So Called [FFXII: OGC, Basch, Vossler]
Title: So Called
Author: ellnyx
Rating: PG
Warning: Spoilers past Barheim.
Word Count: 1000
Prompt: Final Fantasy XII:original game canon- Basch/Vossler- bruises- “Hit me as hard as you can”
A/N: Have read many a Basch-Vossler reunion in which Vossler was the one knocking Basch out, so thought it would be interesting to see what happens if that was turned around.
.
When Vossler first heard the Lowtown whisper that Basch was alive, he thought of the man as two beings; Basch from before, and Basch from after.
The actuality of Basch's flesh in this cellar made no difference to how those early rumors had made Vossler feel. The Basch from before Nalbina was the Basch that Vossler had known. Basch-from-before had died for his treachery, and in dying, Vossler had forgiven him everything. Vossler could not reconcile with this after-Basch, resurrected and thus unrepentant, black-shouldered with blame.
Basch would have witnessed his own life as a continuous thing unraveling in Nalbina's darkness; Basch would see no before or after, only what was. Fists knotted in the seams of after-Basch's vest, Vossler began, by way of greeting, with a violent shake: 'Treacherous lying betraying half-blooded scum.'
Half-gloved hands, fingers blistered in lieu of callous, rose to commit violence against the line of Vossler's shirtlaces.
Vossler said: 'You want to hit me when I call your true name? Go on then, as hard as you can; do you think anything could ever hit me as hard as what you've done?'
Basch had always felt himself to be the smallest of cogs in a mechanism of which he was only barely aware; so he delivered as calmly as he had accepted the countless accusations writ across his shoulders.
They fought, if that one-sided flogging could be so called. Basch did not break until Vossler spoke his name.
Once upon a time, Basch had been homeless by choice in a land that offered him a new home. This land had kings and crowns and swords in stones and everything Landis did not have. To survive, he surrendered adolescence and learned an even temper. Insults were delivered direct to his face, and Basch had no doubt he also insulted those who offered him this new home. The brutality of that shared ignorance was also its forgiving grace; he forgave, and so was forgiven. Once upon another time, Basch had been a ghost strung from his shoulders in a shadowy cage. He had surrendered all pride but for this: that not even his brother could provoke a fury from him - and his brother had tried, how Noah had tried, as though the score of years since they had known each other had not passed, as though Basch had not changed from the careless youth he had been.
Yet this, now, was neither a childhood to remain ever unvisited, nor the timeless dark of Nalbina's nightmarish depths. This was Vossler, closer to Basch than Noah had ever been; Vossler, who insulted without the cushion of ignorance as his excuse; Vossler, who hurt with his assumption because he intended to hurt.
This was Vossler, who had not raised a hand to block or strike against that which brought him to his knees; Vossler, who gasped, and retched, and rolled with the blows.
Truth was in the torment of dark impulse. Basch wanted to strike Vossler blind with bruises. No resistance would ever rise against him, not from Vossler; Vossler would not threaten the potency of Basch's fist with shadowhood. Basch hurt, and it filled him with a guilty warmth to know he still had the power to hurt another. Nalbina's spiritual bruises would not heal with comfort.
Even through pain, Vossler's expression twisted into an imitation of serenity, a coloured flush darkening his cheeks. Had it not been for the blood that painted his lips, he would have looked the picture of a satisfied lover, shirtless and sweat-slicked. But satisfied at what? To prove the kingslayer that Basch had been so called, so easily riled? Basch arose to this violence with but a miscast word as provocation; did Vossler think to justify his king's murder with the murderer's insanity, with evidence of rage?
Basch surveyed the evidence of his impact blossoming across firm muscle, less with disgust than awe that he had been so moved. To extricate them from the impasse of a silence, or worse, the insult of excuses, Basch went to tend to the bruises he had inflicted. He might have regretted this attack, and many other things, but Basch did not permit himself the luxury of remorse.
They talked, if a one-sided monologue could be so called.
They should have talked right from the beginning, from before Nalbina. Through that conversation Vossler discovered his assumption correct: there were two of Basch, if not as he had thought them. This Basch - was Vossler's Basch, as stupid as he stood, blinded by a humility as overwheening as pride to think his face could never be used against him. That far-away stranger, he who stood two years distanced by Nalbina's depths, was Basch's unbeloved brother. Their king was still dead, Vossler's country still dissolved; but Basch was back. Vossler could admit his relief, however unwarranted the emotion.
The empty flask rolled to a corner of the room, spilling trace liquid across the dust as it went. The quaffed potion should have reversed the argument's conclusion, but it was not potent enough. Yellow sediment remained to stain Vossler's skin.
Basch assumed a calm born of long solitude rather than inner ease; he cracked aching knuckles and regarded the desecration of his own flesh. He must hold himself in check, must relearn a patience that he had not thought so stretched until Vossler had taught him otherwise. If but a verbal prodding could provoke Basch so far he must learn, again, to become as a gator's hide, that no arrow or barbed word could undo who he sought to be. Vossler's bruises were Basch's lesson.
Basch watched as Vossler pressed the yellow shadow that straddled his ribs, his frown more of contemplation than pain. If righteousness was carried in evidence of hurt, then Basch supposed Vossler was as righteous as he.
Vossler indicated a direction. 'There are clothes, a bath, a razor. I will gather together what's left of the insurgents.'
'I look forward to it,' Basch said, with automatic politeness. His hands were still formed as fists.
