FFXII Fic: The Lonely Death of Larsa Ferrinas Solidor
I know... I know. I usually don't post two fanfics (however short though they may be) two days in a row. But this is for the very special artemischan's very overdue birthday. She asked me for something featuring Gabranth and Larsa and I couldn't resist trying to put them in a configuration they've likely never been cast in before.
(I'm a sucker for striving for originality in the FFXII, though it is damnably difficult.)
And in any case, feedback much appreciated. I could almost feel my serious-fic skills rusting as I wrote this and I know something went a bit off in writing it. So constructive criticism is love. ♥
Title: The Lonely Death of Larsa Ferrinas Solidor
Fandom: Final Fantasy XII
Characters/Pairings: Noah, Larsa, Vayne, Drace
Rating: PG-13
Summary: When Larsa has contingency plans, Noah obediently follows.
Time Frame: Takes place between Larsa's return from Mount Bur Omisace and his ascent into the Bahamut.
***
1.
He dreams now of using a blanket of feathers, softer than the feel of a mother’s fingers and whiter than the winter’s snow.
2.
His first thought, he would later remember with shame, had been of a blade-- angled initially between two ribs and then glittering at the curve of a throat. It had been the way Drace had gone and he had been foolish enough to believe that it would be how his lord wanted to be dispatched as well. And for days, his dreams had consisted of the blade of a sword guided into juvenile flesh, burrowing deep within the dapple of freckled skin before it curved slightly here and there and found a long-withdrawn and hidden flow. He even went so far as to swear that he would be gentler this time, not fevered in a rush or trembling in a panic, fine filaments of dust coating his weapon as it had dragged, once twice thrice on over, across the marble of the floor. He vowed he would not would not hesitate at this moment. He would not give undue hope.
3.
He wonders if Vayne will come to see what is left afterwards, the small, near unblemished corpse. They will say his young lord has died of illness or heart-break, by the curse of being too good for this world. They would light the wax tapers of candles with a sigh and wreath pale flowers across a still head and throat. And when comes time to place the ferryman’s coin between Larsa’s ashen lips, Noah knows he will hesitate for one long moment, will hope and want for more.
Linger, he will think. Linger. Would that you guide me to your last home.
4.
He had thought his young lord so brave when Larsa had approached him, too brave and too noble for words. Somehow, despite what he knew of his brother‘s madness,
[…I do not know Gabranth, I do not know what will happen, I do not know what measures he will take beyond this world. And there is a scent that runs through the corridors of our palace that cannot be cleansed, an ill wind that bodes its time, and my brother holds the weather vanes before it, commands it, conducts the worst of its scores…]
his calm was near supernatural. There is nothing boy about him now, nothing small or cowed or even penetrable. Were Noah to raise a sword to him now, he has the sudden conviction it would be useless against his lord’s implacability, his serenity and his honesty, his foresight of what his brother would bring to him if he continued to rebel.
And it was only at the very end that Noah understood. That this was not of Vayne. This was not of Drace. This was not even of Larsa’s idealism or his need to follow his mentor or even his youthful revolts.
He had never before seen his lord’s eyes so red. And never before had the wearsy spasm of muscle in his breast so badly hurt.
"I don‘t want to end my life in pain," Larsa whispered, and he had his father’s face and his mother’s voice and Drace‘s and Vayne‘s eyes both. "I don't want to hurt anymore. I don't know what else I can do, except trust you and no one else."
5.
[To love with all one’s heart and soul is to finally let love go, someone murmured. His mother, phlegm in her throat.
Go towards what? Noah called back, but was never answered. Perhaps Basch alone had heard.]
And so he dreams of the chill of a phantom winter, the trill of a thousand birds holding white feathers forth. Of a speckled young face blanketed by a spray of white, peaceful within the middle of the world. Of a pair of gray eyes closed in prayer and gloved fingers brushing against the earth. Of a place where no one his lord loved need ever die again and nothing he loved needed to go.
The last mercy that Noah will give and then nothing afterwards; nothing ever after or ever more.
(I'm a sucker for striving for originality in the FFXII, though it is damnably difficult.)
And in any case, feedback much appreciated. I could almost feel my serious-fic skills rusting as I wrote this and I know something went a bit off in writing it. So constructive criticism is love. ♥
Title: The Lonely Death of Larsa Ferrinas Solidor
Fandom: Final Fantasy XII
Characters/Pairings: Noah, Larsa, Vayne, Drace
Rating: PG-13
Summary: When Larsa has contingency plans, Noah obediently follows.
Time Frame: Takes place between Larsa's return from Mount Bur Omisace and his ascent into the Bahamut.
***
1.
He dreams now of using a blanket of feathers, softer than the feel of a mother’s fingers and whiter than the winter’s snow.
2.
His first thought, he would later remember with shame, had been of a blade-- angled initially between two ribs and then glittering at the curve of a throat. It had been the way Drace had gone and he had been foolish enough to believe that it would be how his lord wanted to be dispatched as well. And for days, his dreams had consisted of the blade of a sword guided into juvenile flesh, burrowing deep within the dapple of freckled skin before it curved slightly here and there and found a long-withdrawn and hidden flow. He even went so far as to swear that he would be gentler this time, not fevered in a rush or trembling in a panic, fine filaments of dust coating his weapon as it had dragged, once twice thrice on over, across the marble of the floor. He vowed he would not would not hesitate at this moment. He would not give undue hope.
3.
He wonders if Vayne will come to see what is left afterwards, the small, near unblemished corpse. They will say his young lord has died of illness or heart-break, by the curse of being too good for this world. They would light the wax tapers of candles with a sigh and wreath pale flowers across a still head and throat. And when comes time to place the ferryman’s coin between Larsa’s ashen lips, Noah knows he will hesitate for one long moment, will hope and want for more.
Linger, he will think. Linger. Would that you guide me to your last home.
4.
He had thought his young lord so brave when Larsa had approached him, too brave and too noble for words. Somehow, despite what he knew of his brother‘s madness,
[…I do not know Gabranth, I do not know what will happen, I do not know what measures he will take beyond this world. And there is a scent that runs through the corridors of our palace that cannot be cleansed, an ill wind that bodes its time, and my brother holds the weather vanes before it, commands it, conducts the worst of its scores…]
his calm was near supernatural. There is nothing boy about him now, nothing small or cowed or even penetrable. Were Noah to raise a sword to him now, he has the sudden conviction it would be useless against his lord’s implacability, his serenity and his honesty, his foresight of what his brother would bring to him if he continued to rebel.
And it was only at the very end that Noah understood. That this was not of Vayne. This was not of Drace. This was not even of Larsa’s idealism or his need to follow his mentor or even his youthful revolts.
He had never before seen his lord’s eyes so red. And never before had the wearsy spasm of muscle in his breast so badly hurt.
"I don‘t want to end my life in pain," Larsa whispered, and he had his father’s face and his mother’s voice and Drace‘s and Vayne‘s eyes both. "I don't want to hurt anymore. I don't know what else I can do, except trust you and no one else."
5.
[To love with all one’s heart and soul is to finally let love go, someone murmured. His mother, phlegm in her throat.
Go towards what? Noah called back, but was never answered. Perhaps Basch alone had heard.]
And so he dreams of the chill of a phantom winter, the trill of a thousand birds holding white feathers forth. Of a speckled young face blanketed by a spray of white, peaceful within the middle of the world. Of a pair of gray eyes closed in prayer and gloved fingers brushing against the earth. Of a place where no one his lord loved need ever die again and nothing he loved needed to go.
The last mercy that Noah will give and then nothing afterwards; nothing ever after or ever more.