Happy (Belated) Birthday, Laylah!
Um.
This is a little late. Sorry. I ended up rewriting the ending a lot.
Anyway -- yesterday was laylah's birthday, and I told her I'd write her a ficpresent for the occasion dealing with Ashe and power dynamics.
And then Vayne snuck in there, and I got a very forceful visit from captive-but-no-way-in-hell-is-she-helpless Ashe. And I came up with this. Hopefully it's to your liking, L.
The Sovereignty Shall Fall Upon. 2,047 words. Set between the Garamsythe Waterways and the Dreadnought Leviathan. Vayne has much to offer, and Ashe still has much to lose. Worksafe -- Ashe is treated roughly, but not in any ways that exceed a PG-13 rating or so.
The boy, the pirate, and the viera are shackled with little incident. The viera’s eyes glint dangerously when the Archadians first approach, but her hume partner rests his hand on her arm and she draws herself upright, staring down at her captors over the tip of her delicate nose.
“They are bound for the Nalbina Dungeons,” one of Ashe’s captors informs her, his gauntleted hand tight around her wrist. Her lip curls at his mention of Nalbina’s rechristening; that the pride of Dalmasca’s borders should have fallen into such disarray to deserve the change of name proves disheartening. “They, and any others in your ragtag insurgence that we find tonight.”
“Resistance,” she corrects him through gritted teeth. By now, it is habit for her to do so.
His companion laughs and wrenches her right arm behind her back, which is tender still from the sting of the fire-mare’s whiplike appendages and the poison contained in the bulblike protrusions at the tip of each. She has had no time for cures, nor for potions, and the spikes of the soldier’s gauntlets dig into the deepest of her welts -- and has the temerity to sink one in deep. She is sure that was intentional, for she hears him rasp with laughter when she bites back a cry. Perhaps she should thank him, she thinks as she feels something sticky and wet trickle down her arm, for his gesture likely released poisoned blood. “You must account yourself a fine mediciner, if you see fit to lance my wounds so,” she snaps. Ashe spits each word out like a dart, steering them towards the chinks in her guards’ armor.
“Hold your tongue -- ” the second of her guards shouts, and her arm is dangerously close to being wrenched from its socket. Some string held taut in her shoulder snaps, and thousands of white-hot needles bury themselves deep in her muscle, but she will not cry out...
“And stay your hand, Lieutenant.” Vayne Solidor rests a gloved hand on the rail of the walkway above as though it were a promenade attached to one of Archadia’s finest houses, not a rough-hewn outcropping overlooking a dank sewer. “I would not have our most esteemed captive treated so.”
“You no longer call me cousin, Vayne,” she says, lifting her chin to meet his distant eyes.
“The Princess Ashe took her own life,” he says curtly. “I see before me a pretender with no evidence to support her claims of royal lineage, a dangerous leader of insurgents -- ” he deliberately emphasizes the word “ -- who would sow sedition in a city that has long known peace.”
“It is a false peace when my people are forced underground so they may not spoil the streets of their own city,” she hisses. Before him, Ashe sees no reason to hold her tongue; besides, it has never been a skill at which she has excelled.
“And yet how many have responded over the years when you send out your call to arms?” Vayne asks, his eyes never leaving hers. “Archadia keeps streetears in Rabanastre. We know how your numbers dwindle by the day. We know how Dalmasca wishes to rest and recover from her wounds, not open them anew with futile struggle.”
“You know nothing of Dalmasca.” The sheer presumption in his words sends blood coursing to the back of her neck.
“Indeed? They seem far more receptive to my message than to yours.”
“They do not see the serpent’s tooth concealed in your smile.”
“I bring with me peace,” he tells her, his voice cold. “It is a pity your anger blinds you to that.” Vayne raises his voice and his hand, directing his attention to his men. “Take her to the holding cells aboard the Dreadnought Leviathan.”
“You are more of a fool than I first thought if you think I will submit gently to this.” Ashe’s eyes narrow into slits.
“There are magicks to halt such immature behavior, and magi licensed to use them,” Vayne says. “It would not be my choice to resort to such means, but I will not have you inconvenience my men.”
