The FFXII AU to beat all AUs.
So this kind of sprung itself on me at work. Wrote it in four hours.
Title: The Game
Author/Artist: mithrigil
Fandom: Ivalice -- FFXII
Characters: All
Rating: R
Warnings: Blood, spoilers
Theme: Role-reversal--the good guys and the bad guys. As in, Dalmasca conquers and Archadia resists.
The Game
Mithrigil Galtirglin
a man who wants peace
“Rozarria offers its heartiest congratulations, Your Majesty.”
Raminas inclines his head politely, a wine-buttressed smile on his lips. “We thank you, son of Margrace. Have you conveyed these thanks to the bride and groom? We should think Rasler would like to see you again.”
“That time has not yet come,” Al-Cid says, and nudges his glasses up the slope of his nose. He nears the king, not obtrusively but obviously, enough that Raminas feels the need to look away. The king seeks out his daughter and new son amid the dancers; Ashelia is laughing, her eyes brighter than Raminas has ever seen. And then, here is Al-Cid, with his black glasses up and a white scroll in his hand, now pressed into the king’s.
“Why tonight?” Raminas whispers, crestfallen.
“Because Archadia will not wait,” Al-Cid says plain. “They already have the skies.”
-
a prince who will give anything to his homeland
“Lord Rasler, no!”
It is as if he does not heed Vossler at all. The prince stands with the Shard clasped to his chest, setting his white armor aglow and the device on his cape shuddering in the Mist. All the magick of Sochen swarms around him, all the tiles and ice of the caves cast their light on this boy.
“For my father!” Rasler screams, just before the world burns white.
-
a cool, considerate man
After the Dalmascan Captain leaves them, the Emperor turns first to Ghis.
“Are we to then bow to them?” Gramis whispers. “They laid waste to our sacred places, turned our allies against us-enlisted the aid of pirates where their own armies fell short-they-they unleashed a creeping death that breached the Paling. Vayne is wounded. All this, without Rozarria’s support; the Desert Kingdoms, of their own accord.”
“If they take us, it will be as Galtea past,” Ghis reminds him. The judge removes his helm-his wrinkles are dark, the bruises beneath his eyes dire. “It is a return to the ways of old. Raithwall’s blood is reasonable. Raminas will let Solidor keep its rule, if you bend to that term.”
Gramis shakes his head, the crown turning with him. “The Dynast-King was a reformed tyrant.”
“Better a tyrant at your reins, than no road to walk upon,” Ghis says.
-
a boy who wants only to understand
“G-Gabranth…why?”
“For my home,” he says. The voice is not the same, it isn’t, but neither is the way Gabranth is acting, neither is the blood on Gabranth’s swords and that is father, father’s body there stabbed in the chair- “For my home,” he repeats. “For the place I would sing to you of in your cradle. Now is the time. If I do this, Dalmasca will see Landis free.”
Larsa can’t hold back his tears, can’t see past them, can’t breathe. “But-but father loved you-he-he-”
“Little Prince.” The blood drips to the tile, streaking on Gabranth’s heel. “I suggest you run.”
-
an urchin who longs for the heights
“…then give me your hate,” the Princess-Archades’ Protector now, sorry-calls to them all, “the gods know I deserve it. I am the cause of your losses, I and my father. But that is why he sent me here; not to oppress you, but to rectify you. Your losses, and my losses, are our responsibility to reclaim, together. So hate me; that will be my penance, and I will endure it. And in return, I will love you all.”
The city is silent. Jules glares, bites down on the fragment of sandalwood in his cheek.
The Princess hangs her head, and her sigh rattles through every cobblestone.
Then someone applauds, and soon Jules is the only one silent in tens of thousands.
-
an alpha divorced from his pack
“Get down,” the Bangaa hisses, “you ain’t got chops enough to get you out of Ronsenburg, do you?”
Jules listens. The Bangaa presses himself against the wall in front of him, sniffs around the corner.
