#ser haumeric

    They find him tending the barren garden outside of the Haillenarte manor, maybe not so much tending as fiddling with a dark stalk of rose. He seems lost in thought, so when Ser Noudenet and Ser Haumeric spot him at the manor side-he does not immediately hear their approach. They see that there is something melancholy in the way he leans against the banister and into the bushes that make up the small side-gazebo, head cast downwards and gaze not necessarily on the stalk he held betwixt slender fingers. It had once bloomed an array of roses, but now it flowers no longer. 

Francel is wrapped conservatively in a light green bliaud, with black gaskins and gaiters. There is a brown scarf tucked around his neck and would surely be hiding the lower half of his face, but from the side even they can tell whom they spy by the telltale cavalier and its cheerful yellow feather. 

    “Lord Francel?”

    Haumeric calls out, paused in his walk with Noudenet to reach out towards Francel, the young man lost in a past nearly forgotten. Francel turns, caught partly by surprise to greet them a little hurriedly, a stutter off his tongue and a higher pitched rasp. 

    “Ser Noudenet! And Ser Haumeric!”

    His brows are raised, and there is a little tinge of delighted light in his eyes, a warmth blooming in his chest. Francel seems warmed to see them, and that lightens the load on their shoulders, the weight comes now only from the heavy alpine coats they wear. But, even they hear the strange tone to Francel’s voice, so they come closer to him beneath the pavilion and out of the gentle fall of snow. The young lord pulls down his scarf, holding it beneath his chin; his cheeks are a warm pink and it dusts across his nose brightly. His bow mouth curls up, and the smile is bright and pleasant and when turned on them feels like a warming light has taken them. But there was still something strange about the heat in Francel’s face that Noudenet could not help but peer in close to, leaning in with narrowed eyes. 

    “Do not tell me,’ Noudenet starts, ‘that you are supposed to be on bedrest and have snuck out.”

    When Francel laughs, it is like a small wind chime; sweet and airy. 

    “I am a little ill and have been forbade from entering the Firmament for further work, thus have I resorted to sneaking out to the garden. Alas, that it should offer less comfort than a warm spring might have should the roses have been able to bloom. I have been cooped up for far too long, that it eases now and I simply wanted out.” 

    “My guess is that you’ve caught a cold from over work whilst there in the first place.” Haumeric had not been able to tell at first, but trusted the keen eye of Noudenet above all else and his aetheric sensitivity. “Well, far be it from us to lecture you. Might we perhaps even be a bad influence and invite you further away?”

    Francel pulls up his scarf and ducks his head, but his eyes peek through the fringe of his lashes between the two as he thinks, slowly nodding his head after but a moment of thought. There was only so much work he could do in his room, and it was all rather repetitive. It was also a little embarrassing to have his family fussing over him so overbearingly, but perhaps it would not be so bad to have Noudenet and Haumeric tend to him. They had been thorough lovers when last he had been with the Ward, and Francel would not soon forget that-he knew that this situation would prove similar and that he would find love and comfort between the two as well.

    As it turned out, Haumeric and Noudenet lived apart but had their own small apartments within the city. They went to Noudenet’s, for Haumeric said his was little fit and under prepared for guests. He had spent much of his time hard at work in the Vault and with others of the clergy that he had mostly taken his meals and rests elsewhere. Ser Noudenet had liked the privacy of his own apartment apart from his colleagues, and after having been sent away had never intended to return to his previous home in the Lowlands. Being in disgrace, it was likely he would not have been accepted back so he took his meager pay upon return under the good graces of Ser Aymeric and continued to furnish the apartment. 

The main room hosted a warm brown sofa, there was a fireplace that looked well used and a stack of firewood beside it. The kitchenette was shoved into a corner of the same room. There were a few doors. One likely leads to a bedroom and the other to a bathroom. There was a table in the middle housing many piles of books and papers filled to their edges with barely legible scribbles and script, pens and ink refills scattered about. 

    Noudenet does not bother apologizing for the mess, and Francel does not even bat an eyelash at the size nor the state. He hangs up his scarf and hat on a hook by the door and walks with Haumeric to the fireplace to help get it started. Noudenet goes to his little stove because he has a mind to make a potent brew for Francel to help with the tail-end of his sniffles and cold. Being that he is most potent with fire, it’s very easy for him to start the stove. It takes only a snap of his fingers to bring it to warming temperatures. As it heats up with a kettle of water on it, he paces in thought of what to give Francel; yarrow, peppermint… maybe some sage along with something aetherically dense to boost his immune strength… He sees Haumeric and Francel still struggling over the fireplace. The growth of his fond smile makes the scar on his cheek tingle. 

    “Here, here….”

    He butts between the two to see the matches just simply aren’t taking on the paper wedged between the logs in the fireplace. A twist of his wrist, a snap of his fingers–he skips the paper entirely and catches one of the logs in a blaze. Francel looks awed, Haumeric only sighs at the necessity of it all and nudges shoulders with him. 

    “Thank you for the brute force.”

    “Well, we can’t have Lord Francel sitting in the cold while ill now can we.”

