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Fortemps manor is not expecting any further visitors when their butler announces that a young man has turned up at their door. Lord Edmont closes the book he had been reading, a fiction suggested by Emmanellain now that he had more time to his leisure, and rises to meet the stranger in his parlor.
"Did he give you a name?" He asks.
"Markus Hunt, my Lord." Edmont frowns. All of his youngests siblings were accounted for, and none were named Markus. Oh, but for their uncle to have claimed their home in Deidre's absence he must be their father's brother. Edmont shakes his head at the cruelty of the situation. What would their cousin want with them? And moreso, how had he found them in Ishgard?
When he arrives in the parlor he sees a gangly young man looking as out of place as the Hunt siblings had the previous day. He turns to face them and Edmont is startled by the scar that mars the right side of his face, a circular burn that encompasses his ear, narrowly missing the corner of his eye and swooping down to his angled jawline. He resembles Brandon more than Deidre or Caelen do, though his short clipped hair and hooded eyes are a dark brown. Unlike his cousins, he had had the opportunity to dress for the cold. Edmont studies the large pack and bags at his feet, along with a low wooden box several fulms in length, placed onto the marble floor rather than the rug.
"You say you are Markus Hunt?" He asks when it's clear the boy is too bewildered to speak first.
"Yessir." He pauses as Artoirel appears beside his father.
"And what are you here for?" Artoirel prompts, his expression too dour to be inviting.
"I, uh…. Is Deedee here at all?"
"No."
"Oh…. I," he takes a deep breath. "I know it ain't right what my Pa's up to bu' wi' everyone assumin' her dead and' all an' uncle Johnathan only writin' out th'rights t'her we don't got much say 'gainst 'im," the boy rambles, "short a the Elementals causin a right mess themselves for it. Austin only told me t'day she ain't dead an' so I got told this place's where they're all at an' I packed what I could'a their stuff Ma an' I saved, no knowin' when it'll be fixed up an' all."
"You came here to return their things?"
"Yessir."
"Do you think they would like to see you?"
Markus pauses a while. "Is Prudie here?"
"Pru…die?"
"Prudence," Edmont mutters to his son.
"There's another one?" He whispers back.
"Last I had heard she was in Ul'dah," Edmont states to the room. Markus frowned.
"Maybe, I ain't too sure." He looks around awkwardly. "I'll be gettin' outta y'all's hair, then."
"Would you not stay for tea? Supper perhaps?" Edmont offers. It was getting later in the day, the boy had probably spent the most of the sunlight traveling if he had been told of their whereabouts in the morning. Markus shakes his head. Edmont frowns. "If it grows dark and you change your mind, visit my other son, Emmanellain, at Camp Dragonhead on the other side of the Steps of Faith. He will put you up for the night."
Markus inclines his head. "I appreciate it."
"Safe travels."
"Safe travels," Artoirel echoes. The young man leaves. The Count looks to their butler. "Summon Brandon here, would you please?"
"Of course, my Lord." The man steps away.
Artoirel sighs, looking up at the ornate ceiling.
" Eight of them," he exclaims. "Tis nearly unthinkable." While fathering so many children was not considerably rare among men of the House of Lords, for a single woman to have more than three of her own living offspring was .
"An unfortunate woman cornered into an unsafe line of work," Edmont agrees. "May she be at peace, as Deidre believes."
"Master Hunt, as you requested," their butler announces, leading the second eldest into the parlor behind them.
"Is there news from Deidre?" The 20 year old asks.
"None, I am afraid. However, some of your belongings have been sent to you." Edmont gestures to the bags and box on the floor. Brandon stares at it, his uncovered ice blue eye scrunched in confusion as he walks over to the pile.
"An' that don't count as news from her?"
"Your cousin brought it all," Artoirel states. Brandon spins around.
" Cousin? Which one?"
"Markus."
The boy begins to mutter a swear before cutting himself off, remembering his company. He sits down in front of the long box and unlatches it, shoulders relaxing when it opens. Artoirel's mouth falls open in shock.
"What do you have there?" Edmont asks, feigning ignorance.
"Grandfather's lance," Brandon answered.
"That is not just a-" Artoirel sputters before being silenced by a glare from his father. Brandon glances quizzically over his shoulder.
"I'm named after him, so he passed a bunch'v his stuff t'me when he passed."
"I had heard he was a musician," Edmont states.
"He was," Brandon nodded, "he was a lancer b'fore all that though."
"May I see it?" The boy nods, closing the box and bringing it to one of the side tables, where he opened it again.
"By the Fury," Artoirel breaths
"One thing at a time," Edmont admonishes quietly. They had both seen it. Edmont leans his cane against the table and lifts the winged lance out of its case, rotating it gently, watching as the light catches on dings and nicks and signs of repair. "It is beautifully made," he remarks. Brandon nods. "This, and this," he continues, motioning towards a section of the haft as well as the point of the lance itself, "are made of dragon bone. It is a method used to keep the lances of those in the Order of the Knights Dragoon light for aerial combat." He sets the Gae Bolg back into its case and gestures to the silver medallion sitting inside, etched with a bell on a field of blue enamel. "Did he ever tell you what this is?" Brandon shakes his head, eye wide. "It is a medal, given by House Durendaire to those strong enough to become Commander of the order, the Azure Dragoon."
"He… he ain't never mentioned anythin' like this. We all just assumed he came from Gridania," Brandon breathed. Edmont shook his head.
"He was Ishgardian, and one of our best besides."
"I've only known of two Azure Dragoons to live to retire," Artoirel states.
"Do you know anything else about your Grandfather?"
"His younger brother Matthew was a pirate, Pa used his gun sometimes after he passed. Markus…" Brandon eyes the bags on the ground warily, "I mean, he pro'bly didn't pack that…"
"Younger brother…" Edmont muses.
"Did you know him?" Artoirel asks, shocked.
"I believe I know who he was, yes. There was an Azure Dragoon declared missing in action, and then dead, along with his brother after one of Nidhogg's older broods attacked Whitebrim. Your mother and I were still only in training, but your Aunt and Uncle were there, as was your Aunt Yseult. That may have been her first battle as a field chirurgeon, you'd have to ask her."
"S…so he just deserted?" Brandon sputters.
"It seems so. Ishgard is not an uncommon city to flee from, unfortunately."
"Do you know if he had any armor? A soulstone?" Artoirel asks.
"Ain't ever seen any, no," Brandon sighs, rubbing his face with his hands. His right slips under the cloth he uses as an eye patch, slightly revealing the gnarled scar beneath. He adjusts it back into place. He stares at the weapon a few moments longer before shutting the case with a click.
"I aught'a look 'n see what else he took with." Edmont brings his hand up to the boy's left shoulder as he turns away, intending to give it a reassuring squeeze. He drops it when the boy winces, sympathy clenching his heart.
Brandon looks through the two duffle bags, finding them full of clothes. The men watch his pause as he flips open the pack. Slowly he pulls out four spoken-shaped ragdolls, two small chocobos and a large green… cushion. After that he pulls out another long wooden box. He opens it slowly. Inside is a wooden wind instrument. He sniffles. Unfolding one of the blankets at the bottom, a quilt Deidre made that looks lumpier than it should be, he finds his mother's vanity table set. A slip of parchment flutters to the floor when he picks up the hand mirror. Rebecca's name is carved into the handle, little birds adorning the flourishes of the letters.
"Well he didn't pack the gun," he jokes in a water voice, wiping his cheeks with his sleeve. He picks up the fallen note and reads his cousin's hastey scrawl.
He drops his head into his hands and sobs.
We'll be better men than them.