Final Fantasy XII (Zargabaath/Gramis)

[manic-intent.livejournal.com]

Title: Kingmakers
Author/Artist: Anya
Rating: PG13
Warnings: No spoilers
Word count: [4,412]
Summary: Zargabaath is assigned to guard the youngest Solidor prince.
A/N: Long fic, no smex, sorry. ;3 I couldn't really get to it with this pair.

July 21 - 17. Final Fantasy XII, Gramis/Zargabaath: A courtly kiss, turned not - he will take what he can from his liege.
 

Kingmakers
1

 
"It's an honor, Eyan, so there's no need to look so sour."
 
Zecht was sprawled somewhat precariously at the very edge of the bunk on his side of their shared room in the Department dormitories, with a file in an increasing stage of deconstruction around him. Zargabaath paused to glare at his roommate in the middle of buckling on a Judge's ceremonial armor, and Zecht smirked. At twenty, his closest friend already had silvery hair in a sleek crop over a high forehead, giving him a somewhat roguish look, enhanced by his regrettable tendency to wear loud silk shirts and gold earrings.
 
Zecht's side of their apartment was similarly chaotic: odd posters adorned the walls, an odd mix of beautiful classical prints and some strange ones that Zargabaath could only describe as a jumble of shapes, and one flagrantly pornographic poster of an unclad woman that Zecht absolutely refused to remove despite various skirmishes with his roommate. Esoteric books of a seemingly random range of topics from opera to rock gardening to airships rubbed shoulders with legal texts, and litigation files were strewn all over the carpet, the bunk bed, and the man's desk.
 
Zargabaath's side, on the other hand, was (and he prided himself on this) perfectly in order. He pulled on a gauntlet, knowing Zecht had chosen his words with sly intent.
 
"I am not so sure that spending the rest of my career babysitting is so much of an honor as most may imagine, Foris."
 
"Careful," Zecht drawled, scrawling something over a copy of a Court order, "One might think you make light of House Solidor."
 
"I'll only be released from the duty 'ere Lord Gramis ascends the throne, and that appears unlikely," Zargabaath carefully pulled on the other gauntlet, flexing his fingers in the stiff, plated leather. "His older brothers Kayne and Sordas already have experience with rule, and politics."
 
"And you, a student of military history, can presume so much?" Zecht turned a page. "The Emperor is ailing. The civil war will come. If he's asked you to be companion to the princeling despite his brothers having no such guard, then perhaps you can see where his choice lies. To help shape Archades' next ruler is not hardship, perhaps."
 
"I confess myself soundly rebuked," Zargabaath said dryly, pulling on his helmet.
 
"But not convinced."
 
"No."
 
"Archades is all about connections, Eyan, and a link with royalty would be of far more value to your career than spending the next few decades doing the rounds like the rest of us. You've yet to have that kicked into your thick skull. How old is the princeling, anyway?"
 
"Twenty-two." Zargabaath reached for his service blade out of habit, from the rack at the door, sighed, and took the needlessly ornate ceremonial sword instead, buckling it at his hip.
 
"Three years your senior?" Zecht snickered, and earned another glare. "Well! Then I'm not sure who's doing the babysitting."
 
"Sometimes I truly dislike you."
 

2

 
'Ailing' was an understatement. Emperor Ulrin Solidor looked as though he was balancing precariously on the very edge of the Veil, parchment-pale, his eyes rheumy, a helpless ruin of flesh on a wheelchair pushed by one of his pretty wives. The Emperor-Consort Yalien smiled mechanically at him, disturbingly doll-like in her perfectly coiffed hair and elaborate pearl dress, her neck and tiny wrists choked in gold lace. Under the powder and paint, Zargabaath could not tell what age she was.
 
The young Judge walked by their side, his helmet at his hip, the Emperor's private guard in perfect march behind them as they navigated the richly carpeted maze of the Solidor Archades palace, his resentment at the appointment replaced by an irritatingly nervous anticipation.
 
Ulrin spoke in a whisper punctuated by disturbingly gargling coughs. "Judge... mm... Eyan Zargabaath. I have heard... many positive reports about you."
 
