Heart's Empire: Chapter Two
Title: Heart's Empire: Chapter Two
Fandom: FFXII
Characters: Larsa, Penelo
Warnings: None
Format: Chaptered
Status: Complete, polished, spellchecked.
Words: 2067
Disclaimer: I don't claim ownership of characters or games, only themes within.
Summary: Set almost ten years after the end of FFXII, Larsa is emperor of his own lands, with the trials and difficulties to match.
Author's Note: Thanks to owlmoose for canon bits, and bottle_of_shine for reassuring me no, my ideas are not lame. ;) I appreciate it. Cross posted to my journal, ffxii_fic, and larsaxpenelo for a specific reason.
Prologue | Chapter One
Heart's Empire: Chapter Two
His summer private audience chamber was exactly forty five paces across, or perhaps forty six if you didn't mind a close introduction with the carved reliefs. It was the summer chamber as one wall was open, with lacy stone arches and lattice works of the finest bone-white granite.
“Sir, the delegation from the eastern lands has already-” One of his counselors stood to the side, at the entrance of the private open-air room. Larsa cut off his words with one raised hand.
“I am well aware, counselor,” he said before walking to the balcony edge, his fingers wrapping around the cool stone railing, gripping it tightly. Lissara was below, the small perfect pony he'd picked himself for her last birthday taking her through a simple jumping course. He heard the shrill voice of his mistress of horses instructing her from the sides.
“Head up! Look, Lissara, look beyond the jump, not at the jump! Staring at the obstacle won't make it go away, and will only have you eating dirt!”
Larsa sighed with impatience and glanced at his counselor. The man was reed-thin, with hair imitating a badly sown field taken over with weeds in patches. He wondered self consciously if his mother's father had gone bald at a young age.
“I suppose they are wishing to negotiate the remainder of the treaties that the marriage of the Imperial Princess will bring?” he asked, looking back down at where his daughter was riding, or had been. He winced. The mistress of horses was busy catching that perfect pony, since it had apparently dumped its rider and was playing hide and seek at the end of the riding ring. The Imperial Princess dusted herself off, and looked up, waving a little at her father to let him know she wasn't hurt.
“Yes, and I have sent the bards and some soothing wine to busy them until you are ready, but even so, I would not suggest trying their patience overly much.”
“It would most likely be seen as a negative sign if I chose to decline the invitation for treaties until she is older?” Lissara remounted her pony, the mistress of horses holding firmly onto its reins until the girl-princess could settle herself comfortably. Larsa heard his counselor shift uncomfortably.
“I could not say or speak on that matter.”
Well, there was something to be said for honesty. Larsa sighed and raked his fingers through his hair before turning on his heel, away from the panic-inducing sight of his daughter and her pony heaving over six inch tall jumps.
“Alright, let us go meet them, and see what they have to say then,” he said, “it cannot possibly be worse than anything I have imagined thus far.”
---
“This is way worse than I imagined.” Penelo craned her head up, quite far up, and frowned, trying to see the entirety of the city map. Where was her boarding house? Curse the Archadians and their massive cities that didn't even have proper methods of true communication: beggars. There were fewer beggars here than any other place she'd been. It was supposed to speak of their prosperity, but all it really meant was that they hid their poor and infirmed in another place, where tourists and the proper sort of citizen wouldn't see them. Dalmasca had possessed places along similar lines. This was why she had preferred the sky. Up there the only lines dividing people were the ones that either meant you were alive and on deck, or hurtling through the air and pretty much dead.
She wrinkled her nose in annoyed disgust and decided to pick a direction. Her pack wasn't all that heavy since it was filled with a few basic necessities. This was a vacation after all, and not a hike across the Sandsea. The sun beat on her as she made her way up the clean streets, barely any dirt even collecting in the cracks between the paving stones. It was a far cry from the derelict temples and crumbling fortresses she and Balthier had been sneaking into since she'd signed on with him. She walked down the road some ways before ducking into a drink and sweet shop. She was paying for her glass of iced melon juice when the girl serving her shrank back, and she felt more than saw someone behind her.
