FFXII Drabble Post
Apr. 10th, 2007 01:57 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
midnightdiddleFFXII. Post-game, mid-game, the works. Spoilers in all the drabbles, more or less. Written for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
mariagoner.
Archadia, Larsa, and a fall that shakes the world. Vague Larsa/Penelo.
To Fall From the Sky
Archadia falls when Penelo is thirty-one.
Knowledge is most everything to sky-pirates, and so she hears of Archadia's fall in the midst of it, and Vaan hears of it some hours after Penelo, and by the late evening their ship is heading towards Archades, flying beneath the wind.
The city is burning in parts and the Judges are leading a counter-attack, and Vaan swings the ship around to land amongst what's left of a airship cage.
"Larsa," Penelo says, and her eyes are already stinging for the smoke.
"I know," Vaan says, and his mouth is smiling, even if his eyes aren't. "We'll grab him and run, ransom him off to Rozarria."
Penelo nods, because her throat is burning like her eyes, and Vaan catches her hand, squeezing it before he leaves the ship, scrambling over the rubble. Penelo follows him, and they take to the back hallways, the stairs Penelo used to sneak up years ago, when she would slip into Larsa's rooms and Larsa's bed and Larsa's arms, deep in the Archadian night.
There is blood splashed upon the floors of the upper hallways, scorch marks marring the walls. The bodies have been mostly kicked out of the way, loyals and traitors alike, and Penelo doesn't look closely at the faces, because too many of them look familiar at just a glance. There is the sound of fighting far ahead, metal upon metal, and there is the constant groan, low and reverberating in Penelo's chest, of death.
"To the Emperor," a far-off voice cries, and the blood is fresher here. Vaan and Penelo are passing Larsa's bedrooms, are nearing the map rooms, and Penelo's hands feel slick with sweat.
The fighting is spread out across the hallway, a score of men deep on either side, and the armor of the judges closest to Vaan and Penelo glints in the firelight from Old Archades. There is a smaller cluster, to the side, barricaded by bodies and half-destroyed tables, and there is a crumple of purple, and a glint of gold.
"The Emperor," a Judge says, and his helm is missing. Penelo cannot remember his name, but it doesn't matter, because the Judge is half-carrying Larsa, Larsa wrapped in the cloak of the Magisters.
"Pene--" Larsa says, and his voice is wet, as is his mouth, red and bubbly. Penelo cannot look away, for all that she wants to.
"Take him," the Judge says. "The Loyals shall hold here. We'll come for him, in time."
"We," Vaan begins, and the Judge slings Larsa's arm about Larsa's neck.
"Sky-pirates take the sky, and to treasure," the Judge says. "An Emperor's ransom shall be a prize worthy of you. Keep him alive, and keep him well."
It takes near a lifetime to return to their airship. Penelo slings Larsa's other arm over her shoulder, and Larsa's feet stumble often, and between the three of them, the hallways are slow, and the stairs slower yet. At times, Larsa gives a groan, one that is deep, and that makes Penelo's body quiver. Vaan curses quietly on Larsa's far side, and Penelo clings to Larsa's arm slung over her, holding tightly to the blood-soaked cloth of the cloak draped over Larsa.
When they near the ship Penelo slips free of Larsa, running ahead to start the glossair rings. The airship shudders, then shifts upon the rubble, and Penelo can hear Vaan's voice in the back of the ship, and a faint murmur of Larsa.
"Go back," Vaan says a moment later, and his side is covered in blood. "He needs you."
"I am killed," Larsa says, when Penelo reaches him. His words splatter red, and Penelo catches his hand. "I am killed, Penelo, and Archadia with me."
"Larsa," she says, reaching out to touch the cloak. Her fingers come back wet and warm, and she cannot swallow. "Larsa, I'll get a potion, or--"
"Don't leave me," and Larsa sounds desperate and young, like he's still a child, and his fingernails rake her skin. "Stay with me, Penelo?"
"Larsa--"
"I am killed, but I would that you stay with me, this once. For a moment, I won't be long. Penelo? Stay with me?" Larsa's voice is lowering, and Penelo's hands are shaking, and so she clutches his hand, and she stays by his side. His fingertips flutter against her skin for half a moment, and he stills like so, half a name upon his mouth, half a hand upon Penelo's mouth.