"Thank you, your Majesty," Zargabaath said politely, trying his best not to make it look as though he were staring. Ulrin's cologne was unable to fully mask the scent of withering flesh.
 
"I am afraid that my son... Prince Gramis... does not look favorably on your assignation," Ulrin continued, as the corridor opened into a balcony that looked down into a large indoor pool carpeted gorgeously with verdant hyacinths. Long-legged herons, their wings likely clipped, looked up at them briefly, eyes tame and incurious. "He does not feel he needs a guard... let alone one younger than he."
 
"I profess myself surprised at the appointment, your Majesty," Zargabaath replied cautiously.
 
"You come highly recommended... by your Department, Eyan," Ulrin said dismissively, "And you majored... in military, ah-em, in political science and history. You have made a... name for yourself, in the skill of your blade. These learnings... I wish you to teach to my son... for he is stubbornly removed from the reality of his... mm... heritage."
 
"Stubbornly removed...?"
 
"You will understand for yourself," Ulrin said, and there was something angry in the quavering voice that fanned his curiosity. Gramis was the youngest son of three, and the most private, shunning the public eye, unlike his flamboyant brothers. Zargabaath vaguely remembered having seen the back of the prince in the last parade in honor of the Emperor's birthday, but had little enough impression of him: his brothers, on the other hand, one a Consul, the other a commander of the second Fleet, were already famed in Archades for their exploits in conquest. One would have thought two potential war-princes sufficient for succession purposes.
 
Something of his confusion must have shown: Ulrin sighed, a wet, rattling sound. "Perhaps later you will think me harsh... young man. But you should understand... from your own expertise in history... in House Solidor, there is no room for softness."
 

3

 
Mahogany and brass opened into music. Zargabaath hesitated, blinking, at the threshold into a high-ceilinged room lined thickly with gold-framed paintings. Busts and statues in marble and bronze marked time on the polished whitewood floor, and at the center of the room was a white piano. Its occupant's head was bowed in concentration as he played with flawless skill; a spell woven in a melody of whispering sorrow: a lover's song spoiled by the grind of the wheelchair against the polished wood. The music stopped, drowned in startled silence, and the pianist looked up sharply.
 
Gramis Solidor had the characteristic striking good looks of his House, with full lips, large, dark eyes and the almost elfin ears; the exceedingly fine black hair, in his case cut short into spikes; the womanish curve to the cheeks, the strong jaw, lean and sleek. There was something distant and distracted about his demeanor, in unfocused eyes. The aristocratic brow knit into a frown of irritation as he took them in, then his lip twisted and the prince rose to his feet, and Zargabaath saw that he wore the white gold-edged half-jacket of the youngest royal, over a black doublet and brocade patterned gray breeches.
 
"Lord Father."
 
"Gramis," Ulrin's voice was clipped, "Did I not request your presence at the North Foyer half an hour ago?"
 
"I apologize, father. I was not watching time." Gramis' voice was cool, without a hint of remorse, bordering on insolence.
 
The room's temperature seemed to abruptly drop to freezing point, as wills clashed, and Zargabaath wondered what it was about Gramis that Ulrin thought soft. The younger man held his father's stare, not giving ground in the least.
 
Abruptly, Ulrin coughed, wet and choked, then his head lolled to the side to regard Zargabaath. "Your assigned guard, Judge Eyan Zargabaath."
 
"Father, this is unnecessary," Gramis' protest was more resignation than outrage, as though this was an old argument. "We waste the good Judge's time. I have made it amply clear that I have no designs on the throne."
 
"And you think that gives you immunity from your brothers?"
 
Gramis shrugged. "I am no threat to them."
 
"That does not mean they are of no threat to you," Ulrin sounded tired.
 
"I care not."
 
"Perhaps I could have some time to speak with Lord Gramis, your Majesty?" Zargabaath asked as gently as he could, sensing an incipient explosion from his Emperor. Family disputes were disconcerting enough to witness as they were, let alone House Solidor disputes.
 
"Very well." Ulrin nodded slightly at his porcelain-doll wife, who began to wheel him out of the room, followed by the guards.
 
