(fic) Atop a Cold Throne
Atop a Cold Throne
By tsukinofaerii
Beta: None
Rating: SNIP
Genre: Character Study
Warnings: None
Series: Final Fantasy XII
Summary: Larsa ponders his life, and the challenges he faces as an emperor and a boy on the brink of manhood, with nary a father nor brother to guide him. (Complete ficlet)
This story is a work of transformative fiction, such being defined as a work which incorporates characters and situations which have been created by other authors/artists. No infringement of copyright is intended and no profit is being made from the creation or dissemination of this work.
***
Larsa perched on the throne and watched as courtiers wandered freely in the throne room, their voices low in conversation, glasses in hand. The music was soft, a pleasant background noise without creating an incentive to dance. No one had approached the dais at the head of the room where he sat, and no one would. Why should they? A fledgling hawk, no matter how fierce in adulthood, could offer little to even the smallest grown bird. Later, they would approach him with requests for the favors only the emperor's signature could provide, but none of them would sink so low in the sight of their peers.
Ever loyal, Gabranth no doubt watched and worried behind his faceplate. But his place was below, to defend Larsa from all comers. Not even brave Gabranth could save him from the troubles that plagued him.
The throne was uncomfortable. Larsa never sat in his father's seat unless protocol demanded. It was his right to sit on the throne, with its magnificent view of Archades out the windows and position at the head of the court. When he'd been small, he'd delighted in perching on his father's knee and watching the dancers at balls. The brilliant jewels and colors that adorned men and women both caught his eye, as did the dancers, graceful as they spun through the paces of the song. Vayne would sit on a lower step, smiling and commenting on any topic that came up, with none of the bitterness that would later come to mar his brow. Their father's knee had been bony, and his hands icy from the illness that wasted him away, but the laughter the three of them shared had always been warm.
There'd been nothing he couldn't speak to them about. The most outlandish, ridiculous thoughts and questions were no barrier. Why don't chocobo fly? And, What happened to our brothers? Any question under the stars, and they would share their knowledge. He missed that, as much as he missed a hand to hold, a proud stance to emulate. There were so many questions he'd never thought to ask, and now that he needed to know, there was no one left to answer.
Gabranth tried. He tried with all of his great heart, to be a father, brother, mother, mentor, friend. Every free moment, Gabranth was there, with his lean muscles and quiet smile, reassuring in his own way. A fencing lesson in the morning, a discussion on international theory during tea, a quiet word of advice as he could provide. Without his help, Larsa would flounder more than he already was, lost in a sea that he'd never expected, nor wanted to swim.
What would he say if he knew that Larsa woke in the dead of night from Gabranth's voice in his dreams with sheets slick with worser things than sweat? The discussion of the physical changes to come had covered the way Penelo's smile made his heart flutter, but said nothing of Vaan's shoulders or the fit of Balthier's trousers . He didn't dare ask-he'd seen the way people turned their noses when Al-Cid's eyes lingered too long on a lady. How much worse, then, were they to linger too long elsewhere?
Heedless of the creases it made in his official robes, Larsa pulled his knees up to his chest and leaned back on the uncomfortable seat, watching the festivities unfold. Always watching, never part, because he was not welcome. Not yet, at least, and perhaps never.
The throne was too large, too cold. His feet didn't quite touch the floor, and a small step had been installed so he needn't perform a ridiculous little hop to take the seat. Worn cushions provided small comfort to his backside, and the magicite lamps blinded him with their display. There was no one to touch his shoulders and remind him to keep them back, no kind word to soften the mockery. Instead of laughter and smiles and music, he was faced with chill stares and silence.
Too young, the looks said. Nothing like his father. Not half the man his brother was.
If only they knew.
By tsukinofaerii
Beta: None
Rating: SNIP
Genre: Character Study
Warnings: None
Series: Final Fantasy XII
Summary: Larsa ponders his life, and the challenges he faces as an emperor and a boy on the brink of manhood, with nary a father nor brother to guide him. (Complete ficlet)
This story is a work of transformative fiction, such being defined as a work which incorporates characters and situations which have been created by other authors/artists. No infringement of copyright is intended and no profit is being made from the creation or dissemination of this work.
***
Larsa perched on the throne and watched as courtiers wandered freely in the throne room, their voices low in conversation, glasses in hand. The music was soft, a pleasant background noise without creating an incentive to dance. No one had approached the dais at the head of the room where he sat, and no one would. Why should they? A fledgling hawk, no matter how fierce in adulthood, could offer little to even the smallest grown bird. Later, they would approach him with requests for the favors only the emperor's signature could provide, but none of them would sink so low in the sight of their peers.
Ever loyal, Gabranth no doubt watched and worried behind his faceplate. But his place was below, to defend Larsa from all comers. Not even brave Gabranth could save him from the troubles that plagued him.
The throne was uncomfortable. Larsa never sat in his father's seat unless protocol demanded. It was his right to sit on the throne, with its magnificent view of Archades out the windows and position at the head of the court. When he'd been small, he'd delighted in perching on his father's knee and watching the dancers at balls. The brilliant jewels and colors that adorned men and women both caught his eye, as did the dancers, graceful as they spun through the paces of the song. Vayne would sit on a lower step, smiling and commenting on any topic that came up, with none of the bitterness that would later come to mar his brow. Their father's knee had been bony, and his hands icy from the illness that wasted him away, but the laughter the three of them shared had always been warm.
There'd been nothing he couldn't speak to them about. The most outlandish, ridiculous thoughts and questions were no barrier. Why don't chocobo fly? And, What happened to our brothers? Any question under the stars, and they would share their knowledge. He missed that, as much as he missed a hand to hold, a proud stance to emulate. There were so many questions he'd never thought to ask, and now that he needed to know, there was no one left to answer.
Gabranth tried. He tried with all of his great heart, to be a father, brother, mother, mentor, friend. Every free moment, Gabranth was there, with his lean muscles and quiet smile, reassuring in his own way. A fencing lesson in the morning, a discussion on international theory during tea, a quiet word of advice as he could provide. Without his help, Larsa would flounder more than he already was, lost in a sea that he'd never expected, nor wanted to swim.
What would he say if he knew that Larsa woke in the dead of night from Gabranth's voice in his dreams with sheets slick with worser things than sweat? The discussion of the physical changes to come had covered the way Penelo's smile made his heart flutter, but said nothing of Vaan's shoulders or the fit of Balthier's trousers . He didn't dare ask-he'd seen the way people turned their noses when Al-Cid's eyes lingered too long on a lady. How much worse, then, were they to linger too long elsewhere?
Heedless of the creases it made in his official robes, Larsa pulled his knees up to his chest and leaned back on the uncomfortable seat, watching the festivities unfold. Always watching, never part, because he was not welcome. Not yet, at least, and perhaps never.
The throne was too large, too cold. His feet didn't quite touch the floor, and a small step had been installed so he needn't perform a ridiculous little hop to take the seat. Worn cushions provided small comfort to his backside, and the magicite lamps blinded him with their display. There was no one to touch his shoulders and remind him to keep them back, no kind word to soften the mockery. Instead of laughter and smiles and music, he was faced with chill stares and silence.
Too young, the looks said. Nothing like his father. Not half the man his brother was.
If only they knew.