Larsa falls when Penelo is thirty-one, and Archadia falls with him.
To be seen, and to be unseen, is the lot of a son of an empire. Larsa/Penelo, Penelo/Gabranth, Larsa/Gabranth?
A Weight Unseen
Larsa rules Archadia with an iron-fist, for he cannot do less. He is young, still a child in the eyes of most, and so Archadia grows unruly and restless. Larsa holds the ropes tightly, binds Archadia in chains and scarves, and at times, when the unrest grows, when traitors begin speaking loudly, for little fear of a child, Larsa pulls.
He holds the palace in much the same way, with carefully worded commands that carry a weight far heavier than his father's, or even his brother's, ever was. He is small, and he is yet half the size of a good many of his judges, but he carries blades unsheathed, and the weight is terrible.
Larsa, as an emperor, is a god, terrible and just.
And Larsa, as a human, is small and broken.
"You do not see me," Larsa says with a wave of his hand, and the servants in his rooms do not blink, nor move. He paces for a moment, then grabs the nearest table, pulling and throwing, twisting his body to launch the slender wood. It shatters against the nearest wall, and a vase is next to follow. The floor is scattered with slivers of glass and wood, and Larsa wants muchly to throw the next vase at a man, or a woman, or perhaps a window, to see something break so that one person, or another, shall bleed.
"Larsa," Penelo says, rustling silks riding low on her hips. "Larsa."
"You," and Larsa can feel himself screaming, for the way his throat is going raw, "do not see me. You," and he cannot hate himself for this, but neither can he love Penelo, "shall not see me until I allow it."
"Larsa." Penelo's hands are upon his face, and there are callouses there, against his cheeks and his eyelids. "I shall see you, when I wish. I am neither Archadian, nor a servant."
"And what," Larsa asks, and he catches her wrists in his, wraps his fingers about her, "shall you be? You do me a disservice, and you shall destroy me."
"Larsa," she begins, and Larsa cannot bear it, cannot bear her voice, nor her skin.
"Shall I have neither Judge nor mistress, without them reaching to one another? I cannot have this, Penelo." He pulls her hands from his face, twists her wrists until her mouth opens in a small cry. "I cannot have a weakness such as you, nor such as him."
"You," she says, her voice sharp, and she is pulling her wrists from his hands, and he catches her waist instead, and the scarves wrapped there.
"Take to his bed, if you shall," Larsa says, and his voice is rising again, and the scarves slip into his hands like water. "But do not, Penelo, think I will not see you, for I will. I am no child. I will not played with, not by one such as you."
"And you shall play as you will?" Penelo asks, and her voice sounds near as angry as Larsa's. Larsa catches her hair, cups her head, and she stumbles a half-step closer, slippered feet between his own.
"You," Larsa says, and he tangles the scarves about Penelo's head, silk slipping against her hot skin, and Penelo's hands are upon his shoulders, about his throat. "You shall not see me, for I," and Larsa tells himself he believes every word, for he must believe every word, for Archadia rests upon his shoulders, and no boy could ever hold up such a weight, "am a god."
Vayne would do anything, to please his younger brother. Vayne/Penelo of omg-ness, vague-vague Penelo/Larsa, vague-vague Vayne/Larsa.
Gift of a Dancer
Vayne asks for a light-haired dancer with bound hair, and Dalmasca gives him a dancer as he wishes, a girl with unremarkable eyes and a forgettable face. That this should be the girl his brother is so taken with gives Vayne pause, but he asks for the girl to dance, and dance she does, bells upon her hips and chimes upon her fingers.
Her dance is not without flaw, but it's not without spirit, either, and Vayne imagines that he sees a bit of what Larsa is so enamored with. A spirited street-girl, however, is a street-girl still, and Vayne would not see his last brother unduly broken.
"Your name?" Vayne asks, and he leans back in his seat, hand cupping his chin.
"Penelo, my lord," she says, and Vayne is charmed for half a moment.
"And your companions, Penelo? Where are they?"