The hollow boom of the door closing resounded in the huge gallery. Gramis closed his eyes briefly, letting out a breath, then abruptly sat down at the piano, as if boneless. "Surely this is a waste of your education and training, Judge Zargabaath, becoming a mere bodyguard."
 
His earlier sentiment came back to haunt him, but now, Zargabaath merely smiled wryly. There was something desperately lonely that he could sense in the prince, only a few years his senior, something vulnerable even under the steel he had shown but moments before. Zargabaath made up his mind as Gramis began to play a few distracted notes on the piano.
 
"If my Lord would allow me to correct him, perhaps we have both had different views of what my role would constitute."
 
The playing stopped. "Oh?"
 
"I rather saw it as a mutual chance to teach and to learn," Zargabaath now understood Zecht's sentiment. For a son of Archades, there could be no better duty, than to aid and develop next generation's ruler. In Gramis was the future, perhaps, and softness had to be tempered by steel. "There is no higher honor than to be called as teacher and protector to the next potential Emperor."
 
"I've said I have no designs on the throne." Gramis said coldly.
 
"Then do not tell me you have no intention of aiding whichever brother ascends, in some diplomatic capacity. Princes are rare resources."
 
"I do not think all of us will survive this 'ascension'," Gramis countered. "You, as a student of political and military history, should know this of Archadia."
 
"Then I have to confess I remain unconvinced of the capacity of a man to rule an Empire well, when he would spill his own blood to gain the throne." Zargabaath replied evenly. "Perhaps what Archadia needs is softness. At the moment we are under a monarchy with a puppet Senate, and every single generation there has been a bloody and unnecessary succession war. Lives are lost for no reason other than to find the better killer to wear the Ruby Crown."
 
Gramis stared at him for a long, thoughtful moment, in silence, and then bowed his head. "You've humbled me with your words, Judge." A sigh. "Though there's little you understand of House Solidor. Very well. I suppose I have much to learn from you. But I've little to offer in return."
 
Zargabaath thought fast, then walked up to the piano, placed his leather-sheathed palm on the polished surface of the upraised cover. "I've a very young sister who may take pleasure in having me learn some refinements. If you'll have me, Lord Gramis."
 
Gramis laughed. It started as a cough of mirth that swelled into something infectious; the smile touched jet eyes in a glow of surprising warmth.
 

4

 
Gramis Solidor had the quick mind and instinctive intuition for war bred into his House: he grasped tactics easily, and political theory; his mind was easily turned to problem-solving, and he posed questions that often startled his teacher into thinking.
 
Learning to play the piano, on the other hand was difficult for a swordsman with fingers stiffened from practice's calluses. Zargabaath had no musical education, could not read script, and did not have any particular aptitude at the instrument. Wryly he felt it was likely amusement rather than patience that kept the prince at these lessons; for himself, they were pleasant enough distraction.
 
Gramis seemed another person altogether with any musical instrument: for this the normally reserved prince had a consuming passion that was a delight to behold. And Gods, the Solidor men were beautiful. Zargabaath found himself staring overlong at aristocratic fingers as they demonstrated scales, tensing when they blanketed his to demonstrate arpeggios. Soft, cool flesh that had never been marred by a blade.
 
"You've a good memory, at least," Gramis said finally, the first time Zargabaath managed to play a short melody without assistance. It was a child's song, a familiar tune to anyone who had grown up in Archades, a skip-stone's whistle.
 
Zargabaath grinned. Months had removed at least the stiff initial formality they had between each other: so close in ages, it was difficult to remember in private. "You say that as though you struggle to find anything positive at all."
 
"Well, I can see that you're trying," Gramis returned the grin, picking up one of Zargabaath's hands and turning it palm up. "But you've ruined your hands." The prince traced the calluses on the edges to the pads of his ring-finger, and the Judge bit down a gasp. He looked up to see Gramis staring at him with an unreadable expression that suggested his manner had betrayed him: he felt a flush creeping up from his collar.
 
Zargabaath was about to quickly change the subject when the doors to the gallery opened, disgorging a pair of happily chatty royalty. Kayne and Sordas Solidor were tall and handsome, one with the Solidor black hair tied loosely at his neck in a tail, the other having cut it short at the shoulders, both dressed in the warmail armor of a Solidor Prince, of scales, black gold-edged jackets and strangely patterned sharp shoulder-plates. They wore blades at their hips, and were followed by the Emperor's personal guard, no doubt to make sure neither of them attempted to get rid of the opposition within Solidor grounds.
 
