Ficbits of varying lengths
So I've been owing folks these ficbits since August. I fail.
5xFF6, 3xFF12, 1xFF8, 1xFF9/FF12 crossover. Spoilers through Leviathan for FF12 and through Albrook for FF6. None, really, for FF8.
Final Fantasy VI
For shanaqui, "Making One's Peace" Celes and Terra, G
Celes notices Terra's presence as soon as she starts to approach, but as she is an ally and not a threat, she disregards it and continues to clean her weapon. Terra stands some ten feet to her left, hands clasped in front of her, and seems about to speak a half-dozen times before she forces the words out.
"Did you send me on missions?"
Celes examines the edges of the rune blade for chips or imperfections. "I did."
"Did I...What sort of missions?"
"I did not bring you with me to Maranda, if that is the source of your concern." The edge is flawless. She sheathes the sword. Terra is still standing there, hands twisting together. "What is it you really want to know, Terra?"
"I want to know what I did. I want to make amends."
"What you did was not of your own volition," Celes says. "You were used. Make your peace with it however you will."
"How do you make your peace with it?"
"I don't."
~*~
For ovo_lexa, "Minor Victory," Celes and Sabin, dancing. G.
Pain radiated up her leg. Celes cast Cure surreptitiously, but Sabin still noticed the flare of green light around her foot. "Sorry," he said.
"It's fine," she replied, and stepped closer. She held up her right hand, and he clasped it with his left. She placed her left hand on his shoulder, and felt his right hand covering most of her back. Locke finally managed to stop snickering long enough to start playing a waltz on the wooden flute he held.
They made it through four turns before Sabin stepped on her foot again. She counted it a minor victory.
~*~
For puella_nerdii, "Tireless," Locke and Celes, long hard day. Rated G.
He can see why the Empire's foot soldiers said she was made of ice, a frozen automaton capable of surpassing the human limits of endurance. Edgar hasn't made a flirtatious remark in almost four hours. He himself is limping and half-staggering under the weight of a pack that seemed quite light this morning. Even Sabin is drooping, plodding along with his head bent and his shoulders rounded. She still stands upright, shoulders drawn back and chin up, actively searching the plains in front of them for signs of monsters. The rest of them have gradually dropped back, but she maintains the same pace she had this morning.
"Celes," he says, "we should stop for the night."
She glances back at them and nods. "Here is safe enough." She sets down her pack and immediately begins clearing an area where they can build a small campfire. Locke drops his pack to the ground with a groan, rubbing his aching shoulders.
"There's a stream over there," she says absently, pointing to her left. Sabin heads over that way and crouches on the bank. Edgar is already rummaging in the packs for food, which leaves Locke the task of gathering firewood. There are enough trees and bushes for him to gather a sizeable armful of suitable wood. By the time he returns, Sabin has caught two fish, and Edgar is cleaning them amid much complaint about a king's suitability to menial chores. Celes ignores him, having learned that Edgar enjoys making himself out a martyr and that paying attention will only encourage him. Sabin either hasn't figured it out or, more likely, doesn't care, and is doing push-ups on the ground to prove that he is tougher than his brother.
By the time the food is ready, they have fallen into the silence of sheer exhaustion. Celes organizes the watches, taking the first for herself and assigning the rest of them to later watches. Locke sees her standing arrow-straight at the edge of the circle of firelight, facing out into the night.
She wakes him later for his watch, and in the firelight he can see that her face looks drawn, her skin almost translucent. There are dark shadows beneath her eyes, and the moon is higher than it should be. He tries to calculate the time, and realizes that she has taken two watches on herself.
"You shouldn't have done that," he says as he stands and dons his armour.
She turns her face away, and he notices that her shoulders are slightly rounded. "You needed the rest."
"So do you," he replies.
She strips off her armour with the efficiency of long practice and lays it neatly next to her bedroll. Her sword she sets beside it, perfectly parallel to the edge of her bedroll.
He feigns nonchalance as he makes his way over to her bedroll. She sits down slowly, stiffly, hunching forward once she is safely on the ground.