Her smile is silver-quick, a flash and demure tilt of a head, and Vayne can see why Larsa was so taken in.
"I have none, my lord," she says, and her voice is near sweet enough for Vayne to believe her, but Vayne believes in none, neither mortal nor immortal.
"Then," Vayne says, "you shall be my companion, for the nights in Dalmasca are long."
"I," she begins to say, and her hands are flicking, hesitation. "I--"
"No companions shall miss you, Penelo," Vayne says, and words are as heavy as iron, and can bind with twice as much strength, and the girl's hands are little in his own, like Larsa's.
Her clothes are thin, as are all Dalmascan clothes, and the fastenings are small, hooks and catches that she undoes ever more slowly. Vayne catches her hair, twists his fingers through her braid, and the half-sound in her throat is muffled by his other hand. If she is what Larsa wishes for, then she shall be what Larsa shall receive, wrapped in a collar of Vayne's construction.
Vayne writes Larsa's name upon her skin, in her body, and she turns her gasps away from him, her cheeks pale and her eyes closed. He does not kiss her, for that is to be Larsa's, but he takes her, twists her until her neck is bared and her hair is spread out on the bedsheets, the yellow on white such a contrast with Vayne's or Larsa's own hair that Vayne cannot hold it within his hands, nor within his breath.
"I," she says, and it is a gasp, a moan, and Vayne has his own cries, of brother, brother. The nights are empty in Dalmasca.
"My lord," the street-girl says, and she is half-dressed, her hair near covering her girl-breasts.
"I would not that you stay here," Vayne says, and he watches her face, with its unremarkable eyes and forgettable mouth. She is not like Larsa, but Vayne would not ask the world for another such as Larsa, for Larsa is something far beyond the dying and undying both.
"My lord?" the girl asks again, and Vayne catches her wrist, pulls her near close enough to circle his other hand about the front of her throat.
"My brother," he says, and he cannot stop the faint groan at the word, at brother, brother. "He is far better than all others. I would that you dance to him."
"I," she says.
"--shall not be good enough," he says, "but perhaps,"
"--what you say," she says, "I shall do,"
"--for my brother," he says, and the taste of Larsa's name is one that Vayne shall never have enough of.
mariagoner.Archadia, Larsa, and a fall that shakes the world. Vague Larsa/Penelo.
To Fall From the Sky
Archadia falls when Penelo is thirty-one.
Knowledge is most everything to sky-pirates, and so she hears of Archadia's fall in the midst of it, and Vaan hears of it some hours after Penelo, and by the late evening their ship is heading towards Archades, flying beneath the wind.
The city is burning in parts and the Judges are leading a counter-attack, and Vaan swings the ship around to land amongst what's left of a airship cage.
"Larsa," Penelo says, and her eyes are already stinging for the smoke.
"I know," Vaan says, and his mouth is smiling, even if his eyes aren't. "We'll grab him and run, ransom him off to Rozarria."
Penelo nods, because her throat is burning like her eyes, and Vaan catches her hand, squeezing it before he leaves the ship, scrambling over the rubble. Penelo follows him, and they take to the back hallways, the stairs Penelo used to sneak up years ago, when she would slip into Larsa's rooms and Larsa's bed and Larsa's arms, deep in the Archadian night.
There is blood splashed upon the floors of the upper hallways, scorch marks marring the walls. The bodies have been mostly kicked out of the way, loyals and traitors alike, and Penelo doesn't look closely at the faces, because too many of them look familiar at just a glance. There is the sound of fighting far ahead, metal upon metal, and there is the constant groan, low and reverberating in Penelo's chest, of death.
"To the Emperor," a far-off voice cries, and the blood is fresher here. Vaan and Penelo are passing Larsa's bedrooms, are nearing the map rooms, and Penelo's hands feel slick with sweat.
The fighting is spread out across the hallway, a score of men deep on either side, and the armor of the judges closest to Vaan and Penelo glints in the firelight from Old Archades. There is a smaller cluster, to the side, barricaded by bodies and half-destroyed tables, and there is a crumple of purple, and a glint of gold.
