” he muttered to Emmanellain. “I’ll just be a moment.”
He didn’t stay long enough to let the sight of Emmanellain’s hurt expression convince him to linger.
The manor was large, but not so large Sicard couldn’t remember the way they’d come in. He made his way through the holly-decked halls and back outside, where the cold air struck his face the moment he pushed the doors open. Sicard bit back a gasp of surprise at the sudden chill and pressed forward, rubbing a hand over his face. Once again, he reminded himself sternly he’d seen worse cold in Garlemald. Ishgard was just a bit nippy by comparison.
The gazebo off to the side of the manor was dark, tucked away from the glimmering lights around the front door. Sicard leaned against the railing, looking out over the mountains that were faintly visible in the distant darkness.
The drab grey stone reminded him of Garlemald’s drab grey concrete. Sicard sighed, wondering when his feelings for Emmanellain had gone from a state of general annoyance to… this.
Even racking his brains, thinking back over as many of their conversations as he could recall, he couldn’t for the life of him pinpoint the exact moment he’d fallen in love.
A soft clearing of the throat sounded behind him; Sicard turned, swallowing down his disappointment when he realised it was not Emmanellain who’d joined him, but Adalyn.
“I said I needed air,” Sicard said automatically as Adalyn crossed the gazebo to lean on the railing next to him.
“Maybe I needed air too,” Adalyn said, glancing up at Sicard. “Or maybe I know ye, Sicard Spence, and maybe I wanted to come see how you were farin’.”
Sicard sighed again. “You oughta go back to the feast. They might think we’re conspirin’ to sack the place.”
Adalyn laughed. “You ain’t gettin’ rid of me that easy. Look, if you’re worried what they think of ye, they’re fond already, I can promise. Why, when Edmont—”
“That ain’t it.”
Adalyn’s mouth snapped shut, and she inclined her head, giving Sicard a curious look.
Sicard drummed his fingers on the icy railing. “I mean, I suppose that’s sort of it. Feelin’ out of place.” He glanced at Adalyn out of the corner of his eye. “It’s proper strange, seein’ you actin’ all cushy with nobles. Hadn’t taken you for the sort.”
“You’re gettin’ just as cushy as I am,” Adalyn pointed out. “I’d daresay Emmanellain’s never had as close a relationship to anyone as you.”
Sicard’s cheeks burned; he hoped it wasn’t obvious in the dim lighting. “Oh, please,” he said, his lip curling, “I’m sure he’s got plenty of friends among his noble peers.”
“None what fought side by side with him on the Magna Glacies,” Adalyn pointed out with a faint grin. “There’s somethin’ special to be said ’bout the bonds forged by fire. Or ice, as it were.”
“Life of a pirate, really,” Sicard muttered, and Adalyn hummed in agreement. “I dunno. It’s…” He gestured vaguely at the manor behind them. “Feelin’ out of place, I suppose,” he said, because like hells was he about to admit his feelings to her.
Adalyn nodded. “Nah, I get it,” she said. “When I first came to Ishgard, it felt like I’d never be comfortable with all the hoity-toity prim and proper and pious nonsense.”
“You at least knew what forks to use,” Sicard muttered, and Adalyn ducked her head with a snort of amusement. Sicard studied her for a moment, and a question he’d always wondered about but had never before asked came to mind.
“How did Captain Carvallain end up runnin’ with the Krakens, anyhow?”
Though they’d once been of an age, Adalyn had been lost in the wake of the Calamity. Sicard wasn't sure of the particulars, only that when she’d re-appeared, she was the same age as when she’d vanished. That she’d gotten her voice and memories back after the events of the Final Days had been nothing short of a second miracle, even if she had tracked him down to yell about never saying anything about their shared past earlier.
(In his defense, who could blame him? She was the most powerful person on the star, and very, very pissed off when she’d come hunting for the crystal thieves.)
Now, she managed to look somehow younger and older than him at once—the weariness on her youthful face, combined with the grey hairs sprinkled among mousy brown.
