Gallows Tree (FFXII AU, Vayne, Gregoroth)
Puel's Writing Process for roads_diverged, A Summary:
"Okay, I'm clearly not going to finish the currently 3,000-ish word Firefly prison break thing or the 4,000-word actor-Balthier thing that will end up growing Chapters And Such. Gah, Threepenny. So short things. Right. How about Vossler hiring Mal and the crew to -- guys! Shut up! Stop it! You don't need to make this 2,000 words and counting and then demand a freaking sequel! OKAY! Vayne, time to go play in the Wild West and make it under 1,000 words PLEASE.
...crap. Close enough.
Dear muses, it is good that you are being talkative and it is good that I am writing Long Things ZOMG but can you wait until finals and Threepenny are over PLEASE JUST LEARN TO KEEP IT SHORT gaaah."
Title: Gallows Tree
Author/Artist: puella_nerdii
Fandom: Final Fantasy XII
Pairings: None.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Character death, spoilers
Theme: Cosplay 8. Wild West
Wordcount: 1,271
Notes: Late. *thwap*
Public hangings are typically a raucous affair, but today the buzzing of the blackflies is the crispest note sounding in the air. The town clusters beneath Gallows Tree bedecked in their Sunday finest. The polish on the men’s boots dulls as dust eddies around their feet; the women’s broad-brimmed hats wilt under the weight of the sun; the children shift from foot to foot, seeking to escape the confines of their starched suits and dresses, and stare with beetle-black eyes at the man in the hood.
And Gabranth, for his part, stares at Vayne. The hood obscures his expression, but Vayne feels the heat building around him, rising from him. He will not speak. He does not need to. His is a silent role.
He granted Drace a private execution, but Gregoroth’s crimes were against the people, and Gregoroth must answer to them. He mops at the sweat soaking through his cravat and steers his horse to face the crowd.
“Nils Gregoroth,” he calls. Even the blackflies fall silent, or so he imagines. “You have been charged with the murder of Gramis Solidor. A jury of your peers found you guilty of this monstrous offense and sentenced you to hang by the neck until dead. If you’ve any final prayers or supplications, speak them now.”
Even with his hands bound behind him and a noose knotted around his neck, Gregoroth sits atop the old plough-horse as though the beast was a throne. But Vayne sharpens his gaze and sees the trembles wracking Gregoroth’s shoulders, the twitching of his legs. He knows what lies ahead, and he knows that the short drop will stop his words soon enough. “No prayers and no supplications,” he says. Spittle flecks the corners of his mouth. “But accusations-yes, I’ve those aplenty.”
Whispers break out in the crowd. Gallows Tree creaks as a gust threatens to send the ladies’ hats flying. “Make them,” Vayne says. He loops his horse’s reins around his wrist. He will not flinch from this.
“First, a confession.” Gregoroth’s voice swells. “We tried to wrest Archadia Railroads from Gramis Solidor’s grasp, yes. He was an able executive, an excellent executive, but he was a dying man.”
Vayne bows his head, remembering the bloodstained handkerchiefs strewn about his father’s room.
“And in the event of his death, who would ownership of the company pass to?” The veins in Gregoroth’s neck bulge as far as the noose will allow them to. “Not I, not my colleagues. His son. His eldest living son.”
Vayne sits high in his saddle, back straight. Gregoroth’s words glance off him and slide away, or at least that is the illusion he strives to present.
“Can you not see the rattlesnake among you? Can you not feel his venom drip into your ear? Don’t you-for the love of God, don’t you-” His shoulders start to hunch; the collegiate crispness fades from his voice. It could have been an effective tool, had he employed it earlier. “He’ll gobble up this land and leave you all for dead. He isn’t one of you. He has never been one of you. I make no pretensions about who I am, but he-that dissembler-I had nothing to gain from Gramis Solidor’s death! Nothing to gain, and everything to lose! Everything, until he agreed to sign over the company to Larsa. He’d not done that yet. He’d not done that before his death. Some of you see. Some of you must see. Some of you must know.”
The crowd falls silent again. As one entity, they turn to Vayne.
“You fear me, Gregoroth,” he says, accenting the syllables with wonder. “You’re afraid of me.” He remembers hours pacing in front of the mirror practicing the people’s cant and lets his voice fall further back in his throat, lets a drawl tug up the corner of his lips, lets his articulation melt. “All of you on the board are, ‘cause you know I ain’t a steer you can guide with a rope around the neck.”
He gestures to the noose. A child in the front of the crowd snickers, and the laughter ripples outward. Gabranth’s hands flex.
“Nah,” he continues. “You can’t tie a bell ‘round me and expect me to come home when you call. You say you know me? Well, I know you. I know what you belly-draggin’ fat cats want outta these people.”
There’s such a freedom to talking in this manner. He really must do it more often.