"Brothers." Gramis got to his feet, and his smile of welcome was genuine. Zargabaath stood up in turn, to take his place silently behind his prince. "What brings you back to Archades?"
 
"Sordas' mother's birthday, I'm afraid," Kayne said dryly. The eldest, he resembled his mother a little more than the others, with her narrow jaw and green eyes instead of black. "He insisted we both come back. Besides, we have not seen you in a while."
 
Sordas snorted, and cuffed Kayne lightly on the arm. Sordas was a little shorter than Gramis, wiry and lean, with sharp black eyes and thin lips often curved in mischief. "As though t'was merely my fault. Our oldest brother, I am sorry to confess, has a new conquest in town of the blonde, pretty, and inappropriate sort that he's fair afraid our father will discover."
 
"And now you've gone trumpeting it to the world," Kayne said blandly, not in the least annoyed, "What about yours? I've heard stories, Sordas. Our dear lord father will be quite scandalized, I can assure you."
 
"'Tis the role of children to embarrass their parents," Gramis grinned, "But I am glad to see you both, whatever reason it may be."
 
"What about you, little brother?" Sordas inquired.
 
Zargabaath found himself under close scrutiny by both Solidor brothers. He felt off-center, so sure that this meeting would be coolly hostile, had been ready to defend his prince where needed, be it with words. He hadn't expected this sort of affectionate banter that seemed genuine, and Zargabaath had some pride in being a judge of character.
 
"Well. He's not too bad," Kayne said, archly grudging. "Passable."
 
"Perhaps if he wore out that dark auburn hair instead of cutting it short."
 
"The blue of the eyes isn't too poor a shade."
 
"Brothers!" Gramis protested, a little sharply, and the prince was blushing, making Zargabaath blink. "Eyan is my guard and companion. Judge Eyan Zargabaath."
 
"Eyan, eh?" Sordas' smirk was purely teasing. "And you were teaching him to play the piano when we came in?"
 
"Judge," Gramis corrected, though the blush was deepening.
 
"Didn't you have a Judge once?" Sordas raised an eyebrow at Kayne. "Strange girl. So many odd convictions."
 
"Fun in bed though," Kayne said urbanely, and Gramis' protest of "Brother!" was lost in wicked laughter.
 

5

 
"I must apologize for my brothers, they tend to speak their minds with no heed to the comfort of others," Gramis said later, in the silence made louder by the departure of his rowdy siblings. The prince would not meet his eyes.
 
Zargabaath understood then that this was perhaps the first and the last of choices in his path, to reach forward to a slipstream, or let himself continue to be carried along. He couldn't. Duty, pragmatism, honor, pride (oh, but he wanted). Zargabaath smiled gently, chose, and stifled the cold twist in his belly. "I do believe you are right. I do not understand your House."
 
Regret was sharp when Gramis' eyes widened, fleeting sorrow and resignation that was quickly shuttered away under a grin that did not reach his eyes. "No. Most do not."
 
The prince sat down again at the piano, staring at the keys, his insouciant manner carefully feigned. "Most believe we are born to rivalry. The truth is our fathers will encourage us always to love, by keeping our mothers distant. You see, each Solidor ruler – killer, as you say – is a product of the previous generation's succession war, and each would have killed his brothers, breaking his heart to do so. Each think their sons can break the cycle. But power and the throne is the curse of our House, I think. At the very end, only one may survive to wear the Ruby Crown. That is the way it has always been."
 
"This 'cycle' of which you speak seems easy enough to break. If you brothers have regard for one another..."
 
"We have all been bred for the throne." Gramis looked down at his hands, soft from a disregard for war. "Even as I have sought to escape it, perhaps it is inexorable. Fate brings men like you to persuade me otherwise, all too easily."
 
Again, that odd resignation. "Lord Gramis. I still stand by what I had said."
 