She turned and stared up into the eye-slit of an armoured Imperial.
“Identification, please miss,” he said, although the request was clearly an order. Her mouth dropped open a little and she sputtered.
“I d-don't have any... on... me,” she said, which wasn't really true, but things were still tense between Arcadia and Dalmasca at the lower levels of society. A second set of clumping boots walked through the door of the shop, and the girl behind the counter gave a soft yelp and darted past the curtains that separated the public area with what must have been the baking area. Penelo felt her heart drop into her gut.
“Vagrants are not allowed in this area of town,” the new Imperial said, and she could see his eyes moving behind his armour, looking directly at her shabby, patched pack. So much for Larsa making any changes to this place, she thought with a pang of guilt for being angry at the young boy who had been so eager and dedicated to the cause of social justice.
“I'm not a vagrant,” she protested, “h-hey!” The Imperial closest to her grabbed her arm, and the other went for her bag. She was dragged out of the shop, and while she wanted to kick, she knew better. It wasn't a fair fight, and she liked her head in one piece. She did her best to yell though as they pulled her out, and she attracted a few stares but people quickly looked away.
So much for Larsa and his eyes full of dreams of what could be.
The Imperial holding her bag searched through it, dumping her possessions with complete callousness on the ground. Her dagger hit the paving stone, along with a heap of her clothing, her papers and citizenry identification landing on top of them. Then a glint of gold flashed and tumbled into the Imperial's hand. A fine golden chain as thin as thread cobwebbed across his armoured palm. Hanging from it was a shard of clear, coloured stone no bigger than the end of Penelo's thumb.
“Don't touch that,” she cried and tried to lunge for the guard holding her.
“This is... nethicite,” the Imperial said, looking at his college before down at Penelo. “Posession of nethicite within the boundaries of this city is illegal. You are hereby bound by the laws of Arcadia and are ordered to comply with us within the scope of your rights as a citizen of...” he knelt as he spoke, sifting through her personal effects and pulling her papers open, “Dalmasca. You will come with us now, one Penelo of Dalmasca, to be detained and questioned until the time that our courts may decide what is to be done with you.”
No one was looking now, and some of those passing by the three of them were making every effort to not look. Penelo gritted her teeth.
“Fine,” she said, “I'm complying- hey! I'm complying!” The Imperial had begun binding her hands behind her back, cold iron clamping down around her wrists. The other packed up her things and began walking. With a small tiny curse she followed. Not exactly the most stellar way to begin a vacation, she thought to herself. She was pushed into a hovering cab and her stomach dropped as the ground fell away from them and they zipped through the sky. Being on an airship always felt safer. She watched the city dwindle beneath her as they moved towards the imperial palace itself.
So much for your dreams, Larsa.
---
Larsa slept poorly that night, Lissara curled up in a tight, warm knot besides him. Her forehead was damp with the faint sweat of a small fever that had taken her after dinner, one that had called him out of the extended treaty-planning meetings he had been forced to sit through all day. The healers had done what they could for her, but were not partial to giving too many potions to a young child, so the fille royale had to do as any other sick child: sweat it out. She was however, clinging to his side and he felt overheated and restless. He slipped away from her, tucking in a pillow next to her, which she clung to just as happily, fickle as any cat he'd ever known. Larsa's hand smoothed her hair down, untangling a few damp curls before he wrapped himself in his robe. He didn't bother with his crown as he left the sleeping chamber, door clicking shut behind him.
The guards did not blink at the sight of him, staring straight ahead as he walked down the long hall of in-laid stone murals depicting all the lands that Arcadia ruled over, even if some of them no longer belonged to the Arcadian empire. Well, he mused, it is not your size that matters, it is what you do with it. He opened the doors to his study and stepped inside. The windows at the far end were not shuttered, and the moonlight made lead-shadow patterns on the thick carpet.
