#seviere

“He should have thought of that before choosing to side with that -fucking- clown.” The curse word snapped like a bolt of lightning from Seviere’s lips.  The bard stalked a few more steps down the Hall, his black and white gaze settling firmly onto Arafel’s waiting form.  “Or did you hire him?”

“Ah, my dear, Seviere.”  Arafel slinked down the few steps off the dais, his hands splaying to either side.  “You have a trail of besotted idiots in your wake and you haven’t a clue, do you?  That voice of yours.  Charms the birds from the sky and the fish out of the sea.”

His fingers itched for his bow.  Lodging an arrow in this vain monster would have been far easier with one, but the one stolen from him he hadn’t replaced yet.  His chin dipped, eyes narrowing, and pace quickening.  Black lips peeled back from white teeth, a sneer twisting his expression.  

“You should never have involved Louvel.”  

Seviere’s arm arced through the air, the arrow aimed for Arafel’s chest.  Whatever hope he had in this plan was crushed when Arafel’s hand lifted and latched onto his forearm like a vice.  The two clashed, body against body, grin for grimace, grunt for groan.  A sharp crack sounded and the arrow clattered to the marble ground.  

“The duskwight stole from me, Seviere.  He owes me.”  Arafel released Seviere, shoving him back from him. He wiped his hands down his slacks.  “And so do you.”

The arm was clutched against Seviere’s chest, hand curled protectively around his forearm.  The ache was nearly blinding, his lips parted to allow for the quick swallows of air.  His brows were knit together, pain etched into his porcelain features.  His eyes lifted to meet the monster’s imperious gaze. Words sat on the edge of his tongue.

The sudden widening of Arafel’s eyes stayed his harsh comments.  The dark haired elezen lurched forward a pace, hands rising and hovering in the air, fingers spread. Uncertainty, shock halted Arafel in place.  Behind him, Seviere caught the sight of platinum blond hair and the swish of a storm blue coat when Omarus turned away to flee into the darkness of the halls beyond.  

“A-arafel?”  Seviere stepped forward, forgetting the ache in his arm in order to catch the Ishgardian when he toppled toward him.  

“How could you–”  Arafel’s voice died before the sentence ever finished.  The light in his crimson eyes dimmed, but did not go out.  He went still in Seviere’s arms, deathly still.  

The bard’s gaze moved to the sight of the arrow impaled neatly into Arafel’s back.  Omarus must have picked it up when they were too busy to notice him.  Fuck, now what did he do?  He couldn’t just leave Arafel there.  Not if he wanted him to stay down.  The silver and the wood of the arrow acted in the same way a stake would, it incompacitated him but would not outright kill Arafel.  

“Sevi?  Seviere!”  A voice echoed down the White Hall from the direction of the entrance tunnel.  

“Louvel!  Here. I’m here.”  He called back to the duskwight, pleasure filling his panic stricken gaze.  He had wanted this, but in truth, he hadn’t thought as far as actually achieving his goal.  “I need your help.  We need somewhere secure to stash Arafel.”

Seviere glanced back where Omarus had vanished.  Louvel’s stronger figure made easy work of hauling the comatose Ishgardian up off the bard’s lap.  

“Are you alright?”  Louvel skidded to a halt barely a pace away from the pile of elezen the pair made on the floor.  The sun and moon of his eyes scanned over them, more so Seviere, in search of answers to what had happened.  “What did you do?”  Louvel’s voice was both somehow curious and stern.  Arrows stuck in people weren't exactly new when it came to Seviere’s mood swings.

“It–it wasn’t me.” 

Wide black and white eyes snapped back to Louvel’s face. He scrambled up off the floor to follow him down the Hall toward the tunnel exit.  Once Arafel was secure, he’d come back to find Omarus.  In the meantime, he had to convince his husband he wasn’t to blame in the end.  

Seviere was alone.  He packed his things, sent a message off on his tomestone and stuffed that in his bag too.  There was no escort tonight.  A rare thing to occur, but it filled Maverick’s heart.  Tonight, he wasn’t going to lose anything.  Louvel was.

The paths through Gridania proper are winding and filled with people.  Maverick keeps his distance.  They always walk the same way, use the same gate.  This isn’t unusual in the least.  No one pays them any mind.  

“Sevi?”  Maverick calls the bard’s name once outside the city proper and down the road a ways, well out of sight of the Wood Wailers guarding the gates.  No one else was on the roadway here.  Just him and Seviere.  Maverick exhales a breath, Twelve, but he was lovely.

