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Ishgard was aflutter with gossip and chatter, and Ser Zephirin was thankful his office provided him some measure of privacy. His appointment to the position of Very Reverend Archimandrite had been unexpected, perhaps even more so than the sudden retirement of Ser Vaindreau, but Zephirin was not one to turn down so great an honor.
He glanced around the office, spotting Ser Vellguine out the corner of his eyes. His second-in-command stood stoically by his desk, gaze trained upon the door as ornate as any in the Vault were. If he looked annoyed that their expected guests were late, he did not show it..
“They’ll surely be here soon,” he assured Vellguine. The dragoon glanced at him, nodding.
“I had guessed that Father Haumeric would be early,” he said, somehow guessing that Zephirin was wondering which of the three would arrive first.
It did not take long before the noise of squabbling arose from outside the door. Zephirin frowned, though Vellguine did not move from his post, and moments later, the door swung open, and in came three men arguing with each other.
Well, two of them were arguing. The third had his face buried deep inside a book, only occasionally looking up to pointedly stare at the other two.
“Enough,” barked Vellguine after nearly a minute of this. “You are to be knights of the Heavens’ Ward. This behavior is unacceptable.”
Zephirin, again, wondered why Vellguine had so firmly turned down the position of Archimandrite, but he took his second’s outburst as a signal to rise from his seat, filing away mentally a note on the first two’s apparent dislike of each other.
“Thank you, Ser Vellguine,” he said, before turning his attention to the three men sheepishly shuffling into a row in front of the desk.
Or perhaps, it was more accurate that only one of them was sheepishly doing so. Inquisitor Charibert was openly shooting dirty looks in both Vellguine’s direction and that of his companion, Father Haumeric, who was furtively avoiding the inquisitor’s gaze and trying to look apologetic. Noudenet, researcher of the Scholasticate, had raised his book to cover his face entirely, the tips of his ears the only visible part of his head.
“Sers,” he said, and Charibert stood a little straighter while Noudenet lowered the book to peek over it at him, “We have an important matter to discuss.”
“Y-your missive said as much,” blurted out Haumeric.
Zephirin nodded. “It concerns your titles. As Ser Vellguine has reminded you, the three of you will be knights among brothers, yet you are the only ones who have never received a title from their peers.” Not officially, at least.
“Oh? Are we to earn ourselves names on such short notice?” asked Charibert, a curiously eager gleam in his bright eyes.
“Th-there’s no time though,” said Haumeric, “Our induction ceremony is tomorrow morning.”
“Correct, Ser Haumeric.” They were not quite Sers just yet, but Zephirin trusted the usage would hold their attention for longer. “Ser Vellguine and I have deemed it necessary to bestow titles upon you three instead.”
He paused, allowing them to mull over his words while he studied their reactions. Charibert seemed delighted, lips curled and eyes narrowed in a most catlike manner. Haumeric’s brow was furrowed, though he did not seem apprehensive, merely thoughtful. Noudenet had finally shut his book, a thumb between pages to keep his place, and he was looking at Zephirin expectantly.
“Before you give us our titles,” said Charibert, his expression already settling into smugness, “I am simply dying to know. Is Father Haumeric’s to be Ser Stick Up His—”
“Y-you are out of line, inquisitor!” exclaimed Haumeric, and their bickering started up again, just like that.
Zephirin exchanged a look with Vellguine, whose brow was swiftly rising toward his hairline. When His Eminence had given the order that he choose his knight candidates for their prowess in battle, it had never crossed his mind to name then-First Inquisitor Charibert as an option for the Heavens’ Ward. Yet, His Eminence had insisted Charibert was to be included, and at the highest available rank after himself and Vellguine, no less!
Ser Hermenost, like Vellguine, had also refused a promotion in rank within their order. Watching two of his would-be knights squabble pettily like children, Zephirin quite suddenly wished he had pressed harder against Hermenost’s wishes.
“There will be no names of the sort, Ser Charibert,” he said in a tone reserved for the worst of his troublemaking Temple Knights. As he hoped, it gave the pair pause.
He glanced at Noudenet, whom, he realized, had raised his hand moments ago, and was tapping his foot while waiting for acknowledgement.
“Yes, Ser Noudenet?” he asked, biting back a sigh.
“Can’t I just be ‘the Researcher?’ I like being a researcher,” said Noudenet, and Zephirin might have laughed if he did not sound completely sincere about this suggestion.
“That is...quite different from what has been approved for you, I’m afraid,” he said.
“Oh...” was all Noudenet said in reply, and if only Vellguine wouldn’t immediately protest and shoot it down, but Zephirin suddenly very dearly wished to grant him the title he had chosen himself then and there.
“We don’t even have the option to choose?” demanded Charibert.
Zephirin refrained from pointing out that if not for him, he would have given Haumeric and Noudenet the option.