He was not exactly pleased at having his hand forced so that he needed to give up Lissara. She was no longer his, even though she would stay within his palace for the next six or perhaps even eight years. She no longer wore the plain gold circlet of an Arcadian imperial heir, but instead a chain of delicately worked silver blossoms that denoted her new rank in the eastern empire, the sun empire. Every day he would look upon his daughter, his creation, and see the mark of another man, older than even Larsa, staring right back at him.
It was uncomfortable, to trivialize the intensity of his emotions. His counselors were correct, however. He was securing her a future he could not promise her even in his own empire. Empresses did not rule with the same authority, and he would no sooner see her be ruled by a man not of this kingdom than he would see her sent away.
If only the sun empire did not have such vast armies at its disposal... if only there had not been movement along some of Arcadia's more troubled borders. The marriage contract itself had come with troops and arms from the man who had offered for Lissara.
He sat in his chair and brooded, fingers lacing together, watching the moon slowly travel across the floor. He didn't remember dozing off, but did remember waking up to a sharp knock at the study door. One of his aides poked his head inside of the room.
“I apologize for the intrusion-”
“No need, Izaiah,” Larsa said with a sigh, rubbing the sleep from one eye. “What is it?”
“I have been informed by the head of the guards that they confiscated manufactured nethicite.”
Larsa's attention snapped into focus and he stared at the aide.
“Nethicite?” he asked, standing up. A valet slid in behind the aide, a proper suit of clothing over one arm, the other supporting the crown.
“We assumed that you would be interested in seeing the person from whom the nethicite was taken from immediately, as per your instructions when you took on the mantle of emperor, your Imperial Majesty.” Izaiah bowed his head, and the valet mirrored the action, hurrying forward to help Larsa out of his robe and sleeping pants. As Larsa dressed and was dressed, he thought back to the last time they had even encountered any sort of nethicite entering Arcadia. It had been... quite a while back.
“Have Lissara's ladies see to it that she does need for anything while I am away,” he said, and ducked his head a slight amount so the aide could place the crown there. “I will see to this person right away.”
Izaiah had to follow him swiftly down the long hall as Larsa nearly dropped his imperial training and ran. Nethicite in Arcadia again... that was quite interesting, and even... worrisome.
Fandom: FFXII
Characters: Larsa, Penelo
Warnings: None
Format: Chaptered
Status: Complete, polished, spellchecked.
Words: 2067
Disclaimer: I don't claim ownership of characters or games, only themes within.
Summary: Set almost ten years after the end of FFXII, Larsa is emperor of his own lands, with the trials and difficulties to match.
Author's Note: Thanks to owlmoose for canon bits, and bottle_of_shine for reassuring me no, my ideas are not lame. ;) I appreciate it. Cross posted to my journal, ffxii_fic, and larsaxpenelo for a specific reason.
Prologue | Chapter One
Heart's Empire: Chapter Two
His summer private audience chamber was exactly forty five paces across, or perhaps forty six if you didn't mind a close introduction with the carved reliefs. It was the summer chamber as one wall was open, with lacy stone arches and lattice works of the finest bone-white granite.
“Sir, the delegation from the eastern lands has already-” One of his counselors stood to the side, at the entrance of the private open-air room. Larsa cut off his words with one raised hand.
“I am well aware, counselor,” he said before walking to the balcony edge, his fingers wrapping around the cool stone railing, gripping it tightly. Lissara was below, the small perfect pony he'd picked himself for her last birthday taking her through a simple jumping course. He heard the shrill voice of his mistress of horses instructing her from the sides.
“Head up! Look, Lissara, look beyond the jump, not at the jump! Staring at the obstacle won't make it go away, and will only have you eating dirt!”
Larsa sighed with impatience and glanced at his counselor. The man was reed-thin, with hair imitating a badly sown field taken over with weeds in patches. He wondered self consciously if his mother's father had gone bald at a young age.
“I suppose they are wishing to negotiate the remainder of the treaties that the marriage of the Imperial Princess will bring?” he asked, looking back down at where his daughter was riding, or had been. He winced. The mistress of horses was busy catching that perfect pony, since it had apparently dumped its rider and was playing hide and seek at the end of the riding ring. The Imperial Princess dusted herself off, and looked up, waving a little at her father to let him know she wasn't hurt.
