Final Fantasy XII (Ashe/Basch)
Jul. 5th, 2007 08:40 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
sister-coyote.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
kinkfestTitle: King's Daughter
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sister_coyote
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Spoilers through the end of FFXII
Word count: 1600
Summary: Be this your fate, then that fate is mine.
Prompt: Final Fantasy XII, Basch/Ashe: Age kink - "Hush."
Landis had no royalty. He had grown up with the stately elegance of her parliament, had shaken hands with the Speaker for his quadrant of the city when he was a small boy, had pledged himself to the service of the Republic and her people. There had been a monarchy, once, and still in the elite of the upper class there were people who claimed descent from this king or that lord, but they were less than figureheads; sometimes they were fashionable, sometimes not. Kings and queens, lords and princes, were matters of foreign policy, or history books, or fairy-stories.
In some ways, though he had always known that Landis' neighbors were ruled by kings and emperors, still it was a surprise when his exile took him to Dalmasca, that the king was entirely real. The king made the laws; in some sense, the king was Law. They were good laws, more often than not, and he took counsel with regional lords and councilors of various kinds, and had audience with his people, but nonetheless the country was ruled by, even defined by, one man.
Even more strange: someday -- should he be fortunate enough to live that long -- he would swear allegiance to the small girl he saw at public events, standing between her mother and father. She was no more than two years old when he came to Dalmasca, perhaps less. Someday she would be his Queen. Some days it seemed charming; other days, merely mad.
As the years passed, the presence of monarchy stopped seeming odd and instead seemed commonplace, and then, eventually, inevitable. Yet he could never quite shake that sense that it was not quite, quite real. Princess Ashelia -- fair and serious and distant -- seemed like something out of a folktale, or a dream: the young princess, the child who would be queen.
When she was ten, and he was a Lieutenant not far from his promotion, he attended at the announcement of her betrothal to the prince of Nabradia. The prince could not come, but the ceremony was held in his absence; he and the princess would meet for the first time some years hence. He stood at attention in his polished ceremonial armor and watched her dance with her father, and her uncle the Marquis; she was a very small thing, decked in a dress that nearly overwhelmed her small frame. He thought of the tales of his youth, in which princesses were menaced by dragons and trolls, and wondered wryly what good a boy of eleven would do at the traditional princely job of protecting the princess.
Of course, Ashelia had no need of a prince to rescue her; she had an army.
When she was nearly fifteen, and he was Captain of the Guard, she came to him the week before her birthday. Her hair was no longer the nearly-white blonde it had been when she was a tiny child; it had darkened to an ashy color that suited her name and nature. She looked at him shyly, but without fear, and the contrast mystified him: one more strangeness of the royal nature. "At the ceremony," she said, speaking of her birthday celebration, which was a grand and public event more about the succession and her status as heir than it was about her. "At the ceremony there is a dance, and I will dance with my father, and my uncle, but I would -- I would be honored if you would be third." She hestitated. "As Captain of the Guard."
He looked into her face, strong and yet fragile, and impossibly young. He bowed at the waist. "It would be my honor, princess."
She danced with her father first, as was custom, and the Marquis after. Then she turned to him, and he went to her -- he could feel the light from the chandeliers casting brilliant light on his ceremonial armor. It was not inappropriate, given his status and position, and yet it still felt strange. He was not wearing gauntlets; he took her hands in the softer leather of his gloves. She felt small and precious and fragile beneath his touch, hovering in that space between child and adult, and though her gown was a fine one which would not have been trusted to even the most well-bred child, stll her hair swept back under a simple circlet, and her face bore few traces of paint. Her shoulder under his elbow felt at once delicate and bony. He thought, I will protect you, as best I can, Princess of Dalmasca. Be this your fate, then that fate is mine.
In the space of another year, she was wed, and shortly thereafter the war came to Rabanastre, and everything changed.
When he saw her again (after an interlude that bore little thinking about), he did not know what to say, what to think, what to make of her. She had cut her hair shorter, and in her face was an experience that made his heart ache to see: an experience he would have protected her from, had he the luxury. She wielded a sword with terrible skill -- terrible because he saw that she had taken a life before, and would again, and though she did not glory in it, neither was she crippled by it. She weilded a sword, and a staff as long as she was, and magic, and she knew the ways of the sewers as once she had known the ways of the palace: and yet her face was still young, her eyes still bright and deep, still the princess. When she was not operating under alias, she called herself Ashe, which was the name she had used in childhood, when Ashelia was too much a mouthful.