He sits beside her. When she doesn't snarl at him, he brushes her hair gently aside and massages her shoulders. There is no sound except the crackling of the campfire and the rustling sound of hands on fabric. For all her charade of energy, he can tell she is as tired and sore as the rest of them.
She turns and brushes a kiss over his cheek, light and fast, before she lies down to sleep. When she sleeps, she always starts out lying on her back, limbs straight and still, but once she falls asleep she curls onto her side like a child, hands tucked under her cheek.
He sits on the edge of her bedroll, idly stroking her hair, until it is time to wake Sabin.
~*~
For sheffiesharpe, "Baubles," General Leo and Celes, romance. Rated PG.
It is a simple thing, a silver chain with a sapphire pendant. She is not one for trinkets or baubles, eschewing anything not part of the proper uniform, but this is small enough that he thinks he could persuade her to wear it.
He makes his decision and hands over his gil to the patient shopgirl, tucking the box into his pocket.
She wears it only when it can be concealed beneath her uniform-hidden, as this liaison is-but he notices she smiles when she touches it. It looks magnificent-she is magnificent-limned by moonlight in his bed.
~*~
For mattchu, "Required of Him," General Leo and Magi-Tek. G
He learns to operate the machines, because it is required of him, though he was permitted to refuse the Magi-Tek infusion. They are unlike any machines he has handled previously; these machines feel alive beneath his hands, and some days he fancies he can feel the power within them struggling to escape, to be free of this metal cage that Cid's research has built.
Whenever he sees Kefka's glee at the power he can wield, or the half-Esper girl calmly destroying a field full of targets with a few moments' effort, he feels a cold chill run down his spine.
~*~
Final Fantasy VIII
For irish_ais, "Marks," Seifer and Quistis, obligatory whip joke. PG.
He is scarred, thin pale tracery wrapping round his ribs and hips, thicker white ridges upon his arms and back. The dark line that slashes between his eyes almost matches the twisted mass on his leg. Given time, she could identify the source of each wound; weapons leave distinctive marks, and she learned them all for the combat medicine exam. Her fingertips brush the edge of the scar that almost completely encircles his left arm, and she wonders about the whip-marks that coat his torso, but she does not ask.
"So, Trepe." He turns, and grins in the way that means trouble. She forces herself not to reach for her weapon.
"What, Almasy?"
He glances left, to where Save the Queen lies neatly coiled against the wall, and his smirk spreads. Her hand twitches.
"What's a guy got to do to earn that?"
She considers it a remarkable moral victory that she leaves the room without damaging anything in it, including him, and at her normal measured pace.
~*~
Final Fantasy IX/Final Fantasy XII Crossover
For mad_rex, "Fierce," Ashe and Beatrix, struggle. G.
The clash of metal rings through the courtyard and sparks fly as they lock swords. Ashe meets the warrior's one eye over their crossed blades and snarls. "You shall not best me," she says through gritted teeth.
The other woman does not change expression, but the pressure of her sword against Ashe's falters for one moment. Ashe presses the attack eagerly-too eagerly-and finds herself disarmed, knocked to her knees, and with the edge of her opponent's blade against her throat in the split second it takes her to realize her error.
The other woman bows and walks away.
~*~
Final Fantasy XII
For sister_coyote, "Respect," Fran and hand-to-hand combat. G.
When the heavy veil of Mist lifts from her senses and she comes back to herself, the captain is watching over her. She knows, from the way the Strahl rumbles, that Balthier is at the helm and he is pushing the engine for all it is worth. The captain does not speak. He offers her a potion, and a damp cloth to clean the blood and flesh from her claws.
She cleans her hands, and finds the captain watching her intently. Most Hume males are fearful of her, after seeing her fight; Balthier pretends that he was not, but it took him months to grow accustomed to her. The captain looks at her with respect, but no fear.
She does not find it displeasing.
~*~
For rosencrantz, "Necessary," Vaan/Penelo, not fluffy, sweet, or happy. Rated G.