“Then you don’t want to get sent there. Tha’ss what they’ll do to you if they catch you rifling ‘round the Princess’ things. So do what I say and you’ll get another chance to get whoever it is you’re after, boy.” The rings in the Bangaa’s snout and ears flicker with the scant light.
“Whatever,” Jules corrects.
The Bangaa makes a soft hissing sound, all his teeth bared. “Oh no, you’re not a thief. You’re a killer. Or you want to be one. Ain’t a trap in your pocket nor a gambit in your ear. Not enough room for your bread-and-butter rumors, else.”
Jules smirks. “You’re Ba’Gamnan, aren’t you.”
“Got a good ear for hearsay, don’t you. Now listen clear.”
-
a hound, begging for scraps at the master’s table
“I did not kill the Emperor.”
“’Course you didn’t, boss. Who was it then, your egg-brother?”
Noah snarls, and Jules thinks that it’s more than a little Bangaa-like, or maybe he’s just spent too much time in Ba’Gamnan’s company. “You should have risen higher in the Ninth, if you knew about that,” Noah snaps, cleaning the wolf’s-blood off his sword. “Know where he kept himself hidden, all these years?”
“What, you’re actually trying to pass that off on me?” Ba’Gamnan laughs, a rattling thing that makes Jules shiver a little despite himself.
“He’s a Captain in the Dalmascan Order,” Noah goes on, his face like the grey stone of that pit. “Seems he’s forgotten everything else about who he is.”
-
a man who craves honor lost
“And what is the proper title to call you by now, Your Honor?” Vayne makes a show of tapping his fingers on the wrist-cuffs he wears. “It seems you have moved up in rank, since deserting your post. Absolve that I think this something of an anomaly. King of the Pirates.”
Zecht-Reddas, now, Vayne reminds himself-narrows his eyes. His face is more hale, since tile-games and lessons. “I still mean to treat you with the utmost respect, until I turn you over to Her Highness.”
“I see,” Vayne drawls, “King of the Privateers. It was not enough to defect from our nation, you had to side with our enemies to express your scorn.”
“You cannot understand the depths of my hatred for your culture. I myself cannot atone for my years abiding it, emulating it, enforcing it.”
“If you really want to atone, you will have off with my shackles and give me and Drace a head start.”
-
a scientist crippled by policy
“We knew Dalmasca had control of the Aerodomes,” Drace says, and the clench of her throat into shadows makes Jules wonder if the rumors are true.
“We went first to Draklor,” Vayne cuts in for her. “We thought you could have protected us.”
The Doctor sighs. “Perhaps, yes. But I could not have healed you here, not with the sandrats nipping at our heels. And could I have flown you away, oh no, not with their pirates in the skies. You found a doctor, you found safe anonymity. That is why I pronounced you dead, Vayne-or Varin, I should say!”
Vayne plainly ignores that. “And Larsa?”
“Larsa is dead,” the Doctor says without remorse. “He calls himself Lamont, now. If you don’t mind consorting with the aforementioned pirates, I can tell you where to find him.”
-
she abides no injustice
The shackles are somehow heavier, this time, and Reddas’ ship unmercifully bright.
“Once I retrieve Lord Larsa for them, I will continue negotiations with King Raminas on your behalf,” Drace is saying, in step with Vayne. “Her Highness Ashelia is the key to all this. I have won her trust.”
“And in the act, lost mine,” Vayne counters.
“It is imperative that Lord Larsa be recovered.”
“You speak of him as a relic, a stone or a sword.”
“That is the game that Dalmasca is-”
Something barrels into Drace from behind-Gabranth, Vayne sees when the gold flies past, or Noah as he calls himself now. She struggles but he’s pinned her, trapped her beneath him and has raised his fists in their restraints to-
Vayne does not protest.
Noah’s wristcuffs come down, and the crunch of Drace’s bones echoes through the ship. The rattle mingles with Noah’s growl until the sounds are indistinguishable, until they fade to the thrumming of engines.