“No,” he said, before nodding to Vellguine. ”These letters are from His Eminence, granting permission for the unusual circumstance in which you are acquiring these titles.”
Here, Vellguine stepped forward with a trio of missives, swiftly handed off to each knight. Each missive was opened, the letters inside slipped out and unfolded by deft hands.
He watched Charibert, whose gaze dropped from the top of the letter to the bottom within seconds. The inquisitor sniffed, folding the letter again, but he did not return it to its envelope.
“The Stern?” he asked, “’Ser Charibert the Stern?’ Does that sound like it shall strike fear of the Fury into the hearts of my enemies? Especially heretics?”
“It is the Archbishop’s decision,” said Zephirin, turning his gaze to the other two still quietly reading to show he was not inviting further discussion. He did not bother hiding his displeasure with Charibert’s outburst this time. Was he going to be this difficult to work with, no matter what? He’d heard the stories about the fiery First Inquisitor, Even Ser Guerrique, one of his own Temple Knights and now a knight candidate himself, had admitted to facing “difficulties” involving Charibert during a joint investigation with the Inquisition. And Ser Guerrique got along with everyone!
He had to admit, Charibert’s title had also been the most difficult to come up with, given the restrictions the Archbishop had imposed. Nothing too grand, for they had not been earned, and nothing unbefitting a holy knight. He could scarce believe how quickly Vellguine had said “no” to “the Fury’s Flame” and “the Merciless.”
So, the Stern it was, then.
“I...a-accept the title I have been given,” said Haumeric, drawing attention to himself as he bowed his head. Though he claimed acceptance, his hesitation and the way he trembled spoke otherwise.
“What troubles you, Ser Haumeric?” asked Zephirin, pointedly ignoring Charibert’s attempts to take his attention. Vellguine was doing the same, frowning at Haumeric’s obvious dismay.
“Well, S-ser Z-z-zephirin!” said Haumeric, stumbling over his words in a hurry. “Th-th-the ‘Val—iant,’ it’s, well, it—”
“Oh, spit it out!” snapped Charibert.
Zephirin began to reprimand him, when Haumeric all but shouted, “I-It d-doesn’t suit me!”
No one spoke for a long, long moment, even Charibert looked too surprised to speak. Zephirin glanced about, Noudenet was covering his face with his letter, though he was sure he’d spotted him fold it back up out the corner of his eye earlier, and Vellguine was...Vellguine was barely suppressing a smile.
He sighed and addressed Haumeric. “What do you mean? We chose it based on—”
“I-I am no soldier,” said Haumeric, face flushed a bright red and his eyes wide and desperate. “’The Valiant’—that’s, th-that is a warrior’s title. I...I hate f-fighting, it, it, it does not suit me at all.”
“You are wrong, Ser Haumeric,” said Zephirin immediately. He had prepared for this, “Few are the priests who would preach what they believe, not what earns them allies.”
Haumeric opened his mouth again, then shut it. Miraculously, he turned even redder,
“You are a brave man, Ser Haumeric,” added Zephirin, gazing squarely into Haumeric’s eyes. “You are well suited to being the Valiant among our brother knights.”
Haumeric stared, and stared, then he gulped, and said: “M-might I be ex-ex-excused f-from the rest of th-this m-meeting?”
“You may go. We shall see you tomorrow, Ser Haumeric.”
The priest nodded, drawing in a breath, then he turned on his heel and rushed out of Zephirin’s office. As the doors swung shut behind him, a sob, barely muffled, reached Zephirin’s ears.
He bit his lip, steeling himself. He had spoken only the truth to Haumeric, not at all expecting the man to be moved so deeply. Haumeric had been right though. He was no soldier, and neither were Charibert and Noudenet, despite the former’s experience as a war mage. Perhaps Zephirin had forgotten they would not react the way Temple Knights would to him.
Vellguine was beaming, and he nodded in Noudenet’s direction when Zephirin met his gaze.
“Ser Noudenet?” he said, quietly setting aside his feelings about what had just transpired with Haumeric, “What do you think?”
“Hrm.” Noudenet looked down at his letter, the fine vellum already growing creased from how much he’d fiddled with it. “I think you made Haumeric quite happy...oh, am I supposed to call him ‘ser’ from now on?”
Zephirin blinked, trying to remember the last time he’d encountered someone of noble birth with so weak a grasp on what he was expected to say.
“It would be prudent to do so, though you might ask him what he prefers, if you wish,” said Zephirin in as even a tone as he can. “Ser Noudenet, what do you think of your title?”
“Oh, that? It’s not as nice as what I’d pick for myself,” said Noudenet, shrugging. “But I like it. I sound like an elderly man with ‘the Wise,’ and I’ll surely surprise people who’ll have heard of me but not seen me before.”
He had to stop himself from laughing aloud. He had chosen Noudenet for access to his research, at the Archbishop’s insistence once again, but the young man was swiftly proving himself to be decent company. At least, listening to Noudenet’s leaps of logic and fanciful thoughts would surely delight his brother knights.