"The Emperor," a Judge says, and his helm is missing. Penelo cannot remember his name, but it doesn't matter, because the Judge is half-carrying Larsa, Larsa wrapped in the cloak of the Magisters.
"Pene--" Larsa says, and his voice is wet, as is his mouth, red and bubbly. Penelo cannot look away, for all that she wants to.
"Take him," the Judge says. "The Loyals shall hold here. We'll come for him, in time."
"We," Vaan begins, and the Judge slings Larsa's arm about Larsa's neck.
"Sky-pirates take the sky, and to treasure," the Judge says. "An Emperor's ransom shall be a prize worthy of you. Keep him alive, and keep him well."
It takes near a lifetime to return to their airship. Penelo slings Larsa's other arm over her shoulder, and Larsa's feet stumble often, and between the three of them, the hallways are slow, and the stairs slower yet. At times, Larsa gives a groan, one that is deep, and that makes Penelo's body quiver. Vaan curses quietly on Larsa's far side, and Penelo clings to Larsa's arm slung over her, holding tightly to the blood-soaked cloth of the cloak draped over Larsa.
When they near the ship Penelo slips free of Larsa, running ahead to start the glossair rings. The airship shudders, then shifts upon the rubble, and Penelo can hear Vaan's voice in the back of the ship, and a faint murmur of Larsa.
"Go back," Vaan says a moment later, and his side is covered in blood. "He needs you."
"I am killed," Larsa says, when Penelo reaches him. His words splatter red, and Penelo catches his hand. "I am killed, Penelo, and Archadia with me."
"Larsa," she says, reaching out to touch the cloak. Her fingers come back wet and warm, and she cannot swallow. "Larsa, I'll get a potion, or--"
"Don't leave me," and Larsa sounds desperate and young, like he's still a child, and his fingernails rake her skin. "Stay with me, Penelo?"
"Larsa--"
"I am killed, but I would that you stay with me, this once. For a moment, I won't be long. Penelo? Stay with me?" Larsa's voice is lowering, and Penelo's hands are shaking, and so she clutches his hand, and she stays by his side. His fingertips flutter against her skin for half a moment, and he stills like so, half a name upon his mouth, half a hand upon Penelo's mouth.
Larsa falls when Penelo is thirty-one, and Archadia falls with him.
To be seen, and to be unseen, is the lot of a son of an empire. Larsa/Penelo, Penelo/Gabranth, Larsa/Gabranth?
A Weight Unseen
Larsa rules Archadia with an iron-fist, for he cannot do less. He is young, still a child in the eyes of most, and so Archadia grows unruly and restless. Larsa holds the ropes tightly, binds Archadia in chains and scarves, and at times, when the unrest grows, when traitors begin speaking loudly, for little fear of a child, Larsa pulls.
He holds the palace in much the same way, with carefully worded commands that carry a weight far heavier than his father's, or even his brother's, ever was. He is small, and he is yet half the size of a good many of his judges, but he carries blades unsheathed, and the weight is terrible.
Larsa, as an emperor, is a god, terrible and just.
And Larsa, as a human, is small and broken.
"You do not see me," Larsa says with a wave of his hand, and the servants in his rooms do not blink, nor move. He paces for a moment, then grabs the nearest table, pulling and throwing, twisting his body to launch the slender wood. It shatters against the nearest wall, and a vase is next to follow. The floor is scattered with slivers of glass and wood, and Larsa wants muchly to throw the next vase at a man, or a woman, or perhaps a window, to see something break so that one person, or another, shall bleed.
"Larsa," Penelo says, rustling silks riding low on her hips. "Larsa."
"You," and Larsa can feel himself screaming, for the way his throat is going raw, "do not see me. You," and he cannot hate himself for this, but neither can he love Penelo, "shall not see me until I allow it."
"Larsa." Penelo's hands are upon his face, and there are callouses there, against his cheeks and his eyelids. "I shall see you, when I wish. I am neither Archadian, nor a servant."
"And what," Larsa asks, and he catches her wrists in his, wraps his fingers about her, "shall you be? You do me a disservice, and you shall destroy me."
"Larsa," she begins, and Larsa cannot bear it, cannot bear her voice, nor her skin.