"You have the dedication of my sword," he said, "and my protection, as before and as always, my lady Ashe."
"Dedicate it rather to Rabanastre, and the reviving of my kingdom," she said, gently, but firm, and he did not kow what to say to that. Still now looking at her, he saw the child she had been: the child who would be swept, by accident of birth not conscious choice, into politcs both subtle and deadly.
"My lady," he said.
"I am able to defend myself; I am no innocent," she said, and though he knew she meant it to reassure him, nonetheless its effect was opposite.
He did not know what to make of her, the child who was a woman, the princess who was a rebel who would -- fates willing -- be queen. He did not know what to make of the new strength of her body, the maturity of her face, the clarity of her gaze, the way she handled her sword, as a warrior and not a noblewoman.
He had known once, where to put her in his mind: the role she filled, the princess in the castle, the one who needed protection from dragons, and yet now she could slay a dragon, readily.
He was at war with himself, and never more so than the day -- long into their reacquaintenceship -- when she stopped him in the hall of the inn, with Vaan and Penelo clattering bickering down the stairs for one last cup of sweet tea, and said, "Basch."
He turned and said, "My lady?" for her tone warned him that reminder of her status would not go amiss. But her face clouded.
"Be not coy with me," she said, and then -- and kissed him, her mouth warm as a summer dream.
She was sweet, sweet, sweet -- and strong, her hand sliding up into his hair to pull him into the kiss, her mouth soft, lush, and so it was longer than it should have been before he pulled away and said, "It is not proper, you and I -- it is not -- "
"Hush," she said. "I am not the child you knew. I have grown much in the past years."
He tensed at that reminder, at the protection he could not give her, at her trial by fire --
"Hush," she said again. "I do not regret it. I am more myself than I have ever been."
She kissed him again, and turned the door behind him so they stumbled into her chamber, and he came to know the woman, the warrior, the companion-at-arms, who had but was no longer the princess he must protect.
And then another war came -- or rather did not; and this time it was the peace that kept him apart, as he fulfilled his oath, and did not see her for the space of ten years, until Larsa asked him -- bade him -- ordered him to return to his second home, to those who cared for him.
He had been up the palace stairs a thousand times before, without thinking of it, but this time it was something new. The steps were clean, the doors wide open to the spring air, and none of the guards or retainers made move to stop him.
And now it was another change: princess to warrior, and now warrior to queen, queen and woman full in her power. She came to her feet with a stately grace, leaving behind her wrought throne, and stood beneath the Rose Window which had been repaired in the years he was gone. She wore the colors of her country, and had eschewed the heavy crown of office for a circlet that better suited her, with the seal of Dalmasca done in gemstones hanging over her forehead. Despite the simplicity of her garb she could be nothing but Queen, and yet when she smiled he could see the girl she was, fourteen, bright with hope and unlimited possibilities; and could see the warrior, nineteen, blazing with anger and promise; and could see the woman she was now, full into her power and brilliant for it.
"Captain," she said, "Basch," and held out her gloved hands, despite the courtiers around her. "Welcome home."
Author:
sister_coyoteRating: PG-13
Warnings: Spoilers through the end of FFXII
Word count: 1600
Summary: Be this your fate, then that fate is mine.
Prompt: Final Fantasy XII, Basch/Ashe: Age kink - "Hush."
Landis had no royalty. He had grown up with the stately elegance of her parliament, had shaken hands with the Speaker for his quadrant of the city when he was a small boy, had pledged himself to the service of the Republic and her people. There had been a monarchy, once, and still in the elite of the upper class there were people who claimed descent from this king or that lord, but they were less than figureheads; sometimes they were fashionable, sometimes not. Kings and queens, lords and princes, were matters of foreign policy, or history books, or fairy-stories.
In some ways, though he had always known that Landis' neighbors were ruled by kings and emperors, still it was a surprise when his exile took him to Dalmasca, that the king was entirely real. The king made the laws; in some sense, the king was Law. They were good laws, more often than not, and he took counsel with regional lords and councilors of various kinds, and had audience with his people, but nonetheless the country was ruled by, even defined by, one man.
Even more strange: someday -- should he be fortunate enough to live that long -- he would swear allegiance to the small girl he saw at public events, standing between her mother and father. She was no more than two years old when he came to Dalmasca, perhaps less. Someday she would be his Queen. Some days it seemed charming; other days, merely mad.
As the years passed, the presence of monarchy stopped seeming odd and instead seemed commonplace, and then, eventually, inevitable. Yet he could never quite shake that sense that it was not quite, quite real. Princess Ashelia -- fair and serious and distant -- seemed like something out of a folktale, or a dream: the young princess, the child who would be queen.
