Final Fantasy XII (Gabranth/Drace)
Apr. 25th, 2007 10:11 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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kinkfestTitle: Swordplay
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
icor
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1,562
Prompt: Final Fantasy XII, Gabranth/Drace: UST - "Swordplay"
He should be calm. He should be collected. He should be able to raise the sword high above him, and bring it down with such force that anyone would know that justice was within him and Archadia behind him, but – he finds, for the briefest of moments – he cannot.
Gabranth tries to find his stance, but does not fall easily into it. He is not used to the feel of the hilt in his naked palm (a memory old, of a worn time when he loved Fallen Landis) or the way steel no longer wraps around him. Without the Judge's helm his face is hot and brow damp with sweat; without the cold steel of the mask, the air is stifling, and he knows why all too well.
Testing the weigh of an unfamilar sword – lighter, in the same way that he finds himself, and freer, too – he is not sure how well he can wield it, how easy it will be to control. Avoiding Drace's eyes is the best he can do.
Their armor, rigid and ungainly, puts them at a similar disadvantage as his swords clash against Drace's. The swordplay has become a familiar practice – and always with Drace, because to the others, Judgeship or not, he is still a stray - yet he finds, more and more often, that his frustrations are no longer being subdued. There is something in this mockery of battle that he can not yet understand, something beyond the farce of so-called friendly sparring.
It is this thought that distracts him, and he knows he should not slight Drace so. He grips his sword tight, and though he cannot see her eyes, there is determination about her: faster than him, the tip of her sword meets his breastplate, and it is only by a sheer spout of strength that their swords cross and he is able to knock her blade back before the cut deepens.
There is the screech of metal, and she cannot regain her footing in time: with a great clash, Drace falls to the floor, and humbly declares, “Yours.”
Relaxing his iron grip, Gabranth steps forward and offers her his hand.
“Aye,” he agrees, once she is back on her feet, and does not realise he is gripping her hand tighter than the sword, still. “Yet, were it not for our armor, the round would not have ended thus.”
Drace does not step back for the next round; they are tied, Gabranth believes, yet she does not move to settle the score. Rather, she lifts her free hand, and Gabranth is grateful for the way the armor hides his body as he tenses, awkwardly.
Metal clinks gracelessly against metal as Drace runs a thumb across the new scratch in his armor.
“Indeed,” she muses aloud, “Then perhaps, we ought try something... different.”
By the time Drace is rid of her armor, he is confident in his ability with the foreign sword. It is of Archadian design, like most of the weapons which line the sparring room; his heavy twin swords are not fit for this at all: they have been matched so far, and weapons should not be an exception. Drace places her helm on the floor last of all, and it has taken them longer than most of their matches to peel their armor off.
“You have fought like this before, of course,” Drace says as she tests her own sword, slicing the air before her. Gabranth cannot help but notice how much clearer she sounds, when her voice is not echoed around. Powerful and commanding, even. He makes no answer other than a slight nod, and swallows the lump in his throat.
Seeing he will not make the first move, Drace begins to circle him. He notes the way her feet cross, the slight bend of her knees; from the way her elbow draws back, an inch at a time as if he will not notice, he knows she means to strike soon. Taking the sword between both hands he makes ready to parry, and she wastes no time beginning the fight. Lighter now, he has scarce seen someone move with such speed and accuracy. His own reflexes almost fail him, but the loss of armor has not benefited her alone; he turns sharply on his heel, swords clash for a second time, and he forces her back once more.
She does not lose her balance this time. Gabranth smiles between deep breaths, and licks the sweat from his lips.
“I'm sure you would be an formidable opponent,” she chides, “Were you not holding back so.”
Gabranth is not used to seeing her like this, without the armor, without the mask – no sense of camaraderie or unity between them. He is not used to seeing her face; eyes, especially, and they are every bit as fearsome as he would hope of a Magister. He does not understand what it means when she raises one eyebrow impatiently, and he is not sure how to read the subtle smile which plays across her lips.
He decides to take her words as a challenge rather than an insult.
“Then I will give it my all,” he replies, coolly, and the words come out calmer than he feels. The air is thick with heat, his shirt sticking to him and palms sweating, and he is beginning to believe that Drace will suffocate him with a single glance.
He does not understand her eyes, and so looks to her hands. The way her fingers wrap around the hilt; he knows it well. He can tell she is tired too – exhausted, almost – and for a moment wonders why they fight on. The sun is down and Archades is quiet; nothing but staggered breathing fills the room.
It is Gabranth who makes the first move this time. He raises the sword, and, had he underestimated Drace in the slightest, would not have brought it down with such force. She is ready, catches the blade with her own, and the sound of metal rings above their heads.
He pushes the sword down, teeth grit, and she keeps it locked with her own. With each step he takes -and the pretense is that he wishes to free his sword – he comes closer to her, until they are impossibly close – too close for warriors, for Judges, for comrades.
