Final Fantasy XII: Broken-Winged Bird (Penelo/Larsa)
Title: Broken-Winged Bird
Fandom: Final Fantasy XII
Characters/Pairings: Penelo/Larsa
Rating: PG
Summary: They're both broken-winged birds, but she'll try to keep them together. Sequel to Gift of a Dancer.
Broken-Winged Bird
Her brothers once found a little bird in the family gardens in Rabanastre. Its wing was broken, jutting out from its body in an angle that made her mother bite her lip, and Penelo didn’t understand why.
Her cousins came over with a little box filled with straw and rags, and her mother splinted the little broken wing with twigs and strips torn off an old bed-sheet. Penelo held the bird in her hands, felt its little heart-beat flutter against her skin, and watched it breathe, little jerks of the little downy breast.
“Sleep,” Penelo’s mother said, looking tired in the candlelight. “Wishing can’t mend wrongs, but sleep can.”
In the morning, the little bird was dead.
x
Larsa, Penelo learns, feels a great deal like a bird. His shoulders are thin beneath his clothes from too many long months of fighting and mourning and fighting even more. His shoulders shake, and his breaths are quick, little jerks of his body.
“Larsa,” she says, and he's still staring ahead, where Vayne is stumbling away. She sets her hands against his shoulders more firmly, because Larsa’s nearly shaking apart, and Penelo doesn’t know if it’s for his heart or his body. Ashe passes her by, Fran and Balthier a moment later, and they don’t glance back, because broken sons of dead emperors don’t count for much when they can no longer hold swords up high.
“He,” Larsa says, or Penelo thinks he says, and Larsa’s pulse is fast beneath her fingertips. She wants to hold him tighter, but he’s brittle, like a tree that’s weathered too many storms, or an old man who’s lived too many years, and he shouldn’t be, because he’s still a child, younger than all of them.
“Penelo,” Basch says, and he’s passing her by, no looks back for the dead and dying, for Basch is a dead man twice and more. Penelo holds onto Larsa’s shoulders for a moment, two, three, then lets go, pulling away.
She leaves him there, a little broken boy splinted together with Judge’s armor and heir’s silks.
x
Half-way through the night Penelo crawls into Larsa’s bed and opens up her arms. She can barely see his eyes in the dim light, but they look wet, and when Larsa slides across the little bunk, into Penelo’s arms, there’s the sound of sniffling.
Larsa cries a quiet, neat little spot against Penelo’s shoulder, and his arms wrap half-way around her. She holds him, rubs his back, and makes cooing noises when Larsa says “Vayne,” and “Father,” and “Gabranth, Drace.” She kisses his forehead, where his hair is sweaty and mussed, when he says “Archadia,” and “oh, God.”
“I’m sorry,” she says when his eyes are red-rimmed and sleepy. She says “sorry,” because she can’t say “I love you,” because she doesn’t love him. She can’t love him, because he’s Archadia and Vayne all rolled into one, a little boy with his Empire’s clothes and his brother’s face, and she can’t love the thing that broke her.
“Archadia,” Larsa cries against her shoulder, and Penelo coos “Dalmasca.”
She wonders, as Larsa falls asleep, if they’ll be dead come the morning.
Fandom: Final Fantasy XII
Characters/Pairings: Penelo/Larsa
Rating: PG
Summary: They're both broken-winged birds, but she'll try to keep them together. Sequel to Gift of a Dancer.
Broken-Winged Bird
Her brothers once found a little bird in the family gardens in Rabanastre. Its wing was broken, jutting out from its body in an angle that made her mother bite her lip, and Penelo didn’t understand why.
Her cousins came over with a little box filled with straw and rags, and her mother splinted the little broken wing with twigs and strips torn off an old bed-sheet. Penelo held the bird in her hands, felt its little heart-beat flutter against her skin, and watched it breathe, little jerks of the little downy breast.
“Sleep,” Penelo’s mother said, looking tired in the candlelight. “Wishing can’t mend wrongs, but sleep can.”
In the morning, the little bird was dead.
x
Larsa, Penelo learns, feels a great deal like a bird. His shoulders are thin beneath his clothes from too many long months of fighting and mourning and fighting even more. His shoulders shake, and his breaths are quick, little jerks of his body.
“Larsa,” she says, and he's still staring ahead, where Vayne is stumbling away. She sets her hands against his shoulders more firmly, because Larsa’s nearly shaking apart, and Penelo doesn’t know if it’s for his heart or his body. Ashe passes her by, Fran and Balthier a moment later, and they don’t glance back, because broken sons of dead emperors don’t count for much when they can no longer hold swords up high.
“He,” Larsa says, or Penelo thinks he says, and Larsa’s pulse is fast beneath her fingertips. She wants to hold him tighter, but he’s brittle, like a tree that’s weathered too many storms, or an old man who’s lived too many years, and he shouldn’t be, because he’s still a child, younger than all of them.
“Penelo,” Basch says, and he’s passing her by, no looks back for the dead and dying, for Basch is a dead man twice and more. Penelo holds onto Larsa’s shoulders for a moment, two, three, then lets go, pulling away.
She leaves him there, a little broken boy splinted together with Judge’s armor and heir’s silks.
x
Half-way through the night Penelo crawls into Larsa’s bed and opens up her arms. She can barely see his eyes in the dim light, but they look wet, and when Larsa slides across the little bunk, into Penelo’s arms, there’s the sound of sniffling.
Larsa cries a quiet, neat little spot against Penelo’s shoulder, and his arms wrap half-way around her. She holds him, rubs his back, and makes cooing noises when Larsa says “Vayne,” and “Father,” and “Gabranth, Drace.” She kisses his forehead, where his hair is sweaty and mussed, when he says “Archadia,” and “oh, God.”
“I’m sorry,” she says when his eyes are red-rimmed and sleepy. She says “sorry,” because she can’t say “I love you,” because she doesn’t love him. She can’t love him, because he’s Archadia and Vayne all rolled into one, a little boy with his Empire’s clothes and his brother’s face, and she can’t love the thing that broke her.
“Archadia,” Larsa cries against her shoulder, and Penelo coos “Dalmasca.”
She wonders, as Larsa falls asleep, if they’ll be dead come the morning.