Lifeblood: Basch, Vossler, Rasler
I wrote this a while ago then kind of forgot about it, then decided to post it here. A winnar is me...
Title: Lifeblood
Characters/Pairing: Basch, Vossler, Rasler
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Basch reflects
Notes: I took a few liberties with canon. Forgive!! This was written for prompt #06 (Hands) of the Body table for the mission_insane community.
His hands are covered in blood.
He's trying not to think about who it belongs to, or how warm it was bubbling up between his fingers. He'd held his hands over it, as though the sheer force of his will could push it back in, force it back into the boy's veins, save his life. He'd been dead barely a minute after the arrow came out. It had been a chest wound, impossible to survive.
A weary healer checks his injuries. They're superficial, and the man moves on, hands trembling with weariness. There will be more dead today, some lost on the flight back to Rabanastre, some lost in the hospitals after their return. None are as important as the boy whose lifeblood stains his hands. The boy he lost.
"You should wash yourself."
Vossler sits heavily. His leg looks weak and his skin is pale and waxy, but there is no pain in his eyes. He has seen a healer at least. Basch looks away. The blood is starting to dry and itch. Vossler is right, he ought to go plunge his hands into one of the buckets of water lining the airship’s aisles. The boy’s blood can mingle with that of the common soldiers who died next to him. He would have liked that.
But still, he doesn’t move.
Vossler stares at him for a moment, then turns away. He knows better than to waste his breath arguing. “Are you injured?” Basch shakes his head. “Do you need anything?” He shakes his head again.
They sit together for a long time listening to the roar of the airship’s engines, the soft cries of the wounded, the murmured conversations of those still alive. Later, they will mourn their friends. For now, they are simply glad to be alive. Basch remembers how it felt, the elation at being alive that strangles out all sorrow. Even when you lose, if you live to fight another day, you’ve won.
He feels none of that now. No sorrow, no joy. No relief, anger, horror, guilt, or pain. He is made numb by the rust red blood on his hands, and the knowledge that only days ago it pumped through the veins of Lord Rasler as he took his wedding vows.
An armored glove cups the back of his head, heavy and cold. Vossler offers no words of comfort, knowing that they will fall on deaf ears. They have both been soldiers too long for words to mean anything anyhow. The roughness of Vossler’s gauntlet, frigid metal stroking down the back of his neck, is all the comfort that Basch requires.
“I’ll fetch you a cloth,” Vossler says. Basch stays him with a hand and speaks.
“Don’t go.” Vossler sits again, slowly, and strips off his gauntlets. Their fingertips meet, a subtle gesture that no one sees, but one from which they both draw strength. “Thank you,” Basch murmurs. Vossler nods, and though chaos reigns around them, they sit in an oasis of silence, two old soldiers who know that the worst is yet to come.
Title: Lifeblood
Characters/Pairing: Basch, Vossler, Rasler
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Basch reflects
Notes: I took a few liberties with canon. Forgive!! This was written for prompt #06 (Hands) of the Body table for the mission_insane community.
His hands are covered in blood.
He's trying not to think about who it belongs to, or how warm it was bubbling up between his fingers. He'd held his hands over it, as though the sheer force of his will could push it back in, force it back into the boy's veins, save his life. He'd been dead barely a minute after the arrow came out. It had been a chest wound, impossible to survive.
A weary healer checks his injuries. They're superficial, and the man moves on, hands trembling with weariness. There will be more dead today, some lost on the flight back to Rabanastre, some lost in the hospitals after their return. None are as important as the boy whose lifeblood stains his hands. The boy he lost.
"You should wash yourself."
Vossler sits heavily. His leg looks weak and his skin is pale and waxy, but there is no pain in his eyes. He has seen a healer at least. Basch looks away. The blood is starting to dry and itch. Vossler is right, he ought to go plunge his hands into one of the buckets of water lining the airship’s aisles. The boy’s blood can mingle with that of the common soldiers who died next to him. He would have liked that.
But still, he doesn’t move.
Vossler stares at him for a moment, then turns away. He knows better than to waste his breath arguing. “Are you injured?” Basch shakes his head. “Do you need anything?” He shakes his head again.
They sit together for a long time listening to the roar of the airship’s engines, the soft cries of the wounded, the murmured conversations of those still alive. Later, they will mourn their friends. For now, they are simply glad to be alive. Basch remembers how it felt, the elation at being alive that strangles out all sorrow. Even when you lose, if you live to fight another day, you’ve won.
He feels none of that now. No sorrow, no joy. No relief, anger, horror, guilt, or pain. He is made numb by the rust red blood on his hands, and the knowledge that only days ago it pumped through the veins of Lord Rasler as he took his wedding vows.
An armored glove cups the back of his head, heavy and cold. Vossler offers no words of comfort, knowing that they will fall on deaf ears. They have both been soldiers too long for words to mean anything anyhow. The roughness of Vossler’s gauntlet, frigid metal stroking down the back of his neck, is all the comfort that Basch requires.
“I’ll fetch you a cloth,” Vossler says. Basch stays him with a hand and speaks.
“Don’t go.” Vossler sits again, slowly, and strips off his gauntlets. Their fingertips meet, a subtle gesture that no one sees, but one from which they both draw strength. “Thank you,” Basch murmurs. Vossler nods, and though chaos reigns around them, they sit in an oasis of silence, two old soldiers who know that the worst is yet to come.