Black and white eyes flash in the light of the lamp illuminating the road.  Eyebrows dip together curiously and Seviere slows his step to let Maverick catch up.  The warm smile and nod of his head warms Maverick’s heart.  

They walk and Maverick talks. Seviere smiles and nods his answers, but he utters not one word to the clown.  This fact pricks at Maverick.  They’ve known each other for a while, performed together in countless productions, and he wants to hear Seviere’s sweet tones directed at him, for him.  Like Louvel gets.  Maverick gets nothing.

They pass through Treespeak.  Maverick buys them a drink from one of the vendors there.  A bit of powder stored in his ornate ring is sprinkled into the drink, and he gives it a quick stir with the straw before handing it off to Seviere waiting a few steps away.  A smile, a nod and the bard takes the drink.  Maverick returns the smile and they continue walking home.

When the path splits, Maverick bids Seviere a good night, bowing his head to him.  His route will take him north toward Hyrtsmill while the bard went further west through Fallgourd Float.  Neither of them make their intended destinations.  

Maverick finds Seviere collapsed on the road side next to a tree he likely clung to while the drug took effect.  A quarter hour has passed since they parted ways, long enough for Maverick to collect the chocobo he hid in the woods nearby.  He’s careful.  Hoisting the taller man onto the back of the chocobo and then sweeping away any signs of them being there.  No remnants of chocobo prints or Seviere or himself.  The bard’s footprints simply end among the myriad of other footprints that scar up the roadway here.  

The way through the forest is slow.  Maverick constantly checks to ensure he’s left no path to follow.  No prints, no bits of stray hair or clothing.  No chocobo feathers or shit.  The only thing he leaves behind is Seviere’s lute leaning against the tree where the bard had collapsed.  Strategically placed with obvious purpose.  

The bard’s tomestone goes off and Maverick digs it out of his satchel.  He taps at it, then leans over to use Seviere’s thumbprint to unlock it.  There we go.  Very nice.  Oh, my.  He flips through the string of pictures on the tomestone.  Good to know his bard has a naughty streak.  He tips the stone, squinting at the next image.  Slate skin, bright eyes, and a wicked smile.  Alright, he can see why Seviere likes that.  Half dressed like this, there’s no way he can deny Louvel’s good looks.  

A sigh escapes him, and he flips through the tomestone to turn off certain features.  Wouldn’t do to have Seviere’s piece of meat find them too soon.  He alters the lock feature as well, making sure he could access the tomestone later without needing Seviere’s print.  

The forest grows more sparse, snow falls around them, making his ability to erase the path a bit harder.  Still he sweeps and trusts the endless snowfall of Coerthas to cover up what is left behind.  Kind of the weather to oblige him in this way.  The path continues, through the snow and soon back south into the rocky environment of Mor Dhona.  He skirts the town and finds the little used pathway that leads to the house waiting for them.  The Tangle does such a nice job of hiding this place.

Maverick settles Seviere into his new home, then sees to his chocobo.  The bird’s earned a heaping helping of food and comfy bedding, along with a pair of apples for a treat.  Once sure the chocobo was comfortable, Maverick returns to the house.  The trip there takes a while.  Night has passed, and most of the following day.  There’s one thing he needs to do before he finds some rest for himself.  The drugs in Seviere’s system would hold the bard under for a few more hours.

The tomestone lifts and the flash brightens the image before him, searing it into the memory of the aetherical tablet.  A few clicks and fwoosh!  Message sent with a lovely picture sure to put Louvel’s heart at ease.  Maverick chuckles and tosses the tomestone on the table next to his bed.  

Louvel’s tomestone finally goes off.  A text message and image reply from Seviere that reads:

Sit, boy, stay.   I’ve taken something of yours.

 Don’t do anything stupid.  I’d hate to see him hurt more by your choices.  I’ll be in touch.

Noctine stormed across the parlour, snatched up one of his wrists.  Seviere recoiled, eyes wide.  He couldn’t help the whimper clogging in his throat.  “You see?  Feckless, pathetic.  You are no son of mine, just some shader by-blow your slut of a mother unloaded on me. She tricked me, that Shroud witch. Saddled me with the likes of you.”

A woman in a white coat stood nearby, eyes narrowed and watching this scene intently.  She cleared her throat and stepped forward to lay her hand over top of Noctine’s forearm.  “Please stop shaking him.  As I was saying, Ser Sarmantoix, he has recovered nicely from his last incident and can be taken home.”

