No Crown of Thorns
Title: No Crown of Thorns
Fandom: Post-FFXII
Characters: Larsa, (Penelo)
Rating: G
Format: One-Shot
Status: Complete, polished, spellchecked.
Words: 810
Disclaimer: I don't claim ownership of characters or games, only themes within.
Author's Notes: Cause apparently there just isn't enough Larsa/Penelo love on my flist, I had to write this. Mostly to make bottle_of_shine say this: "Never write fic where they're happy together, do you. XD". Oh wellz. Larsa's a bit older, about eighteen in this.
No Crown of Thorns
He'd sent roses, white ones, dozens upon dozens of the fragrant things, as many as his personal household budget could afford. When his châtelaine had spoken up, and said perhaps this is a bit excessive, he'd shown a rare display of temper and chucked an expensive porcelain something or other across the room. The object, a gift from some ambassador or other, had exploded in a puff of a dust on the wall, leaving a dent that he felt mirrored the one in his heart.
Oh, little emperor, ruler of everything except your feelings.
He berated himself inwardly, as the maids came in to clear up the mess and his châtelaine bowed and ducked away. Finally, peace, even if it came at the price of his châtelaine's nerves. He didn't like this feeling: the loss of control and the burning tightness that reminded him of eating Fran's cooking so many years ago. Not that he'd ever have said it to the Viera's face... but whatever she'd put in the stew had given him a serious case of underage heartburn.
Larsa turned to look at himself in the mirror, noting the shadow that had brimmed along his face since the morning toilette he'd had to endure. How many days had it been since the page, stumbling and clumsy (like he'd been once? No. Never. Not him.), had brought him the waxed scroll, signed by Penelo herself.
He'd declined the invitation to her wedding immediately, he was far too busy, he'd said aloud as he'd dictated the letter that was to be sent back.
But then, the roses. He'd had to send something, some token, so she'd know.
The reflection of his image swallowed hard, newly-won adam's apple bobbing in his throat, and he squeezed his eyes shut tight.
“I am too old to cry,” he said, willing his emotions to be like a forged sword, unbending, unyielding.
Are you going to let something you cherish go so easily? Are you not Emperor of over half the world? Do you not simply command, and Ivalice and it's many empires follow?
“Your voice is tiring to listen to,” Larsa said, voice schooling itself so no emotion would show as he turned, the portrait of his brother hanging over the fireplace. He stared at it for a few moments, eyes tight around the corners, pre-mature lines splaying across his skin.
I would not be so weak-
“I am not weak,” Larsa thundered out. He walked over to the picture, and yanked it from the wall. The wire stringing it up snapping with an undignified twang. With a roar, he threw it, frame and all, across the room where it cracked up against the wall and then slid down. The canvas peeled away from the frame itself, sagging sadly.
His breathing slowed, and the sweat that gathered on the back of his neck made him shiver.
“It is not weak to turn your back and lay down your arms when you have been defeated,” he said to himself, walking to his bed and sitting down on it. The thick covers gave way beneath him and he flopped backwards, one arm sprawling over his eyes.
“I am not weak,” he said reasonably, “I'm sensible. There's a distinct difference.” The portrait made no comment and he sat up, feeling rumpled and a little foolish. Perhaps it wasn't too late to halt the messenger and instead send word he would go, and see her married off to whichever suitor she'd picked. Never mind the thought of it sent his stomach roiling around like a pack of wolfhounds. Well, he just wouldn't eat any cake, and he'd be alright to sit through the reception afterwards.
You're making plans inside that clever head of yours, little brother. Like a true Solidor.
“You are dead,” he said, feeling scornful and scorned at the same time, reaching over to ring the bell for his valet. “Your voice, and your thoughts should have rightfully died with you.” He stood as his manservant entered and bowed low, before proceeding to bring out his evening wear for court.
The portrait remained silent while the man was there, and Larsa heaved a side of inward relief. While news that the emperor was insane might have been amusing, it wouldn't help the stability he had worked so hard to create over the last six years. He wondered idly if Penelo would seek him out if she thought he were ill...
The valet left him to his own devices and he looked once more at where the portrait was leaning against the wall.
“I do not make plans, Vayne. I command, and the world obeys.” He pushed open the doors of his apartment, and stepped out, gesturing for one of the waiting guards.
“There is some rubbish on the floor, by my dresser. Have it burnt.”