Penelo mutters under her breath, fumbling around for the wrench she dropped. It would be far easier if she could actually see past her waist, but the growing child long since made that impossible.
"Um, Penelo?"
She stands slowly, feeling her center of balance move in ways she is still not accustomed to, even this far in. Vaan is standing in the doorway, and the expression on his face suggests that she is not going to like what he has to say.
"Uh, there was a mark," he says, talking fast as though that will reduce the impact of his words. "And I signed up to hunt it, so I'm going to go, and then I'll be back, okay?"
"Vaan, you do realize I'm due in less than a week?" She crosses her arms and glares at him. "Where is this hunt?"
He rubs at the back of his hair. "Um. Paramina. But it should be quick and easy..."
She bends slowly to get her tools, and packs them all into her case. She can hear him fidgeting, worrying the fabric of his vest. She picks up the heavy case and turns to face him. Her decision was made a month ago, and now that it has come to it, she finds it easier to carry out than she thought.
"Enjoy your hunting," she says. "I'll see you around."
"Wait-Penelo, what are you talking about?"
"I love you," she says, and no, this really isn't easy, and she can't look him in the eye. "But I can't go running all around Ivalice with a baby, Vaan."
"But...you...I can't...I need you," he says, quick and panicked like a Giza rabbit.
"You'll be able to find me when you're in Rabanastre." She forces the smile, like she used to during the war. "Migelo offered me a place." She leans in to kiss him, light and quick, and then makes her way slowly down out of their airship. She knows the look on his face, shocked and scrambling to find something to hang on to--she saw it often after Reks died--but she can't take care of him, herself, and their child all right now.
No, it wasn't easy. But it was necessary.
~*~
And the guest of honour, for mithrigil. "Close", Vayne and his brothers, rated G. Longest of the lot, since they ran away with me.
"Nurse says you're afraid of the dark." Hieron drapes himself over the back of the chair, prodding Vayne's shoulder sharply.
"You'd think he'd be at home there," Feris drawls, "given he has little sense of the world around him." He stands across the table from Vayne, hands spread over the book Vayne had been reading.
Vayne doesn't see it, but knows Hieron is rolling his eyes. "You've a poor grasp of witty repartee," Hieron says.
"And why is it that younger brother is so afraid of the dark, mmm?" Feris is grinning, and Vayne does not trust the edge to his smile. Gone is the brother who would slip him candy or take Vayne on wild chocobo rides that made the Judges clutch their heads in fear for the youngest imperial son; Feris has of late become a vicious creature, prone to moody sulks and fits of cruelty.
"Fear ill befits a son of Solidor," Hieron says.
"It would be best if you conquered this fear ere the Senate learns of it," Feris remarks, and reaches out to smooth back Vayne's hair. Vayne cannot help himself; he flinches from the touch.
"We would not care to have the Senate acquire greater leverage against our family." Hieron straightens and adopts a pedantic tone. "You could bring disgrace on the family, and you do not wish that, do you?"
"No," Vayne mutters, staring at the table.
"Good," Hieron says, leaning forward again.
Feris moves lightning-quick when he wishes. Before Vayne truly realizes what is happening, he is slung over Feris's shoulder and hauled out of the chamber. He does not shout, nor struggle, for such conduct would not befit a son of Solidor, and any child of Archades knows that to show weakness is to invite the assassin's blade from his own family if not his enemies.
They hurry down the hall, ducking out of sight of the Judge who patrols the corridor outside Vayne's rooms.
"Wait," Hieron hisses, and Feris stops. Dangling upside-down and half-dizzy from it, Vayne watches as Hieron wrenches open a narrow door concealed within the hallway's paneling. Feris shrugs Vayne off his shoulders like an unwanted cloak and shoves him forward into pitch blackness. The door slams shut behind him.
"Do not exit until you have learned to behave appropriately," Feris says.
Vayne scrambles to his feet and shoves at the door, but it does not budge. Hieron laughs and thumps the door with his fist. "Do not think to trick me, brother; I know you have not overcome your fears so quickly!"