.
Author: ellnyx
Rating: PG
Warning: Spoilers past Barheim.
Word Count: 1000
Prompt: Final Fantasy XII:original game canon- Basch/Vossler- bruises- “Hit me as hard as you can”
A/N: Have read many a Basch-Vossler reunion in which Vossler was the one knocking Basch out, so thought it would be interesting to see what happens if that was turned around.
.
When Vossler first heard the Lowtown whisper that Basch was alive, he thought of the man as two beings; Basch from before, and Basch from after.
The actuality of Basch's flesh in this cellar made no difference to how those early rumors had made Vossler feel. The Basch from before Nalbina was the Basch that Vossler had known. Basch-from-before had died for his treachery, and in dying, Vossler had forgiven him everything. Vossler could not reconcile with this after-Basch, resurrected and thus unrepentant, black-shouldered with blame.
Basch would have witnessed his own life as a continuous thing unraveling in Nalbina's darkness; Basch would see no before or after, only what was. Fists knotted in the seams of after-Basch's vest, Vossler began, by way of greeting, with a violent shake: 'Treacherous lying betraying half-blooded scum.'
Half-gloved hands, fingers blistered in lieu of callous, rose to commit violence against the line of Vossler's shirtlaces.
Vossler said: 'You want to hit me when I call your true name? Go on then, as hard as you can; do you think anything could ever hit me as hard as what you've done?'
Basch had always felt himself to be the smallest of cogs in a mechanism of which he was only barely aware; so he delivered as calmly as he had accepted the countless accusations writ across his shoulders.
They fought, if that one-sided flogging could be so called. Basch did not break until Vossler spoke his name.
Once upon a time, Basch had been homeless by choice in a land that offered him a new home. This land had kings and crowns and swords in stones and everything Landis did not have. To survive, he surrendered adolescence and learned an even temper. Insults were delivered direct to his face, and Basch had no doubt he also insulted those who offered him this new home. The brutality of that shared ignorance was also its forgiving grace; he forgave, and so was forgiven. Once upon another time, Basch had been a ghost strung from his shoulders in a shadowy cage. He had surrendered all pride but for this: that not even his brother could provoke a fury from him - and his brother had tried, how Noah had tried, as though the score of years since they had known each other had not passed, as though Basch had not changed from the careless youth he had been.
Yet this, now, was neither a childhood to remain ever unvisited, nor the timeless dark of Nalbina's nightmarish depths. This was Vossler, closer to Basch than Noah had ever been; Vossler, who insulted without the cushion of ignorance as his excuse; Vossler, who hurt with his assumption because he intended to hurt.
This was Vossler, who had not raised a hand to block or strike against that which brought him to his knees; Vossler, who gasped, and retched, and rolled with the blows.
Truth was in the torment of dark impulse. Basch wanted to strike Vossler blind with bruises. No resistance would ever rise against him, not from Vossler; Vossler would not threaten the potency of Basch's fist with shadowhood. Basch hurt, and it filled him with a guilty warmth to know he still had the power to hurt another. Nalbina's spiritual bruises would not heal with comfort.
Even through pain, Vossler's expression twisted into an imitation of serenity, a coloured flush darkening his cheeks. Had it not been for the blood that painted his lips, he would have looked the picture of a satisfied lover, shirtless and sweat-slicked. But satisfied at what? To prove the kingslayer that Basch had been so called, so easily riled? Basch arose to this violence with but a miscast word as provocation; did Vossler think to justify his king's murder with the murderer's insanity, with evidence of rage?
Basch surveyed the evidence of his impact blossoming across firm muscle, less with disgust than awe that he had been so moved. To extricate them from the impasse of a silence, or worse, the insult of excuses, Basch went to tend to the bruises he had inflicted. He might have regretted this attack, and many other things, but Basch did not permit himself the luxury of remorse.
They talked, if a one-sided monologue could be so called.
They should have talked right from the beginning, from before Nalbina. Through that conversation Vossler discovered his assumption correct: there were two of Basch, if not as he had thought them. This Basch - was Vossler's Basch, as stupid as he stood, blinded by a humility as overwheening as pride to think his face could never be used against him. That far-away stranger, he who stood two years distanced by Nalbina's depths, was Basch's unbeloved brother. Their king was still dead, Vossler's country still dissolved; but Basch was back. Vossler could admit his relief, however unwarranted the emotion.
The empty flask rolled to a corner of the room, spilling trace liquid across the dust as it went. The quaffed potion should have reversed the argument's conclusion, but it was not potent enough. Yellow sediment remained to stain Vossler's skin.
Basch assumed a calm born of long solitude rather than inner ease; he cracked aching knuckles and regarded the desecration of his own flesh. He must hold himself in check, must relearn a patience that he had not thought so stretched until Vossler had taught him otherwise. If but a verbal prodding could provoke Basch so far he must learn, again, to become as a gator's hide, that no arrow or barbed word could undo who he sought to be. Vossler's bruises were Basch's lesson.
Basch watched as Vossler pressed the yellow shadow that straddled his ribs, his frown more of contemplation than pain. If righteousness was carried in evidence of hurt, then Basch supposed Vossler was as righteous as he.
Vossler indicated a direction. 'There are clothes, a bath, a razor. I will gather together what's left of the insurgents.'
'I look forward to it,' Basch said, with automatic politeness. His hands were still formed as fists.
.