Fandom: Post-FFXII
Characters: Larsa, (Penelo)
Rating: G
Format: One-Shot
Status: Complete, polished, spellchecked.
Words: 810
Disclaimer: I don't claim ownership of characters or games, only themes within.
Author's Notes: Cause apparently there just isn't enough Larsa/Penelo love on my flist, I had to write this. Mostly to make bottle_of_shine say this: "Never write fic where they're happy together, do you. XD". Oh wellz. Larsa's a bit older, about eighteen in this.
No Crown of Thorns
He'd sent roses, white ones, dozens upon dozens of the fragrant things, as many as his personal household budget could afford. When his châtelaine had spoken up, and said perhaps this is a bit excessive, he'd shown a rare display of temper and chucked an expensive porcelain something or other across the room. The object, a gift from some ambassador or other, had exploded in a puff of a dust on the wall, leaving a dent that he felt mirrored the one in his heart.
Oh, little emperor, ruler of everything except your feelings.
He berated himself inwardly, as the maids came in to clear up the mess and his châtelaine bowed and ducked away. Finally, peace, even if it came at the price of his châtelaine's nerves. He didn't like this feeling: the loss of control and the burning tightness that reminded him of eating Fran's cooking so many years ago. Not that he'd ever have said it to the Viera's face... but whatever she'd put in the stew had given him a serious case of underage heartburn.
Larsa turned to look at himself in the mirror, noting the shadow that had brimmed along his face since the morning toilette he'd had to endure. How many days had it been since the page, stumbling and clumsy (like he'd been once? No. Never. Not him.), had brought him the waxed scroll, signed by Penelo herself.
He'd declined the invitation to her wedding immediately, he was far too busy, he'd said aloud as he'd dictated the letter that was to be sent back.
But then, the roses. He'd had to send something, some token, so she'd know.
The reflection of his image swallowed hard, newly-won adam's apple bobbing in his throat, and he squeezed his eyes shut tight.
“I am too old to cry,” he said, willing his emotions to be like a forged sword, unbending, unyielding.
Are you going to let something you cherish go so easily? Are you not Emperor of over half the world? Do you not simply command, and Ivalice and it's many empires follow?
“Your voice is tiring to listen to,” Larsa said, voice schooling itself so no emotion would show as he turned, the portrait of his brother hanging over the fireplace. He stared at it for a few moments, eyes tight around the corners, pre-mature lines splaying across his skin.
I would not be so weak-
“I am not weak,” Larsa thundered out. He walked over to the picture, and yanked it from the wall. The wire stringing it up snapping with an undignified twang. With a roar, he threw it, frame and all, across the room where it cracked up against the wall and then slid down. The canvas peeled away from the frame itself, sagging sadly.
His breathing slowed, and the sweat that gathered on the back of his neck made him shiver.
“It is not weak to turn your back and lay down your arms when you have been defeated,” he said to himself, walking to his bed and sitting down on it. The thick covers gave way beneath him and he flopped backwards, one arm sprawling over his eyes.
“I am not weak,” he said reasonably, “I'm sensible. There's a distinct difference.” The portrait made no comment and he sat up, feeling rumpled and a little foolish. Perhaps it wasn't too late to halt the messenger and instead send word he would go, and see her married off to whichever suitor she'd picked. Never mind the thought of it sent his stomach roiling around like a pack of wolfhounds. Well, he just wouldn't eat any cake, and he'd be alright to sit through the reception afterwards.
You're making plans inside that clever head of yours, little brother. Like a true Solidor.
“You are dead,” he said, feeling scornful and scorned at the same time, reaching over to ring the bell for his valet. “Your voice, and your thoughts should have rightfully died with you.” He stood as his manservant entered and bowed low, before proceeding to bring out his evening wear for court.
The portrait remained silent while the man was there, and Larsa heaved a side of inward relief. While news that the emperor was insane might have been amusing, it wouldn't help the stability he had worked so hard to create over the last six years. He wondered idly if Penelo would seek him out if she thought he were ill...
The valet left him to his own devices and he looked once more at where the portrait was leaning against the wall.
“I do not make plans, Vayne. I command, and the world obeys.” He pushed open the doors of his apartment, and stepped out, gesturing for one of the waiting guards.
“There is some rubbish on the floor, by my dresser. Have it burnt.”