“Yes, and I have sent the bards and some soothing wine to busy them until you are ready, but even so, I would not suggest trying their patience overly much.”
“It would most likely be seen as a negative sign if I chose to decline the invitation for treaties until she is older?” Lissara remounted her pony, the mistress of horses holding firmly onto its reins until the girl-princess could settle herself comfortably. Larsa heard his counselor shift uncomfortably.
“I could not say or speak on that matter.”
Well, there was something to be said for honesty. Larsa sighed and raked his fingers through his hair before turning on his heel, away from the panic-inducing sight of his daughter and her pony heaving over six inch tall jumps.
“Alright, let us go meet them, and see what they have to say then,” he said, “it cannot possibly be worse than anything I have imagined thus far.”
---
“This is way worse than I imagined.” Penelo craned her head up, quite far up, and frowned, trying to see the entirety of the city map. Where was her boarding house? Curse the Archadians and their massive cities that didn't even have proper methods of true communication: beggars. There were fewer beggars here than any other place she'd been. It was supposed to speak of their prosperity, but all it really meant was that they hid their poor and infirmed in another place, where tourists and the proper sort of citizen wouldn't see them. Dalmasca had possessed places along similar lines. This was why she had preferred the sky. Up there the only lines dividing people were the ones that either meant you were alive and on deck, or hurtling through the air and pretty much dead.
She wrinkled her nose in annoyed disgust and decided to pick a direction. Her pack wasn't all that heavy since it was filled with a few basic necessities. This was a vacation after all, and not a hike across the Sandsea. The sun beat on her as she made her way up the clean streets, barely any dirt even collecting in the cracks between the paving stones. It was a far cry from the derelict temples and crumbling fortresses she and Balthier had been sneaking into since she'd signed on with him. She walked down the road some ways before ducking into a drink and sweet shop. She was paying for her glass of iced melon juice when the girl serving her shrank back, and she felt more than saw someone behind her.
She turned and stared up into the eye-slit of an armoured Imperial.
“Identification, please miss,” he said, although the request was clearly an order. Her mouth dropped open a little and she sputtered.
“I d-don't have any... on... me,” she said, which wasn't really true, but things were still tense between Arcadia and Dalmasca at the lower levels of society. A second set of clumping boots walked through the door of the shop, and the girl behind the counter gave a soft yelp and darted past the curtains that separated the public area with what must have been the baking area. Penelo felt her heart drop into her gut.
“Vagrants are not allowed in this area of town,” the new Imperial said, and she could see his eyes moving behind his armour, looking directly at her shabby, patched pack. So much for Larsa making any changes to this place, she thought with a pang of guilt for being angry at the young boy who had been so eager and dedicated to the cause of social justice.
“I'm not a vagrant,” she protested, “h-hey!” The Imperial closest to her grabbed her arm, and the other went for her bag. She was dragged out of the shop, and while she wanted to kick, she knew better. It wasn't a fair fight, and she liked her head in one piece. She did her best to yell though as they pulled her out, and she attracted a few stares but people quickly looked away.
So much for Larsa and his eyes full of dreams of what could be.
The Imperial holding her bag searched through it, dumping her possessions with complete callousness on the ground. Her dagger hit the paving stone, along with a heap of her clothing, her papers and citizenry identification landing on top of them. Then a glint of gold flashed and tumbled into the Imperial's hand. A fine golden chain as thin as thread cobwebbed across his armoured palm. Hanging from it was a shard of clear, coloured stone no bigger than the end of Penelo's thumb.
“Don't touch that,” she cried and tried to lunge for the guard holding her.
“This is... nethicite,” the Imperial said, looking at his college before down at Penelo. “Posession of nethicite within the boundaries of this city is illegal. You are hereby bound by the laws of Arcadia and are ordered to comply with us within the scope of your rights as a citizen of...” he knelt as he spoke, sifting through her personal effects and pulling her papers open, “Dalmasca. You will come with us now, one Penelo of Dalmasca, to be detained and questioned until the time that our courts may decide what is to be done with you.”
