Fic: Steel and Gold (NC-17, Drace/Gabranth)

May 08, 2007 08:57

This was done for HC for one of maho_kiwi's prompts, and the prompt really caught me. ♥

Steel and Gold
They are both, in their own way, strange; it is an ally from a quarter she did not expect.
FFXII, Drace/Gabranth. 4400 words.
Not worksafe for sex. Spoilers through the end of the game.



Most Archadians were dark, so the first thing that she noticed was the brilliance of his hair under the sun. She leaned over the balustrade to get a better view into the training ground, feeling the heat of the day on the polished metal of her armor and envying him the freedom of his clothing. He wore only a leather curiass and greaves, and moved surprisingly light and quick for a large man carrying a broadsword. "Who is he?" she asked of Ghis, who stood with both hands on the railing, observing the mock-battle.

"He styles himself Gabranth," he said. "A judge of the third rank. The name is Archadian; the accent is pure Landis."

"It would explain the coloring," she said. "A judge out of Landis? A surprise there." She watched the man -- Gabranth -- disarm his opponent and then pause to wipe sweat out of his eyes. Impressive.

Ghis' tone was entirely unreadable, as always, when he said, "He has demonstrated nothing but loyalty thus far. Hence his recent promotion. It is no surprise you have not seen him: he took up the title but a score of days past."

"Mmm," she said.

"His rise has been remarkable -- literally; I believe his promotion came about because there was so much talk of the young man of Landis who could take on any Archadian-born with the sword. He has shown an admirable -- if perhaps somewhat over-ambitious -- desire to prove himself against all comers."

Drace felt a sudden cold weight in her chest, stark contrast to the day's heat. Invariably, those who set themselves to the task of 'proving themselves' sought her out first and most viciously -- as though they must first prove that they could defeat a woman, at least. She had little fear of losing to him, but it was a tiresome thing, and an angry thing, and she was wearied of rage and twice wearied of proving herself.

Nonetheless, she kept her voice even when she said, "I will watch his progress."

In truth, she had herself risen in much the same way. It had taken several grueling trials-of-arms -- in many cases deliberately stacked against her -- along with her family's connections to even earn her a chance. And at every step of her progress from there, there had been someone who saw her as their means to prove themselves.

It was Lord Vayne who introduced her to Gabranth properly. She came to his chambers to discuss the matter of the rebel cell in the old city, and when he called her in Gabranth was already there, standing beside Vayne's chair.

"Ah, Judge Drace," he said. "Please, sit. Something to drink? There is a lovely wine from the Uplands -- I believe it is made from a small fruit rather than a grape -- "

Drinking would require her to remove her helm, and she was not sure she wished to do so. "No, thank you," she said, though she did take the proffered chair. "I can return later if you are occupied -- " She did not miss the way Gabranth startled at her voice, its tenor, though not high, clearly not masculine either.

"No," he said. "Gabranth and I have finished. Have you met?"

"I have not had the pleasure," she said.

"Judge Drace, may I present to you Gabranth, a rising star of the Imperial Army. Gabranth, this is Judge Magister Drace, whose honor is as legendary as her sword-arm."

Pretty words, and yet she was pleased that Vayne had seen fit to emphasize her honor and her martial ability. "I am honored," Gabranth said, without hesitation. His voice was low, smooth, solemn.

"Likewise," she said.

"Gabranth, you are dismissed. Judge Drace, about this unrest in the old city...."

She did not turn her head to watch him go.

Afterward, she retired to the salon in the Judges' wing, where she did remove her helm, and took tea, and allowed herself to relax a space.

"Pensive as always, my dear Drace?" Zecht asked, entering and removing his own helm.

"There is a new judge," she said. "Gabranth. He is said to be ambitious. I confess I mislike the thought of proving myself to him."

"Ah, a suspicious mind! You think he is likely to force you to so do?"

"You think he is not?" she replied, arching a brow. "You know I consider you a friend, but even you...."

