Terra and Locke - Effigy
Title: Effigy
Theme + Number: #35 Flowers, #90 Beauty
Claim: Terra Branford and Locke Cole
Characters/Pairings included: Passing mentions of Edgar, Sabin, and NPC guards. They are all upstaged by the dead king of Figaro.
Rating: K+
Warnings: The personal fanon is creeping in again.
Summary: Within the safety of Figaro, Locke slips out during the night, prompting panic and fear on Terra's part.
The sliver of a moon had long since set in the dunes beyond the window, yet sleep did not come to her. Terra waited quietly, flustered by the slightest sounds: the ticking of the clock, the warble and irregular gait of the chocobos as they passed over the sands beneath the tower, the soft voices that drifted from the watch through the night air. The last, and most distressing, was the sound of a thief in the night, rising from his chair and sneaking softly out the door. She only heard the muffled click of the latch to know he had gone, and roused herself immediately.
Beyond the darkness of her room, many of the hallways and rooms were lit. Figaro Castle at night, she found, was still very much alive, if not bustling like Figaro Castle by day.
The guards that that she passed did not hinder her. Most of them took no notice, but one smiled at her, reassuring her and pointing her the way Locke had gone; otherwise, she would not have turned the corner in time to see him disappear into the wall. There was a passage there, fashioned to fool the eye. Had she not seen him pass, she would not have found it, or the yawning stair beyond. The dim star of a torch glimmered at its foot, but by the time she had reached that far, it had faded away under the arch. The light beckoned her forward through the twists and turns of a veritable labyrinth, past the seated effigies of proud men and women that glittered as she hurried past them, until she found him again. There she hovered, uncertain, beyond the light of the torch he had set in a sconce upon the wall.
He sat at the foot of a lordly statue, although she could not tell what he was doing there. Nor did she care; she did not wish to disturb him, on whatever errand he had set himself, she merely wished to ensure that he was still there, and would not vanish into the thin morning light. He was the only familiar thing in this castle, and she did not know him well at all. Part of her told her to flee while she could, before whatever trouble she had caused was known; she would have done, had Locke’s voice not followed her, warning her otherwise.
“Don’t,” he said. “You’ll get lost.”
Shivering, she turned back, but approached and found that he sat at the foot of the statue, weaving flowers out of silk. Her fear waned, as curiosity began to bleed into its stead.
“Where did you learn that?” Terra asked. She stooped to pluck one of the flowers from the growing pile beside him, and studied the intricate patchwork, frayed here and there, but tied together into a thing beautiful.
“In Doma, maybe... three years ago now?” He paused to count, tapping the fingers of one hand upon his knee, and shrugged, returning to his work. “Three years, I think. The Standing Guard - that’s what they call their knights in those lands - make them for their mentors in the Order. It’s some kind of tradition; the better his flower, the higher a knight is held in esteem. I’m nowhere near as good as they are, but few flowers grow in the desert... not nearly enough for the tomb of a king.”
She followed his gaze as he stared up at the figure that loomed over them in the torchlight. It was of a noble man, seated upon a throne barely distinguished from the rock, clad regally and wearing a stone crown inlaid with silver and gold. She studied it closer, finding it unnerving how this statue so resembled the man who had welcomed her into his castle. The kyanite eyes glittered in the torchlight, giving life to the faded hint of a kindly smile.
“The King of Figaro, before Edgar. A wise and just ruler,” Locke explained, watching her from the corner of his eye, “Caring and devoted father. That kind of man.” Softer, he added, “Sabin’s gone, Edgar never comes down here anymore,” softer still, and to himself, “and the Grand Court calls me a bastard.”
At length, she drew back from the dead king, and sat beside her guardian, watching him work. As he began on another flower, he seemed about to speak, but he lifted his head and listened intently to something she could not hear.
“That’s the call to arms,” he told her. Although she did not understand, he grabbed her hand, pulling her to her feet as he himself rose. “Come on, we can’t be down here.”
For a moment, she was set to follow, but then pulled away sharply, forcing him to stop. Locke watched her, perplexed, even agitated, but at the same time curious, as she gathered the forgotten flowers and laid them with due care in the lap of the stone king. Twitching back a smile, he wrapped an arm around her as she rejoined him, and hastened her safely along the path towards the stair.