Her mouth is whole beneath the black blood. When Noah thrusts down to kiss her there, Vayne allows him that moment, and turns away.
-
pirates four
“Well wouldn’t you look at that, Fran. We have a visitor.”
The Viera’s entire acknowledgement amounts to one glance and half a scoff. Balthier, though, he uncouples his gun and swaggers toward the party, into his range but not theirs. His tongue clicks, a signal, and two Dalmascan kids come out of sodding nowhere, Jules thinks, out of the shadows of the airship and its tools.
“For once I’m not here for your white-arsed hide,” Ba’Gamnan seethes, leaving his weapons on his back. Jules does the same. They all do the same, though with Vayne the difference is mere technicality. “I’m looking for a boy. I think you know where he is.”
“There are a lot of boys in Balfonheim.” Balthier smirks, making a show of aiming, letting the Dalmascans close in. “Got one myself.”
“I’m not yours, Balthier,” the kid in question snaps.
“Banter’s part of the occupation, Vaan. Give as good as you get there, too.”
The kid unfurls his smile and readies his spear. “Right.”
“Point is, we’re not just going to give you that kind of information,” the other Dalmascan, the girl, coos over. “You’ll have to work for it. And considering I polished that ship from stern to stem just this morning, I don’t mean swabbing.”
“See Vaan, Penelo’s got the general idea,” Balthier says, shading his eyes, aiming right for Ba’Gamnan.
“But she doesn’t fight as well as I do yet,” Vaan quips, grinning brazenly.
“Then prove it,” Balthier says. “Bring me the head of a headhunter.”
Ba’Gamnan grins over the glow of his mancatcher. “Yours counts, murder?”
-
his country’s son
None of the King’s blood is on Ashelia. That doesn’t mean a damned thing, Vossler decides. He unsheathes Nightmare, looks Her Highness in the eyes-so cold, so empty-and steels his voice for this.
“Your Highness, I invoke the Order’s Ascension. You are unfit.”
For a long moment, there is only the sound of his own breath, his own armor. Ashelia is still, her eyes closed, and perhaps she is resigning to this, perhaps there will be no fight-
“Gerun,” Ashelia says, “make clear to the Captain how fit We are.”
Vossler barely has time to see the wave of blue and Mist before he feels it, before it pelts him clean across the room, like jousting, like-“Lord Rasler-”
“Your Majesty,” no, it’s Basch, “I-“
“You may prove your loyalty,” Ashelia says.
Vossler wonders why he can feel nothing. He knows he is broken, he sees the twist of his body, the slack of his hands. It is not Disable. There is blood. There is Basch’s face and the horror on it. There is Ashelia, still calm, a blue cast about her like moonlight despite the sun at her back.
“He is a traitor, Basch.” she says, clear as day. “He raised his sword against Us.”
In the silence and fog, Basch comes nearer. Vossler breathes and cannot feel it, only knows that his mouth is not yet dry. He watches Basch’s knee sink into the carpet and come away stained. He watches the sword poise near his side. He understands.
“Do it,” he says. “I have made my peace.”
Basch’s eyes are lost in shadow.
“Only you can save her from herself.”
“Forgive me,” Basch whispers.
“Get on with it,” Vossler snarls, as best he can.
-
her majesty’s truest ally
“Why do this, Noah? Why persist?”
“She promised us our home. Has she delivered? Has she cleaned Archadia’s filth from the walls of that prison she turned Ronsenburg into? Has she undone the crimes of the Judges?”
“She is home, Noah. Landis will never be as once it was.”
“I do not ask for that!” A seam bursts on Noah’s glove. “But Landis is not ours-it is hers.”
“And I am hers,” Basch says.
“And I will not have it!”
-
savior
“And who are you, Your Majesty, Ashelia the Mad? An angel of vengeance? Or a saint of salvation?”
“I am simply myself,” she snaps back at Vayne. “And I want only what is mine.”
