Ascendant (Final Fantasy XII, Rasler/Ashe)
Title: Ascendant
Fandom: Final Fantasy XII
Pairing: Rasler/Ashe
Author: Latinlass
Recipient: molotov_cochroach
Rating: PG
Warnings: Rasler and Ashe being cute.
Prompt: FFXII, Rasler/Ashe - breaking character (Rasler says they all have parts to play, right? What about when they're out of the public eye?) Preferably something leaning toward fluff, though not over-the-top fluff
Summary: A stolen moment amidst preparations for a wedding.
Now that Lord Rasler and his entourage have arrived in Rabanastre, the palace is operating at a fever pitch-Ashe cannot recall another time where the whispering in the palace’s corridors was quite this frenzied, the motions of the servants and soldiers so rushed. She’s always thought of the workings of the palace as a stately waltz, coordinated and controlled. But as she sees the cooks hauling bulging cartons of ichthon eggs and smoked sprinter breast, as she sees maids scurry from corridor to corridor straightening paintings with the kind of military precision that Captains Azelas and fon Ronsenberg would no doubt approve of, she senses that the steps to the dance have changed from a waltz to a Rozarrian reel, all flashy steps and near collisions.
Amidst such a chaotic state of affairs, she has found it difficult to have any sort of privacy with Lord Rasler. His own attendants flock around him like birds at every step, offering a neverending stream of chattering commentary on the state of Dalmasca, Nabradia, and everything in between. Such constant noise would drive her mad, she thinks, but Rasler stares straight ahead and allows their words to roll from him like droplets of water. An admirable trait, Ashe decides.
There are days when she rises from her bed and believes her upcoming wedding to be no more than an unusually vivid dream. The smart ring of steel boots against the streets below as the guards drill for the parade to be held in honor of the marriage alliance divests her quickly of such notions. She crosses to her window to look down at the spectacle; the sun glinting from their proudly polished armor makes them half look like fire elementals, all glory and splendor.
Hard to believe that such glory and splendor is for her sake. Hers and Rasler’s.
She is fond of Rasler, she thinks as her personal maid insists on helping her into her dress for the day. He is intelligent, certainly. Well-versed in both literature and in the practicalities of command, an unusual combination in this day. He bested her twice when she crossed blades with him two years ago, though she claimed victory in the third match. He keeps a large aviary at his palace in Nabradia and told her warmly of the careful plans of care and feeding he’d drawn for each type of avian, pointed out the magicks used to keep the aviary at a constant temperature year-round and explained what each sigil represented. He keeps his own counsel among others, but when he elects to speak, his men listen. His hair resembles nothing more than a tuft of phoenix down. He kissed her last summer when she traveled to Nabradia, his lips brushing shyly against hers once he was confident that Captain Azelas’s attention was elsewhere.
Is that enough to love someone? she wonders. Perhaps it is. Her father had less than that when he wedded her mother, after all. She only wishes that he could duck free of his gaggle of advisors after she has evaded the vigilant gaze of her captains.
She is therefore surprised but certainly not displeased when she leaves her quarters and finds him waiting outside, a faint smile on his face. “You look beautiful, Lady Ashelia.”
“Lord Rasler,” she murmurs in response, pinkness rising in her cheeks.
“Your guard has challenged my men to an archery competition,” he tells her. “They could not let my companions’ boasts of the superior strength of a Nabradian bow go unanswered.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Are your men even licensed to use our finest bows?”
A real smile breaks across his face. “Why would they need to, when they handle their own so well?”
“You are confident, Lord Rasler.”
“It is confidence bred out of my observations,” he tells her, trying to bring more gravity to his face. He looks to his left and lowers his voice. “And while we have this time together…”
“Yes?” she asks. She hears the cadence of her heart speed up, thumping a mad tattoo against the wall of her chest.
“Would you-call me Rasler? Just Rasler?”
Ashe does not need to lift her head much to look at the brilliant blue of his eyes when she responds. “If you will call me Ashe.”
“Ashe,” he repeats, and her name sounds like the brightest piece of fire magicite when it falls from his lips. “Your name suits you.”
“As does yours,” she responds, her voice too moony for her own comfort. She gives herself a sharp mental kick. She refuses to sound like an infatuated damsel in front of him. She knows better than that.
“We have the morning free, it seems,” he says. “How would you suggest we spend our time?”
She looks down once more at the streets of Rabanastre. She has no guard now, yes, but she has been trained in combat, as has he. And the morning sun hangs high in the sky yet-that with the presence of the guard marching through the streets ought to dissuade even the most avid thief.
“We will need to change clothes,” she says.