Gabranth does not remember being pressed against someone without a wall of metal in between for too long; does not remember being so close to someone without there being warm blood – and now there is only warm breath, stinging his face, neck, lips. The swords struggle on their own above them, almost forgotten.
Gabranth wonders when this stopped being about fighting.
With a twist of his wrist, and faith that she will be able to draw back her blade, Gabranth untangles their swords and ducks away. There is not so much as a second spare to draw breath, and Drace is quick to thrust her sword forwards. Stepping to the side, he knocks it back with his own.
He cannot fault her concentration, her dedication – she is not deterred in the slightest, no matter how many times he parries her blows. There is something altogether personal in the way she fights him, as if she is being forced to look beyond his blade. There is more to the fight than he first anticipated, and he has not been paying enough attention to her footwork to notice that he has been backed into a corner.
Drace does not smile, and shows no sign that she thinks she might have won. Swords cross their chests, and in one last futile effort to push her back, Gabranth lunges forward. It only serves to bring them closer, until his shoulder digs against her collar bone. If either of them slip, if their blades jut an inch, then it is over, for both; and it will end as no practice should.
Gabranth is not proud enough to believe that he still has a chance to come out the victor – he is sure that he lost a long time ago. Stepping back, it is he who ends up on the floor this time as the flat of her blade strikes his thigh.
Letting out one final heavy breath to signify that it's all over, Drace sheaths her sword before reaching down to him. She does not look as victorious as she ought, Gabranth thinks; barely even recognises the fact that she's won. He is glad for it, for the fact that she does not jeer at him, but at the same time feels something is amiss.
After a moment's consideration he takes her hand, and turns it so the back is flat in his palm. For the first time that evening he allows himself to look straight into her eyes, and she seems bewildered; he wonders if this is common practice in Archades, or even done at all. It is no matter: he kisses the inside of her wrist, lightly, before standing of his own accord.
“Yours,” he says, and once again she is Drace, and it is like nothing has happened.
Placing the sword back on the rack, he hears Drace gather her armor behind him. Gabranth smiles to himself, briefly: let Drace have her victories, and he shall have his.
Author:
icorRating: PG
Word Count: 1,562
Prompt: Final Fantasy XII, Gabranth/Drace: UST - "Swordplay"
He should be calm. He should be collected. He should be able to raise the sword high above him, and bring it down with such force that anyone would know that justice was within him and Archadia behind him, but – he finds, for the briefest of moments – he cannot.
Gabranth tries to find his stance, but does not fall easily into it. He is not used to the feel of the hilt in his naked palm (a memory old, of a worn time when he loved Fallen Landis) or the way steel no longer wraps around him. Without the Judge's helm his face is hot and brow damp with sweat; without the cold steel of the mask, the air is stifling, and he knows why all too well.
Testing the weigh of an unfamilar sword – lighter, in the same way that he finds himself, and freer, too – he is not sure how well he can wield it, how easy it will be to control. Avoiding Drace's eyes is the best he can do.
Their armor, rigid and ungainly, puts them at a similar disadvantage as his swords clash against Drace's. The swordplay has become a familiar practice – and always with Drace, because to the others, Judgeship or not, he is still a stray - yet he finds, more and more often, that his frustrations are no longer being subdued. There is something in this mockery of battle that he can not yet understand, something beyond the farce of so-called friendly sparring.
It is this thought that distracts him, and he knows he should not slight Drace so. He grips his sword tight, and though he cannot see her eyes, there is determination about her: faster than him, the tip of her sword meets his breastplate, and it is only by a sheer spout of strength that their swords cross and he is able to knock her blade back before the cut deepens.
There is the screech of metal, and she cannot regain her footing in time: with a great clash, Drace falls to the floor, and humbly declares, “Yours.”
Relaxing his iron grip, Gabranth steps forward and offers her his hand.
“Aye,” he agrees, once she is back on her feet, and does not realise he is gripping her hand tighter than the sword, still. “Yet, were it not for our armor, the round would not have ended thus.”
Drace does not step back for the next round; they are tied, Gabranth believes, yet she does not move to settle the score. Rather, she lifts her free hand, and Gabranth is grateful for the way the armor hides his body as he tenses, awkwardly.
Metal clinks gracelessly against metal as Drace runs a thumb across the new scratch in his armor.
“Indeed,” she muses aloud, “Then perhaps, we ought try something... different.”
By the time Drace is rid of her armor, he is confident in his ability with the foreign sword. It is of Archadian design, like most of the weapons which line the sparring room; his heavy twin swords are not fit for this at all: they have been matched so far, and weapons should not be an exception. Drace places her helm on the floor last of all, and it has taken them longer than most of their matches to peel their armor off.
“You have fought like this before, of course,” Drace says as she tests her own sword, slicing the air before her. Gabranth cannot help but notice how much clearer she sounds, when her voice is not echoed around. Powerful and commanding, even. He makes no answer other than a slight nod, and swallows the lump in his throat.