“No.”  Noctine’s voice boomed with the denial.  He tossed Seviere aside in the same manner he had his painting, with disgust.  “He won’t be coming home this time.  I’ve arranged with the director for his remaining here long term. Cure him as many times as you like, Doctor, but don’t call me here again to tell me about it. Consider the donation on top of the fee as my paying for your silence.”

The doctor’s mouth fell agape.  She blinked at Noctine.  Her voice failed to summon up any reply and so she simply watched him.  Watched him snap hatred at the teenage boy curled on the floor with his arms curled against his chest.  Watched him shake his head and spit on the poor soul she had no doubt this prick had helped bring into this world.  She let him leave.  

“Seviere?”  She knelt down beside the boy, a hand reaching to lightly touch his shoulder.  He flinched, an impulse she expected after witnessing the effect his father had on him. “It’s Chantal, honey.  He’s gone.  Here, let me see your wrists.”  She gently unfolded one of his arms and tipped it just enough to see he had been scraping his thumbnail against the scars, rubbing the skin raw.  “I’ve some salve in my office.  Will you come with me?  I can make us some tea.”

She smiled when he nodded and helped him to his feet. “I’m so sorry, Seviere.  You deserve so much better.”  The gaze he turned toward her made her sigh softly.  She was used to the moon-eyed looks from the youth, but from him, those looks made her heart hurt for him.  How different his life may have been if someone had just loved him right from the start.

“Fury take you, Seviere!”  The words were a warning he didn’t have time to act on.  Sharp pain shot through his shoulder when his father grabbed and yanked the shield from him. Seviere’s eyes squeezed closed on the burn of tears.  He never saw the shield swing back toward him.  The impact knocked him clear off his feet and sent him sprawling across the ground.  His sword clattered and clanged off the paving stones.  

“Sevi!”  An older woman’s voice rang out from the side door that led into the manor’s kitchen.

The clouds blurred, and Seviere blinked.  A shadow loomed to one side.  He flinched away from the reverberating crash of the shield when his father discarded it on the ground near him.  He rolled to his side, curled into a ball, and wrapped his arms around his head.  His shoulders shook, and he shivered beneath the disgusted look his father gave him.  He didn’t need to see the expression to know it was there.

“Pathetic,” his father growled.

“Sevi. Oh, dear, there, there.  C’mere.”  The housekeeper sank to her knees at his side, and she bundled him into her lap, arms gentle around him.  She brushed her hands over his ruddy cheeks, trying to smooth the tears away.  He had his mother’s complexion, pink beneath a soft grey.  “Sir, he’s just not strong enough yet.  You have to give him time.”

He couldn’t see the fury in his father’s face around the frills of her apron, but he heard it every time his boots connected with the ground. Each stomping step jolted through him.  Seviere curled all the more into the housekeeper.

“Time.”  His father spat the word out and turned on the housekeeper.  “He’s damn near ten summers old.  All you lot do is encourage his childish ways and coddle him.  He’s a man, an Ishgardian.  It’s bloody well time he starts filling those shoes.”

The housekeeper sighed.  Wrinkled hands soothed along heated cheeks, over damp black strands pulled loose from the tie in Seviere’s hair.  Her eyes softened, something akin to pity filling them.  “He’s a gentle soul, Sir.  Maybe if you get the tutor to come back he could serve Halone in a different way?”

Seviere yelped when the hand came down across the housekeeper’s face. The scream bubbling on his lips was cut short when a strong hand scruffed him by his tunic collar.  The leather bit into his throat, strangled his protests, his pleas.  His hands clamped around his father’s wrist.  Nothing he did stopped the larger elezen from dragging him across the yard.  

“You have to have brains to serve Halone.” His father’s voice poured dread down his spine.  “I should have dashed what little he has out the day he was born. If he doesn’t learn this, he learns nothing at all.”  

The stones scraped against the protective leather he wore, but it didn’t stop the jarring sensation every time his father jerked his arm.  He dragged him toward the yard wall, the stone bricks looming closer.  Seviere’s breath quickened, grew more shallow and desperate.  One hand dropped and panicked fingers stumbled across the knife attached to his belt.  His father had called it a parrying dagger.  If he lost his shield, if he was in need of protection, he was to use that.  

Seviere, darling, he’s suffering.  Help him.  

The metal sung when he slid the dagger from the sheathe.  A foot caught against the paving stones causing just enough pressure to help twist him in his father’s grasp.  The dagger lashed out, stabbed out.  He couldn’t see through his tears to aim.  He knew better than to pray.  Halone never answered him.  But -she- always did, the woman who whispered her wisdom into his mind, showed him things.  

“Agh!  You little bastard!”