No one was looking now, and some of those passing by the three of them were making every effort to not look. Penelo gritted her teeth.
“Fine,” she said, “I'm complying- hey! I'm complying!” The Imperial had begun binding her hands behind her back, cold iron clamping down around her wrists. The other packed up her things and began walking. With a small tiny curse she followed. Not exactly the most stellar way to begin a vacation, she thought to herself. She was pushed into a hovering cab and her stomach dropped as the ground fell away from them and they zipped through the sky. Being on an airship always felt safer. She watched the city dwindle beneath her as they moved towards the imperial palace itself.
So much for your dreams, Larsa.
---
Larsa slept poorly that night, Lissara curled up in a tight, warm knot besides him. Her forehead was damp with the faint sweat of a small fever that had taken her after dinner, one that had called him out of the extended treaty-planning meetings he had been forced to sit through all day. The healers had done what they could for her, but were not partial to giving too many potions to a young child, so the fille royale had to do as any other sick child: sweat it out. She was however, clinging to his side and he felt overheated and restless. He slipped away from her, tucking in a pillow next to her, which she clung to just as happily, fickle as any cat he'd ever known. Larsa's hand smoothed her hair down, untangling a few damp curls before he wrapped himself in his robe. He didn't bother with his crown as he left the sleeping chamber, door clicking shut behind him.
The guards did not blink at the sight of him, staring straight ahead as he walked down the long hall of in-laid stone murals depicting all the lands that Arcadia ruled over, even if some of them no longer belonged to the Arcadian empire. Well, he mused, it is not your size that matters, it is what you do with it. He opened the doors to his study and stepped inside. The windows at the far end were not shuttered, and the moonlight made lead-shadow patterns on the thick carpet.
He was not exactly pleased at having his hand forced so that he needed to give up Lissara. She was no longer his, even though she would stay within his palace for the next six or perhaps even eight years. She no longer wore the plain gold circlet of an Arcadian imperial heir, but instead a chain of delicately worked silver blossoms that denoted her new rank in the eastern empire, the sun empire. Every day he would look upon his daughter, his creation, and see the mark of another man, older than even Larsa, staring right back at him.
It was uncomfortable, to trivialize the intensity of his emotions. His counselors were correct, however. He was securing her a future he could not promise her even in his own empire. Empresses did not rule with the same authority, and he would no sooner see her be ruled by a man not of this kingdom than he would see her sent away.
If only the sun empire did not have such vast armies at its disposal... if only there had not been movement along some of Arcadia's more troubled borders. The marriage contract itself had come with troops and arms from the man who had offered for Lissara.
He sat in his chair and brooded, fingers lacing together, watching the moon slowly travel across the floor. He didn't remember dozing off, but did remember waking up to a sharp knock at the study door. One of his aides poked his head inside of the room.
“I apologize for the intrusion-”
“No need, Izaiah,” Larsa said with a sigh, rubbing the sleep from one eye. “What is it?”
“I have been informed by the head of the guards that they confiscated manufactured nethicite.”
Larsa's attention snapped into focus and he stared at the aide.
“Nethicite?” he asked, standing up. A valet slid in behind the aide, a proper suit of clothing over one arm, the other supporting the crown.
“We assumed that you would be interested in seeing the person from whom the nethicite was taken from immediately, as per your instructions when you took on the mantle of emperor, your Imperial Majesty.” Izaiah bowed his head, and the valet mirrored the action, hurrying forward to help Larsa out of his robe and sleeping pants. As Larsa dressed and was dressed, he thought back to the last time they had even encountered any sort of nethicite entering Arcadia. It had been... quite a while back.
“Have Lissara's ladies see to it that she does need for anything while I am away,” he said, and ducked his head a slight amount so the aide could place the crown there. “I will see to this person right away.”
Izaiah had to follow him swiftly down the long hall as Larsa nearly dropped his imperial training and ran. Nethicite in Arcadia again... that was quite interesting, and even... worrisome.