“Sicard,” she said, “you know I wouldn't say this if it weren't important: you mention him by name to anyone in this city, and I’ll cut your tongue out and eat it meself.”
Sicard’s eyebrows slowly rose at this; another man might have been cowed by the Warrior of Light’s threat, but he knew Adalyn. If she was serious, he’d be dead without ever having this conversation. “And you didn’t reckon this important enough to mention before dinner? What if I’d let slip his name without knowin’ it was such a sensitive topic?” His eyebrows arched just the slightest bit higher. “Would ye have thrown yourself across the table or waited to kill me after the meal was concluded?”
Adalyn sighed, glancing away.
Sicard settled back against the gazebo’s railing on his elbows. “I reckon heroism’s made you soft, Keene,” he said, at which Adalyn snorted, ducking her head. “It’s not a bad thing.” He glanced back at the manor with its twinkling lights, casting a warm glow over the street. “Hell, I’m sure neither of us ever pictured spendin’ a holiday like this when we was kids.”
“Hah. You can sure say that again.”
They lapsed into silence for a moment. Then:
“Figured it’d be worse if I asked ye not to say anything,” Adalyn admitted. “Like sendin’ up a signal flare we got business I don’t want ye nosin’ in on.” She side-eyed Sicard as she spoke, but he held up his hands.
“Hey, I can be discernin’ and use discretion,” he said. “‘Sides, I owe you one, don’t I?”
Adalyn blinked. “Do you?”
“For savin’ the star and all that.”
Adalyn let out a startled laugh, and Sicard chuckled.
“I ain’t stupid. Last thing I want’s to get on the Warrior of Light’s bad side, again.”
“Could’ve avoided all that if ye’d just told me we knew each other,” Adalyn pointed out.
“Is that why you failed to tell me about the lobster course?” Sicard asked, grinning. “Revenge?”
“Told ye I only found out about that this mornin’, didn’t I?” Adalyn said defensively. “Otherwise I would’ve told Emmanellain to re-think the whole menu.”
Sicard paused, then squinted. “The whole menu?”
Adalyn suddenly became very interested in picking at her cuticles. “Anyway, I’m freezin’ me arse off out here,” she said. “Think I’ll head back for the fireside and the count’s brandy. You comin’?”
“Think I’ll stay out here a mite longer, ’fore I have to go back to rubbin’ elbows with the swells,” Sicard said, and Adalyn grinned.
“Aw, they ain’t so bad for nobles,” she said, and Sicard inclined his head in agreement. “I’ll see you inside. Try not to freeze your arse off too long, yeah?”
Sicard waved her off; as Adalyn pushed off from the railing to go, her fingers lingered on the support posts, and bunches of some strange bushy plant Sicard didn’t recognise began to wend their way up the metal lattice, covering the underside of the roof in a matter of moments.
“Happy Starlight, Sicard,” Adalyn said, and then she was gone inside.
Sicard studied the plants for a moment; they had the same white berries as the wreath on the front door. It was pretty, he supposed; he’d have to ask Emmanellain what it was later.
No sooner had he had the thought than the unmistakable sound of Emmanellain’s heeled boots approached. He’d get his answer sooner than he anticipated, it would seem.
“I say, old boy, you’ll catch a cold if you linger out here,” Emmanellain said by way of greeting. His hands were stuffed into his armpits, and he shivered, breath fogging before him as he settled beside Sicard. “Was something the matter with the meal? The spices on the nuts weren’t too much?”
“Can’t a man take his air in peace?” Sicard complained. “The dinner was fine. Stop worryin’ so much.”
Emmanellain’s face, however, fell. “I was hoping for more than merely fine,” he admitted. “I’d thought to embellish the menu with fare more suited for your tastes, and I fear I rather bungled it.” He gave Sicard an uncertain smile, but there was a tautness about his oddly bright eyes.
Shite. He wasn’t about to start crying, was he?
“It was great,” Sicard hastened to reassure him. “Truly, it was. Only real hiccup was the lobster—and really? A man of your connections couldn’t have figured out Lominsan fare?”