“Sire!” A messenger’s bootsteps clatter across the walkways of the Garamsythe. He kneels in the grimy masonry at Vayne’s feet. “Twenty have been sent to the dungeons at Nalbina tonight.”
“Only twenty?”
The messenger nods. “Vossler Azelas -- he who was a captain of Dalmasca’s knights -- he led a good portion of them through Lowtown. We followed a group of them into the waterways, but they set out traps for us.” Ashe looks closely at his hand and sees it marked with the charred spirals produced by the explosives favored by the resistance. She masks her smile well, but the sight does bring her satisfaction. There are still those in Dalmasca whose hearts remain true.
“Then there will be only one execution,” the shorter of Ashe’s guard’s grumbles.
“We need not talk of executions yet,” Vayne says. “There are means by which our prisoner may yet preserve her life, should she wish to keep it.”
“And would those means preserve my duties and my honor, I wonder?” She must free herself before she boards the ship. Her hands are bound, but she has knowledge of magicks. Have any of them range enough to strike Vayne down where he stands? Ashe twists her head to inspect the runes twisting across the surface of the shackles; they shift slyly away from her gaze, as though they wish to remain hidden. They are designed to prevent the wearer from accessing the hidden pathways of energy that enable the casting of magicks. That route is unavailable to her, then. She will need to seize her opportunity when the guard around her is not so heavy --
“I said move,” someone growls behind her. She has little time to register the pain in the back of her head, for all is enveloped by blackness before she can get her bearings.
***
The Leviathan is cleaner than the Garamsythe, and its stench is of a different sort, but Ashe prefers the sewers. There, the monsters are plain; they do not conceal their deformities behind helms.
Her best hope is that Vossler will receive word of her impending execution and send aid. It galls her, but no other route of escape seems as plausible. She could dispatch one of her guards should he be foolish enough to enter her cell and don his armor long enough to stow herself in a hidden place aboard the ship. Her guards, however, do not enter her room, not even to deliver her meals. She picks at the jagged edge of a fingernail with her thumb. The tedium may well kill her before the executioner’s blade has a chance to do so.
And then the door slides open. She stares mutely at it for several seconds. Is it a figment of her imaginings?
Unfortunately not, for when Vayne strides in, flanked by a pair of soldiers outfitted in suits of full plate worth more than the combined value of all the armor the resistance has pieced together over the months, he is all too real.
“I would speak with you alone, if you would prove cooperative.” He folds his hands behind his back.
“And if I do not prove to be so?” she asks.
“Then I imagine your accommodations will become a great deal less pleasant.” His lips thin slightly. Ashe would challenge him to do his worst, but she guesses he would take such a statement in earnest.
“I give you my word,” she says quietly. She need not keep her promise, after all.
“Good. And to ensure your cooperation -- ” Vayne’s fingers flex beneath his gloves, tracing arcane symbols in the air before him. He is swift and sure in his casting; balls of glowing light gather in his fingertips and envelope her legs before she can voice any protest. The Mist pins her legs to the bench. Grunting, she tries to lift one free, but it seems to be made of stone, heavy and immovable.
At least she still has use of her voice. “I did not agree to this,” she says.
“You are not in a position to dictate terms. Leave us,” he orders his guards. They hold their positions at first, but a cool look from Vayne sends them scurrying from the room.
“When last we spoke, I told you your life might be spared,” he continues.
“If certain conditions are met, I imagine.” She hates that she is forced to crane her neck if she wishes to look at him.
“Naturally. You are still counted an enemy of the Empire. Our trust cannot be given freely to such a one.”
“What would you have me do?” she asks, her face twisting in contempt.
“What indeed.” The stiff fabric of his gloves brushes against her jaw.
The bile rises in her throat and threatens to spill over. “I would sooner bite through my tongue,” she hisses; the world grows dangerously dark at the periphery of her vision. Vayne withdraws his hand.
“So I see. My terms are less exacting than that, Lady.” The chill returns to his voice. “It would be easy to restore you to the throne you claim as your own, governing Dalmasca as a protectorate of our Empire. We would demand a small tithe, but nothing Dalmasca could not pay. In exchange, you would cease your insurgent activity and take a man of our noble Houses as your consort.”
