[fic][Vagrant Story] More Pressing Matters
I've decided that in celebration of FFXII coming out soon squee--ahem. I should try my best to write as much Tactics/VS fic as possible.
Early in the war the Duke Bardorba, then still a primed, able soldier, returned to one of his then numerous auxiliary estates. It was a sudden visit, in a cold season. Truly given the status of the realm, he should have followed his brother’s request to appear ata summit in Valnain immediately. He did not. The Duke was well aware that his support and his men could not be spared, his mysterious good fortune and brilliance on the battlefield already lauded, his territories vast. He was one of the unfortunate few examples of effectiveness in the royal family: his younger brother currently doing his best to commit fratricide, his elder brother reeling from this fact, and their sister married off across the border and, still bitter, refusing to do a damn thing to help a one of them. Thus, allies would do anything to humour the ever flighty middle child and in this instant that is precisely what they would have to do. He made a considerable detour from the route prescribed to him, taking with him a single unit made up a few of his more valuable lords- decorated though not trusted, however. It was said he kept them so near to him in those years just to assure that they not attempt to divide his forces amongst themselves during one of his sudden, curious absences from active service. It was a common concern of military leaders during this era: it was only such treasons that had gotten them where they presently were. As it stood however, he had less to fear than most. He had taken the side of the nobility in many lesser conflicts. They had no reason to antagonize him at present.
Under these circumstances, the Duke returned home. He had no strong yearnings to linger, it seemed. He gave his mount such a slap across the neck as he leapt off that the bird reared and it took two stable hands and trough filled with greens to pacify it. He left his men baffled in the courtyard. They had no orders. The trip had been decided on the flash after a courier bearing their colors had arrived at midnight through the whirl of the falling snow. Whether they were to prepare for a few days rest or be ready to move again was a mystery.
Their commander officer was in no temper to be asked about it. He slammed open his doors, storming his own halls like they were that of the enemy. The wet-nurse met him at the staircase, hiding in her brightly colored shawls: the few things she had brought with her from the city he had hired her. She was accompanied by two nervous physicians, and their assistant. Each of them wore a grave look. Bardorba gripped the railing of the stairs and didn’t let them step down any further.
“What is the news,” he demanded.
The physicians hemmed and hawed, the assistant looked between them both. They rang their hands as though attempting to shape out a delicate way to say it:
“Your excellency...” one of them began.
“Perhaps, an airing might--”
“M’lord, they’re idiots,” said the nursemaid, frankly. She spoke in high, fluting accents of her own dialect, rather than her awkward Valendian common. The doctors looked alarmed, but the Duke understood her perfectly. His looked to her. “They do not know what they are doing and you should send them away. The news is not good. It is not likely to be better. It is a sickness of the bone. Not blood or breath. I would say a week, at the very best.” She looked up at him, and under her scarves he could see her eyes: dark and sympathetic. Her own child had died not a month prior. “I am sorry.”
Bardorba held hard to the rail, for a moment he felt the strength flow out of him, his breath refuse to take, his eyes refusing to see. He would have to find a priest. He would have make the proper provisions. The name would have to be recorded- and then crossed off. He would have to pay the damn physicians. He would have to write Sidone, who was waiting for him in Valnain. She herself had always been of poor health, and it was for that reason their marriage had not been a well-advised one, despite the wealth and knowledge she had brought to his house. The lady would take this as a personal blow. Already, she’d been sending little toys from the city as a way of exercising some distant fondness...those would have to be disposed of as well. They would be nothing but a bitter reminder. Still, in the back of his mind there was that voice that spoke that cruel, cold reason which he embraced so well when it served him: it is unfortunate, it is most unfortunate, but there will be more, you are as of yet in need of one...
The Duke shut that last thought out with an angry crack to the carvings of the stairs.
“There is nothing then?” he asked softly, the physicians began to speak, but he leveled them with a glare. They would’ve stumbled back had the steps behind them not bumped their ankles. “Nothing at all?” His voice bordered on a growl, not unlike the lion that had been the symbol of more than a few of his ancestors.
Only the nurse remained unmoving, clutching the ends of her shawl.
“Perhap...” she said.
He now glared at her. “Perhaps what?”
“Perhaps...” she started, then thought better of it, touching one hand to the sheathed knife he knew she kept on her left hip, and then brushing the one she kept on her right. Having done this, the woman looked up again; her eyes clear and decided. “There is something. But there is a little time for it. M’lord, let me...”
The Duke’s forces were half dismounted when he charged back out not an hour after he had first vanished inside. He carried with him a package wrapped in startlingly colorful cloths. He refused to let anyone inquire or take it from him as he swung back up to his now well-fed bird. He seemed to expect the others to simply do the same, and some men were still racing for their mounts as he started back for the gates. It was Baron Folles who caught up with him first, having waited loyally the whole time.
“To Valnain, then?” said his vassal, trying not to sound too hopeful. He had family there and he was a young man, hoping for a speedy return.
“No,” said Bardorba, pressing down on the chocobo’s neck, calling it to a faster pace. He manned the reins with one arm; the other stayed firmly around his new load. To it, he provided the greatest care.
“No?” Folles could scarcely mask his surprise. “But your excellency...!”
He kicked his own mount desperately. Their banner trailed pathetically behind them both.
“Where are we bound!” he called. “And what the devil are you carrying?!!”
“To Lea Monde,” shouted the Duke. He never once looked back. “And if you cannot keep pace with me, then go win this war on your own! I have more pressing matters to attend to!”