“An oversight in my attempts to impress. It cost a great deal to import the live specimens that were used for tonight’s bisque, I’ll have you know,” Emmanellain said stiffly.
Sicard paused. “How much we talkin’, here?”
Emmanellain dithered. “Oh—well, you know—it’s rather rude to inform a gust of these things—”
“Emmanellain.” Sicard put his hands on the other man’s shoulders. “I’m askin’ as a business partner. How. Much?”
Emmanellain told him. Sicard’s eyes bulged, and he took a half-step back, rubbing his jaw in thought.
“I do believe we could work up somethin’ quite lucrative, Lord Fortemps,” Sicard drawled.
Emmanellain chuckled. “Please—a simple Emmanellain will do, old boy.”
Sicard grinned. “For what it’s worth, Em, the bisque weren’t half-bad. Just don’t expect me to eat anythin’ what looks like a lobster, yeah?”
Emmanellain smiled sheepishly. “Understood.” He paused, blinking. “I do beg your pardon, but did you just address me as Em?”
“Yeah, nah, it’s too weird,” Sicard said quickly. “Emmanellain’ll do fine.”
Emmanellain hesitated a moment. “I would not object if you wished to address me more informally,” he said. “I consider you one of my—my closest and dearest friends, I’ll have you know. ’Tis why I wished so desperately to make tonight perfect.”
Sicard almost didn’t dare hope he’d heard that hesitation in Emmanellain’s voice. “You’ve already done plenty to make it memorable,” he said. “More’n plenty, really.”
And here was the real rub. Sicard would have flirted shamelessly were he were more certain of the man’s feelings, but a glance across the street towards Haillenarte manor quickly dissuaded him of that notion. There was no point in making a pass when the object of his affection was so enamoured with someone else.
Emmanellain bobbed his head, his smile turning a little more genuine. “If this year has not terribly put you off the idea, I should be delighted for you to return for next year’s feast. And there will be a marked absence of lobster, I swear to you!”
Sicard laughed, bumping Emmanellain with his shoulder. “That desperate for me to come back already?”
“I’m fond of your company, in case that was not clear,” Emmanellain said, and there was that word again, fond. “I should like nothing better than to share the warmth of a fire with you once more.” He offered Sicard his arm. “With that said: shall we go inside, and get out of this bitter cold?”
Sicard looped his arm through Emmanellain’s, trying not to read too much into it. It had to be an Ishgardian thing, surely. “I’ve had enough of snow.”
They’d barely taken two steps towards the gazebo’s entrance when Emmanellain paused, reaching up to touch the plants Adalyn had grown. “I say, when did we put mistletoe out here?”
“Adalyn did,” Sicard said. “Just a few moments ‘fore you came out.”
Emmanellain pulled his hand back like he’d been burned. “And did—well, the two of you—?”
He gestured vaguely; Sicard’s eyebrows slowly crept up. “You’ll have to be a little more specific,” Sicard drawled.
“Did she kiss you?” Emmanellain asked, almost jealously.
Sicard blinked rapidly, not quite certain if he’d heard right. “First of all: what? Secondly, isn’t she married?”
Emmanellain dithered, and Sicard pulled his arm free to cross them, tapping his foot.
“Does this have to do with the eyes she was makin’ at the miqo’te all night long?”
“Oh, very well, but only since you noticed,” Emmanellain said, his shoulders slumping with relief. “Yes, the rumours I’d told you about, I’ve since been informed were indeed true. She and Lord Aymeric held a handfasting with him and Estinien the night before their cathedral wedding, very small. And you heard none of this from me, you understand?”
“I ain’t some bloody gossip,” Sicard said, shaking his head. “But that still doesn’t answer me first question. What’s mistletoe got to do with kissin’?”
Even in the dim light, Emmanellain’s blush was readily apparent. “Well,” he said, “Ishgardian tradition is to hang it in a doorway, and should two people encounter one another beneath it…”
Sicard’s eyebrows crept higher. “You snog?”
Emmanellain rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, I wouldn’t put it quite so crudely, but yes.”