“You’re scared ‘cause I want to take the money outta your pockets and put it back where it belongs. With them.” He throws his hands out to the crowd, lifts his chin in the air, waits-and the applause swells under him. “Yeah, my daddy had money, but he never let me forget where it came from. It came from these people. All these people you see in front of you. And he taught me how to do right by ‘em. And you better believe I’m gonna do just like he taught me to. I’m gonna march up to all the other concerns who want to suck this land dry and I’m gonna tell ‘em this. I’m gonna tell ‘em that I’m holding this land in trust for these people, and they ain’t gonna set one greasy toe on the people’s land without the people’s leave!”
The cheers rocket towards the sky, and Vayne fancies his cheeks have flushed from the heat of their response.
“But keep on talkin’ if you want to,” he says. “‘Cause these are the last words you’re ever gonna get, and I believe in everyone having their say.”
“We’ve heard all he has to say!” a portly man in the crowd cries. Vayne holds up his hand.
“Even if it’s nothing new, we’re gonna let him say it for fairness’s sake.”
But Gregoroth shakes his head. His face, slick and shining, turns the color of curdled milk. “What’s the use?” he asks. “They are yours.”
He pitches his voice somewhere between the version of the drawl he’s been employing and his own natural speech pattern. “That’s where you’re mistaken,” he says. “They are themselves. Will you receive a blessing before you go?”
“If God has not heard my prayers by now,” Gregoroth says, “he never will. No, I’ll have no blessing.”
Vayne waits for the first woman to take out her picnic basket and arrange its contents on the ground before addressing Gabranth. “Executioner, do your office.”
The people cheer again. Some hold up scraps from their lunches in salute, bits of cold ham and salted beef and pie.
Gabranth drapes the burlap sack over Gregoroth’s head. Watching a man asphyxiate is a ghastly business, much less clean than poison. He steers his horse towards Vayne just close enough for a whisper to carry between them. “I know whose stores the poison came from,” he mutters.
A trace of a smile crosses Vayne’s face.
Gabranth rests his riding crop across his palm and then flicks it against the plough-horse’s haunches. He only needs to do it once; the beast starts and gallops towards the town, with Gabranth in pursuit. Gregoroth is left suspended from the branch, writhing in the air like a fish on a hook. The desperate gasps are of the same quality. As the crowd picnics below him, the thrashing of his legs becomes a churning motion, then limp twitching, until at long last his legs no longer move of their own volition, swaying pendulously in the breeze.
“Justice is served,” Vayne says. A lone crow alights on the top branch of Gallows Tree.
"Okay, I'm clearly not going to finish the currently 3,000-ish word Firefly prison break thing or the 4,000-word actor-Balthier thing that will end up growing Chapters And Such. Gah, Threepenny. So short things. Right. How about Vossler hiring Mal and the crew to -- guys! Shut up! Stop it! You don't need to make this 2,000 words and counting and then demand a freaking sequel! OKAY! Vayne, time to go play in the Wild West and make it under 1,000 words PLEASE.
...crap. Close enough.
Dear muses, it is good that you are being talkative and it is good that I am writing Long Things ZOMG but can you wait until finals and Threepenny are over PLEASE JUST LEARN TO KEEP IT SHORT gaaah."
Title: Gallows Tree
Author/Artist: puella_nerdii
Fandom: Final Fantasy XII
Pairings: None.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Character death, spoilers
Theme: Cosplay 8. Wild West
Wordcount: 1,271
Notes: Late. *thwap*
Public hangings are typically a raucous affair, but today the buzzing of the blackflies is the crispest note sounding in the air. The town clusters beneath Gallows Tree bedecked in their Sunday finest. The polish on the men’s boots dulls as dust eddies around their feet; the women’s broad-brimmed hats wilt under the weight of the sun; the children shift from foot to foot, seeking to escape the confines of their starched suits and dresses, and stare with beetle-black eyes at the man in the hood.
And Gabranth, for his part, stares at Vayne. The hood obscures his expression, but Vayne feels the heat building around him, rising from him. He will not speak. He does not need to. His is a silent role.
He granted Drace a private execution, but Gregoroth’s crimes were against the people, and Gregoroth must answer to them. He mops at the sweat soaking through his cravat and steers his horse to face the crowd.
“Nils Gregoroth,” he calls. Even the blackflies fall silent, or so he imagines. “You have been charged with the murder of Gramis Solidor. A jury of your peers found you guilty of this monstrous offense and sentenced you to hang by the neck until dead. If you’ve any final prayers or supplications, speak them now.”
Even with his hands bound behind him and a noose knotted around his neck, Gregoroth sits atop the old plough-horse as though the beast was a throne. But Vayne sharpens his gaze and sees the trembles wracking Gregoroth’s shoulders, the twitching of his legs. He knows what lies ahead, and he knows that the short drop will stop his words soon enough. “No prayers and no supplications,” he says. Spittle flecks the corners of his mouth. “But accusations-yes, I’ve those aplenty.”