Vayne shoves at it again, but Hieron is full-grown and strong as a slaven, where Vayne is but eight years old. He keeps trying, throwing himself against the door, desperate to do anything to get out of the darkness, all to no avail.
At length he sinks down on the floor, gasping for air. The walls are so close he fancies he can feel them squeezing inward to crush him in their unrelenting grasp, yet he must reach his hands out to both sides to feel the wood beneath his palms. He curls into a ball on the floor, checking every so often to ensure that the walls have not in fact been sneaking up on him.
He does not know how long he is there when he sees a dim light off in the distance, away from the door. He crawls toward it, knowing he should be on his feet and yet unable to summon the will to stand. It grows brighter, dazzling his eyes, and he can only dimly make out the figure holding the lamp.
"Prince Vayne!" It is a high voice, feminine. He thinks it is the maid who cleans his chambers. "What on earth are you doing in the servants' passage? Half the palace has been searching for you!"
She does not wait for an answer, but bundles him under her arm (and that shows how frantic the search for him must be, that she does not think of propriety) and drags him to the door. It opens at her quick shove-when had Hieron moved? He does not recall hearing the footsteps-and she takes him directly to his father's study.
Vayne stares at the carpet while Gramis dismisses the maid, ashamed of himself for not finding a better way out of the darkness and the pressing walls.
"The servants' passages are not for playing in, Vayne," Gramis says sternly.
"Yes, sir." Vayne forces himself not to squirm under the Emperor's intense regard.
"Did your brothers talk you into it?" Gramis asks, and Vayne glances up wide-eyed before he can stop himself. "No," Gramis says, frowning, "I think it more like they sought some mischief by flinging you into the dark by yourself. Had you chosen to play there on your own, you would have thought to bring magicite to light your way."
Vayne hunches his shoulders and bows his head to stare at the floor again. He did not mean to tell on his brothers; surely they will only make things worse, after this?
He admits to a certain cruel pleasure in seeing his brothers chastised thoroughly and stripped of many privileges, but it is years before Vayne will willingly enter a small room alone.
5xFF6, 3xFF12, 1xFF8, 1xFF9/FF12 crossover. Spoilers through Leviathan for FF12 and through Albrook for FF6. None, really, for FF8.
Final Fantasy VI
For shanaqui, "Making One's Peace" Celes and Terra, G
Celes notices Terra's presence as soon as she starts to approach, but as she is an ally and not a threat, she disregards it and continues to clean her weapon. Terra stands some ten feet to her left, hands clasped in front of her, and seems about to speak a half-dozen times before she forces the words out.
"Did you send me on missions?"
Celes examines the edges of the rune blade for chips or imperfections. "I did."
"Did I...What sort of missions?"
"I did not bring you with me to Maranda, if that is the source of your concern." The edge is flawless. She sheathes the sword. Terra is still standing there, hands twisting together. "What is it you really want to know, Terra?"
"I want to know what I did. I want to make amends."
"What you did was not of your own volition," Celes says. "You were used. Make your peace with it however you will."
"How do you make your peace with it?"
"I don't."
~*~
For ovo_lexa, "Minor Victory," Celes and Sabin, dancing. G.
Pain radiated up her leg. Celes cast Cure surreptitiously, but Sabin still noticed the flare of green light around her foot. "Sorry," he said.
"It's fine," she replied, and stepped closer. She held up her right hand, and he clasped it with his left. She placed her left hand on his shoulder, and felt his right hand covering most of her back. Locke finally managed to stop snickering long enough to start playing a waltz on the wooden flute he held.
They made it through four turns before Sabin stepped on her foot again. She counted it a minor victory.
~*~
For puella_nerdii, "Tireless," Locke and Celes, long hard day. Rated G.
He can see why the Empire's foot soldiers said she was made of ice, a frozen automaton capable of surpassing the human limits of endurance. Edgar hasn't made a flirtatious remark in almost four hours. He himself is limping and half-staggering under the weight of a pack that seemed quite light this morning. Even Sabin is drooping, plodding along with his head bent and his shoulders rounded. She still stands upright, shoulders drawn back and chin up, actively searching the plains in front of them for signs of monsters. The rest of them have gradually dropped back, but she maintains the same pace she had this morning.