Sicard’s heart sped up, beating a rapid tempo against his ribs. He glanced up at the mistletoe that adorned the underside of the gazebo, then back at Emmanellain. “Seems a shame to ignore tradition, don’t you think?” he asked, and stepped closer when Emmanellain’s mouth fell open. “Well? Are you goin’ to just gawp at me like a fish, or are you goin’ to snog me already?”
“You have some nerve,” Emmanellain declared, and thus saying, he grabbed a fistful of Sicard’s shirt, reeling him in for a kiss.
Even goading him on, Sicard hadn’t expected Emmanellain to be quite so forceful, and he gasped into the kiss, grabbing a handful of Emmanellain’s doublet in turn, pulling him closer and down for a better angle. He felt Emmanellain’s other hand settle between his shoulders, and Sicard’s hands tightened in the fabric of Emmanellain’s shirt.
Emmanellain's lips were soft against Sicard’s, chapped from the wind and salt as they were. Sicard groaned into the kiss, a small part of his brain wildly wondering if this wasn't a terrible idea—but then he shook himself and tipped his head for a better angle, tracing his tongue against Emmanellain's lips before the other man obligingly let him in. He could still taste the cinnamon and eggnog on Emmanellain’s tongue as it slipped against his own, open-mouthed and hot and needy.
Sicard wasn’t entirely certain which one of them broke the kiss first for air. His head spun when Emmanellain pulled back, and a moment passed where they simply stared at each other, lips swollen and both left breathless.
“Finally,” Sicard said, as much to save face as anything, and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “I thought ye’d never get on with it.”
Emmanellain spluttered. “You were the one insisting I kiss you!”
Sicard smirked. “What—hated it that much, did ye?”
“I never said that,” Emmanellain protested.
“So are you goin’ to keep standin’ ’round waggin’ your chin, or do I need to shut you up again?”
“You,” Emmanellain said, “are absolutely shameless.”
“Lucky for you, then,” Sicard said, and stepped closer, closing the distance between them once more.
This time, the kiss was gentler—more hesitant, almost, with Emmanellain’s mouth uncertain on Sicard’s as he explored the pirate’s lips with his own. For a mercy, he wasn’t that much taller, and Sicard barely had to lean up to meet the kiss. He grinned against Emmanellain’s mouth and nipped sharply at his lower lip, which elicited a small gasp before Emmanellain put his hands on Sicard’s shoulders. His eyes were wide, his cheeks flushed from more than the cold, and an uncertain smile was playing about his lips.
“Not that I’m not enjoying myself immensely, but the others are bound to be wondering where we are, and I know you are not as used to the cold as I.”
“Careful, Lord Emmanellain,” Sicard said, and hooked his arm through Emmanellain’s once more, “talk like that, I might almost think you cared.”
“I do,” Emmanellain said, and cleared his throat. “Perhaps in spite of my best judgement, but I do.”
The retort Sicard had started forming died on his lips. It was so rare to see Emmanellain let himself be vulnerably honest like this.
It made Sicard deeply uncomfortable. What the hells was he supposed to say to that? Snapping back with his usual banter seemed out of place.
“...Yeah, well, I care about you too,” Sicard said, glancing away. “So let's get out of the cold already, yeah? You’ll freeze in those fine silks, you know.”
“As if you would fare any better!” Emmanellain protested, but drew Sicard back to the door.
He didn’t let go until they were beyond the warmth of the threshold, and very pointedly did not look at Sicard as they returned to the table, where coffee and biscuits were now being served.
As Sicard sat down, Adalyn caught his eye; she winked and indicated the front of her own shirt as she glanced between the two. Sicard looked down at himself, then over at Emmanellain, and realised to his horror that the fine linen of his own shirt and the fine silk of Emmanellain’s were both distinctly rumpled.
“Our apologies for continuing without you,” Artoirel said. “Naught is amiss, I hope?”
Emmanellain’s hand found Sicard’s knee beneath the table, and he gave it a firm squeeze. “All jolly good, Brother,” he said, smiling broadly. “We were just discussing our partnership, as it were.”