When she was ten, and he was a Lieutenant not far from his promotion, he attended at the announcement of her betrothal to the prince of Nabradia. The prince could not come, but the ceremony was held in his absence; he and the princess would meet for the first time some years hence. He stood at attention in his polished ceremonial armor and watched her dance with her father, and her uncle the Marquis; she was a very small thing, decked in a dress that nearly overwhelmed her small frame. He thought of the tales of his youth, in which princesses were menaced by dragons and trolls, and wondered wryly what good a boy of eleven would do at the traditional princely job of protecting the princess.
Of course, Ashelia had no need of a prince to rescue her; she had an army.
When she was nearly fifteen, and he was Captain of the Guard, she came to him the week before her birthday. Her hair was no longer the nearly-white blonde it had been when she was a tiny child; it had darkened to an ashy color that suited her name and nature. She looked at him shyly, but without fear, and the contrast mystified him: one more strangeness of the royal nature. "At the ceremony," she said, speaking of her birthday celebration, which was a grand and public event more about the succession and her status as heir than it was about her. "At the ceremony there is a dance, and I will dance with my father, and my uncle, but I would -- I would be honored if you would be third." She hestitated. "As Captain of the Guard."
He looked into her face, strong and yet fragile, and impossibly young. He bowed at the waist. "It would be my honor, princess."
She danced with her father first, as was custom, and the Marquis after. Then she turned to him, and he went to her -- he could feel the light from the chandeliers casting brilliant light on his ceremonial armor. It was not inappropriate, given his status and position, and yet it still felt strange. He was not wearing gauntlets; he took her hands in the softer leather of his gloves. She felt small and precious and fragile beneath his touch, hovering in that space between child and adult, and though her gown was a fine one which would not have been trusted to even the most well-bred child, stll her hair swept back under a simple circlet, and her face bore few traces of paint. Her shoulder under his elbow felt at once delicate and bony. He thought, I will protect you, as best I can, Princess of Dalmasca. Be this your fate, then that fate is mine.
In the space of another year, she was wed, and shortly thereafter the war came to Rabanastre, and everything changed.
When he saw her again (after an interlude that bore little thinking about), he did not know what to say, what to think, what to make of her. She had cut her hair shorter, and in her face was an experience that made his heart ache to see: an experience he would have protected her from, had he the luxury. She wielded a sword with terrible skill -- terrible because he saw that she had taken a life before, and would again, and though she did not glory in it, neither was she crippled by it. She weilded a sword, and a staff as long as she was, and magic, and she knew the ways of the sewers as once she had known the ways of the palace: and yet her face was still young, her eyes still bright and deep, still the princess. When she was not operating under alias, she called herself Ashe, which was the name she had used in childhood, when Ashelia was too much a mouthful.
"You have the dedication of my sword," he said, "and my protection, as before and as always, my lady Ashe."
"Dedicate it rather to Rabanastre, and the reviving of my kingdom," she said, gently, but firm, and he did not kow what to say to that. Still now looking at her, he saw the child she had been: the child who would be swept, by accident of birth not conscious choice, into politcs both subtle and deadly.
"My lady," he said.
"I am able to defend myself; I am no innocent," she said, and though he knew she meant it to reassure him, nonetheless its effect was opposite.
He did not know what to make of her, the child who was a woman, the princess who was a rebel who would -- fates willing -- be queen. He did not know what to make of the new strength of her body, the maturity of her face, the clarity of her gaze, the way she handled her sword, as a warrior and not a noblewoman.
He had known once, where to put her in his mind: the role she filled, the princess in the castle, the one who needed protection from dragons, and yet now she could slay a dragon, readily.
He was at war with himself, and never more so than the day -- long into their reacquaintenceship -- when she stopped him in the hall of the inn, with Vaan and Penelo clattering bickering down the stairs for one last cup of sweet tea, and said, "Basch."
He turned and said, "My lady?" for her tone warned him that reminder of her status would not go amiss. But her face clouded.
"Be not coy with me," she said, and then -- and kissed him, her mouth warm as a summer dream.
She was sweet, sweet, sweet -- and strong, her hand sliding up into his hair to pull him into the kiss, her mouth soft, lush, and so it was longer than it should have been before he pulled away and said, "It is not proper, you and I -- it is not -- "
"Hush," she said. "I am not the child you knew. I have grown much in the past years."