That any Archadian prig should think himself worthy to replace Rasler sets her teeth on edge. That such a boorish nobleman would do so at Vayne’s command and would act as Vayne’s agent hardly improves matters. “So it is not sovereignty you would grant me, then.”
“You would rule, not your consort.”
“And my consort -- ” she spits the word “ -- would be your dog, and would report all affairs of state to you.”
Vayne says nothing.
“Would it not be so?” she demands.
“It is as I said. You would need to regain our trust. But we have no desire to punish the whole of Dalmasca for your deeds. Her citizens deserve better.”
“Your presumption is sickening.” Ashe feels her rigid legs tense even further. She is her people’s sovereign, not he. “They do deserve better -- better than the bloody-handed consul they have received.”
“Perhaps they do.” The quality of the light overhead does not change, but portions of Vayne’s face nonetheless seem to fall into shadow. “And they will receive better. I will see to it.”
“At what cost?”
“No price that concerns you.”
“If it involves my people, it does concern me.” Ashe picks at her fingernail again; as shreds of nail fall into her lap, she imagines them to be pieces of skin torn from Vayne’s unflappable face.
“Your people. An interesting choice of words, is it not?” Vayne grips her shoulder -- his is not the soft touch of a noble but the firm grasp of one whose hands have been strengthened by combat. “You have isolated yourself from them, remained entrenched in the filth of your sewers for these past two years. I wonder if you would recognize their faces were you to step into the light once more.”
“You only think you have won their hearts now,” Ashe hisses. “When you unveil yourself at last, they will flee from the monster revealed therein.”
He is silent then. “I see it is useless to appeal to your wisdom,” Vayne says at last. “It would be for the better of your country were you to cease this futile struggle...”
“It would be to my country’s eternal shame were I to see them bow beneath Archadia’s yoke.”
“Then your answer is no. I shall not tarry where I am not wanted.” He bends down so his face is nearly level with hers. The press of his lips upon her own is sudden and sharp, like the slice of a dagger. “A remembrance before you meet your death,” he says. The air has fled from her lungs. Ashe can only stare at him, cheeks pink with shock.
The door seals itself tightly when Vayne departs.
She can do nothing but wait.
This is a little late. Sorry. I ended up rewriting the ending a lot.
Anyway -- yesterday was laylah's birthday, and I told her I'd write her a ficpresent for the occasion dealing with Ashe and power dynamics.
And then Vayne snuck in there, and I got a very forceful visit from captive-but-no-way-in-hell-is-she-helpless Ashe. And I came up with this. Hopefully it's to your liking, L.
The Sovereignty Shall Fall Upon. 2,047 words. Set between the Garamsythe Waterways and the Dreadnought Leviathan. Vayne has much to offer, and Ashe still has much to lose. Worksafe -- Ashe is treated roughly, but not in any ways that exceed a PG-13 rating or so.
The boy, the pirate, and the viera are shackled with little incident. The viera’s eyes glint dangerously when the Archadians first approach, but her hume partner rests his hand on her arm and she draws herself upright, staring down at her captors over the tip of her delicate nose.
“They are bound for the Nalbina Dungeons,” one of Ashe’s captors informs her, his gauntleted hand tight around her wrist. Her lip curls at his mention of Nalbina’s rechristening; that the pride of Dalmasca’s borders should have fallen into such disarray to deserve the change of name proves disheartening. “They, and any others in your ragtag insurgence that we find tonight.”
“Resistance,” she corrects him through gritted teeth. By now, it is habit for her to do so.
His companion laughs and wrenches her right arm behind her back, which is tender still from the sting of the fire-mare’s whiplike appendages and the poison contained in the bulblike protrusions at the tip of each. She has had no time for cures, nor for potions, and the spikes of the soldier’s gauntlets dig into the deepest of her welts -- and has the temerity to sink one in deep. She is sure that was intentional, for she hears him rasp with laughter when she bites back a cry. Perhaps she should thank him, she thinks as she feels something sticky and wet trickle down her arm, for his gesture likely released poisoned blood. “You must account yourself a fine mediciner, if you see fit to lance my wounds so,” she snaps. Ashe spits each word out like a dart, steering them towards the chinks in her guards’ armor.