"Mmm," he said. "Perhaps so. Nonetheless, there is no wisdom in wearying yourself thinking of it before it happens."

"Easily said," she said, "though not so much easily done."

Nonetheless, when she encountered Gabranth in the days and weeks that followed, she found it difficult to fault him. He was enthusiastic but respectful. He asked many questions, with especial interest in the roles and duties of the Judges Magister, but he did so with a grace that was nearly deferential. He was a skilled swordsman and frankly impressive to watch in the training-yard, the movement of his muscles beneath his leather, his fair skin bright in the sunlight. Still, her curiosity was piqued, and when it became evident that Gabranth was not going to challenge her, Drace sought him out to challenge him instead.

"Gabranth," she said. "I am not unimpressed by the skill you demonstrate with the broadsword."

He ducked his head in the half-bow appropriate to their difference in station. "Thank you, Judge Drace."

"I would try my own blade against it," she said. "If you would."

"As your Excellency wishes," he said, and took up his own sword, and his judge's half-helm.

They were much unlike one another, in style and technique. Though she was strong, she would never have his bulk or reach; she had learned to fight in a style that made much of technique. He fought with a kind of ferocious energy. So he swung at her with a blow that made her blade quiver when she blocked it, and she returned the Serpent's Strike which sought an opening in his broad posture. His reply was to back up and move around her to lunge at her side. The Heron's Wing deflected the blow and used his own momentum to put him off balance. He was quicker than she expected, though, and more skilled, and she was surprised when his next movement was the arching blow known as the Lion's Paw, which she matched, barely, with the Hyena. She liked the focused intensity of his expression beneath his helm, the way he held himself, relaxed but eager.

As they fought, testing one another for openings, trading blows, circling like the animals for which their attacks and defenses were named, she noticed something different about the fight. There was a great deal of energy from Gabranth, and he seemed not to be holding back -- yet there was no venom in his fighting. It lacked nothing for skill or enthusiasm but did lack a certain viciousness to which she had become accustomed.

When it ended, with a victory for herself -- she had forced him over the training-grounds' boundary line when he was not paying sufficient attention -- he doffed his half-helm and said, "I now fully appreciate why they call you 'Drace the Avalanche.'"

"Oh?" she said. "Do they?"

"In the battalions, yes. You have their considerable respect. And it is fully merited. You are precise and unrelenting, your Excellency," he said, and bowed.

She did not see him again for more than a week, during which time she was consumed by studying legal precedent for the prosecution of the rebels in the Old City -- those who had not been killed outright in her raid. The knock on her door surprised her; she set her tea to one side and turned, and said, "Enter."

It was Gabranth, hovering in the doorway. He said, "If it would not be an undue interruption, I would speak with you, Judge Drace?"

She hesitated but a moment before saying, "No, not at all. Please, come in. Sit." He did. "How can I assist you?" she asked.

"I would ask your advice," he said. "I -- you surely are aware that I seek a position among the Judges Magister."

She allowed herself to smile. "It is hardly a secret, true."

"And yet I am not Archadian born. I am of Landis. I -- you have also overcome a...." He paused suddenly, floundering a little, as though his obviously-practiced speech was failing him under her gaze. She softened, a little.

"Impediment, yes," she said, wry. "Believe me, I am well aware that my sex is not usual for one of my position."

"Then how?" he asked. "How did you...?"

She looked away from him then, out the window, and sipped her tea, then ran the tip of her finger around the lip of the cup. "You must needs be better than all others. It will not be enough that you are good enough for the job. They will ask you to be the best -- and then they will try you, and try you, again and then again, searching for a weak moment, a vulnerable spot. You must be ever on your guard. You must be stronger, more honorable -- not merely above reproach but also above question. And even then you will need luck, and connections; do not spurn them out of a sense of honor, or you will make the task unsolveable. Do you understand?" She looked back, then, at him, at the set of his jaw.