"Celes," he says, "we should stop for the night."
She glances back at them and nods. "Here is safe enough." She sets down her pack and immediately begins clearing an area where they can build a small campfire. Locke drops his pack to the ground with a groan, rubbing his aching shoulders.
"There's a stream over there," she says absently, pointing to her left. Sabin heads over that way and crouches on the bank. Edgar is already rummaging in the packs for food, which leaves Locke the task of gathering firewood. There are enough trees and bushes for him to gather a sizeable armful of suitable wood. By the time he returns, Sabin has caught two fish, and Edgar is cleaning them amid much complaint about a king's suitability to menial chores. Celes ignores him, having learned that Edgar enjoys making himself out a martyr and that paying attention will only encourage him. Sabin either hasn't figured it out or, more likely, doesn't care, and is doing push-ups on the ground to prove that he is tougher than his brother.
By the time the food is ready, they have fallen into the silence of sheer exhaustion. Celes organizes the watches, taking the first for herself and assigning the rest of them to later watches. Locke sees her standing arrow-straight at the edge of the circle of firelight, facing out into the night.
She wakes him later for his watch, and in the firelight he can see that her face looks drawn, her skin almost translucent. There are dark shadows beneath her eyes, and the moon is higher than it should be. He tries to calculate the time, and realizes that she has taken two watches on herself.
"You shouldn't have done that," he says as he stands and dons his armour.
She turns her face away, and he notices that her shoulders are slightly rounded. "You needed the rest."
"So do you," he replies.
She strips off her armour with the efficiency of long practice and lays it neatly next to her bedroll. Her sword she sets beside it, perfectly parallel to the edge of her bedroll.
He feigns nonchalance as he makes his way over to her bedroll. She sits down slowly, stiffly, hunching forward once she is safely on the ground.
He sits beside her. When she doesn't snarl at him, he brushes her hair gently aside and massages her shoulders. There is no sound except the crackling of the campfire and the rustling sound of hands on fabric. For all her charade of energy, he can tell she is as tired and sore as the rest of them.
She turns and brushes a kiss over his cheek, light and fast, before she lies down to sleep. When she sleeps, she always starts out lying on her back, limbs straight and still, but once she falls asleep she curls onto her side like a child, hands tucked under her cheek.
He sits on the edge of her bedroll, idly stroking her hair, until it is time to wake Sabin.
~*~
For sheffiesharpe, "Baubles," General Leo and Celes, romance. Rated PG.
It is a simple thing, a silver chain with a sapphire pendant. She is not one for trinkets or baubles, eschewing anything not part of the proper uniform, but this is small enough that he thinks he could persuade her to wear it.
He makes his decision and hands over his gil to the patient shopgirl, tucking the box into his pocket.
She wears it only when it can be concealed beneath her uniform-hidden, as this liaison is-but he notices she smiles when she touches it. It looks magnificent-she is magnificent-limned by moonlight in his bed.
~*~
For mattchu, "Required of Him," General Leo and Magi-Tek. G
He learns to operate the machines, because it is required of him, though he was permitted to refuse the Magi-Tek infusion. They are unlike any machines he has handled previously; these machines feel alive beneath his hands, and some days he fancies he can feel the power within them struggling to escape, to be free of this metal cage that Cid's research has built.
Whenever he sees Kefka's glee at the power he can wield, or the half-Esper girl calmly destroying a field full of targets with a few moments' effort, he feels a cold chill run down his spine.
~*~
Final Fantasy VIII
For irish_ais, "Marks," Seifer and Quistis, obligatory whip joke. PG.
He is scarred, thin pale tracery wrapping round his ribs and hips, thicker white ridges upon his arms and back. The dark line that slashes between his eyes almost matches the twisted mass on his leg. Given time, she could identify the source of each wound; weapons leave distinctive marks, and she learned them all for the combat medicine exam. Her fingertips brush the edge of the scar that almost completely encircles his left arm, and she wonders about the whip-marks that coat his torso, but she does not ask.