***
“My great-grandfather had the fountain installed in the twilight years of his reign,” Ashe explains. They’re perched on the lip of the fountain’s basin, attired in Dalmascan street wear she salvaged from the servants’ rooms and holding wonderfully flaky pastries that cost a gil apiece from a vendor plying his wares outside the Sandsea. (She considered going inside the famed den of sky piracy, half enticed by the smoky scents and snatches of song wafting from the entrance, but thought better of it; she will receive enough of a dressing-down should her father or her captains discover her absence.) The pastry is warm and buttery in her hands. When she bites in, she feels the thick cinnamon sauce dribble down her fingers. She cleans them before continuing. “He wished to commemorate the sacrifice of the third company of the king’s army, who held the southern border alone against invading Rozarrian forces for four days. After that, Rozarria pledged to acknowledge Dalmasca’s sovereignty evermore, and the captain of the third company was made the founding member of the Order of the Knights of Dalmasca.”
Rasler swallows his most recent mouthful of pastry. Dalmascan clothing fits him well, she notices; the cropped red shirt set with yellow trim exposes the taut muscles of his abdomen, and his dark slacks fall gracefully around his calves. He is still too fair to be a native Dalmascan, but in Rabanastre, where all manner of races reside, such differences cause little comment. “You have an interest in history?”
“There is much that can be learned from it,” she says. “And it is important to know what has happened before, so that I do not ignore the weight of the past when I make my decisions.” Ashe skims her fingers across the cool surface of the water, causing her reflection to ripple and weave. “The stories appeal to me, I suppose. They always seemed so grand when I was young.”
Rasler shields his eyes from the worst of the sun and shifts around to face her, placing the brilliant rays at his side. “I am sure the stories of our reign will be equally grand,” he says quietly, and she would laugh but for the earnestness in his face.
“If the stories are to be grand, our reign will not be a quiet one,” Ashe says.
“I think we are up to the challenge.” He smiles at her again. There’s a trail of cinnamon paste running from the corner of his mouth to the base of his chin.
She gestures to it, pressing her lips together to keep her expression serious. He reaches his hand to the spot and chuckles. “Perhaps I should learn to eat my food more neatly before I make plans for the governance of a country.”
“Perhaps,” she says.
This time, Rasler does not glance around before he kisses her under the fountain’s watchful gaze. He is less hesitant this time, suckling her lower lip as she parts her mouth for him. He tastes of cinnamon and sunshine, and she leans into him more, her tongue savoring the warm curves of his mouth.
“Our future will be a good one,” he murmurs. “I am sure of it.”
And Ashe finds no reason to doubt his assertion.
Fandom: Final Fantasy XII
Pairing: Rasler/Ashe
Author: Latinlass
Recipient: molotov_cochroach
Rating: PG
Warnings: Rasler and Ashe being cute.
Prompt: FFXII, Rasler/Ashe - breaking character (Rasler says they all have parts to play, right? What about when they're out of the public eye?) Preferably something leaning toward fluff, though not over-the-top fluff
Summary: A stolen moment amidst preparations for a wedding.
Now that Lord Rasler and his entourage have arrived in Rabanastre, the palace is operating at a fever pitch-Ashe cannot recall another time where the whispering in the palace’s corridors was quite this frenzied, the motions of the servants and soldiers so rushed. She’s always thought of the workings of the palace as a stately waltz, coordinated and controlled. But as she sees the cooks hauling bulging cartons of ichthon eggs and smoked sprinter breast, as she sees maids scurry from corridor to corridor straightening paintings with the kind of military precision that Captains Azelas and fon Ronsenberg would no doubt approve of, she senses that the steps to the dance have changed from a waltz to a Rozarrian reel, all flashy steps and near collisions.
Amidst such a chaotic state of affairs, she has found it difficult to have any sort of privacy with Lord Rasler. His own attendants flock around him like birds at every step, offering a neverending stream of chattering commentary on the state of Dalmasca, Nabradia, and everything in between. Such constant noise would drive her mad, she thinks, but Rasler stares straight ahead and allows their words to roll from him like droplets of water. An admirable trait, Ashe decides.
There are days when she rises from her bed and believes her upcoming wedding to be no more than an unusually vivid dream. The smart ring of steel boots against the streets below as the guards drill for the parade to be held in honor of the marriage alliance divests her quickly of such notions. She crosses to her window to look down at the spectacle; the sun glinting from their proudly polished armor makes them half look like fire elementals, all glory and splendor.
Hard to believe that such glory and splendor is for her sake. Hers and Rasler’s.
She is fond of Rasler, she thinks as her personal maid insists on helping her into her dress for the day. He is intelligent, certainly. Well-versed in both literature and in the practicalities of command, an unusual combination in this day. He bested her twice when she crossed blades with him two years ago, though she claimed victory in the third match. He keeps a large aviary at his palace in Nabradia and told her warmly of the careful plans of care and feeding he’d drawn for each type of avian, pointed out the magicks used to keep the aviary at a constant temperature year-round and explained what each sigil represented. He keeps his own counsel among others, but when he elects to speak, his men listen. His hair resembles nothing more than a tuft of phoenix down. He kissed her last summer when she traveled to Nabradia, his lips brushing shyly against hers once he was confident that Captain Azelas’s attention was elsewhere.