---
.
.
Title: The Game
Author/Artist: mithrigil
Fandom: Ivalice -- FFXII
Characters: All
Rating: R
Warnings: Blood, spoilers
Theme: Role-reversal--the good guys and the bad guys. As in, Dalmasca conquers and Archadia resists.
The Game
Mithrigil Galtirglin
a man who wants peace
“Rozarria offers its heartiest congratulations, Your Majesty.”
Raminas inclines his head politely, a wine-buttressed smile on his lips. “We thank you, son of Margrace. Have you conveyed these thanks to the bride and groom? We should think Rasler would like to see you again.”
“That time has not yet come,” Al-Cid says, and nudges his glasses up the slope of his nose. He nears the king, not obtrusively but obviously, enough that Raminas feels the need to look away. The king seeks out his daughter and new son amid the dancers; Ashelia is laughing, her eyes brighter than Raminas has ever seen. And then, here is Al-Cid, with his black glasses up and a white scroll in his hand, now pressed into the king’s.
“Why tonight?” Raminas whispers, crestfallen.
“Because Archadia will not wait,” Al-Cid says plain. “They already have the skies.”
-
a prince who will give anything to his homeland
“Lord Rasler, no!”
It is as if he does not heed Vossler at all. The prince stands with the Shard clasped to his chest, setting his white armor aglow and the device on his cape shuddering in the Mist. All the magick of Sochen swarms around him, all the tiles and ice of the caves cast their light on this boy.
“For my father!” Rasler screams, just before the world burns white.
-
a cool, considerate man
After the Dalmascan Captain leaves them, the Emperor turns first to Ghis.
“Are we to then bow to them?” Gramis whispers. “They laid waste to our sacred places, turned our allies against us-enlisted the aid of pirates where their own armies fell short-they-they unleashed a creeping death that breached the Paling. Vayne is wounded. All this, without Rozarria’s support; the Desert Kingdoms, of their own accord.”
“If they take us, it will be as Galtea past,” Ghis reminds him. The judge removes his helm-his wrinkles are dark, the bruises beneath his eyes dire. “It is a return to the ways of old. Raithwall’s blood is reasonable. Raminas will let Solidor keep its rule, if you bend to that term.”
Gramis shakes his head, the crown turning with him. “The Dynast-King was a reformed tyrant.”
“Better a tyrant at your reins, than no road to walk upon,” Ghis says.
-
a boy who wants only to understand
“G-Gabranth…why?”
“For my home,” he says. The voice is not the same, it isn’t, but neither is the way Gabranth is acting, neither is the blood on Gabranth’s swords and that is father, father’s body there stabbed in the chair- “For my home,” he repeats. “For the place I would sing to you of in your cradle. Now is the time. If I do this, Dalmasca will see Landis free.”
Larsa can’t hold back his tears, can’t see past them, can’t breathe. “But-but father loved you-he-he-”
“Little Prince.” The blood drips to the tile, streaking on Gabranth’s heel. “I suggest you run.”
-
an urchin who longs for the heights
“…then give me your hate,” the Princess-Archades’ Protector now, sorry-calls to them all, “the gods know I deserve it. I am the cause of your losses, I and my father. But that is why he sent me here; not to oppress you, but to rectify you. Your losses, and my losses, are our responsibility to reclaim, together. So hate me; that will be my penance, and I will endure it. And in return, I will love you all.”
The city is silent. Jules glares, bites down on the fragment of sandalwood in his cheek.
The Princess hangs her head, and her sigh rattles through every cobblestone.
Then someone applauds, and soon Jules is the only one silent in tens of thousands.
-
an alpha divorced from his pack
“Get down,” the Bangaa hisses, “you ain’t got chops enough to get you out of Ronsenburg, do you?”
Jules listens. The Bangaa presses himself against the wall in front of him, sniffs around the corner.