    Noudenet stands and paces back to his stove and starts going through his cabinets for the ingredients he’d been thinking about. The mix itself would be potent, and likely very bitter but somehow he doubted Francel had been taking the best care of himself so a dosing was long overdue. He mixes the leaves together in his own tea strainer and fills a cup with the steaming water from the kettle of the stove. He does not bother mixing any sugar in with it, it was going to have a strong taste anyways and a sweetener would hardly be able to cut it. Noudenet passes the glow of his hand over the top of it, steam disperses and aether flows around the cup making it seem to boil before it settles. Then he picks it up and and turns towards the sofa where the low murmur of chit chat comes from. 

Francel and Haumeric are sit huddled together on it, their thighs are leaned comfortably together and their heads are dipped close as they converse. To Noudenet, he is relieved that they can sit together so comfortably after what had transpired last–that there was no lingering anxiety or discomfort. It seemed the complexity of Francel’s feelings on the matter were not so unknown after all, and that as he had dealt with them one by one, his affections perhaps had grown as he came to know them. In this instance, as he learns from Haumeric the trials and tribulations he’d hoped to overcome by becoming one of the Heavens’ward; the dissolution of Trial by Combat having been one of them. 

    Noudenet comes to sit on Francel’s other side, their sides pressed together and their warmth shared. He passes the cup into Francel’s hands who looks at the drink with only some trepidation; perhaps remembering when last he’d taken drink from them, but the wrinkle of his nose betrays the purpose true of that look. Ah, so Francel is the type to have trouble taking his medicine. He looks as though he wants to say something, but as he glances to both Haumeric and Noudenet, finds the lodged complaint will make it little far and so he sighs and holds the cup to his lips. The first sip causes his brow to furrow and his mouth to frown. Potent indeed! But as he drinks he finds that while it tastes and feels like dirt in his mouth his nose begins to clear and the weight in his chest lessens-the itch disperses and the wrath at the back of his throat is soothed. He drinks it to the last drop under the watchful gaze of Noudenet and Haumeric, and when it is empty they both turn a heartfelt smile on him that causes a healthier blush to rise in his face and across his ears. 

    The room begins to warm in light of the fire at the hearth, Haumeric takes the cup and their coats (plus Francel’s bliaud) away. Noudenet cannot help but bring an arm around Francel's waist, his fingers press into the fabric at Francel's side to feel the feverish warmth beneath. He was still so warm, but had yet to complain about feeling unwell; he truly must have been fed up with doing nothing but laying about, and yet being here they likely had intended to ask the same of him. Haumeric comes back empty handed to look down upon them with a soft and easy smile, reaching out to trail his fingers through Francel’s soft locks first from front to back and then leaning further in to press his fingers down the back of his warm neck. His smile turns to something a little more sorrowful, as though looking upon an ill Francel, though recovering, was something to be sad about. 

    “I know that you hate it, but you really should be resting, my lord.” Haumeric says.

    “I should.” Francel agrees, looking up at him with heavy eyes and goosebumps on his arms-they’re hidden by the long sleeves of his button up. “Maybe it will not be so bad with you two there.” 

    When Francel pulls away from Noudenet and stands, it puts him nose to nose with Haumeric who does not move away; it makes Haumeric want to incline his head so that their lips may perfectly slant together, but he resists. Instead he takes him by the hand and leads him with fingers intertwined to the cool bedroom adjacent. The bed is low and would be easy to crawl into, fitted with several layers of sheets, a thick comforter and a weighted blanket. The pillows may not be downy, but they looked thick and comfortable. The bed looked big enough for two, but if they cuddled together could certainly fit three. Francel goes to sit on the edge of the bed, hands folded neatly on his knees as he looks up at Haumeric and Noudenet standing there. They glance between themselves before both begin to unfold from their clothes. First the buttons of their shirts, which they slip out of and let hang from the back of a chair, they feel the chill of the room in their fingertips even as they unlace their pants, stepping from them so that they stand only in their smalls. The cold touches their shoulders and tender bellies, so they are eager to undress Francel and slip beneath the covers with his feverish skin to press against. Francel stands again and comes into their arms. They unfasten the buttons of his button-up to reveal the smooth plain of his chest and soft stomach, where fingers cannot help but linger at the soft swell of supple flesh peaked above the hem of his gaskins. They eagerly unlace those so that they can fall to Francel’s feet and he may step out so that they might test the give of flesh at his waist with a pinch that has him chuckling softly. They guide him to the bed where they pull back the covers, Haumeric slides in and beckons to the space in the middle of the bed; Francel slips into his arms, tucks his face beneath his chin, and then there is warmth at his back where Noudenet slots against him, knees at the back of his own, his feet tangled with Haumeric’s. Arms hooked around his shoulder and waist. He feels cocooned and they feel warmed and comfortable against the bare skin of their feverish charge. Though it was still early, Francel finds that between the press of their bodies his eyes can still feel heavy. There are lips at his temple and the back of his feverish neck, but even this sensation dwindles away as he falls to sleep.

[[ For the Remainder click HERE. ]]