Chapter Text
In the city of endless winter, where the brittle winds raked over every stone and beam to ferret out cracks through which to press their icy breath, whispering distractions upon unsuspecting folk at work or prayer, there was no place warmer than the Skysteel Manufactory. Nearest to the forges, the air fairly shimmered with waves of heat rising off the merry crimson and tangerine rippling through the coals. A symphony of metallic clanging rang through the steamy air, and the assembly of workers — highborn and lowborn alike — moved to its rhythms with the steady, practiced choreography of industry. Stephanivien de Haillenarte, never permitted to allow himself full ease in a ballroom or fête, hardly noticed the lightness of his steps as he danced around stray sparks, mentally reviewing a thousand and one precautions and protocols as they unfolded around him, enacted with the precision of a clockwork mammet.
He was proud of this place. He was proud of his team, both singly and as a unified collective. The better part of the Haillenarte clan loathed the noise and the heavy heat of the Manufactory, which had been treated as the poor bastard sibling of the Haillenarte holdings for some generations. But under Stephanivien it flourished, and by his estimation there was no more perfect place in all of Ishgard. He did not object to the enveloping heat. It only meant that, when the manufactory’s front doors opened, the gust of snow that broke through and scattered about the room arrived as a welcome refreshment.
Such was the case when the doors swung open that afternoon, while he and Denys reviewed bills of lading concerning a materials shipment from Thanalan. He closed his eyes just a second to savour the kiss of cool air against his cheek, more pleasant than bitter, before straightening to attend to their visitor.
Something turned a lazy somersault low in his stomach when he saw that it was Artoirel de Fortemps.
He looked striking, as usual, in his black and burgundy coat, trimmed with blue fox fur and brightgold fastenings. The signet of House Fortemps gleamed majestically upon his right hand. Crystals of half-melted snow glittered against his dark hair, already beginning to melt in the manufactory’s heat. Hastily, Stephanivien adjusted his cap, tucking back his limp blond hair gone dark gold with sweat and steam. He prayed to the Fury (without a great deal of hope) that his face was not overly flushed nor smudged with mineral oil and soot. He removed his work gloves, prepared to offer a businesslike handshake in place of his first impulse, which was to tenderly smooth the beads of water away from Artoirel’s face.
But no heir in Ishgard would be allowed to reach his adult years without the rituals of public politesse impressed upon him to the point of instinct, so Stephanivien minded his manners. “Count Fortemps. A delight to see you, as always. I trust you’re well? And your family?”
Artoirel grimaced slightly at the mention of his title, but otherwise held to the etiquette. “We are all as well as can be expected, I suppose. One does what one can. Father spends a great deal of time sequestered in his study. I understand he’s considered authoring a memoir concerning the closing years of the Dragonsong War. As for Emmanellain . . . well.” He shrugged. The gesture was a longtime shorthand between them, dating back all the way to boyhood. Emmanellain is Emmanellain, and there’s naught for it.
“In fact,” continued Artoirel, “it’s on Emmanellain’s behalf I’ve come today. He’s asked me to enquire after the weapons he’s ordered for Camp Dragonhead. He wondered if they might be made ready sooner than originally planned.”
Stephanivien did some quick mental math. “It will cost him. We’d have to push production to the very limits, and that leaves everything the worse for not having had time to rest: tools, forges, workers. I wouldn’t advise it unless it’s truly necessary.”
“I can certainly tell him that,” said Artoirel. “But if I could bring him a proper quote for the hastened timeline, it would greatly aid him in the decision.”
“Of course.” Stephanivien turned to the middle-aged clerk behind the reception desk. “Fromelaut, have you the Dragonhead order to hand? I’ll need to review the specs to form a true estimate.”
The clerk pushed his glasses up his nose, studying Stephanivien owlishly. “I would be happy to perform the calculations as usual, my lord,” he suggested. “Your particular genius is best spent on steel and schematics, not common arithmetic.”
“Nonsense. For House Fortemps, I insist upon attending to the order personally.” He turned back to Artoirel. “You’re welcome to accompany me back to my office; it shouldn’t take more than a minute of your time, but I’ve some questions I’ll need you to fill in if we’re to reach the most accurate quote.”