“Then you don’t want to get sent there. Tha’ss what they’ll do to you if they catch you rifling ‘round the Princess’ things. So do what I say and you’ll get another chance to get whoever it is you’re after, boy.” The rings in the Bangaa’s snout and ears flicker with the scant light.
“Whatever,” Jules corrects.
The Bangaa makes a soft hissing sound, all his teeth bared. “Oh no, you’re not a thief. You’re a killer. Or you want to be one. Ain’t a trap in your pocket nor a gambit in your ear. Not enough room for your bread-and-butter rumors, else.”
Jules smirks. “You’re Ba’Gamnan, aren’t you.”
“Got a good ear for hearsay, don’t you. Now listen clear.”
-
a hound, begging for scraps at the master’s table
“I did not kill the Emperor.”
“’Course you didn’t, boss. Who was it then, your egg-brother?”
Noah snarls, and Jules thinks that it’s more than a little Bangaa-like, or maybe he’s just spent too much time in Ba’Gamnan’s company. “You should have risen higher in the Ninth, if you knew about that,” Noah snaps, cleaning the wolf’s-blood off his sword. “Know where he kept himself hidden, all these years?”
“What, you’re actually trying to pass that off on me?” Ba’Gamnan laughs, a rattling thing that makes Jules shiver a little despite himself.
“He’s a Captain in the Dalmascan Order,” Noah goes on, his face like the grey stone of that pit. “Seems he’s forgotten everything else about who he is.”
-
a man who craves honor lost
“And what is the proper title to call you by now, Your Honor?” Vayne makes a show of tapping his fingers on the wrist-cuffs he wears. “It seems you have moved up in rank, since deserting your post. Absolve that I think this something of an anomaly. King of the Pirates.”
Zecht-Reddas, now, Vayne reminds himself-narrows his eyes. His face is more hale, since tile-games and lessons. “I still mean to treat you with the utmost respect, until I turn you over to Her Highness.”
“I see,” Vayne drawls, “King of the Privateers. It was not enough to defect from our nation, you had to side with our enemies to express your scorn.”
“You cannot understand the depths of my hatred for your culture. I myself cannot atone for my years abiding it, emulating it, enforcing it.”
“If you really want to atone, you will have off with my shackles and give me and Drace a head start.”
-
a scientist crippled by policy
“We knew Dalmasca had control of the Aerodomes,” Drace says, and the clench of her throat into shadows makes Jules wonder if the rumors are true.
“We went first to Draklor,” Vayne cuts in for her. “We thought you could have protected us.”
The Doctor sighs. “Perhaps, yes. But I could not have healed you here, not with the sandrats nipping at our heels. And could I have flown you away, oh no, not with their pirates in the skies. You found a doctor, you found safe anonymity. That is why I pronounced you dead, Vayne-or Varin, I should say!”
Vayne plainly ignores that. “And Larsa?”
“Larsa is dead,” the Doctor says without remorse. “He calls himself Lamont, now. If you don’t mind consorting with the aforementioned pirates, I can tell you where to find him.”
-
she abides no injustice
The shackles are somehow heavier, this time, and Reddas’ ship unmercifully bright.
“Once I retrieve Lord Larsa for them, I will continue negotiations with King Raminas on your behalf,” Drace is saying, in step with Vayne. “Her Highness Ashelia is the key to all this. I have won her trust.”
“And in the act, lost mine,” Vayne counters.
“It is imperative that Lord Larsa be recovered.”
“You speak of him as a relic, a stone or a sword.”
“That is the game that Dalmasca is-”
Something barrels into Drace from behind-Gabranth, Vayne sees when the gold flies past, or Noah as he calls himself now. She struggles but he’s pinned her, trapped her beneath him and has raised his fists in their restraints to-
Vayne does not protest.
Noah’s wristcuffs come down, and the crunch of Drace’s bones echoes through the ship. The rattle mingles with Noah’s growl until the sounds are indistinguishable, until they fade to the thrumming of engines.