“Hold your tongue -- ” the second of her guards shouts, and her arm is dangerously close to being wrenched from its socket. Some string held taut in her shoulder snaps, and thousands of white-hot needles bury themselves deep in her muscle, but she will not cry out...
“And stay your hand, Lieutenant.” Vayne Solidor rests a gloved hand on the rail of the walkway above as though it were a promenade attached to one of Archadia’s finest houses, not a rough-hewn outcropping overlooking a dank sewer. “I would not have our most esteemed captive treated so.”
“You no longer call me cousin, Vayne,” she says, lifting her chin to meet his distant eyes.
“The Princess Ashe took her own life,” he says curtly. “I see before me a pretender with no evidence to support her claims of royal lineage, a dangerous leader of insurgents -- ” he deliberately emphasizes the word “ -- who would sow sedition in a city that has long known peace.”
“It is a false peace when my people are forced underground so they may not spoil the streets of their own city,” she hisses. Before him, Ashe sees no reason to hold her tongue; besides, it has never been a skill at which she has excelled.
“And yet how many have responded over the years when you send out your call to arms?” Vayne asks, his eyes never leaving hers. “Archadia keeps streetears in Rabanastre. We know how your numbers dwindle by the day. We know how Dalmasca wishes to rest and recover from her wounds, not open them anew with futile struggle.”
“You know nothing of Dalmasca.” The sheer presumption in his words sends blood coursing to the back of her neck.
“Indeed? They seem far more receptive to my message than to yours.”
“They do not see the serpent’s tooth concealed in your smile.”
“I bring with me peace,” he tells her, his voice cold. “It is a pity your anger blinds you to that.” Vayne raises his voice and his hand, directing his attention to his men. “Take her to the holding cells aboard the Dreadnought Leviathan.”
“You are more of a fool than I first thought if you think I will submit gently to this.” Ashe’s eyes narrow into slits.
“There are magicks to halt such immature behavior, and magi licensed to use them,” Vayne says. “It would not be my choice to resort to such means, but I will not have you inconvenience my men.”
“Sire!” A messenger’s bootsteps clatter across the walkways of the Garamsythe. He kneels in the grimy masonry at Vayne’s feet. “Twenty have been sent to the dungeons at Nalbina tonight.”
“Only twenty?”
The messenger nods. “Vossler Azelas -- he who was a captain of Dalmasca’s knights -- he led a good portion of them through Lowtown. We followed a group of them into the waterways, but they set out traps for us.” Ashe looks closely at his hand and sees it marked with the charred spirals produced by the explosives favored by the resistance. She masks her smile well, but the sight does bring her satisfaction. There are still those in Dalmasca whose hearts remain true.
“Then there will be only one execution,” the shorter of Ashe’s guard’s grumbles.
“We need not talk of executions yet,” Vayne says. “There are means by which our prisoner may yet preserve her life, should she wish to keep it.”
“And would those means preserve my duties and my honor, I wonder?” She must free herself before she boards the ship. Her hands are bound, but she has knowledge of magicks. Have any of them range enough to strike Vayne down where he stands? Ashe twists her head to inspect the runes twisting across the surface of the shackles; they shift slyly away from her gaze, as though they wish to remain hidden. They are designed to prevent the wearer from accessing the hidden pathways of energy that enable the casting of magicks. That route is unavailable to her, then. She will need to seize her opportunity when the guard around her is not so heavy --
“I said move,” someone growls behind her. She has little time to register the pain in the back of her head, for all is enveloped by blackness before she can get her bearings.
***
The Leviathan is cleaner than the Garamsythe, and its stench is of a different sort, but Ashe prefers the sewers. There, the monsters are plain; they do not conceal their deformities behind helms.
Her best hope is that Vossler will receive word of her impending execution and send aid. It galls her, but no other route of escape seems as plausible. She could dispatch one of her guards should he be foolish enough to enter her cell and don his armor long enough to stow herself in a hidden place aboard the ship. Her guards, however, do not enter her room, not even to deliver her meals. She picks at the jagged edge of a fingernail with her thumb. The tedium may well kill her before the executioner’s blade has a chance to do so.
And then the door slides open. She stares mutely at it for several seconds. Is it a figment of her imaginings?