"Yes," he said, and then, "It seems -- "

"It is hard. It is nearly impossible." She let herself smile. "There is only one of me."

"Yes," he said, and then he was watching her face in a way that unbalanced her.

"A question for you," she said. After a moment, he nodded. "I daresay Gabranth was not your name when you lived in Landis."

He went suddenly stoic, jaw set. "It is my name now."

"I do not dispute that. But indulge me my curiosity, for that is one of the traits of a Judge Magister, to wish to know all things, even -- especially -- when they are not your business. Tell me: what was your name?"

He was silent so long that she thought he would not answer her, but then he said, "Noah. Noah fon Ronsenburg." He swallowed. "I took the name Gabranth when I came to Archadia. I did not wish to be unusual."

"A good choice, then. 'Gabranth' is as common a name in Archadia as 'Ardesh' is in Landis."

"What do you know of Landis?" he asked, lifting his head fast to meet her eye.

"More than you might guess. Four years ago I spent a tour of duty in the occupation. Your country does well."

"Archadia is my country," he said, very stiffly, and she did not press the issue.

Indeed, it seemed he was right, for within the space of two months -- far faster than she had anticipated -- word came from Zargabaath that Gabranth was to be inducted into their ranks.

The ceremony was an ancient one, held in the hall that was, technically, the palace chapel, though there had not been truly religious rites there for decades. Before the eyes of the Emperor, who leaned heavily upon his staff and spoke the traditional words (to which they all replied in a practiced chorus), Gabranth stripped out of his judge's plate-and-mail, down to his leather undershirt and breeches, and then was armored, piece at a time, by the judges. She had the task of fastening his spaulders and vambraces. Zargabaath, who of all of them had seniority, set the helm upon his head and pronounced him Judge Magister Gabranth, whose sacred duty was to uphold honor, and justice, and Empire.

The occasion of the armoring of a new Judge Magister was always an excuse for celebration. There was fine wine, and roast spiced saurion, and if the atmosphere was perhaps not wholly relaxed, still Zecht did his part to keep the conversation (and the wine) flowing, and slowly they unbent.

It was the first time Gabranth would have seen them all with helmets doffed, shed of their armor, together in a group. No wonder he looked from one face to another, his expression one of faint awe.

"It is odd to see you all unarmored," he said, finally.

"Soon it will be odd to go unarmored," Zecht replied, lifting his glass. "Your helm will become as a face to you; it will be as familiar in the looking-glass as the one with which you were born."

"It is in many ways a blessing," Ghis said. "That all should know you by the sign of your office and not your own imperfect flesh." Drace was glad that it was Ghis who said it, and not her.

So instead she could say, "And sometimes they will know you only by the sign of your office. Do you know, when Lord Larsa was quite young -- three years old, perhaps -- he had never yet seen me without my helm, though I had served as guard for him more than once. I had occasion to remove it in his presence, and he said, 'Judge Drace, please, you cannot remove your head!'"

Zargabaath chuckled. "And yet I imagine he was not so much frightened as discomfited."

"Quite," she said, and poured another glass of the wine.

By the time they finished the meal and took their leave, it was late, and though she was not inebriated -- it had been a point of pride, in her battalion, that she could drink beer or whiskey with the men and yet keep her head -- still the room was quite warm, and she was glad that tradition made this feast an unarmored one, that she would not need to struggle with the buckles and fastenings. As she left the star chamber, Gabranth said, "Judge Drace. Drace. A moment, if you would?"

His cheeks were flushed; next to the steady olive cast of Archadian skin, people of Landis showed blood in their cheeks easily. But his eyes were clear and his voice steady.

"Of course," she said.

"I am now a Judge Magister, and closer to you in status -- though you still well outstrip me in seniority."

"Yes?" she said.

"And you have been -- " He hesitated, and then reached out as if to touch her shoulder, stopping with the tips of his fingers inches from her tunic. She had but rarely seen him ungloved and ungauntleted. "I would kiss you, if you will permit it."

