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Pray pardon my asking what must have seemed a strange question. As Madame Rouwene and I are not yet acquainted, I merely feared that arriving as Archimandrite would compel her to pay mind to our titles overmuch. I would have her remain at ease.

Madame Rouwene is a "salt of the earth" sort of person. I daresay she gives little care to what we call ourselves as long as we behave ourselves. And I do believe we shall manage that with some level of decorum, shan't we?

[ If he were an emoticon person a :) would go there. Alas... ]

[ Aymeric's sense of humor is not unappreciated — at least, Zephirin makes an effort to convey just that: ]

I solemnly swear to be on my best behavior throughout.

[ That does make him smile when he reads it. ]

I would expect nothing less, Ser Zephirin. We shall make for Madame Rouwene's at your convenience.

[ Informality is their aim, this time — within reason — but ever since they were appointed to their respective posts, the freedom to act on such whims has grown all the more scarce. The archbishop's will dictates the course of Zephirin's days; Ishgard's affairs shape Aymeric's.

Lunch at one's desk may be achieved with relative ease, disrupting little, and lunch in a dining hall with one's fellows is only somewhat more difficult to arrange. Setting aside the time to visit an establishment for the purpose of taking a meal — not alone, at that — is another matter entirely. A measure of planning ahead seems unavoidable.

Their next meeting approaches, a sennight after their written exchange: now and then, in the archbishop's stead, it falls to the Archimandrite of the Heavens' Ward to observe the Lord Commander's work, that the Congregation's reports might be corroborated. Past midday, they can at least expect to remain where they are long enough to permit a break that includes a brief walk through Foundation's streets. Here, they have their opportunity.

Ordinarily, Zephirin would rise from his seat to take his leave, thanking Aymeric for his time and wishing him a fruitful remainder of the day, but today, he stands beside his chair much like he would stand at his post elsewhere, guarding the archbishop. Gaze resting on Aymeric, solemnly expectant, he is faintly reminiscent of a watchful cat in manner — if better-behaved than the infamous Ser Croquembouche. ]

[ Lunch at his desk has become more and more commonplace these days, in part because there is still something of an adjustment period to this position, and in part because he is really dedicating much of his time to familiarizing himself with all the duties entailed. Time out of the office is spent in meetings, a seemingly endless stream of them. Though he had known there was a considerable political component, he had not imagined to the extent that his presence may be required to simply be present.

At least the discussion where he could be an active participant more engaging, as he has never exactly been fond of the need to peacock for other involved parties. And Aymeric is eager to prove that his appointment was justified, yet there is a fine line between being eager and over eager. A delicate balance he is still fine-tuning.

At least he feels a little less of that pressure when it is just he and Zephirin. Having a congenial relationship with the man prior, despite the fact that they both had been vying for the same promotion, offers him a small amount of comfort in their dealings. Unsurprised but glad that the Archimandrite acts as the Wards' representative, he feels they make good headway as the afternoon draws near.

His signature freshly inked at the bottom of a piece of parchment, corroborating the evidence within and the agreed upon actions to be taken by the appointed garrison, Aymeric sets his quill back into the inkwell. Indeed, Zephirin has not moved and Aymeric glances his way from his chair, allowing a beat or two to pass, before smiling. ]

Well, I believe we have accomplished all the administrative tasks requiring our attention. What say you to a walk, Ser Zephirin? I would be glad to stretch my legs.

It seems a victory of sorts to celebrate. Pray lead the way at your leisure.

[ Now Zephirin stirs, inclining his head to nod his assent as Aymeric looks up. He does so with a smile of his own in return, small but genuine — it settles across his lips easily enough. Of late, he feels a sense of newfound peace, absent in days past when much seemed in vain. It might yet piece his heart back together, lighter in the end.

For Ishgard's sake, they have their roles to play.

Aymeric appears to have taken to his duties, at ease behind his new desk, before those seeking the Lord Commander's ear. Zephirin himself has laid to rest the reservations that weighed upon him when he was invited into the ranks of the Heavens' Ward.

He waits for Aymeric to join him, falling into step with the other man then to make their way through the Congregation's familiar halls, and soon outside, across the plaza. Saint Valeroyant's statue wears a cap of snow.

Unmistakably, a few curious glances follow them. ]

...If I may ask, are tensions among the Temple Knights resolved?

[ Ser Aymeric's promotion did not meet with unanimous support, this they all know, and some of his detractors likely hope to undermine his authority. ]

[ Aymeric stands and moves about the edge of his desk, keeping his smile. Zephirin's own is an expression Aymeric feels he is beginning to see more often, which is a pleasure in and of itself. Ever stoic when they first met, Zephirin seems more at ease when the occasion allows for it and Aymeric does not feel the need to force his own practiced smiles, normally used to placating others and garnering for good will.

There is doubtlessly some surprise at seeing them in each other's presence outside of the Congregation after their respective appointments. Though being accepted into the Heaven's Ward is a high honor in and of itself, whispers of their supposed rivalry do not die down quickly enough. Aymeric pays them no mind, seeing fit that their actions alone will speak for their conduct. At some point Ishgard will find something else to gossip about.

Aymeric bows his head, gladly leading the way out of his office and out towards street level. He trades a few nods with knights as they pass, all of whom salute on cue. They, at least, have the benefit of hiding their own straying gazes behind mail and helms. ]

They are mending.

[ Which is a kind way to put it. Aymeric takes them down the cobblestone, facing forward but glancing back at Zephirin as he speaks. ]

Ser Handeloup's support has been nothing short of instrumental in keeping most of the ire at bay, but complaints should not be writ off right out, for many only want what they see is best for Ishgard. I would hear them should they grace my doors. Some may take time, some may never be placated. I only hope that I am able to earn their trust through genuine action.

[ The knights at their posts, no matter their stares and their thoughts, know to reveal nothing of it out in the open. Ere long, they fade into the distance, out of earshot and gone from view — and perhaps what they have witnessed will serve to hush the persisting whispers. Perhaps, as Aymeric and Zephirin walk through Ishgard's streets, the capacity for peaceable collaboration is made plain.

Some paces behind Aymeric now, allowing him to take the lead on the way to Madame Rouwene's, Zephirin meets the other man's gaze, contemplative then. Abruptly, the conversation calls to mind words exchanged weeks prior; he hears the echo of Aymeric's deflections, readily humble, and of his verdict as they fought side by side.

What they face within Ishgard is not so different. They might aid Ser Handeloup to see it mended by means of a deliberate, coordinated effort. ]

Lending them your ear may be a first such step taken.

[ Like as not, those who believe Aymeric undeserving of his new title expect to be dismissed, silenced, or else they risk the loss of their own rank. ]

...'Tis my hope that you will call upon me as well, should you require it. I would offer what assistance I can provide.

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