“Glad we are to hear it,” said Zephirin, nodding to indicate Vellguine as well, who was still beaming with delight. Never mind that, once the names of this new set of Heavens’ Ward were announced, near everyone in the Pillars would know everything there was to know about them, courtesy of the powers of gossip and rumormongering. Perhaps he could ask Ser Guerrique to be surprised by Noudenet. “You may go as well. We shall see you tomorrow, Ser Noudenet.”
Noudenet nodded, folded up his letter, then had his book over his face again as he meandered out of the room.
And that left...
“Ser Charibert,” he said, rounding upon the last mage, who had taken to standing still with his arms crossed and a pout on his lips. Sulking, he supposed. “You have a problem with your title?”
The pout swiftly turned into a scowl. “Yes, I do. It is not even remotely frightening enough.”
’Frightening,” he repeated. “Ser Charibert the Stern—”
“Yes, exactly!” hissed Charibert, brow furrowed, “That is a schoolteacher’s title! Or perhaps the head priest of an orphanage! Hardly fitting for an inquisitor.”
“Well, you certainly will not be an inquisitor from tomorrow onward, no?”
Charibert’s eyes widened, though his scowl only deepened. Zephirin sighed, and shook his head.
“Ser Charibert, would you prefer a title that eclipses your own name?” he asked, finally conceding he would not be getting anywhere with this mage if he did not switch tactics. He had discussed this with Vellguine as well. Charibert was known not only for his temper and magic, but for his vanity as well.
“What? What in the Fury’s name does that mean?” he demanded.
“Is it not your name, as it is, that heretics fear?” Zephirin was loathe to encourage Charibert’s methods, but this seemed the only way to convince him. “You understand you have the honor of being the most feared First Inquisitor in Ishgardian history, yes? The ‘Stern’ was chosen for its simplicity, that it might not distract heretics from your name.”
This gave the inquisitor pause, and he seemed thoughtful now, his scowl lightening until it began to morph into a sneer. He nodded to himself, then to Zephirin.
“Hm, I suppose your words ring true, Ser Zephirin,” he said. “Hmph, very well then. ‘The Stern’ I shall be.”
He turned to leave, without waiting to be dismissed, a consequence perhaps of holding the highest rank among inquisitors for several years. So Charibert was to be a challenge, to mold into a knight worthy of the Heavens’ Ward’s calling?
Zephirin said nothing and let him go. There would be opportunity to comment on the man’s behavior in the future. For now, he dearly wished to sit and take a momentary rest—
“Ser Charibert,” said Vellguine, unexpectedly, as Charibert reached the door, and Zephirin looked over to him, unable to contain his surprise. Vellguine was staring at the inquisitor with such ferocity that Dragoons reserved for battle in his eyes.
“Ugh,” muttered Charibert, just loud enough. He turned on his heel, hand on the door handle, and spat, “Yes, Ser Vellguine?”
Vellguine regarded the inquisitor, his face a collected expression, though his eyes burned. “I find it most curious that His Eminence insisted you be given third seat. Perhaps you may enlighten me why he would place an inquisitor in such a position, when traditionally you are never invited into our most holy Vault.”
“Ser Vellguine, that is uncalled for,” started Zephirin, but Charibert waved his free hand dismissively and interrupted him.
“That is unimportant, is it not, Ser Vellguine?” And here, Charibert smiled, once again catlike, but perhaps the glint in his eyes was more secretive. He wagged a finger at them. “Tsk, tsk, as trivial as the reason is, perhaps I shall simply...leave it to your imagination. Why would the Archbishop favor a lowly inquisitor?”
He laughed, and slipped out the door before either could reply.
They didn’t move for a long moment, until Zephirin sighed and sat down. He looked up at Vellguine, who had turned his face away.
“It has been weighing on me,” said Vellguine quietly, without prompting. “Ever since Ser Vaindreau—no, I apologize, that is not important anymore. Forgive me, you are my Archimandrite and I spoke out of turn.”
“There is nothing to forgive,” said Zephirin, he watched Vellguine turn to face him, noting, very suddenly, the deep lines that marked his face with age, and what had indeed been the weight of Ser Vaindreau’s mysterious retirement upon his shoulders. And with Ser Hermenost refusing a higher position... “Vellguine, you must know I am thankful you’ve chosen to stay on the order. I have much still to learn from you.”
Vellguine nodded, and did not argue, “It is what I swore. To you.”
Whatever suspicions arose within Zephirin in that moment, he silently quashed. All men had their secrets, and those that a man like Vellguine kept close to himself could only be born from duty and honor.
He told himself this as he cast away from his mind the way Vellguine had paused, the oddness of Ser Charibert’s addition to their order, the weight of Ser Vaindreau’s legacy—he had to focus. The questions had answers, and they could be answered later.
“We still have much to prepare for tomorrow,” he said.