Had she been asked before? So often attempts to romance her came with implicit challenge, moving fast as though to forestall her protest, or that her would-be suitor did not lose his nerve. His eyes were hopeful and, with every second, slightly more worried. She said, "I would, glady."

He kissed as though he had some practice at it, warm and firm but without the click of teeth, and he did not try to bite her. She could taste the fruit of the vine on his lips. He drew back a little, and she reached up to brush the hair from his brow.

"Good night," he said.

He did not kiss her again for weeks. He spoke to her, cordially but generally in public, but made no further advance. In the end, frustrated and unwilling to wait, she sought him out.

"Have you come to discuss the case against -- " he began, and she shook her head a little.

"I will not be so easily distracted," she said, and reached up to remove her helm, pushing her hair free from the metal collar of her armor. After a moment, he removed his as well. She continued, "You kissed me once, but not again."

He was silent for the full space of a minute. "I did not wish to presume."

"It would not be presumption," she said, and kissed him again, though all their plate be in the way.

He kissed her back, harder this time than before but still not rough, still not as though he had anything to prove, and she was glad of it. But when they broke apart he said, "I do not wish to -- I respect you as a soldier and a Judge, I would not -- "

"You confuse me, Noah fon Ronsenburg -- and do not make that face at me: you can conceal what makes you different behind a name and a helm. I cannot. I would stand as equals."

"As would I," he said.

"Then accept my word as you would that of an equal: I want this. Unless you do not."

"No," he said, "no, it is not that, it is just that... reputation is a delicate thing. Yours and mine."

"Then be of good courage," she said.

He smiled. "I could hardly seek a better model for that virtue. I envy your surety; I have since first I met you and heard your voice."

She could not resist smiling in return. "When first I saw you, I confess I was envious as well, but for another reason. You were wearing but a cuirass, and you moved so light -- "

"There is no law that we must fight in full plate with the full weight of a sharpened weapon." He rose to his feet, loosing the buckles of his armor. "Come," he said, "spar with me."

There was room, in his solarium, to fight hand-to-hand without causing too much disarray; and she was delighted that he meant in truth to spar. It was good to stretch her body without the weight of her armor, good to trade blows and blocks, to feel her blood pump, to feel her hand connect with his belly and drive the air out of him, to duck his own blow. When they were done, breathing hard, she kissed him again, and tasted salt-sweat on his lips. He ran his hand up into her hair, and said, "Yes?"

"Yes," she said, and they settled together on the floor, half-leaning on one another, and kissed for a very long time. She ran the tip of her tongue along the inside of his lip until he parted it, and pressed in gently to taste his tongue, to feel him stir and do the same to her. He slid his hands up under her shirt to stroke her back, his fingers outlining the edges of her breast-binding and then pulling her shirt off so that he could unlace and unwind it. His hand settled on one of her breasts, and he looked at it and then into her eyes -- his eyes so bright. "You are beautiful," he said.

"As are you," she said, "though I cannot see enough of you." Her fingers were quick on the lacings at his throat and wrists and waist, until the leather was loose enough to be pulled free. She ran her hands up his flat stomach and over his chest, and then his shoulders and around his neck to kiss him again. He pressed his hands flat to her back to pull her against him, her breasts against his chest. She shifted position to settle her weight, and her hip pressed against his erection, trapped within his leather trousers.

"That cannot be comfortable," she said, and he smiled at her -- dazzlingly.

"I am not complaining much," he said drily, and then caught his breath when she loosed the lacings on his pants. They undressed one another the rest of the way and pressed together, skin to skin. He licked the line of her collarbone, his mouth hot as sunlight. She wound her fingers into his hair and chose not to protest when he eased her onto his back and slid down. He parted her legs. She felt herself quiver, high in her belly, and she tried to steady her breathing as she pushed herself up to watch. He licked the inside of her thigh and then the angle of her hipbone, and she could see his hair, his flushed skin, the path of his tongue. She bent her knees and drew a hand through his sweaty hair, and relaxed, and shuddered despite herself when his mouth closed over her.