Her mouth is whole beneath the black blood. When Noah thrusts down to kiss her there, Vayne allows him that moment, and turns away.
-
pirates four
“Well wouldn’t you look at that, Fran. We have a visitor.”
The Viera’s entire acknowledgement amounts to one glance and half a scoff. Balthier, though, he uncouples his gun and swaggers toward the party, into his range but not theirs. His tongue clicks, a signal, and two Dalmascan kids come out of sodding nowhere, Jules thinks, out of the shadows of the airship and its tools.
“For once I’m not here for your white-arsed hide,” Ba’Gamnan seethes, leaving his weapons on his back. Jules does the same. They all do the same, though with Vayne the difference is mere technicality. “I’m looking for a boy. I think you know where he is.”
“There are a lot of boys in Balfonheim.” Balthier smirks, making a show of aiming, letting the Dalmascans close in. “Got one myself.”
“I’m not yours, Balthier,” the kid in question snaps.
“Banter’s part of the occupation, Vaan. Give as good as you get there, too.”
The kid unfurls his smile and readies his spear. “Right.”
“Point is, we’re not just going to give you that kind of information,” the other Dalmascan, the girl, coos over. “You’ll have to work for it. And considering I polished that ship from stern to stem just this morning, I don’t mean swabbing.”
“See Vaan, Penelo’s got the general idea,” Balthier says, shading his eyes, aiming right for Ba’Gamnan.
“But she doesn’t fight as well as I do yet,” Vaan quips, grinning brazenly.
“Then prove it,” Balthier says. “Bring me the head of a headhunter.”
Ba’Gamnan grins over the glow of his mancatcher. “Yours counts, murder?”
-
his country’s son
None of the King’s blood is on Ashelia. That doesn’t mean a damned thing, Vossler decides. He unsheathes Nightmare, looks Her Highness in the eyes-so cold, so empty-and steels his voice for this.
“Your Highness, I invoke the Order’s Ascension. You are unfit.”
For a long moment, there is only the sound of his own breath, his own armor. Ashelia is still, her eyes closed, and perhaps she is resigning to this, perhaps there will be no fight-
“Gerun,” Ashelia says, “make clear to the Captain how fit We are.”
Vossler barely has time to see the wave of blue and Mist before he feels it, before it pelts him clean across the room, like jousting, like-“Lord Rasler-”
“Your Majesty,” no, it’s Basch, “I-“
“You may prove your loyalty,” Ashelia says.
Vossler wonders why he can feel nothing. He knows he is broken, he sees the twist of his body, the slack of his hands. It is not Disable. There is blood. There is Basch’s face and the horror on it. There is Ashelia, still calm, a blue cast about her like moonlight despite the sun at her back.
“He is a traitor, Basch.” she says, clear as day. “He raised his sword against Us.”
In the silence and fog, Basch comes nearer. Vossler breathes and cannot feel it, only knows that his mouth is not yet dry. He watches Basch’s knee sink into the carpet and come away stained. He watches the sword poise near his side. He understands.
“Do it,” he says. “I have made my peace.”
Basch’s eyes are lost in shadow.
“Only you can save her from herself.”
“Forgive me,” Basch whispers.
“Get on with it,” Vossler snarls, as best he can.
-
her majesty’s truest ally
“Why do this, Noah? Why persist?”
“She promised us our home. Has she delivered? Has she cleaned Archadia’s filth from the walls of that prison she turned Ronsenburg into? Has she undone the crimes of the Judges?”
“She is home, Noah. Landis will never be as once it was.”
“I do not ask for that!” A seam bursts on Noah’s glove. “But Landis is not ours-it is hers.”
“And I am hers,” Basch says.
“And I will not have it!”
-
savior
“And who are you, Your Majesty, Ashelia the Mad? An angel of vengeance? Or a saint of salvation?”
“I am simply myself,” she snaps back at Vayne. “And I want only what is mine.”
---
.
.