"Shall I have neither Judge nor mistress, without them reaching to one another? I cannot have this, Penelo." He pulls her hands from his face, twists her wrists until her mouth opens in a small cry. "I cannot have a weakness such as you, nor such as him."
"You," she says, her voice sharp, and she is pulling her wrists from his hands, and he catches her waist instead, and the scarves wrapped there.
"Take to his bed, if you shall," Larsa says, and his voice is rising again, and the scarves slip into his hands like water. "But do not, Penelo, think I will not see you, for I will. I am no child. I will not played with, not by one such as you."
"And you shall play as you will?" Penelo asks, and her voice sounds near as angry as Larsa's. Larsa catches her hair, cups her head, and she stumbles a half-step closer, slippered feet between his own.
"You," Larsa says, and he tangles the scarves about Penelo's head, silk slipping against her hot skin, and Penelo's hands are upon his shoulders, about his throat. "You shall not see me, for I," and Larsa tells himself he believes every word, for he must believe every word, for Archadia rests upon his shoulders, and no boy could ever hold up such a weight, "am a god."
Vayne would do anything, to please his younger brother. Vayne/Penelo of omg-ness, vague-vague Penelo/Larsa, vague-vague Vayne/Larsa.
Gift of a Dancer
Vayne asks for a light-haired dancer with bound hair, and Dalmasca gives him a dancer as he wishes, a girl with unremarkable eyes and a forgettable face. That this should be the girl his brother is so taken with gives Vayne pause, but he asks for the girl to dance, and dance she does, bells upon her hips and chimes upon her fingers.
Her dance is not without flaw, but it's not without spirit, either, and Vayne imagines that he sees a bit of what Larsa is so enamored with. A spirited street-girl, however, is a street-girl still, and Vayne would not see his last brother unduly broken.
"Your name?" Vayne asks, and he leans back in his seat, hand cupping his chin.
"Penelo, my lord," she says, and Vayne is charmed for half a moment.
"And your companions, Penelo? Where are they?"
Her smile is silver-quick, a flash and demure tilt of a head, and Vayne can see why Larsa was so taken in.
"I have none, my lord," she says, and her voice is near sweet enough for Vayne to believe her, but Vayne believes in none, neither mortal nor immortal.
"Then," Vayne says, "you shall be my companion, for the nights in Dalmasca are long."
"I," she begins to say, and her hands are flicking, hesitation. "I--"
"No companions shall miss you, Penelo," Vayne says, and words are as heavy as iron, and can bind with twice as much strength, and the girl's hands are little in his own, like Larsa's.
Her clothes are thin, as are all Dalmascan clothes, and the fastenings are small, hooks and catches that she undoes ever more slowly. Vayne catches her hair, twists his fingers through her braid, and the half-sound in her throat is muffled by his other hand. If she is what Larsa wishes for, then she shall be what Larsa shall receive, wrapped in a collar of Vayne's construction.
Vayne writes Larsa's name upon her skin, in her body, and she turns her gasps away from him, her cheeks pale and her eyes closed. He does not kiss her, for that is to be Larsa's, but he takes her, twists her until her neck is bared and her hair is spread out on the bedsheets, the yellow on white such a contrast with Vayne's or Larsa's own hair that Vayne cannot hold it within his hands, nor within his breath.
"I," she says, and it is a gasp, a moan, and Vayne has his own cries, of brother, brother. The nights are empty in Dalmasca.
"My lord," the street-girl says, and she is half-dressed, her hair near covering her girl-breasts.
"I would not that you stay here," Vayne says, and he watches her face, with its unremarkable eyes and forgettable mouth. She is not like Larsa, but Vayne would not ask the world for another such as Larsa, for Larsa is something far beyond the dying and undying both.
"My lord?" the girl asks again, and Vayne catches her wrist, pulls her near close enough to circle his other hand about the front of her throat.
"My brother," he says, and he cannot stop the faint groan at the word, at brother, brother. "He is far better than all others. I would that you dance to him."
"I," she says.
