"Nowhere Far Enough Away" (Final Fantasy XII, Vossler/Ashe)
Title: Nowhere Far Enough Away
Fandom: Final Fantasy XII
Pairing: Vossler->Ashe (and to some extent also Vossler->Dalmasca)
Artist: Deber
Recipient: Hildegard fon Bingen
Rating: NC-17
Summary: He can keep her safe from every threat, save one.
Nowhere Far Enough Away
"Princess," Vossler says, pushing the door open, propriety for once forgotten. His throat feels raw from the dust of the desert, from the hard ride back to Rabanastre.
The lady Ashe sits up in bed, the sheets clutched to her chest, her eyes wide. "Vossler!" she says. "What --"
"We have no time," he tells her. He will apologize later for his abruptness. "Dress yourself. We must flee. The promised treaty was an ambush."
"My father?" the princess asks, pushing back the bedclothes. She is a credit to her country, and to her bloodline, and Vossler wishes he had some good news for her.
"I am sorry," he says. Ashe falters for a moment in pulling clothes from her wardrobe. "We rode as hard as we could," Vossler says. The shame of it burns. "We were not fast enough."
She bows her head, and he wishes he could touch her, could smooth away the tension in her shoulders and offer her some comfort. But all he can give her is a moment to grieve before they must escape. "And the others?" she asks, taking her traveling clothes and stepping behind the dressing screen. "What of Captain Ronsenburg?"
Vossler's heart aches. He cannot bring himself to hope. "I know not," he says. "We were separated in the advance toward the high hall."
Quiet, for a moment, only the soft sounds of cloth shifting as the princess dresses. "Not all is lost yet, then," she says, when she steps from behind the screen. She clutches her dagger harness in one hand, and her eyes are pleading.
"Not all is lost, princess," Vossler says. "While you live, the hope of Dalmasca lives with you." He offers her his hand. "Come. There are two Tchita bantams in the royal stables, fresh enough to get us clear of the city."
* *
In his dreams dust swirls around her, the kind of sweeping brutal sandstorm that scours flesh from men's bones, the kind that blots out the sun and turns day to night. Her nightdress flutters around her, white silk and lace in tatters, yet she herself seems unharmed, even as the wind strips the ruins of her clothes away. There are tears on her face, but they are tears of sorrow, not pain, and when he reaches for her, she opens her arms to draw him close. Her breasts are soft, yielding in his hands, and she does not complain at the roughness of his gauntlets against her skin. Instead she parts her thighs for him, as the wind rises to howl around them and block out the rest of the world. She opens her mouth to speak his name --
* *
He expects her grief to rule her for some time; his own mother's bereavement on the death of his father seemed to last for years. But it is scarce three weeks since their escape from the palace when Ashe comes to him, dry-eyed and resolute, and says, "I would learn to fight."
"My lady," Vossler protests. "You are the last of your line. The last of King Raithwall's blood. If you are lost --"
"I will not regain my country, nor the hearts of my people, by cloistering myself now." She has her father's love for Dalmasca, and her mother's fire, and they combine to give her a blazing, stubborn determination that he cannot help but admire, even when he believes it to be misplaced. "Teach me," she demands. "I would wield a sword, Vossler. I would take part in the battle for my country's freedom."
Vossler bows his head. "I cannot but obey, my lady."
Ashe takes his hand. "Amalia," she reminds him. "Even when we are alone. It would not do for you to misspeak out of habit, or where someone might overhear."
"No," he agrees, chastised. Her hand is soft in his, delicate, but her grip is strong. "When the rains abate, Amalia, we will go to Giza, and we will train."
* *
The rains of Giza sweep up into the Westersand but rarely, and when it happens neither the creatures nor the land itself are prepared. The dust in the air turns to slippery mud, and the growl of thunder plays counterpoint to the cries of floundering dive talons whose wings have grown heavy with the driving rain. The storm drives them down and then her flashing blade defeats them, her flashing blade and her fierce pride.
Her hair is plastered to her skin, her clothes soaked through and clinging to every curve. There is mud on her, and blood as well. Her voice when she speaks is glorious and terrible as the thunder, her eyes flashing bright as the lightning that splits the sky. He cannot but fall to his knees, heedless of the sucking mud, surrendering to her with his sword cast aside.
