[Final Fantasy XII] Waiting
Characters/Pairings: Vossler/Ashe
Rating: PG
Warnings: Spoilers through Leviathan.
Notes: Written for a prompt in the summer round of springkink. Many thanks to bottle_of_shine for a last minute and very much appreciated beta. ~400 words.
Disclaimer: Final Fantasy XII belongs to Square Enix. I own neither the characters nor the setting, nor do I gain any profit from my fanfiction, which is purely for my own enjoyment.
Summary: Ashe is not good at waiting.
Ashe was not known for her patience. The men had long since learned to stay clear when a mission was underway.
She paced the length of the room again, drops of water scattering in her wake. Their quarters were as dry as the men could make them, but without moogle engineers, they were limited in what they could do. The gentle plish of water falling back to its accustomed place only served to make her angrier; she was tired of this damned sewer. She couldn't even stomp around properly; instead of the ringing sound of angry footsteps, she was greeted with the sound of rippling water.
She spun at the end of the room and stalked back toward the other side. They had been gone an hour and a half already over the time Vossler had told her, and she was worried. She covered it by snapping at a recruit who had the ill luck to be the one selected to ask the princess if she would eat with the men. He scurried back out, and she seethed. There was a rag lying nearby that she had been using to oil her sword; she caught it up and worried at it like a dog with a fresh bone, unraveling the fabric thread by thread.
Had her father felt like this when he sent out patrols to guard their borders, to ensure that the Archadians had not overstepped their bounds? Had he felt this weight pressing down on him when he gave orders?
She heard footsteps outside and snapped around to face the doorway. Vossler stood there, his armor rusty-red and his eyes haunted. She took a step forward, forgetting the oily threads she held clutched in both hands. "Vossler," she said, and despite her best efforts, there was a waver in her voice, a catch that betrayed her worry.
"Princess," he said, and his voice sounded rusty. "We lost four men."
She opened her mouth, but no words came out. He stood silent and motionless. The sound of rippling water grew unbearably loud between them. She wore no crown; the Imperials had taken that from her along with her husband, her father, her position. Yet how would she bear that weight, in addition to these? The mission today had been her idea, and she had sent her men to their deaths. She stepped toward him, the tangled mass of shredded fabric falling into the water underfoot, her hands outstretched. Vossler retreated two steps and shook his head.
"I must send word to their families," he said, and bowed. "I will see you on the morrow."
She watched him go, and her eyes stung at the rejection. She wanted to go after him, to demand that he stay with her, and she knew he would do it out of duty. Her hands clenched into fists. How selfish was she, wanting his attention when he'd lost his men today and it was her doing? It was shameful.
She retrieved the tangled, water-soaked remnants of her oiling cloth from the floor with a quiet, bitter sigh. In the morning, she would go to him and apologize.
She spent her night praying to the gods for forgiveness.
Endnote: I realized after this was written that the inspiration for Ashe and shredding fabric when she's upset came from mithrigil's fabulous story Chrysalis, which you definitely should read if you haven't done so already.
Ahem. At any rate, feedback of any type and at any level (including harsh critique) is welcomed with open arms. :)
Rating: PG
Warnings: Spoilers through Leviathan.
Notes: Written for a prompt in the summer round of springkink. Many thanks to bottle_of_shine for a last minute and very much appreciated beta. ~400 words.
Disclaimer: Final Fantasy XII belongs to Square Enix. I own neither the characters nor the setting, nor do I gain any profit from my fanfiction, which is purely for my own enjoyment.
Summary: Ashe is not good at waiting.
Ashe was not known for her patience. The men had long since learned to stay clear when a mission was underway.
She paced the length of the room again, drops of water scattering in her wake. Their quarters were as dry as the men could make them, but without moogle engineers, they were limited in what they could do. The gentle plish of water falling back to its accustomed place only served to make her angrier; she was tired of this damned sewer. She couldn't even stomp around properly; instead of the ringing sound of angry footsteps, she was greeted with the sound of rippling water.
She spun at the end of the room and stalked back toward the other side. They had been gone an hour and a half already over the time Vossler had told her, and she was worried. She covered it by snapping at a recruit who had the ill luck to be the one selected to ask the princess if she would eat with the men. He scurried back out, and she seethed. There was a rag lying nearby that she had been using to oil her sword; she caught it up and worried at it like a dog with a fresh bone, unraveling the fabric thread by thread.
Had her father felt like this when he sent out patrols to guard their borders, to ensure that the Archadians had not overstepped their bounds? Had he felt this weight pressing down on him when he gave orders?
She heard footsteps outside and snapped around to face the doorway. Vossler stood there, his armor rusty-red and his eyes haunted. She took a step forward, forgetting the oily threads she held clutched in both hands. "Vossler," she said, and despite her best efforts, there was a waver in her voice, a catch that betrayed her worry.
"Princess," he said, and his voice sounded rusty. "We lost four men."
She opened her mouth, but no words came out. He stood silent and motionless. The sound of rippling water grew unbearably loud between them. She wore no crown; the Imperials had taken that from her along with her husband, her father, her position. Yet how would she bear that weight, in addition to these? The mission today had been her idea, and she had sent her men to their deaths. She stepped toward him, the tangled mass of shredded fabric falling into the water underfoot, her hands outstretched. Vossler retreated two steps and shook his head.
"I must send word to their families," he said, and bowed. "I will see you on the morrow."
She watched him go, and her eyes stung at the rejection. She wanted to go after him, to demand that he stay with her, and she knew he would do it out of duty. Her hands clenched into fists. How selfish was she, wanting his attention when he'd lost his men today and it was her doing? It was shameful.
She retrieved the tangled, water-soaked remnants of her oiling cloth from the floor with a quiet, bitter sigh. In the morning, she would go to him and apologize.
She spent her night praying to the gods for forgiveness.
Endnote: I realized after this was written that the inspiration for Ashe and shredding fabric when she's upset came from mithrigil's fabulous story Chrysalis, which you definitely should read if you haven't done so already.
Ahem. At any rate, feedback of any type and at any level (including harsh critique) is welcomed with open arms. :)