Theme + Number: #35 Flowers, #90 Beauty
Claim: Terra Branford and Locke Cole
Characters/Pairings included: Passing mentions of Edgar, Sabin, and NPC guards. They are all upstaged by the dead king of Figaro.
Rating: K+
Warnings: The personal fanon is creeping in again.
Summary: Within the safety of Figaro, Locke slips out during the night, prompting panic and fear on Terra's part.
The sliver of a moon had long since set in the dunes beyond the window, yet sleep did not come to her. Terra waited quietly, flustered by the slightest sounds: the ticking of the clock, the warble and irregular gait of the chocobos as they passed over the sands beneath the tower, the soft voices that drifted from the watch through the night air. The last, and most distressing, was the sound of a thief in the night, rising from his chair and sneaking softly out the door. She only heard the muffled click of the latch to know he had gone, and roused herself immediately.
Beyond the darkness of her room, many of the hallways and rooms were lit. Figaro Castle at night, she found, was still very much alive, if not bustling like Figaro Castle by day.
The guards that that she passed did not hinder her. Most of them took no notice, but one smiled at her, reassuring her and pointing her the way Locke had gone; otherwise, she would not have turned the corner in time to see him disappear into the wall. There was a passage there, fashioned to fool the eye. Had she not seen him pass, she would not have found it, or the yawning stair beyond. The dim star of a torch glimmered at its foot, but by the time she had reached that far, it had faded away under the arch. The light beckoned her forward through the twists and turns of a veritable labyrinth, past the seated effigies of proud men and women that glittered as she hurried past them, until she found him again. There she hovered, uncertain, beyond the light of the torch he had set in a sconce upon the wall.
He sat at the foot of a lordly statue, although she could not tell what he was doing there. Nor did she care; she did not wish to disturb him, on whatever errand he had set himself, she merely wished to ensure that he was still there, and would not vanish into the thin morning light. He was the only familiar thing in this castle, and she did not know him well at all. Part of her told her to flee while she could, before whatever trouble she had caused was known; she would have done, had Locke’s voice not followed her, warning her otherwise.
“Don’t,” he said. “You’ll get lost.”
Shivering, she turned back, but approached and found that he sat at the foot of the statue, weaving flowers out of silk. Her fear waned, as curiosity began to bleed into its stead.
“Where did you learn that?” Terra asked. She stooped to pluck one of the flowers from the growing pile beside him, and studied the intricate patchwork, frayed here and there, but tied together into a thing beautiful.
“In Doma, maybe... three years ago now?” He paused to count, tapping the fingers of one hand upon his knee, and shrugged, returning to his work. “Three years, I think. The Standing Guard - that’s what they call their knights in those lands - make them for their mentors in the Order. It’s some kind of tradition; the better his flower, the higher a knight is held in esteem. I’m nowhere near as good as they are, but few flowers grow in the desert... not nearly enough for the tomb of a king.”
She followed his gaze as he stared up at the figure that loomed over them in the torchlight. It was of a noble man, seated upon a throne barely distinguished from the rock, clad regally and wearing a stone crown inlaid with silver and gold. She studied it closer, finding it unnerving how this statue so resembled the man who had welcomed her into his castle. The kyanite eyes glittered in the torchlight, giving life to the faded hint of a kindly smile.
“The King of Figaro, before Edgar. A wise and just ruler,” Locke explained, watching her from the corner of his eye, “Caring and devoted father. That kind of man.” Softer, he added, “Sabin’s gone, Edgar never comes down here anymore,” softer still, and to himself, “and the Grand Court calls me a bastard.”
At length, she drew back from the dead king, and sat beside her guardian, watching him work. As he began on another flower, he seemed about to speak, but he lifted his head and listened intently to something she could not hear.
“That’s the call to arms,” he told her. Although she did not understand, he grabbed her hand, pulling her to her feet as he himself rose. “Come on, we can’t be down here.”
For a moment, she was set to follow, but then pulled away sharply, forcing him to stop. Locke watched her, perplexed, even agitated, but at the same time curious, as she gathered the forgotten flowers and laid them with due care in the lap of the stone king. Twitching back a smile, he wrapped an arm around her as she rejoined him, and hastened her safely along the path towards the stair.