She pulls up her skirt, barbaric and proud, exposing herself to him. It is a challenge as much as it is an offer. He goes to her on his knees, rubs his cheek against the bare soft flesh of her thigh, moans when she takes a grip on his hair and pulls his mouth to the junction of her thighs. She fills his senses entirely, his heart pounding in his ears as he opens his mouth to taste --
* *
They are far afield, returning through the Salikawood from what was until recently Nabradia, where they have been speaking with resisters, men -- and no few women, as well -- who would fight to be free of the empire. The airship ports are watched, so they must travel and return on foot. Despite his reservations of six months ago, Vossler finds himself grateful for Ashe's growing prowess with the sword. His task would be more than doubled should he need to guard a helpless princess.
But Ashe is not that -- she is quick on her feet and alert, parrying the attacks of the baknamy that beset them, striking out fearlessly in return. In another year, perhaps two, she will be warrior enough to pass for a knight -- though gods willing they will not fight so long. But for now, at least, he's grateful that he can turn his back on her to face a second foe and not fear for the adequacy of her skills.
She cries out now, behind him, and then her voice stops suddenly in the middle of a word. Vossler cleaves through the baknamy attacking him, and turns to see her backing away from another, her limbs dead weight at her sides, her eyes wide in helpless terror. There's a slackness to her face, an utter lack of expression around her mouth, that comes only from Disable.
He reaches for a remedy automatically, throwing it to her before he does anything else -- her well-being is a higher priority for him than killing their attackers. The bright shimmer washes over her and her sword and shield come up immediately, just as he taught her.
After the battle she looks as though she might be sick. "Are you all right?" Vossler asks. If there is some lingering toxin from the battle, he has antidotes prepared --
"I will be," Ashe says. She shudders. "But I hope never to experience that again."
* *
The Salikawood is always dark, gloomy with age and moss and Mist, but as he fights his way through it he thinks that perhaps it has never been like this, so dim he can scarce see his way forward, the will-o-wisps in the distance glowing gold instead of green. His boots tread heavily on something more stone than wooden, and he knows with all the certainty in his heart that he must fight to the center of this maze if he is ever to find peace.
He is moving downward, he realizes, walking down a twisting staircase toward something hidden, something precious. Toward the bower where she sleeps, her eyes open, her bare limbs pillowed on silk the color of Dalmasca's sands. Her mouth is slack when he kisses her, lips soft and yielding, warm as the desert wind. She does not stir.
She does not stir even when he lifts her skirts, even when he parts her thighs, even when he settles between them. A soft hush of breath escapes her when he enters her, and she is slick and hot, her body welcoming him, pliant and easy, for all that her eyes say --
* *
Basch's words still ring in Vossler's ears after the man himself is long gone -- as it ever was, between them, their quarrels brief but savage, leaving him strung taut and shaking with rage he cannot express.
Do you not think Amalia worth saving? Basch asked, as though he -- the traitor, and Vossler holds tight to that painful truth for all that he wants to believe Basch's story and have that strong sword-arm again at his side -- as though he could possibly understand, as though he could possibly know what these last two years have been like.
Vossler girds his sword-belt around his waist, cinching it taut so that the leather creaks in protest. He will find a way to rescue Amalia -- Ashe -- himself, just as he has cared for her himself these last two years. He does not need -- he will not let himself need -- Basch's aid. Not now.
"Contact our men at the Aerodrome," he tells Balzac. "Have them make ready the Koenigin. I have business in Bhujerba."
* *
No Imperial can stand against them like this, their swords flashing in tandem, dawn and dusk, their very breath in cadence together. They never should have been parted -- this is where they belong, side by side, fighting their way to her and reaching out, and she takes their hands and they flee these cold halls of steel for the living heat of her kingdom.
She thanks them both with kisses, with her arms wrapped around each of their necks in turn, and when Vossler cannot make himself let go she does not reproach him, only presses closer, her eyes bright as Dalmascan skies and her skin soft as the finest sands.
Even in this, it feels right, all three of them together; they surround her and she welcomes them both, bright as the mid-day between them. She opens herself for them and they slide against each other inside her, slick heat so tight they can scarcely move, her head thrown back and her cries sweet as song. She clings to his shoulders, lets him take her, and he looks past her to meet Basch's eyes, and he sees there the same things he feels himself, and he knows with the blazing certainty of sunrise that Basch would never --
* *
"The young lord tells me you are a reasonable man," the Judge says. His voice echoes inside his ornate helm; he stands straight, well recovered from the battle with the rescue party. "Allow me, then, to make you an offer that you might find palatable."