Is that enough to love someone? she wonders. Perhaps it is. Her father had less than that when he wedded her mother, after all. She only wishes that he could duck free of his gaggle of advisors after she has evaded the vigilant gaze of her captains.
She is therefore surprised but certainly not displeased when she leaves her quarters and finds him waiting outside, a faint smile on his face. “You look beautiful, Lady Ashelia.”
“Lord Rasler,” she murmurs in response, pinkness rising in her cheeks.
“Your guard has challenged my men to an archery competition,” he tells her. “They could not let my companions’ boasts of the superior strength of a Nabradian bow go unanswered.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Are your men even licensed to use our finest bows?”
A real smile breaks across his face. “Why would they need to, when they handle their own so well?”
“You are confident, Lord Rasler.”
“It is confidence bred out of my observations,” he tells her, trying to bring more gravity to his face. He looks to his left and lowers his voice. “And while we have this time together…”
“Yes?” she asks. She hears the cadence of her heart speed up, thumping a mad tattoo against the wall of her chest.
“Would you-call me Rasler? Just Rasler?”
Ashe does not need to lift her head much to look at the brilliant blue of his eyes when she responds. “If you will call me Ashe.”
“Ashe,” he repeats, and her name sounds like the brightest piece of fire magicite when it falls from his lips. “Your name suits you.”
“As does yours,” she responds, her voice too moony for her own comfort. She gives herself a sharp mental kick. She refuses to sound like an infatuated damsel in front of him. She knows better than that.
“We have the morning free, it seems,” he says. “How would you suggest we spend our time?”
She looks down once more at the streets of Rabanastre. She has no guard now, yes, but she has been trained in combat, as has he. And the morning sun hangs high in the sky yet-that with the presence of the guard marching through the streets ought to dissuade even the most avid thief.
“We will need to change clothes,” she says.
***
“My great-grandfather had the fountain installed in the twilight years of his reign,” Ashe explains. They’re perched on the lip of the fountain’s basin, attired in Dalmascan street wear she salvaged from the servants’ rooms and holding wonderfully flaky pastries that cost a gil apiece from a vendor plying his wares outside the Sandsea. (She considered going inside the famed den of sky piracy, half enticed by the smoky scents and snatches of song wafting from the entrance, but thought better of it; she will receive enough of a dressing-down should her father or her captains discover her absence.) The pastry is warm and buttery in her hands. When she bites in, she feels the thick cinnamon sauce dribble down her fingers. She cleans them before continuing. “He wished to commemorate the sacrifice of the third company of the king’s army, who held the southern border alone against invading Rozarrian forces for four days. After that, Rozarria pledged to acknowledge Dalmasca’s sovereignty evermore, and the captain of the third company was made the founding member of the Order of the Knights of Dalmasca.”
Rasler swallows his most recent mouthful of pastry. Dalmascan clothing fits him well, she notices; the cropped red shirt set with yellow trim exposes the taut muscles of his abdomen, and his dark slacks fall gracefully around his calves. He is still too fair to be a native Dalmascan, but in Rabanastre, where all manner of races reside, such differences cause little comment. “You have an interest in history?”
“There is much that can be learned from it,” she says. “And it is important to know what has happened before, so that I do not ignore the weight of the past when I make my decisions.” Ashe skims her fingers across the cool surface of the water, causing her reflection to ripple and weave. “The stories appeal to me, I suppose. They always seemed so grand when I was young.”
Rasler shields his eyes from the worst of the sun and shifts around to face her, placing the brilliant rays at his side. “I am sure the stories of our reign will be equally grand,” he says quietly, and she would laugh but for the earnestness in his face.
“If the stories are to be grand, our reign will not be a quiet one,” Ashe says.
“I think we are up to the challenge.” He smiles at her again. There’s a trail of cinnamon paste running from the corner of his mouth to the base of his chin.
She gestures to it, pressing her lips together to keep her expression serious. He reaches his hand to the spot and chuckles. “Perhaps I should learn to eat my food more neatly before I make plans for the governance of a country.”
“Perhaps,” she says.
This time, Rasler does not glance around before he kisses her under the fountain’s watchful gaze. He is less hesitant this time, suckling her lower lip as she parts her mouth for him. He tastes of cinnamon and sunshine, and she leans into him more, her tongue savoring the warm curves of his mouth.
“Our future will be a good one,” he murmurs. “I am sure of it.”
And Ashe finds no reason to doubt his assertion.