Artoirel nodded. “Gladly.”
Stephanivien ushered Artoirel across the workspace, past anvils and forges and a table full of tinkering workers with magnifying goggles, assembling mechanical parts. The count’s skin flushed quickly in the heat; a lock of raven hair fell limp across his brow. Stephanivien had to admit, it made him feel a bit better about his own dishevelment.
But then, that evidently troubled Artoirel very little, because the office door was scarcely shut before Stephanivien found himself shoved up against the wall with the count’s mouth pressed to his own, rough and insistent. He responded without hesitation, breathing a hungry sigh, giving in at last to the impulse to run his fingers through Artoirel’s hair. He let Artoirel nudge his feet apart so they could press their bodies close. Artoirel broke off the kiss and began wandering his way down Stephanivien’s long neck, following the line of his pressed-open collar.
“Artoirel.” Stephanivien breathed the name against the young count’s ear. “Oh, Fury’s sake, you have got to stop doing this. Even between the two of us, if we try to anoint all our families’ holdings this way, we’ll be caught for certain.” But when Artoirel made to pull away, Stephanivien grasped him around the shoulders and pulled him back close for another kiss.
“I don’t care,” Artoirel whispered back. “I need it. Being the count is exhausting. I won’t get through the day without it.”
There was a trace of laughter in Stephanivien’s sigh. “Just bring yourself off and carry on business, the way every other man in Ishgard must.”
“You’re a fool if you think all I want from you is climax,” muttered Artoirel. He reached for the fastenings holding the tool belt at Stephanivien’s waist.
“I’m at work,” Stephanivien protested, but he was already pushing the heavy coat off Artoirel’s shoulders, nuzzling against his neck with little flicks of his tongue.
“Ahh, I love how you do that,” Artoirel moaned.
“I know. Now quiet. If we’re caught, Father’ll beat me black and blue and send me to Cloudtop. Serving alongside Laniaitte will be unbearable.”
“I’ll quiet when you give me something to keep my mouth busy.”
Stephanivien grinned as he unfastened his trousers.
- - - - - -
They took care of each other’s needs quickly. Outside of specific pre-arranged indulgences, they were neither of them particularly interested in prolonging their encounters; it was one of the ways they found they were well-matched to each other. A quick bout of release wedged between their various commitments suited them both fine.
Artoirel groaned with satisfaction as he rose from his knees, breathing hard. His fingers were frosted where he had spilled in his own hand. The way he carelessly licked them clean, all the more alluring given the count’s usually impeccable table manners, would drive Stephanivien to distraction for hours to come. “I’m very appreciative,” he said. “I’ve been able to think about nothing all morning except walking into that Fury-cursed meeting at the cathedral with the taste of you still in my throat.”
Stephanivien leaned in to lick away a thin thread of white on Artoirel’s lower lip. “Delighted to be of service, if that’s what we’re calling it. I daresay you served me a great deal more than I served you.”
“You’re free to return the favour next time,” said Artoirel.
“It will be a few days,” said Stephanivien. “Should you come back for more of the same tomorrow, you’ll find me off on a training expedition with the machinists. The gastornis population needs culling yet again.” He hesitated a moment. Then, adopting the most casual tone he could manage: “Of course, I’d be thrilled if you’d promise me a turn ‘round the dance floor at the de Courcillants’ ball this coming Firesday.”
Artoirel was silent just long enough to strike a sour note. “You shouldn’t,” he said at last. “You’ll limit your prospects to secure a match advantageous to House Haillenarte.”
“I’ve enough siblings to be certain House Haillenarte can survive a single waltz,” protested Stephanivien, but there was no heat in it. They’d had this conversation before. He caught one of Artoirel’s hands by the wrist and ran his tongue across the palm, taking the last drop for himself. It earned him a delectable shiver, running its lustful way through Artoirel’s entire frame.