Vossler shifts his weight, his eyes narrowed. Clouds drift by outside the Leviathan's observation windows as the ship gets under way, the great engines humming under their feet. "If you seek to turn my loyalties --"
"Not at all." Judge Ghis reaches up and removes his helm; his face is older than Vossler might have expected, his hair graying and his eyes made heavy by the lines around them. "It is clear that there is little you would not do for your princess." He does not even sound as though he finds such devotion contemptible, as Vossler would have expected of him.
"What is it that you would propose, then?" Vossler asks.
"I knew you would be sensible," Ghis says, and smiles.
Vossler glares at him. "I have agreed to nothing," he says. "Only to hear your offer."
Ghis nods politely. "Of course." He pauses for a moment as if gathering his thoughts, though Vossler suspects that the offer has been well rehearsed. "There is one more relic in Dalmasca's possession which Archadia seeks, and for which we are willing to offer some concessions. I speak, of course, of the Dawn Shard."
Vossler stiffens. "You jest with me," he says. "The Dawn Shard is a relic of the Dynast-King, and its worth to Dalmasca is incalculable."
"Do not be hasty," Ghis replies. "Would you say its worth is greater than that of the stone itself?"
"State plainly your terms," Vossler says, more harshly than he means to. It cannot be so simple -- to have his man offer him the very thing for which he has worked since King Raminas's death.
"You obtain for me the Dawn Shard, and the empire in return will announce the discovery that Dalmasca's beloved princess is not in fact dead, but has been found and will ascend her throne. Archadia withdraws her troops from Rabanastre, and assumes the role of amical protector, rather than conqueror." Ghis smiles. "Is this not an arrangement that would benefit Dalmasca more than the custody of a relic for which you have no use?"
"It is most generous," Vossler says, "save that I fear what benefit you must receive, to make such an offer."
"You serve your lady well," Ghis says. "The Dusk Shard, and we believe the Dawn Shard as well, is a form of magicite unlike that we know. Its power is sustained even in Jagd. Our laboratories can synthesize it, if they but have originals from which to work." His calm façade is slipping now, some actual passion creeping into his voice. "Think what that would mean, captain. The flow of Mist would no longer have the power to destroy flourishing settlements. We could re-establish our hold on fertile land lost to Jagd. Displaced people could return to the land held by their fathers. Archadia has lost much to encroaching Mist, and she is far from the only one."
This offer is too good to be true, and yet Vossler wants to believe it. The gods have been cruel enough -- are they not overdue for some solace? "And for this you would restore Dalmasca's sovereignty?"
"For this we would see Lady Ashelia crowned," Ghis agrees.
"I will think on it," Vossler says, mistrusting his heart's desire to agree to the terms, his desire to see Dalmasca's own banners fly over Rabanastre again. He cannot afford this weakness; he must be cautious.
"Lady Ashelia is headstrong," Ghis says, "and will need guidance in her adjustment to the difficulties of rule -- perhaps from a wiser and more experienced consort, a Dalmascan who understands the need to treat diplomatically with Archadia. You are of noble blood yourself, are you not, Captain Azelas?"
For a moment Vossler cannot even answer the suggestion. The idea that he should make an agreement with an Archadian Judge about Ashe's future marriage -- the idea that he could be selected for the position by the empire -- the idea that she might wed him, that he might be welcomed to her bed, that he might be the one to provide her with an heir --
"You mistake me," he says stiffly. "I care for Ashe out of love for Dalmasca, not from any," he feels at a loss for words, "dreams of conquest."
Ghis bows slightly. "Forgive me," he says. "It was not my intent to offend. Will you consider my proposal, at least, while we make the trip back to Rabanastre?" He gestures, indicates the window. "I will leave you here, and see to it that you are not disturbed in your deliberations."
From the observation deck, he will be well placed to watch their approach to the city, Vossler knows. "If the princess does not tempt me, perhaps the capital will?" he asks. He sounds more bitter than he means to; he gives too much away. "I will consider your offer, but that is all I will promise you."