It had been a long time for her, a long time without the touch of another person, and it was embarrassing how fast it was over: the rough brush of his tongue, his lips moving softly, warm and firm and wet until she breathed hard and trembled with her release, throbbing dark-red behind her eyelids. He rose up over her, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and said, "I would -- "

"Yes," she said, again. "I would as well."

She stroked his back. His fingertips trailed over her breasts, her shoulders, the inside of her arm to the wrist, and caught there on a charm on a bit of leather thong, hidden usually by her shirt.

"Do you know what that is?" she asked.

"I have seen it," he said, "on -- " and then he broke off, and flushed, his fair Landis skin. She touched his mouth and took pity.

"In brothels," she finished for him. "On whores. Yes. No unwed Archadian maiden would dare advertise such a thing, and a married woman, even should she own one, would never see fit to advertise that she does not wish to bear more children for the Empire. Do you understand?"

"You are neither maiden nor wife," he said, "nor whore."

"I am a fourth thing," she said. "A strange creature."

"Not so strange," he said. "In Landis -- "

"We are not in Landis. It will be easier if you accept that I am an oddity, truly. I have done so. I am not unhappy."

"I love your oddness," he said, and then paused, as though he had not meant to reveal so much.

"Come here." She drew him down, kissed him, his mouth lush and warm; tangled her legs around his waist and lifted her hips to urge him. He slid into her with a low soft noise, and she breathed out on a sigh with a little voice to it, nearly a moan. She was relaxed and wet from her first orgasm, and it went easily, more easily than she could have hoped, with just the faintest stretch behind it.

"Ahh, Drace," he said, and buried his face in her neck. She wound a hand through his hair, pressed the other to his back, and arched her hips again until he took the hint and began to move. He was gentle; his touch was gentle; the hand stroking her breast, the other bracing against the floor to steady his movements, and though he thrust deep there was no roughness to his movements.

"I am not glass," she said, surprised by how high and thin her voice sounded as her body began to wind up again, tense and slicked with sweat. "I do not break easily -- you need not be so careful."

"Perhaps I want to," he said against her throat. His breathing was becoming labored, his voice stuttering and breaking at the edges. "Just because you are strong enough to bear something does not necessarily mean that you must do so."

She shivered, hooked her hands over his shoulders, and rocked into him, matching his pace and shifting her angle a little until she felt the sharp spike of pleasure when the head of his cock brushed the right spot. Still he did not hurry, and after a moment neither did she, letting it build and build until her nipples tightened and her skin ached, and he was making little desperate noises, his mouth moving against her throat and shoulder.

"Drace," he breathed, "ah, Drace, Drace," and she did not know in that moment whether it was the better part to call him Gabranth or Noah, so she did neither and instead simply moaned, long and warm and shuddering, until the moan trailed off thin and her orgasm caught her for the second time, drew her tight and sharp and bright and keening and left her relaxed against him as his steady rhythm began to break up and he made small noises into her hair.

When he finished he was limp as well, shivering against her, though the afternoon light shifted and gleamed through the solarium windows and kept the sweat on them from cooling uncomfortably. Then he stretched and slipped out of her, rolled over, and sat up. She could see every muscle in his chest, in his back, in this thighs, shining with his sweat and limned by the afternoon light. His skin, fair-tinted-to-rose by the blood risen close to the surface, turned to rose-gold in the afternoon light, and she reached dreamily to put a hand on his back.

"It is well," she said. He turned to look at her, his smile bright.

length: fic, genre: character piece, character: drace, genre: smut, pairing: drace/gabranth, fandom: final fantasy xii, rating: not worksafe, genre: m/f, character: gabranth

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