Seeing he will not make the first move, Drace begins to circle him. He notes the way her feet cross, the slight bend of her knees; from the way her elbow draws back, an inch at a time as if he will not notice, he knows she means to strike soon. Taking the sword between both hands he makes ready to parry, and she wastes no time beginning the fight. Lighter now, he has scarce seen someone move with such speed and accuracy. His own reflexes almost fail him, but the loss of armor has not benefited her alone; he turns sharply on his heel, swords clash for a second time, and he forces her back once more.
She does not lose her balance this time. Gabranth smiles between deep breaths, and licks the sweat from his lips.
“I'm sure you would be an formidable opponent,” she chides, “Were you not holding back so.”
Gabranth is not used to seeing her like this, without the armor, without the mask – no sense of camaraderie or unity between them. He is not used to seeing her face; eyes, especially, and they are every bit as fearsome as he would hope of a Magister. He does not understand what it means when she raises one eyebrow impatiently, and he is not sure how to read the subtle smile which plays across her lips.
He decides to take her words as a challenge rather than an insult.
“Then I will give it my all,” he replies, coolly, and the words come out calmer than he feels. The air is thick with heat, his shirt sticking to him and palms sweating, and he is beginning to believe that Drace will suffocate him with a single glance.
He does not understand her eyes, and so looks to her hands. The way her fingers wrap around the hilt; he knows it well. He can tell she is tired too – exhausted, almost – and for a moment wonders why they fight on. The sun is down and Archades is quiet; nothing but staggered breathing fills the room.
It is Gabranth who makes the first move this time. He raises the sword, and, had he underestimated Drace in the slightest, would not have brought it down with such force. She is ready, catches the blade with her own, and the sound of metal rings above their heads.
He pushes the sword down, teeth grit, and she keeps it locked with her own. With each step he takes -and the pretense is that he wishes to free his sword – he comes closer to her, until they are impossibly close – too close for warriors, for Judges, for comrades.
Gabranth does not remember being pressed against someone without a wall of metal in between for too long; does not remember being so close to someone without there being warm blood – and now there is only warm breath, stinging his face, neck, lips. The swords struggle on their own above them, almost forgotten.
Gabranth wonders when this stopped being about fighting.
With a twist of his wrist, and faith that she will be able to draw back her blade, Gabranth untangles their swords and ducks away. There is not so much as a second spare to draw breath, and Drace is quick to thrust her sword forwards. Stepping to the side, he knocks it back with his own.
He cannot fault her concentration, her dedication – she is not deterred in the slightest, no matter how many times he parries her blows. There is something altogether personal in the way she fights him, as if she is being forced to look beyond his blade. There is more to the fight than he first anticipated, and he has not been paying enough attention to her footwork to notice that he has been backed into a corner.
Drace does not smile, and shows no sign that she thinks she might have won. Swords cross their chests, and in one last futile effort to push her back, Gabranth lunges forward. It only serves to bring them closer, until his shoulder digs against her collar bone. If either of them slip, if their blades jut an inch, then it is over, for both; and it will end as no practice should.
Gabranth is not proud enough to believe that he still has a chance to come out the victor – he is sure that he lost a long time ago. Stepping back, it is he who ends up on the floor this time as the flat of her blade strikes his thigh.
Letting out one final heavy breath to signify that it's all over, Drace sheaths her sword before reaching down to him. She does not look as victorious as she ought, Gabranth thinks; barely even recognises the fact that she's won. He is glad for it, for the fact that she does not jeer at him, but at the same time feels something is amiss.
After a moment's consideration he takes her hand, and turns it so the back is flat in his palm. For the first time that evening he allows himself to look straight into her eyes, and she seems bewildered; he wonders if this is common practice in Archades, or even done at all. It is no matter: he kisses the inside of her wrist, lightly, before standing of his own accord.
“Yours,” he says, and once again she is Drace, and it is like nothing has happened.
Placing the sword back on the rack, he hears Drace gather her armor behind him. Gabranth smiles to himself, briefly: let Drace have her victories, and he shall have his.
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no subject
Date: 2007-04-25 10:42 pm (UTC)fabulous battle scene
he's lucky they're both so good -- distracted like that, if they weren't so skilled, someone might have gotten hurt. ^^
A wonderful job with it :)
no subject
Date: 2007-04-26 02:35 pm (UTC)Hehe, Gabranth had better get over his little crush soon, or someone's going to lose an arm. ;P
no subject
Date: 2007-04-26 12:33 am (UTC)just like that.
I love how well you've sustained the tension between them, how clear it is without ever becoming explicit at all.
no subject
Date: 2007-04-26 02:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-04-27 12:31 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-04-26 12:53 am (UTC)Edited due to I-can't-spell.
Date: 2007-04-26 02:40 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-04-26 07:13 am (UTC)This was great. Mmmm swordplay...
no subject
Date: 2007-04-26 02:41 pm (UTC)