Unfortunately not, for when Vayne strides in, flanked by a pair of soldiers outfitted in suits of full plate worth more than the combined value of all the armor the resistance has pieced together over the months, he is all too real.
“I would speak with you alone, if you would prove cooperative.” He folds his hands behind his back.
“And if I do not prove to be so?” she asks.
“Then I imagine your accommodations will become a great deal less pleasant.” His lips thin slightly. Ashe would challenge him to do his worst, but she guesses he would take such a statement in earnest.
“I give you my word,” she says quietly. She need not keep her promise, after all.
“Good. And to ensure your cooperation -- ” Vayne’s fingers flex beneath his gloves, tracing arcane symbols in the air before him. He is swift and sure in his casting; balls of glowing light gather in his fingertips and envelope her legs before she can voice any protest. The Mist pins her legs to the bench. Grunting, she tries to lift one free, but it seems to be made of stone, heavy and immovable.
At least she still has use of her voice. “I did not agree to this,” she says.
“You are not in a position to dictate terms. Leave us,” he orders his guards. They hold their positions at first, but a cool look from Vayne sends them scurrying from the room.
“When last we spoke, I told you your life might be spared,” he continues.
“If certain conditions are met, I imagine.” She hates that she is forced to crane her neck if she wishes to look at him.
“Naturally. You are still counted an enemy of the Empire. Our trust cannot be given freely to such a one.”
“What would you have me do?” she asks, her face twisting in contempt.
“What indeed.” The stiff fabric of his gloves brushes against her jaw.
The bile rises in her throat and threatens to spill over. “I would sooner bite through my tongue,” she hisses; the world grows dangerously dark at the periphery of her vision. Vayne withdraws his hand.
“So I see. My terms are less exacting than that, Lady.” The chill returns to his voice. “It would be easy to restore you to the throne you claim as your own, governing Dalmasca as a protectorate of our Empire. We would demand a small tithe, but nothing Dalmasca could not pay. In exchange, you would cease your insurgent activity and take a man of our noble Houses as your consort.”
That any Archadian prig should think himself worthy to replace Rasler sets her teeth on edge. That such a boorish nobleman would do so at Vayne’s command and would act as Vayne’s agent hardly improves matters. “So it is not sovereignty you would grant me, then.”
“You would rule, not your consort.”
“And my consort -- ” she spits the word “ -- would be your dog, and would report all affairs of state to you.”
Vayne says nothing.
“Would it not be so?” she demands.
“It is as I said. You would need to regain our trust. But we have no desire to punish the whole of Dalmasca for your deeds. Her citizens deserve better.”
“Your presumption is sickening.” Ashe feels her rigid legs tense even further. She is her people’s sovereign, not he. “They do deserve better -- better than the bloody-handed consul they have received.”
“Perhaps they do.” The quality of the light overhead does not change, but portions of Vayne’s face nonetheless seem to fall into shadow. “And they will receive better. I will see to it.”
“At what cost?”
“No price that concerns you.”
“If it involves my people, it does concern me.” Ashe picks at her fingernail again; as shreds of nail fall into her lap, she imagines them to be pieces of skin torn from Vayne’s unflappable face.
“Your people. An interesting choice of words, is it not?” Vayne grips her shoulder -- his is not the soft touch of a noble but the firm grasp of one whose hands have been strengthened by combat. “You have isolated yourself from them, remained entrenched in the filth of your sewers for these past two years. I wonder if you would recognize their faces were you to step into the light once more.”
“You only think you have won their hearts now,” Ashe hisses. “When you unveil yourself at last, they will flee from the monster revealed therein.”
He is silent then. “I see it is useless to appeal to your wisdom,” Vayne says at last. “It would be for the better of your country were you to cease this futile struggle...”
“It would be to my country’s eternal shame were I to see them bow beneath Archadia’s yoke.”
“Then your answer is no. I shall not tarry where I am not wanted.” He bends down so his face is nearly level with hers. The press of his lips upon her own is sudden and sharp, like the slice of a dagger. “A remembrance before you meet your death,” he says. The air has fled from her lungs. Ashe can only stare at him, cheeks pink with shock.
The door seals itself tightly when Vayne departs.
She can do nothing but wait.