"I confess myself more interested in what you haven't," Gramis' response was nervous and raw, again swiftly swept under royal poise before he could respond. "Brother will turn against brother when the throne is empty. That is how it has always been."
 

6

 
At eight, Alya Zargabaath did not grasp her brother's air of distraction, instead clapping her hands in childish delight as he finished buckling on his ceremonial armor, turning to their mother. "Oh, mama! Where is our iconograph?"
 
"I'm dressed for a State funeral, Alya," Zargabaath said dryly, though he picked up his sister carefully when she held up her hands. Each time it was necessary in his role as Gramis' guard to follow his prince out on parade, his family had insisted that he stop by so that they could ensure he looked presentable. He had taken to leaving his ceremonial gear at home, just to save time: otherwise, his mother Zara would always insist that it wasn't quite polished enough.
 
Zecht had thought it endlessly amusing, and always tagged along when he could: the other Judge was grinning like a bloody idiot beside him as Zara pottered about looking for said instrument. His father Haymes was a tradesman whose general goods store seemed to be doing well in the current economic boom, and had bought new clothes for the occasion. The yellow vest matched rather poorly with the orange breeches but Zargabaath decided criticism would probably just earn him a maternal rebuke. More time wasted. He felt nervous leaving Gramis to his own devices, back in the Solidor Palace, though the prince had dryly assured him that in all the centuries of his House's bloody history it had been duly agreed that it was terrible bad form to take to knives before the previous ruler was cold in the ground.
 
Photograph duly taken, he was then obliged to settle his family on one of the rooftop viewing tiers that would allow a clear view of the parade, buy his sister a ball of flavored ice, assure his mother that he would be careful, get patted on his back by his father, before finally leaving with Zecht to the aerodrome, where the procession was to begin. Even his charger, Templar, was irritable, fluffing its wings and occasionally clicking its beak at him.
 
"We're not late," Zecht said, when he had finished being amused. "So you can stop looking as though you've swallowed a malboros."
 
Zecht always was a little distracted on his steed: Mischief was aptly named, and for all that his charger was fearless and nimble on its feet, the chocobo's wild blood could be seen in its streaks of black feathers on its wings and tail, and it delighted in shying sharply to the side when it felt its rider wasn't paying attention.
 
"I'm very clear how long my family takes to get ready," Zargabaath replied mildly, ignoring the jibe.
 
Zecht snorted, then the aerodrome came into sight at the far end of the path. Already there were crowds of curious onlookers despite the Imperial guards deployed to keep people away from the cordoned path. "I imagine matters would complicate greatly for you from now on, now that the throne's empty."
 
Zargabaath nodded slowly. Brother will turn against brother. "I've told you before that I do not understand it."
 
"You fail to understand the lure of power, then." Zecht shrugged. "You won't be the first. I doubt your prince does."
 
And there was something sly, the way Zecht said your, that made Zargabaath glance sharply at him and glare before he realized this was exactly the reaction that his best friend had been fishing for. Zecht threw back his head and laughed, even as Zargabaath hissed, "Zecht!"
 
"Oh come on. You're so quick to defend him whenever anyone says the slightest thing against his Highness. Besides, it's common knowledge that the princes all enjoy a little inappropriate fun on the side while their father's still warming the throne. And I've seen the both of you about before, he's always making excuses to brush against you." Zecht's grin was toothy. "So."
 
"Never... well, I haven't, it's unprofessional and highly, well, inappropriate, and-"
 
"And you're going to regret missing your chance," Zecht said carelessly, and Zargabaath wished his closest friend would stop bloody fishing. Zecht's rare intuition was what kept him on track for promotion despite his multiple breaches of minor Department rules.
 
"I won't, and it's not what you think."
 
"You're a poor liar and a damn idiot." Zecht grinned, but there was nothing playful in his tone.
 

7

 
"Nine years," Gramis leant against the throne, toying with the heavy Imperial crown in his hands. "Nine years, for this." And there was loathing in his voice, no triumph.
 
They were alone in the Palace's audience chamber, the guards sent out for the time being. Nine years of war had changed Gramis: his hands were no longer soft, and despite being in the prime of his life, he was graying a little at the temple. His eyes were harder, his expression more guarded, and music no longer decorated the gallery. He wore Kayne's sapphire-hilted longsword at his hip, shoulder-long hair caught tightly behind his skull by one of Sordas' clasps.
 