"So, Trepe." He turns, and grins in the way that means trouble. She forces herself not to reach for her weapon.
"What, Almasy?"
He glances left, to where Save the Queen lies neatly coiled against the wall, and his smirk spreads. Her hand twitches.
"What's a guy got to do to earn that?"
She considers it a remarkable moral victory that she leaves the room without damaging anything in it, including him, and at her normal measured pace.
~*~
Final Fantasy IX/Final Fantasy XII Crossover
For mad_rex, "Fierce," Ashe and Beatrix, struggle. G.
The clash of metal rings through the courtyard and sparks fly as they lock swords. Ashe meets the warrior's one eye over their crossed blades and snarls. "You shall not best me," she says through gritted teeth.
The other woman does not change expression, but the pressure of her sword against Ashe's falters for one moment. Ashe presses the attack eagerly-too eagerly-and finds herself disarmed, knocked to her knees, and with the edge of her opponent's blade against her throat in the split second it takes her to realize her error.
The other woman bows and walks away.
~*~
Final Fantasy XII
For sister_coyote, "Respect," Fran and hand-to-hand combat. G.
When the heavy veil of Mist lifts from her senses and she comes back to herself, the captain is watching over her. She knows, from the way the Strahl rumbles, that Balthier is at the helm and he is pushing the engine for all it is worth. The captain does not speak. He offers her a potion, and a damp cloth to clean the blood and flesh from her claws.
She cleans her hands, and finds the captain watching her intently. Most Hume males are fearful of her, after seeing her fight; Balthier pretends that he was not, but it took him months to grow accustomed to her. The captain looks at her with respect, but no fear.
She does not find it displeasing.
~*~
For rosencrantz, "Necessary," Vaan/Penelo, not fluffy, sweet, or happy. Rated G.
Penelo mutters under her breath, fumbling around for the wrench she dropped. It would be far easier if she could actually see past her waist, but the growing child long since made that impossible.
"Um, Penelo?"
She stands slowly, feeling her center of balance move in ways she is still not accustomed to, even this far in. Vaan is standing in the doorway, and the expression on his face suggests that she is not going to like what he has to say.
"Uh, there was a mark," he says, talking fast as though that will reduce the impact of his words. "And I signed up to hunt it, so I'm going to go, and then I'll be back, okay?"
"Vaan, you do realize I'm due in less than a week?" She crosses her arms and glares at him. "Where is this hunt?"
He rubs at the back of his hair. "Um. Paramina. But it should be quick and easy..."
She bends slowly to get her tools, and packs them all into her case. She can hear him fidgeting, worrying the fabric of his vest. She picks up the heavy case and turns to face him. Her decision was made a month ago, and now that it has come to it, she finds it easier to carry out than she thought.
"Enjoy your hunting," she says. "I'll see you around."
"Wait-Penelo, what are you talking about?"
"I love you," she says, and no, this really isn't easy, and she can't look him in the eye. "But I can't go running all around Ivalice with a baby, Vaan."
"But...you...I can't...I need you," he says, quick and panicked like a Giza rabbit.
"You'll be able to find me when you're in Rabanastre." She forces the smile, like she used to during the war. "Migelo offered me a place." She leans in to kiss him, light and quick, and then makes her way slowly down out of their airship. She knows the look on his face, shocked and scrambling to find something to hang on to--she saw it often after Reks died--but she can't take care of him, herself, and their child all right now.
No, it wasn't easy. But it was necessary.
~*~
And the guest of honour, for mithrigil. "Close", Vayne and his brothers, rated G. Longest of the lot, since they ran away with me.
"Nurse says you're afraid of the dark." Hieron drapes himself over the back of the chair, prodding Vayne's shoulder sharply.
"You'd think he'd be at home there," Feris drawls, "given he has little sense of the world around him." He stands across the table from Vayne, hands spread over the book Vayne had been reading.
