[Final Fantasy Tactics] Hades and Persephone
Delita, Ovelia. A seduction, of sorts.
She turned her hands over. Staring into her palms-she did not look at him.
“‘The lord of Death did so beckon the Spring Maiden to his hand,’” she whispered. “ ‘Show me flowers, he said--’”
The knight’s brow rose. “Do I know that one?”
The Queen bit the inside of her cheek. “ ‘Show me flowers, for I know them not.’”
“Ah.” Delita slung an arm over the back of his chair. “Yes. I do.”
“’The Spring Maiden looked at him,’’ continued Ovelia. She had cause to be irritated by his relaxed pose but no desire to acknowledge it. “ ‘And asked him, how can this be? And Lord Death did answer…’”
“ ‘In my kingdom, the fields yield ash. There is not a touch of colour, not a whorl of green. All of it, grey.’”
Delita drummed his fingers against the wood of an armrest and smiled.
“‘No flowers grow for me, he said. So moved by his words, she went to him,’” he quoted, perfectly. Then, taking note of her features, tipped his head. He switched back to common high tongue: “That is how it goes?”
“Yes.”
“Such a learned Queen.”
Ovelia held her arms at the elbows and turned her head as though it might quell the squirm the words brought to her belly. The Cardinal’s indulgent smile burned bitterly in her memories. He had the rooms of his castle heated to the point of discomfort. In his own offices, at any rate. The dungeons had been quite cool. “...as expected.”
“Oh,” said Delita, with a laugh. “Not at all.”
He stood, scraping the chair. Ovelia sucked in a breath as though he’d struck her. He hadn’t touched her. He was across the room. She heard the clicks and creak of armor unbuckled, and the not-so-soft clatter of gauntlet dropping against wood. She almost missed it, with the sound of blood in her ears and the high, burned flush in her face.
“…no?”
He answered her like a boy: “No. What good would that serve? Our Queen might get such silly ideas-I would think, it would be more to their interest to take you for a fool. It was such that they wanted, when they created you. And so beautiful you’ve become, in all that ignorance they thought they left you too, squirreled away as you were…”
“For my protection.”
The knight hummed. “No doubt, they wanted that too.”
“For the people.” Still, she did not look at him. “…for themselves.”
The sounds of his shifting were no longer coming from the safe distance of across the room. “See? Such silly ideas-who was it that taught you, Highness? I daresay he did you a service. If a double edged one.”
“You struck him.” Ovelia could have laughed. So bitter, perhaps she could see some of Delita’s cause for it. It all seemed so… “When you took me. From Orbonne.”
…and the sudden heat of the knight’s hands on her hips nearly caused a jolt. Warm pressure against the cloth of her nightclothes, careful pressure, bare-he’d taken his gloves off, it was his fingers, only his fingertips. He took care with the touch. He leaned near, as he was wont to do. He whispered to her as he was also wont to do. There was nothing but those fingers on her, and he did not move them, but it felt as though his words traced her whole body.
There was little to be done for it.
“‘Show me flowers.’ Ovelia…” he said. “I am sorry. He seemed to care for you quite a lot.”
“He was the last person who did.”
“…do you believe that?”
“What reason have I not to?” She had to grip the window sill, turning to face him. His touch was gone. She nearly stumbled-and when had her throat began to hurt? “I am no Princess, no Queen. I am but the decoration on the handle of a knife. Forsaken by all but--”
“All but...?”
“-all but God.”
“And me.”
“What?”
He caught her by the chin.
“And me,” he said again, his eyes taken by a sudden softness. His thumb brushed the corner of her mouth. Her lips. “I will not forsake you.”
There was an earnest catch in his breath. Ovelia was rapt. Ovelia was tense. Ovelia was ready to flee. Ovelia was ready to fall against him. Ovelia wasn’t certain if he smelled of flowers or of ash.
“I’ve sworn it. I'm yours, if you’ll have me.”
As it happened, she did.
She turned her hands over. Staring into her palms-she did not look at him.
“‘The lord of Death did so beckon the Spring Maiden to his hand,’” she whispered. “ ‘Show me flowers, he said--’”
The knight’s brow rose. “Do I know that one?”
The Queen bit the inside of her cheek. “ ‘Show me flowers, for I know them not.’”
“Ah.” Delita slung an arm over the back of his chair. “Yes. I do.”
“’The Spring Maiden looked at him,’’ continued Ovelia. She had cause to be irritated by his relaxed pose but no desire to acknowledge it. “ ‘And asked him, how can this be? And Lord Death did answer…’”
“ ‘In my kingdom, the fields yield ash. There is not a touch of colour, not a whorl of green. All of it, grey.’”
Delita drummed his fingers against the wood of an armrest and smiled.
“‘No flowers grow for me, he said. So moved by his words, she went to him,’” he quoted, perfectly. Then, taking note of her features, tipped his head. He switched back to common high tongue: “That is how it goes?”
“Yes.”
“Such a learned Queen.”
Ovelia held her arms at the elbows and turned her head as though it might quell the squirm the words brought to her belly. The Cardinal’s indulgent smile burned bitterly in her memories. He had the rooms of his castle heated to the point of discomfort. In his own offices, at any rate. The dungeons had been quite cool. “...as expected.”
“Oh,” said Delita, with a laugh. “Not at all.”
He stood, scraping the chair. Ovelia sucked in a breath as though he’d struck her. He hadn’t touched her. He was across the room. She heard the clicks and creak of armor unbuckled, and the not-so-soft clatter of gauntlet dropping against wood. She almost missed it, with the sound of blood in her ears and the high, burned flush in her face.
“…no?”
He answered her like a boy: “No. What good would that serve? Our Queen might get such silly ideas-I would think, it would be more to their interest to take you for a fool. It was such that they wanted, when they created you. And so beautiful you’ve become, in all that ignorance they thought they left you too, squirreled away as you were…”
“For my protection.”
The knight hummed. “No doubt, they wanted that too.”
“For the people.” Still, she did not look at him. “…for themselves.”
The sounds of his shifting were no longer coming from the safe distance of across the room. “See? Such silly ideas-who was it that taught you, Highness? I daresay he did you a service. If a double edged one.”
“You struck him.” Ovelia could have laughed. So bitter, perhaps she could see some of Delita’s cause for it. It all seemed so… “When you took me. From Orbonne.”
…and the sudden heat of the knight’s hands on her hips nearly caused a jolt. Warm pressure against the cloth of her nightclothes, careful pressure, bare-he’d taken his gloves off, it was his fingers, only his fingertips. He took care with the touch. He leaned near, as he was wont to do. He whispered to her as he was also wont to do. There was nothing but those fingers on her, and he did not move them, but it felt as though his words traced her whole body.
There was little to be done for it.
“‘Show me flowers.’ Ovelia…” he said. “I am sorry. He seemed to care for you quite a lot.”
“He was the last person who did.”
“…do you believe that?”
“What reason have I not to?” She had to grip the window sill, turning to face him. His touch was gone. She nearly stumbled-and when had her throat began to hurt? “I am no Princess, no Queen. I am but the decoration on the handle of a knife. Forsaken by all but--”
“All but...?”
“-all but God.”
“And me.”
“What?”
He caught her by the chin.
“And me,” he said again, his eyes taken by a sudden softness. His thumb brushed the corner of her mouth. Her lips. “I will not forsake you.”
There was an earnest catch in his breath. Ovelia was rapt. Ovelia was tense. Ovelia was ready to flee. Ovelia was ready to fall against him. Ovelia wasn’t certain if he smelled of flowers or of ash.
“I’ve sworn it. I'm yours, if you’ll have me.”
As it happened, she did.