"I can't do it, Honoroit."

Emmanellain slid down to sit in a miserable heap on the floor, leaving Honoroit standing over him holding his master's as-yet-unfastened sword belt.

"I am told that my lord comported himself admirably at the grand melee," Honoroit said.

"Play-fighting, Honoroit. Practice swords against allies. This…this will be a real battle, against real enemies…Dravanians…monsters." Honoroit noted the slur in Emmanellain's voice, the reddish flush across his face from ear tip to ear tip -- Emmanellain had been drinking again, of course, but this time Honoroit could scarcely blame him save that his master often made a rather morose drunk. The poor soul could not even successfully drown his sorrows.

"If I may," Honoroit began, with a smooth confidence that he did not really feel, "my lord has been stationed at the eastern wall. It is unlikely that we shall see a great deal of direct --"

"We? WE?" Emmanellain laughed, a short, humorless bark of a laugh. "Honoroit, please. Please. Don't come with me. There's still time for you to run away."

"Run away, my lord?" Honoroit tried to keep the trembling from his voice; he had to be stronger one, always. Had to be the more rational and reasonable of the two of them. Emmanellain clutched at the edge of his jacket, a pleading look in his eyes.

"Yes. Stay home. No one will blame you for a nonce, and you can…" He swung his hand out towards the window, indicating the skyline of Ishgard outside. "Keep living here. Go find some girl with a rich father and charm her into marrying you, or…" Emmanellain's wine-addled brain could not come up with anything else Honoroit might want out of the future, so he gave up. Honoroit had seldom seen his master so dejected, and he did not like the sight -- Emmanellain was at both his best and his worst when he was cheerful, but there were few things more pitiable than Emmanellain miserable. Emmanellain's hand tightened on the hem of Honoroit's coat. "Fury's sake, Honoroit. At least someone in this wretched household ought to be happy someday"

Honoroit was silent for a long moment, twisting the sword-belt in his hands. Of course, he'd considered that very thing -- staying back from the front, hiding inside the walls of Ishgard and praying they would hold. What difference could he make in a battle, anyway? He'd never shot a bow at anything more threatening than a target set on a bale of hay, and the closest he'd ever been a fight on a grand scale had been dashing a vanu-vanu scout over the head with a handy stick and sprinting for the nearest encampment.

There was nothing stopping him from turning and walking out the door, least of all Emmanellain himself. Just as he'd said, no one would have blamed him for it. He might even be commended for his discretion. And yet…

"How long have I followed you from one fool's errand to the next, my lord?" Honoroit asked quietly. "And now you ask me to--"

"Go, Honoroit," Emmanellain snapped. "That's…that's an order."

"Begging my lord's pardon," Honoroit said, gently laying the sword belt aside for the moment. "But you WERE warned, in no uncertain terms, not to expect obedience from an ill-bred Brume brat, if my memory serves me aright."

Emmanellain was quiet for a long time, his shoulders hunched in a posture of abject defeat. The mop of his hair concealed his face, but Honoroit could hear the tremble in his voice when he finally spoke again. "I've never done anything to deserve you, Honoroit, in my entire miserable life," he mumbled.

That, Honoroit could answer easily. "Not true, my lord. You…" And here Honoroit paused to try and swallow the swiftly growing lump in his throat, "you saved my life."

"Any man with half a heart would have done exactly what I did. It's hardly worth--"

"Do you really think," Honoroit interrupted, "that you were the only rich man who ever saw my master strike me?" Emmanellain looked up at him, surprised at the interruption to his self-pity, but Honoroit went on. He couldn't stand by and let Emmanellain disparage that very well of kindness in his heart that had spared him from losing hope so many times over. "I watched the great men and women of Ishgard pass me by without a second glance, day in and day out, all my life, and you… you were the only one who ever stopped."

Emmanellain had no rejoinder to that, or perhaps he had simply run out of strength to protest. He never did have the heart to order Honoroit about, anyway, and crumpled under the slightest of withering glances, however headstrong he might have been when it came to his own plans. Instead, he simply asked, "What would you have me do, Honoroit?"

"You'll take your sword, and we'll go to face tomorrow together," Honoroit said. "And then after that, we'll march ourselves back to a better world."

Emmanellain's hand found the discarded sword belt, and closed around it, fumbling with the buckle. "You're a fool, Honoroit," he muttered, pulling himself to his feet and doing his best to wrap it around his waist. "But I'm glad of it."

"And you," Honoroit said, with a tiny smile, "have hung your sword on the wrong side, my lord."