He tensed at that reminder, at the protection he could not give her, at her trial by fire --
"Hush," she said again. "I do not regret it. I am more myself than I have ever been."
She kissed him again, and turned the door behind him so they stumbled into her chamber, and he came to know the woman, the warrior, the companion-at-arms, who had but was no longer the princess he must protect.
And then another war came -- or rather did not; and this time it was the peace that kept him apart, as he fulfilled his oath, and did not see her for the space of ten years, until Larsa asked him -- bade him -- ordered him to return to his second home, to those who cared for him.
He had been up the palace stairs a thousand times before, without thinking of it, but this time it was something new. The steps were clean, the doors wide open to the spring air, and none of the guards or retainers made move to stop him.
And now it was another change: princess to warrior, and now warrior to queen, queen and woman full in her power. She came to her feet with a stately grace, leaving behind her wrought throne, and stood beneath the Rose Window which had been repaired in the years he was gone. She wore the colors of her country, and had eschewed the heavy crown of office for a circlet that better suited her, with the seal of Dalmasca done in gemstones hanging over her forehead. Despite the simplicity of her garb she could be nothing but Queen, and yet when she smiled he could see the girl she was, fourteen, bright with hope and unlimited possibilities; and could see the warrior, nineteen, blazing with anger and promise; and could see the woman she was now, full into her power and brilliant for it.
"Captain," she said, "Basch," and held out her gloved hands, despite the courtiers around her. "Welcome home."
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no subject
Date: 2007-07-05 06:02 pm (UTC)I love the voice of this piece, the way the language of epic and tale suits him so well. And the reflection on the difference between republic and kingdom! prr. more needs to be done with that in fic. ^^
no subject
Date: 2007-07-08 03:29 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-07-05 06:03 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-07-08 03:29 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-07-05 06:34 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-07-08 03:30 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-07-05 07:15 pm (UTC)(he says, as if it's a bad thing or something.)
Not to mention all the goodness with Basch. And all the perspective, and the details, and lots of other things I'd ramble about if I had the time right now. ><
Will come back to this later, perhaps. Until then, excellent fic!
no subject
Date: 2007-07-08 03:30 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-07-11 03:27 am (UTC)This was a treat in a number of ways. Basch has turmoil in lots of places, but rarely musings about politics, and even more rarely a touch of wry humor. And of course, Ashe...well, I go on enough about her in a minute. ^^;
Right from the start, this is different. We (or at least I) don't see a lot of details like this about Basch's past, and the ones given here are relentlessly interesting. His memories of childhood in Landis had me grinning...but more than that, I loved seeing his displacement in Dalmasca, the perspective of someone thrown from a republic to a true monarchy.
Basch's observations were really the highlight of the fic, in fact. From his commentary about Rasler's ability to save damsels in distress to his ever-changing opinion of Ashe, his inner monologue here was in rare form and a real joy. His sense of turmoil came through clearly and made perfect sense; you could really relate to his confusion about Ashe, even as you shook your head at how he blamed himself for it.
I couldn't help enjoying Ashe even more, though, simply because, well, Ashe is wonderful. ^_^ And in no way is that more apparent than when looking at her through these eyes. Basch's mutual admiration and horror for the woman she's become paints her in a very powerful, yet sympathetic light; she's every inch a warrior, every inch his fated charge. The line about her slaying dragons in particular had me giddy. XD It was also nice to see her younger, more fragile side at the beginning; Basch's subtle notice of her age and frailty was subtly, nicely done.
Their encounters toward the end were beautiful. Ashe's quiet reassurance that she was more herself than ever made me love her all over again. ^__^ And then the last scene was even better; the description of Ashe as queen was great, especially her circlet crown...but the flood of memories Basch had at seeing her was what made it really special.
I'm glad I took the time to come back to this fic. It reminded me all over again why I liked it so much the first time. =)
no subject
Date: 2007-07-05 10:28 pm (UTC)::melts::
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Date: 2007-07-08 03:31 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-07-05 11:13 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-07-08 03:31 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-07-05 11:41 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-07-08 03:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-07-06 03:20 am (UTC)Breathtaking in its scope and in how perfectly it encompasses Basch and Ashe's relationship. I love how clear Ashe's progression is, and how clear it is that some things about her never change.
And the end is sweet in a way that's just so them.
no subject
Date: 2007-07-08 03:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-07-06 04:23 am (UTC)Basch watching her change and not knowing how to take it...the poor woober..
no subject
Date: 2007-07-08 03:34 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-07-06 12:55 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-07-08 03:34 pm (UTC)