But something was not right. Artoirel’s mouth flattened into a vaguely disapproving grimace. “Now is the time to be circumspect, strategic. Some women are more open to a tacit arrangement within a marriage of convenience, particularly when it involves no other women. We might be able to salvage —” Noticing Stephanivien’s bewildered stare, he paused. “Has your father not spoken to you? Do you not know?”
“How can I tell you if I know,” said Stephanivien, “if I don’t know what it is you think I ought to know?”
The deep, fortifying breath Artoirel took before speaking made Stephanivien’s heart sink. It foretold unpleasant news. He looked at Stephanivien gravely. “Since the archbishop’s downfall shook the Halonic doctrine at its core, the Church has retreated into the comfort of tradition and sentiment, and seeks to strengthen the noble Houses through marital unions. The counts of the High Houses, as well as various other well-positioned noble patriarch — and the occasional matriarch, where circumstances require it — are summoned to discuss intermarriage. Your marriage included, and my own.”
“They wish us to marry? I can certainly think of worse fates, Artoirel! We would make an exceptional pair, do you not think? What I mean to say is —”
“You misunderstand me,” said Artoirel. “My fault: I expressed it unclearly. They intend to discuss our marriages to other people. Women, in all likelihood, for the offspring. A list will be compiled of all the eligible ladies in the aristocracy, and a discussion will be had about which pairs bring the best prospects for Ishgard’s future.” He cleared his throat uncomfortably. “A union between the two of us will not be on the table.”
A crestfallen look came over Stephanivien’s face. “Oh. Of course. I should not have presumed.”
“Not because I wouldn’t want one!” Artoirel insisted hastily, his cerulean eyes enormous. “But it goes against all common sense. Our interests conflict. As Count Fortemps, it’s my responsibility to promote the interests of my house. One day you’ll be Count Haillenarte and it’ll be your job to do the same.”
“That’s never got in our way before.”
“Nor will it, so long as we keep this — us — separate from the business of households and families. But as soon as those worlds mingle . . .” Artoirel shook his head. “They’ll combine our houses given half a chance, but not by uniting their heads. It’s too complicated. I really am sorry.”
“Your father’s retired. He can’t make you —”
“He can’t, but I’ve a duty to a thousand years of ancestors that I dare not forsake.” Artoirel drew Stephanivien close, so close their foreheads rested together. His hand cupped Stephanivien’s face. “I genuinely mean it when I say I’m sorry. It’s not an empty pleasantry. If I could spend my life with you, it would be a joy and an honour.”
Stephanivien placed his hand on Artoirel’s. He could feel the raised cameo of the House Fortemps sigil pressed into his skin, its weight and presence so disproportionate to its size, he could imagine it leaving a unicorn-shaped bruise in the flesh of his palm. “The fault is mine,” he said mournfully. “We always knew we couldn’t have more than this, and I allowed myself to forget.”
“Like I said, it needn’t be less either. In a marriage of convenience, there are always women content to look the other way so long as we proceed with discretion. We may have to forsake our dreams of ballroom dancing together, but these secret trysts needn’t stop.”
“Can it be that my dutiful Artoirel threatens to break the vows of wedlock over me?” Stephanivien’s tone was teasing, but he wasn’t sure he quite managed to hide the desperation underneath the words.
Artoirel didn’t bother trying. “What is the alternative? I could not endure knowing I had felt your touch for the last time.”
It was a subdued and chastened farewell they made, and Stephanivien avoided his workers the rest of the day, pleading an unruly glut of paperwork. He completed very little of it. He was too keenly aware of the cathedral, not so far away in the Pillars, in which his future was being decided. How could he possibly concentrate on tariffs and bills of lading while somebody else selected a woman to whom he’d be required to pledge himself, body and soul?
“I won’t do it,” he said out loud, though there was no one else in the room, and he surely couldn’t be heard over the din of the manufactory below. “Married or not, I swear before Halone I’ll belong to Artoirel and no other.”
The thought made him feel a little bit better. He might be required to wed a stranger and get her with half a dozen children before the bishops were satisfied, but in the eyes of the Fury — even if nowhere else — he was Artoirel’s, first and above all.