"--shall not be good enough," he says, "but perhaps,"
"--what you say," she says, "I shall do,"
"--for my brother," he says, and the taste of Larsa's name is one that Vayne shall never have enough of.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2007-04-10 11:25 pm (UTC)Simply put, I sometimes fail an extraordinary amount. That is, there are some drabbles I write, where I know what's going on. Like, the first one? To Fall from the Sky? I know what happened before. I know how long Larsa and Penelo had an affair, why they stopped, where Penelo and Vaan like to spend their three-day weekends, etc., etc., etc.
Others, though, I just smile and nod and pretend I know what's going on. The second one, A Weight Unseen, well... I don't know. I had so many ideas, that I was going to use for fics. The "you don't see me," is an idea that had been battering around in my head forever long, because as an emperor, you would be seen, always. Your nation, and ever other nation in the world, would know everything about you, because you would literally be the face of your empire. So that Larsa would command others to not see him, just so he could have a few moments of silence, where he wasn't Archadia, and Archadia wasn't him. So, yeah. But that was entirely Larsa/Archadia, which, as much as I want, isn't quite Larsa/Penelo/Basch.
So, so, so then obviously, Penelo isn't one who would listen to Larsa's commands of "you don't see me." She would be more worried about Larsa going "snap," and so she would butt in, and try to fix things. But if it was her that was making Larsa that angry, then it certainly wouldn't help things.
And, and, for Larsa/Gabranth, man, I don't even know. Yes and no? Like, half of the time I was writing the fic, to me it seemed that they would have some kind of relationship, whether nearly paternal, or simply close friends, or sexual. And Larsa would be possessive, of both Penelo and Gabranth. So the idea that his mistress and friend was sleeping with his judge and friend probably wouldn't have him rolling with giggles.
And so, for a while, it was totally Larsa/Everyone, but then, it wasn't, then it was, and now, I don't even know. So I smile, and nod, and pretend I know what's going on in my own drabble.
I think you've got a better hand of it than I do. :)
no subject
Date: 2007-04-11 04:30 am (UTC)So you do not fail-- actually, it's your subconcious winning! XD And when you've got that lovely tension between Larsa and everyone else in this fic, which works well because, well, I guess I've always got this image of Larsa as being hyper-needy, possesive and vigilant about his loved ones. After all, given the events of his life, what's to say one of them won't turn around and either betray him or leave him behind if he so much as takes his eyes off of them for a minute?
So no, the idea that two his most trusted and beloved intimates-- the very two who he would expect to be most loyal to him-- finding pleasures between themselves that he can't be part of... oh, that would drive Larsa mad with rage and jealousy. And I truly, truly pity what he's got up his sleeves in order to 'set things right' for himself.
Plus, Larsa could be paired with nearly anybody and it might work, as long as he topped. Because boy emperors... well, y'know what persnickety creatures they are, right? ;) They've got to uphold a certain amount of dignity even in their bed-chambers...
no subject
Date: 2007-04-11 05:06 am (UTC)Poor Larsa. We'll drive him crazy yet.
jkmvc ccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccc (a message from my kitten, from when I left the room)
no subject
Date: 2007-04-11 05:44 pm (UTC)And I tend to write Larsa as being a little crazy by default, if only because his utter perfection otherwise might get a bit grating in fic. ;) It's just that the extent of crazy fluctuates. Sometimes he's crazy in a cute, adolescent, hormonal way. Sometimes he's crazy in a jealous, raging pent up way. And sometime's he's crazy in a this-has-GOT-to-be-a-parodty way. XD But given his bloodline and all the things he went through in the game... well, I wouldn't be surprised if he had more than his fair share of neuroses and lingering trauma flashbacks!
no subject
Date: 2007-04-11 06:50 pm (UTC)My kitten sends return cuddles, and a paw to the eye, all out of love and kitten-ish glee.
And, and-- Are you trying to kill me? *flails* So many links~ But I must say, Brotherly Love will always be my favorite, 'cause Larsa-- Oh. <3
no subject
Date: 2007-04-12 04:00 am (UTC)And Larsa is always ♥. Always. It must be his super dooper secret Emperor powers!
Now let's just hope he grows up to use it for good, not evil.