Vayne doesn't see it, but knows Hieron is rolling his eyes. "You've a poor grasp of witty repartee," Hieron says.
"And why is it that younger brother is so afraid of the dark, mmm?" Feris is grinning, and Vayne does not trust the edge to his smile. Gone is the brother who would slip him candy or take Vayne on wild chocobo rides that made the Judges clutch their heads in fear for the youngest imperial son; Feris has of late become a vicious creature, prone to moody sulks and fits of cruelty.
"Fear ill befits a son of Solidor," Hieron says.
"It would be best if you conquered this fear ere the Senate learns of it," Feris remarks, and reaches out to smooth back Vayne's hair. Vayne cannot help himself; he flinches from the touch.
"We would not care to have the Senate acquire greater leverage against our family." Hieron straightens and adopts a pedantic tone. "You could bring disgrace on the family, and you do not wish that, do you?"
"No," Vayne mutters, staring at the table.
"Good," Hieron says, leaning forward again.
Feris moves lightning-quick when he wishes. Before Vayne truly realizes what is happening, he is slung over Feris's shoulder and hauled out of the chamber. He does not shout, nor struggle, for such conduct would not befit a son of Solidor, and any child of Archades knows that to show weakness is to invite the assassin's blade from his own family if not his enemies.
They hurry down the hall, ducking out of sight of the Judge who patrols the corridor outside Vayne's rooms.
"Wait," Hieron hisses, and Feris stops. Dangling upside-down and half-dizzy from it, Vayne watches as Hieron wrenches open a narrow door concealed within the hallway's paneling. Feris shrugs Vayne off his shoulders like an unwanted cloak and shoves him forward into pitch blackness. The door slams shut behind him.
"Do not exit until you have learned to behave appropriately," Feris says.
Vayne scrambles to his feet and shoves at the door, but it does not budge. Hieron laughs and thumps the door with his fist. "Do not think to trick me, brother; I know you have not overcome your fears so quickly!"
Vayne shoves at it again, but Hieron is full-grown and strong as a slaven, where Vayne is but eight years old. He keeps trying, throwing himself against the door, desperate to do anything to get out of the darkness, all to no avail.
At length he sinks down on the floor, gasping for air. The walls are so close he fancies he can feel them squeezing inward to crush him in their unrelenting grasp, yet he must reach his hands out to both sides to feel the wood beneath his palms. He curls into a ball on the floor, checking every so often to ensure that the walls have not in fact been sneaking up on him.
He does not know how long he is there when he sees a dim light off in the distance, away from the door. He crawls toward it, knowing he should be on his feet and yet unable to summon the will to stand. It grows brighter, dazzling his eyes, and he can only dimly make out the figure holding the lamp.
"Prince Vayne!" It is a high voice, feminine. He thinks it is the maid who cleans his chambers. "What on earth are you doing in the servants' passage? Half the palace has been searching for you!"
She does not wait for an answer, but bundles him under her arm (and that shows how frantic the search for him must be, that she does not think of propriety) and drags him to the door. It opens at her quick shove-when had Hieron moved? He does not recall hearing the footsteps-and she takes him directly to his father's study.
Vayne stares at the carpet while Gramis dismisses the maid, ashamed of himself for not finding a better way out of the darkness and the pressing walls.
"The servants' passages are not for playing in, Vayne," Gramis says sternly.
"Yes, sir." Vayne forces himself not to squirm under the Emperor's intense regard.
"Did your brothers talk you into it?" Gramis asks, and Vayne glances up wide-eyed before he can stop himself. "No," Gramis says, frowning, "I think it more like they sought some mischief by flinging you into the dark by yourself. Had you chosen to play there on your own, you would have thought to bring magicite to light your way."
Vayne hunches his shoulders and bows his head to stare at the floor again. He did not mean to tell on his brothers; surely they will only make things worse, after this?
He admits to a certain cruel pleasure in seeing his brothers chastised thoroughly and stripped of many privileges, but it is years before Vayne will willingly enter a small room alone.