Chapter Text
As the Archimandrite of the Heavens’ Ward, Zephirin rarely has time for anything. This position, despite not being the original one he wanted, has become his life’s work, and he should be thankful, that much he knows, because he’s much higher in status than Aymeric – the one chosen for Lord Commander. And yet, during nights such as these, Zephirin can’t help but wonder whether his counterpart and rival is also swarmed in paperwork, of pleas and requests of the general public, most of which would end in the wooden bin next to the desk. It’s already almost full, and the knight makes a mental note to throw it out before bed. It’s not that he doesn’t want to help these souls, no, it’s the opposite. Alas, Ishgard has far too many problems of Her own. Her protection should be the top priority but Zephirin still can’t help the way his heart sinks each time he has to throw out a written plea for an orphan in the Brume or the widow of a fellow fallen knight.
They all deserve so much better.
But here, in the middle of the night where the sole sounds are those of the ruthless wind and unyielding snow, and where the sole light and warmth come from the candle in the corner of the wide and messy oak desk, Zephirin has found himself longing to make change on his own. Many would think that being the Archimandrite would give him close to endless power and freedom but despite his physical strength and prowess and countless achievements, the knight feels utterly weak because he can’t do anything without the Archbishop’s permission.
And, of course, speak– no, think of the devil…
“Ser Zephirin,” the familiar voice echoes throughout the room, catching his attention. He hadn’t even heard the door open, far too deep into his own thoughts. The culprit is one of the new maids; a young girl he’d seen begging on the streets. The poor thing was frozen half to death before he took her in and gave her a job as one of his servants. “... H–His Excellency has requested your presence.”
The crinkling of paper follows as Zephirin gently places the piece he’d been holding to the side as if he wasn’t going to throw it in the trash. There’s a wave of fatigue that spreads through his entire body when emerald eyes set on the chronometer on the wall. It's almost midnight.
The knight remains as calm and gracious as ever as the chair creaks back and he stands up while grabbing his coat and putting it over his shoulders in one swift motion. “And why, pray tell, are you still awake?” he asks, moving away from the desk until he finds himself towering over the cowering child. He was the closest thing she had to a father and despite knowing that he wouldn’t be able to help everyone, he could at least help this one.
“I was just about to retreat to my chambers when–” she gulps. “--I heard a knock on the front gate and went to investigate, and saw that it was a Ser…”
Zephirin’s brows furrow and the corners of his mouth turn upwards into a smile. He doesn’t say anything and instead gives her a pat on the head before opening the door, leaving her behind. He trusts she’ll take care of his chambers, most importantly put the candle out lest everything burn down. Then again, it wouldn’t make much of a difference; the documents in the bin would still perish by morning. By the time he reaches the front gate, Zephirin has fully put his coat on. It’s thick, made out of the finest bear skin yet it’s still not warm enough to protect him from the everlasting permafrost that has consumed Ishgard throughout the years. His mansion is close to the Vault, and he knows exactly where to go because this isn’t the first time his presence has been requested so late at night.
Coldness turns to warmth soon enough when he finds himself in the throne room, opposite of the man confidently perched upon it. Thordan is wearing his usual ceremonial garb he presents to the public, and Zephirin can’t help but feel underdressed. Footsteps echo throughout the empty hall and nervousness spreads through the knight’s entire body after each ilm closer.
“Ser Zephirin,” comes the Archbishop’s voice, raspy yet quiet. He beckons the younger elezen closer, free hand tapping his spread thigh.
“Sit.”