"Thank you, captain," Ghis says. "I would ask no more."
Fandom: Final Fantasy XII
Pairing: Vossler->Ashe (and to some extent also Vossler->Dalmasca)
Artist: Deber
Recipient: Hildegard fon Bingen
Rating: NC-17
Summary: He can keep her safe from every threat, save one.
Nowhere Far Enough Away
"Princess," Vossler says, pushing the door open, propriety for once forgotten. His throat feels raw from the dust of the desert, from the hard ride back to Rabanastre.
The lady Ashe sits up in bed, the sheets clutched to her chest, her eyes wide. "Vossler!" she says. "What --"
"We have no time," he tells her. He will apologize later for his abruptness. "Dress yourself. We must flee. The promised treaty was an ambush."
"My father?" the princess asks, pushing back the bedclothes. She is a credit to her country, and to her bloodline, and Vossler wishes he had some good news for her.
"I am sorry," he says. Ashe falters for a moment in pulling clothes from her wardrobe. "We rode as hard as we could," Vossler says. The shame of it burns. "We were not fast enough."
She bows her head, and he wishes he could touch her, could smooth away the tension in her shoulders and offer her some comfort. But all he can give her is a moment to grieve before they must escape. "And the others?" she asks, taking her traveling clothes and stepping behind the dressing screen. "What of Captain Ronsenburg?"
Vossler's heart aches. He cannot bring himself to hope. "I know not," he says. "We were separated in the advance toward the high hall."
Quiet, for a moment, only the soft sounds of cloth shifting as the princess dresses. "Not all is lost yet, then," she says, when she steps from behind the screen. She clutches her dagger harness in one hand, and her eyes are pleading.
"Not all is lost, princess," Vossler says. "While you live, the hope of Dalmasca lives with you." He offers her his hand. "Come. There are two Tchita bantams in the royal stables, fresh enough to get us clear of the city."
* *
In his dreams dust swirls around her, the kind of sweeping brutal sandstorm that scours flesh from men's bones, the kind that blots out the sun and turns day to night. Her nightdress flutters around her, white silk and lace in tatters, yet she herself seems unharmed, even as the wind strips the ruins of her clothes away. There are tears on her face, but they are tears of sorrow, not pain, and when he reaches for her, she opens her arms to draw him close. Her breasts are soft, yielding in his hands, and she does not complain at the roughness of his gauntlets against her skin. Instead she parts her thighs for him, as the wind rises to howl around them and block out the rest of the world. She opens her mouth to speak his name --
* *
He expects her grief to rule her for some time; his own mother's bereavement on the death of his father seemed to last for years. But it is scarce three weeks since their escape from the palace when Ashe comes to him, dry-eyed and resolute, and says, "I would learn to fight."
"My lady," Vossler protests. "You are the last of your line. The last of King Raithwall's blood. If you are lost --"
"I will not regain my country, nor the hearts of my people, by cloistering myself now." She has her father's love for Dalmasca, and her mother's fire, and they combine to give her a blazing, stubborn determination that he cannot help but admire, even when he believes it to be misplaced. "Teach me," she demands. "I would wield a sword, Vossler. I would take part in the battle for my country's freedom."
Vossler bows his head. "I cannot but obey, my lady."
Ashe takes his hand. "Amalia," she reminds him. "Even when we are alone. It would not do for you to misspeak out of habit, or where someone might overhear."
"No," he agrees, chastised. Her hand is soft in his, delicate, but her grip is strong. "When the rains abate, Amalia, we will go to Giza, and we will train."
* *
The rains of Giza sweep up into the Westersand but rarely, and when it happens neither the creatures nor the land itself are prepared. The dust in the air turns to slippery mud, and the growl of thunder plays counterpoint to the cries of floundering dive talons whose wings have grown heavy with the driving rain. The storm drives them down and then her flashing blade defeats them, her flashing blade and her fierce pride.
Her hair is plastered to her skin, her clothes soaked through and clinging to every curve. There is mud on her, and blood as well. Her voice when she speaks is glorious and terrible as the thunder, her eyes flashing bright as the lightning that splits the sky. He cannot but fall to his knees, heedless of the sucking mud, surrendering to her with his sword cast aside.