"My liege." Zargabaath said simply. For a man who had gained everything, Gramis looked far too defeated. He felt now that he had misunderstood what Ulrin had said all those years ago: in House Solidor, there is no room for softness. It had not been about tolerance all along; the old Emperor had simply meant that survival to the throne did not allow one such luxuries. Gramis had, over nine years, with the deaths of his beloved brothers, become what he had tried so hard to avoid: another Ulrin Solidor, cold, practical, with a streak of ruthlessness.
 
Gramis fingered the hilt of the sword, gauntleted thumb rubbing absently over the faceted stone at the pommel. The war-prince's armor suited his lean frame, supple over his body as he turned and slouched onto the throne, still turning the crown over and over in his hands. "I'll give the excitement of the coronation a few months, then announce the changes to the government as we've discussed. I'll temper the disarray that would cause with the proclamation of my engagement."
 
"Engagement?" Zargabaath kept his expression carefully closed, as devoid as he could of his sudden shock. Gramis was watching him too closely.
 
"To Judge Emily Drace. House Drace controls the easternmost Dracean County, and t'would be a fair match. Besides, you have spoken well of both Emily and her sister, Rissa."
 
"Rissa is enrolling in the Department this year with Alya." Zargabaath nodded absently, wishing the hurt gone. It had been nine long years that he'd spent irrationally regretting a single choice, to end this way. But he had always known that it would. "Despite my reservations."
 
"Besides, I'll like to have Emily's strength in House Solidor," Gramis continued to speak carelessly, as though merely discussing breeding chocobos. "Perhaps some things may change, if the arranged consort has some backbone."
 
"I see that you've given this some thought, your Majesty."
 
"When you're upset you get so stiff, Eyan," Gramis smiled wryly. "And you've not once congratulated me."
 
"My apologies, sir."
 
"And...?"
 
"Congratulations." His smile felt forced.
 
"You're too honest still." Gramis pushed himself to his feet, dumping the crown on the throne, and walked deliberately into his personal space. Zargabaath stiffened, opening his mouth to protest, then gasped when pulled into a brushing kiss, restrained and chaste. But then Gramis' breath hitched, lips parting, and he was growling as he pulled the prince closer, heedless of their armor and the sound of scales scraping against plate, unable to stop himself from taking now that he knew it was his final chance. Arms were heavy over his shoulders, fingers digging into his skull as teeth clicked together in desperate kisses, bittersweet, every please with unspoken codas of never again, never this.
 
"You should have taken what you could when I yet could give," Gramis said then, to the breathless space between them.
 
"Emperor," Zargabaath gently took Gramis' palms in his, and brushed lips in a lover's farewell over the knuckles of the right. "You never could have given me what I would have wanted."
 
-fin-

Comments

[sheffiesharpe.livejournal.com]

Lovely work with the history, with the creation of these years. I especially enjoy Zecht & Zargabaath as foils.

Zargabaath. Ever the professional.

Really enjoyed this!

[manic-intent.livejournal.com]

Zecht is actually growing on me. XD

[lassarina]

I like seeing this glimpse into their pasts, and how the Solidor tradition of backstabbing and kinslaying goes on and on. Very nice!

[manic-intent.livejournal.com]

yes: in the end, even Larsa's generation fails. ;3

[laylah.livejournal.com]

oh, very nice! this feels so rich and tragic -- so well-suited to the epic scale of Archadia's ruling house. <3

[manic-intent.livejournal.com]

thanks for reading! ^^

[mithrigil.livejournal.com]

I hadn't expected anyone to take this, and I certainly didn;t expect something so grand in scope. Thank you very much!

[manic-intent.livejournal.com]

pleasure! : ) The prompt was lovely. And yes, I did actually intend only to write the very last bit (part 7), not sure why it expanded. ^^

[paralinguistic.livejournal.com]

This is goooooorgeous. ♥

Really excellent.

[manic-intent.livejournal.com]

ahaha, thanks for reading! Was alot easier to write than I originally expected.