He kept on riding into the bright, cold dawn.
Early in the war the Duke Bardorba, then still a primed, able soldier, returned to one of his then numerous auxiliary estates. It was a sudden visit, in a cold season. Truly given the status of the realm, he should have followed his brother’s request to appear ata summit in Valnain immediately. He did not. The Duke was well aware that his support and his men could not be spared, his mysterious good fortune and brilliance on the battlefield already lauded, his territories vast. He was one of the unfortunate few examples of effectiveness in the royal family: his younger brother currently doing his best to commit fratricide, his elder brother reeling from this fact, and their sister married off across the border and, still bitter, refusing to do a damn thing to help a one of them. Thus, allies would do anything to humour the ever flighty middle child and in this instant that is precisely what they would have to do. He made a considerable detour from the route prescribed to him, taking with him a single unit made up a few of his more valuable lords- decorated though not trusted, however. It was said he kept them so near to him in those years just to assure that they not attempt to divide his forces amongst themselves during one of his sudden, curious absences from active service. It was a common concern of military leaders during this era: it was only such treasons that had gotten them where they presently were. As it stood however, he had less to fear than most. He had taken the side of the nobility in many lesser conflicts. They had no reason to antagonize him at present.
Under these circumstances, the Duke returned home. He had no strong yearnings to linger, it seemed. He gave his mount such a slap across the neck as he leapt off that the bird reared and it took two stable hands and trough filled with greens to pacify it. He left his men baffled in the courtyard. They had no orders. The trip had been decided on the flash after a courier bearing their colors had arrived at midnight through the whirl of the falling snow. Whether they were to prepare for a few days rest or be ready to move again was a mystery.
Their commander officer was in no temper to be asked about it. He slammed open his doors, storming his own halls like they were that of the enemy. The wet-nurse met him at the staircase, hiding in her brightly colored shawls: the few things she had brought with her from the city he had hired her. She was accompanied by two nervous physicians, and their assistant. Each of them wore a grave look. Bardorba gripped the railing of the stairs and didn’t let them step down any further.
“What is the news,” he demanded.
The physicians hemmed and hawed, the assistant looked between them both. They rang their hands as though attempting to shape out a delicate way to say it:
“Your excellency...” one of them began.
“Perhaps, an airing might--”
“M’lord, they’re idiots,” said the nursemaid, frankly. She spoke in high, fluting accents of her own dialect, rather than her awkward Valendian common. The doctors looked alarmed, but the Duke understood her perfectly. His looked to her. “They do not know what they are doing and you should send them away. The news is not good. It is not likely to be better. It is a sickness of the bone. Not blood or breath. I would say a week, at the very best.” She looked up at him, and under her scarves he could see her eyes: dark and sympathetic. Her own child had died not a month prior. “I am sorry.”
Bardorba held hard to the rail, for a moment he felt the strength flow out of him, his breath refuse to take, his eyes refusing to see. He would have to find a priest. He would have make the proper provisions. The name would have to be recorded- and then crossed off. He would have to pay the damn physicians. He would have to write Sidone, who was waiting for him in Valnain. She herself had always been of poor health, and it was for that reason their marriage had not been a well-advised one, despite the wealth and knowledge she had brought to his house. The lady would take this as a personal blow. Already, she’d been sending little toys from the city as a way of exercising some distant fondness...those would have to be disposed of as well. They would be nothing but a bitter reminder. Still, in the back of his mind there was that voice that spoke that cruel, cold reason which he embraced so well when it served him: it is unfortunate, it is most unfortunate, but there will be more, you are as of yet in need of one...
The Duke shut that last thought out with an angry crack to the carvings of the stairs.
“There is nothing then?” he asked softly, the physicians began to speak, but he leveled them with a glare. They would’ve stumbled back had the steps behind them not bumped their ankles. “Nothing at all?” His voice bordered on a growl, not unlike the lion that had been the symbol of more than a few of his ancestors.
Only the nurse remained unmoving, clutching the ends of her shawl.
“Perhap...” she said.
He now glared at her. “Perhaps what?”
“Perhaps...” she started, then thought better of it, touching one hand to the sheathed knife he knew she kept on her left hip, and then brushing the one she kept on her right. Having done this, the woman looked up again; her eyes clear and decided. “There is something. But there is a little time for it. M’lord, let me...”
The Duke’s forces were half dismounted when he charged back out not an hour after he had first vanished inside. He carried with him a package wrapped in startlingly colorful cloths. He refused to let anyone inquire or take it from him as he swung back up to his now well-fed bird. He seemed to expect the others to simply do the same, and some men were still racing for their mounts as he started back for the gates. It was Baron Folles who caught up with him first, having waited loyally the whole time.
“To Valnain, then?” said his vassal, trying not to sound too hopeful. He had family there and he was a young man, hoping for a speedy return.
“No,” said Bardorba, pressing down on the chocobo’s neck, calling it to a faster pace. He manned the reins with one arm; the other stayed firmly around his new load. To it, he provided the greatest care.
“No?” Folles could scarcely mask his surprise. “But your excellency...!”
He kicked his own mount desperately. Their banner trailed pathetically behind them both.
“Where are we bound!” he called. “And what the devil are you carrying?!!”
“To Lea Monde,” shouted the Duke. He never once looked back. “And if you cannot keep pace with me, then go win this war on your own! I have more pressing matters to attend to!”
He kept on riding into the bright, cold dawn.