She pulls up her skirt, barbaric and proud, exposing herself to him. It is a challenge as much as it is an offer. He goes to her on his knees, rubs his cheek against the bare soft flesh of her thigh, moans when she takes a grip on his hair and pulls his mouth to the junction of her thighs. She fills his senses entirely, his heart pounding in his ears as he opens his mouth to taste --
* *
They are far afield, returning through the Salikawood from what was until recently Nabradia, where they have been speaking with resisters, men -- and no few women, as well -- who would fight to be free of the empire. The airship ports are watched, so they must travel and return on foot. Despite his reservations of six months ago, Vossler finds himself grateful for Ashe's growing prowess with the sword. His task would be more than doubled should he need to guard a helpless princess.
But Ashe is not that -- she is quick on her feet and alert, parrying the attacks of the baknamy that beset them, striking out fearlessly in return. In another year, perhaps two, she will be warrior enough to pass for a knight -- though gods willing they will not fight so long. But for now, at least, he's grateful that he can turn his back on her to face a second foe and not fear for the adequacy of her skills.
She cries out now, behind him, and then her voice stops suddenly in the middle of a word. Vossler cleaves through the baknamy attacking him, and turns to see her backing away from another, her limbs dead weight at her sides, her eyes wide in helpless terror. There's a slackness to her face, an utter lack of expression around her mouth, that comes only from Disable.
He reaches for a remedy automatically, throwing it to her before he does anything else -- her well-being is a higher priority for him than killing their attackers. The bright shimmer washes over her and her sword and shield come up immediately, just as he taught her.
After the battle she looks as though she might be sick. "Are you all right?" Vossler asks. If there is some lingering toxin from the battle, he has antidotes prepared --
"I will be," Ashe says. She shudders. "But I hope never to experience that again."
* *
The Salikawood is always dark, gloomy with age and moss and Mist, but as he fights his way through it he thinks that perhaps it has never been like this, so dim he can scarce see his way forward, the will-o-wisps in the distance glowing gold instead of green. His boots tread heavily on something more stone than wooden, and he knows with all the certainty in his heart that he must fight to the center of this maze if he is ever to find peace.
He is moving downward, he realizes, walking down a twisting staircase toward something hidden, something precious. Toward the bower where she sleeps, her eyes open, her bare limbs pillowed on silk the color of Dalmasca's sands. Her mouth is slack when he kisses her, lips soft and yielding, warm as the desert wind. She does not stir.
She does not stir even when he lifts her skirts, even when he parts her thighs, even when he settles between them. A soft hush of breath escapes her when he enters her, and she is slick and hot, her body welcoming him, pliant and easy, for all that her eyes say --
* *
Basch's words still ring in Vossler's ears after the man himself is long gone -- as it ever was, between them, their quarrels brief but savage, leaving him strung taut and shaking with rage he cannot express.
Do you not think Amalia worth saving? Basch asked, as though he -- the traitor, and Vossler holds tight to that painful truth for all that he wants to believe Basch's story and have that strong sword-arm again at his side -- as though he could possibly understand, as though he could possibly know what these last two years have been like.
Vossler girds his sword-belt around his waist, cinching it taut so that the leather creaks in protest. He will find a way to rescue Amalia -- Ashe -- himself, just as he has cared for her himself these last two years. He does not need -- he will not let himself need -- Basch's aid. Not now.
"Contact our men at the Aerodrome," he tells Balzac. "Have them make ready the Koenigin. I have business in Bhujerba."
* *
No Imperial can stand against them like this, their swords flashing in tandem, dawn and dusk, their very breath in cadence together. They never should have been parted -- this is where they belong, side by side, fighting their way to her and reaching out, and she takes their hands and they flee these cold halls of steel for the living heat of her kingdom.
She thanks them both with kisses, with her arms wrapped around each of their necks in turn, and when Vossler cannot make himself let go she does not reproach him, only presses closer, her eyes bright as Dalmascan skies and her skin soft as the finest sands.
Even in this, it feels right, all three of them together; they surround her and she welcomes them both, bright as the mid-day between them. She opens herself for them and they slide against each other inside her, slick heat so tight they can scarcely move, her head thrown back and her cries sweet as song. She clings to his shoulders, lets him take her, and he looks past her to meet Basch's eyes, and he sees there the same things he feels himself, and he knows with the blazing certainty of sunrise that Basch would never --
* *
"The young lord tells me you are a reasonable man," the Judge says. His voice echoes inside his ornate helm; he stands straight, well recovered from the battle with the rescue party. "Allow me, then, to make you an offer that you might find palatable."