Whispers break out in the crowd. Gallows Tree creaks as a gust threatens to send the ladies’ hats flying. “Make them,” Vayne says. He loops his horse’s reins around his wrist. He will not flinch from this.
“First, a confession.” Gregoroth’s voice swells. “We tried to wrest Archadia Railroads from Gramis Solidor’s grasp, yes. He was an able executive, an excellent executive, but he was a dying man.”
Vayne bows his head, remembering the bloodstained handkerchiefs strewn about his father’s room.
“And in the event of his death, who would ownership of the company pass to?” The veins in Gregoroth’s neck bulge as far as the noose will allow them to. “Not I, not my colleagues. His son. His eldest living son.”
Vayne sits high in his saddle, back straight. Gregoroth’s words glance off him and slide away, or at least that is the illusion he strives to present.
“Can you not see the rattlesnake among you? Can you not feel his venom drip into your ear? Don’t you-for the love of God, don’t you-” His shoulders start to hunch; the collegiate crispness fades from his voice. It could have been an effective tool, had he employed it earlier. “He’ll gobble up this land and leave you all for dead. He isn’t one of you. He has never been one of you. I make no pretensions about who I am, but he-that dissembler-I had nothing to gain from Gramis Solidor’s death! Nothing to gain, and everything to lose! Everything, until he agreed to sign over the company to Larsa. He’d not done that yet. He’d not done that before his death. Some of you see. Some of you must see. Some of you must know.”
The crowd falls silent again. As one entity, they turn to Vayne.
“You fear me, Gregoroth,” he says, accenting the syllables with wonder. “You’re afraid of me.” He remembers hours pacing in front of the mirror practicing the people’s cant and lets his voice fall further back in his throat, lets a drawl tug up the corner of his lips, lets his articulation melt. “All of you on the board are, ‘cause you know I ain’t a steer you can guide with a rope around the neck.”
He gestures to the noose. A child in the front of the crowd snickers, and the laughter ripples outward. Gabranth’s hands flex.
“Nah,” he continues. “You can’t tie a bell ‘round me and expect me to come home when you call. You say you know me? Well, I know you. I know what you belly-draggin’ fat cats want outta these people.”
There’s such a freedom to talking in this manner. He really must do it more often.
“You’re scared ‘cause I want to take the money outta your pockets and put it back where it belongs. With them.” He throws his hands out to the crowd, lifts his chin in the air, waits-and the applause swells under him. “Yeah, my daddy had money, but he never let me forget where it came from. It came from these people. All these people you see in front of you. And he taught me how to do right by ‘em. And you better believe I’m gonna do just like he taught me to. I’m gonna march up to all the other concerns who want to suck this land dry and I’m gonna tell ‘em this. I’m gonna tell ‘em that I’m holding this land in trust for these people, and they ain’t gonna set one greasy toe on the people’s land without the people’s leave!”
The cheers rocket towards the sky, and Vayne fancies his cheeks have flushed from the heat of their response.
“But keep on talkin’ if you want to,” he says. “‘Cause these are the last words you’re ever gonna get, and I believe in everyone having their say.”
“We’ve heard all he has to say!” a portly man in the crowd cries. Vayne holds up his hand.
“Even if it’s nothing new, we’re gonna let him say it for fairness’s sake.”
But Gregoroth shakes his head. His face, slick and shining, turns the color of curdled milk. “What’s the use?” he asks. “They are yours.”
He pitches his voice somewhere between the version of the drawl he’s been employing and his own natural speech pattern. “That’s where you’re mistaken,” he says. “They are themselves. Will you receive a blessing before you go?”
“If God has not heard my prayers by now,” Gregoroth says, “he never will. No, I’ll have no blessing.”
Vayne waits for the first woman to take out her picnic basket and arrange its contents on the ground before addressing Gabranth. “Executioner, do your office.”
The people cheer again. Some hold up scraps from their lunches in salute, bits of cold ham and salted beef and pie.
Gabranth drapes the burlap sack over Gregoroth’s head. Watching a man asphyxiate is a ghastly business, much less clean than poison. He steers his horse towards Vayne just close enough for a whisper to carry between them. “I know whose stores the poison came from,” he mutters.
A trace of a smile crosses Vayne’s face.
Gabranth rests his riding crop across his palm and then flicks it against the plough-horse’s haunches. He only needs to do it once; the beast starts and gallops towards the town, with Gabranth in pursuit. Gregoroth is left suspended from the branch, writhing in the air like a fish on a hook. The desperate gasps are of the same quality. As the crowd picnics below him, the thrashing of his legs becomes a churning motion, then limp twitching, until at long last his legs no longer move of their own volition, swaying pendulously in the breeze.
“Justice is served,” Vayne says. A lone crow alights on the top branch of Gallows Tree.