Vossler shifts his weight, his eyes narrowed. Clouds drift by outside the Leviathan's observation windows as the ship gets under way, the great engines humming under their feet. "If you seek to turn my loyalties --"
"Not at all." Judge Ghis reaches up and removes his helm; his face is older than Vossler might have expected, his hair graying and his eyes made heavy by the lines around them. "It is clear that there is little you would not do for your princess." He does not even sound as though he finds such devotion contemptible, as Vossler would have expected of him.
"What is it that you would propose, then?" Vossler asks.
"I knew you would be sensible," Ghis says, and smiles.
Vossler glares at him. "I have agreed to nothing," he says. "Only to hear your offer."
Ghis nods politely. "Of course." He pauses for a moment as if gathering his thoughts, though Vossler suspects that the offer has been well rehearsed. "There is one more relic in Dalmasca's possession which Archadia seeks, and for which we are willing to offer some concessions. I speak, of course, of the Dawn Shard."
Vossler stiffens. "You jest with me," he says. "The Dawn Shard is a relic of the Dynast-King, and its worth to Dalmasca is incalculable."
"Do not be hasty," Ghis replies. "Would you say its worth is greater than that of the stone itself?"
"State plainly your terms," Vossler says, more harshly than he means to. It cannot be so simple -- to have his man offer him the very thing for which he has worked since King Raminas's death.
"You obtain for me the Dawn Shard, and the empire in return will announce the discovery that Dalmasca's beloved princess is not in fact dead, but has been found and will ascend her throne. Archadia withdraws her troops from Rabanastre, and assumes the role of amical protector, rather than conqueror." Ghis smiles. "Is this not an arrangement that would benefit Dalmasca more than the custody of a relic for which you have no use?"
"It is most generous," Vossler says, "save that I fear what benefit you must receive, to make such an offer."
"You serve your lady well," Ghis says. "The Dusk Shard, and we believe the Dawn Shard as well, is a form of magicite unlike that we know. Its power is sustained even in Jagd. Our laboratories can synthesize it, if they but have originals from which to work." His calm façade is slipping now, some actual passion creeping into his voice. "Think what that would mean, captain. The flow of Mist would no longer have the power to destroy flourishing settlements. We could re-establish our hold on fertile land lost to Jagd. Displaced people could return to the land held by their fathers. Archadia has lost much to encroaching Mist, and she is far from the only one."
This offer is too good to be true, and yet Vossler wants to believe it. The gods have been cruel enough -- are they not overdue for some solace? "And for this you would restore Dalmasca's sovereignty?"
"For this we would see Lady Ashelia crowned," Ghis agrees.
"I will think on it," Vossler says, mistrusting his heart's desire to agree to the terms, his desire to see Dalmasca's own banners fly over Rabanastre again. He cannot afford this weakness; he must be cautious.
"Lady Ashelia is headstrong," Ghis says, "and will need guidance in her adjustment to the difficulties of rule -- perhaps from a wiser and more experienced consort, a Dalmascan who understands the need to treat diplomatically with Archadia. You are of noble blood yourself, are you not, Captain Azelas?"
For a moment Vossler cannot even answer the suggestion. The idea that he should make an agreement with an Archadian Judge about Ashe's future marriage -- the idea that he could be selected for the position by the empire -- the idea that she might wed him, that he might be welcomed to her bed, that he might be the one to provide her with an heir --
"You mistake me," he says stiffly. "I care for Ashe out of love for Dalmasca, not from any," he feels at a loss for words, "dreams of conquest."
Ghis bows slightly. "Forgive me," he says. "It was not my intent to offend. Will you consider my proposal, at least, while we make the trip back to Rabanastre?" He gestures, indicates the window. "I will leave you here, and see to it that you are not disturbed in your deliberations."
From the observation deck, he will be well placed to watch their approach to the city, Vossler knows. "If the princess does not tempt me, perhaps the capital will?" he asks. He sounds more bitter than he means to; he gives too much away. "I will consider your offer, but that is all I will promise you."
"Thank you, captain," Ghis says. "I would ask no more."