A Violent Soul [Final Fantasy XII:OGC, Noah x Vayne, R]
8 fic
- Final Fantasy XII, Noah/Vayne: reversal - apology could gift him with freedom
[Here is some Extremely Late fic. I am sorry, prompter, but work + prototype + another fandom ate my life.]
When Landis had embraced the chaos grounds that ran rife through its forests, a millennia ago, instead of rejecting them as the Knight Order had first counseled, it had found monsters, mutation, disease, but more importantly, the wild magic that allowed their mages and healers to turn back the rot in the Mist, purge their forests clean, and at the depths of the greatest of the woods, the Wraithsong Expanse, they found the shieldbeasts.
The sentient, ancient creatures of Mist, more ghost than animal, had found host in the disciplined minds of the Knights of the Order. Each squire that rose through the ranks would stay a squire until chosen; and each Knight that passed in battle or in age would be mourned by both his compatriots and by his closest, inhuman companion of all. Wielded with care, respect and imagination, even the Archadian Empire’s impressive technology had failed.
- Foreword from The Knights of Landis, circa 920, Professor Maleki Wraithe, University of Landis, University Press.
A violent soul
I
The crimson flag of the lion and wolf was a chattering, proud pennant behind them, held high by their herald as their chargers hesitated at what remained of the shallow, wide marble stair to Wyntergarde - the whimsical, elegant Solidor summer retreat. To Noah’s right, most of the stair, aye, the foundation beneath, had shattered, gouged away to reveal a sheer, dizzying drop all the way down to Lower Archades; in the jagged, conical edges something of his brother’s shieldbeast, Fenris.
“You are distracted, brother,” Basch murmured beside him, as their Graycloaks hurried up in perfect file to line the stair, halberds at attention before them. The twins dismounted in unison, handing the reins to their royal squires; benign Hunter to Malkin and errant Seeker to Oberst. Noah felt uncomfortable in their ceremonial armor, all blood-red enamel and ridiculous gold, the lion’s maw across his shoulder plates; the wolf’s jaws over his twin’s - Archadia was warm in summer, too warm for trueborn sons of Landis.
“Aye. I see no reason why we must meet the conquered in their castles, as though seeking audience.”
“We have no resources after this war to adequately manage this city, let alone the entirety of the remnants of this Empire. Better to receive them as vassals, than humiliate them as prisoners and have to install consuls in their place. You did agree to my counsel,” Basch pointed out, with his gentle, inexorable patience.
“It sounded reasonable whilst in the comforts of our airship,” Noah retorted, in ill grace, though he absently ran fingers over the thin leather between his gauntlet and the overlapping steel leaves of his arm plates, as his shieldbeast stirred under his skin with the now-familiar burn of the unforgiving sun. Leon touched his mind, curious as to his unease, and then resettled as Noah soothed it. “What said Fenris?”
“Fenris?” Basch looked mildly surprised, and with good reason - Noah had yet to query his brother’s shieldbeast’s opinion on matters of diplomacy. “He sleeps, and has no interest.” His brother grinned, faintly mischievous. “Had I known you this uncomfortable, I would not have asked you to come.”
“Hah! You, who would nag me the rest of my life about appearances? Feh, as though you wouldst have allowed me to remain.” Noah muttered, as they ascended the delicate stair heavily, the thick cloak, furred with a lion’s tawny mane, dragging at his heels behind him. He comforted himself in noting that his twin seemed similarly uncomfortable in the heat, in his near identical armor, his cloak furred with a wolf’s wiry scruff, Durendal likely as heavy at his hip as Excalibur was on Noah’s.
Basch merely looked complacent, having already had his way, damned bastard, as the Greycloaks swept into the corridor before them, flanking their path. As beautiful and delicate as Wyntergarde looked, it had been built well; the corridor had been a murder room when barricaded, and despite efforts made to expunge the stench of death, Noah felt Leon curl back to attention in his mind, the shieldbeast scenting the ghost of violence with catlike satisfaction. From Basch’s sudden silence, Noah could only guess that Fenris had reacted similarly, their armors’ ringing steps the only sounds in the silenced castle.
The bloodstains grew deep in the woodwork of the second floor, and Noah found it odd how he saw neither guard nor servant come forward to greet them. Behind their herald, by the way the Order’s Master of Arms, the Paladin Wraithe, muttered darkly to himself under his breath, he supposed him equally uneasy.
“Speak your mind, Jameson,” Basch invited, sharing his twin’s thought.
“Smells like a trap,” Wraithe said bluntly, as blunt as the dire bear that slept within his arm. Wraithe had hardly ever bothered with honorifics, even when their father was slain in the Archadian war and the twins had claimed their birthright together. He had all but raised them, after all. “I am sure we did not kill that many of the tech reliant cowards.”
“Hardly,” Noah said, automatically, and Basch explained, without thinking, “Hardly all cowards, Jameson.”
“Huh. The Judge-Magisters fought well. Some of the guards. But most? Useless. They’ve gone soft in Empire and just as well. You saw what Lower Archades looked like.”
“A matter that will be improved,” Basch’s gentle, quiet determination settled Wraithe’s feathers. Before them, the Graycloaks murmured as they reached the end of the wide, wood-panelled hallway lined with somber portraits on Noah’s left, and with delicate painted crystal windows to his right, smashed ruthlessly in parts: before the great salika oak doors, wrought with silver and gold, that led to the throne room, was a slender youth.
A handsome youth, at that, mayhap all of twenty winters, with short-cropped, caramel hair and a wicked mouth curved into a devilish smile, dark, dancing eyes, white silk shirt and fawn gray breeches tucked into high boots, his chin not yet whiskered. He stepped forward as they approached, his white-gloved palms outstretched to show that he was unarmed, his smile remaining even as the Graycloaks before him crossed halberds before his path.
“My, my, such an unwelcoming welcome, for the welcoming party,” the youth purred, all charm and no fear in the face of Landis’ best. “I must beg pardon, sers, for my liege felt pomp and ceremony self-serving in such circumstances. The staff and soldiers of Wyntergarde have been temporarily dismissed.”
“Temporarily?” Wraithe asked, suspicious. “Who are you, boy?”
“Your lack of recognition does not serve you well,” the youth said, pouting prettily. “Aye, temporarily, for the young Highness Lord Larsa had quite refused to leave his brother, and is yet soft of heart in the fair chance that your men might decide to indulge in somewhat less pleasant pleasantries.”
“You are Ffamran Mid Bunansa,” Basch identified dryly. “Son of the late Cidolfus Bunansa. Archadia’s weaponsmith.”
“I happen to have invented far more than weapons,” Ffamran said, aggrieved, seemingly oblivious to how the Graycloaks tensed, their eyes angry. Ffamran’s infernal devices, combined with his father’s creations, had almost managed to turn the war in Archadia’s favor; in the end, only a desperate, suicidal gamble, headed by both Basch and Noah, a spearhead into the heart of Archades itself, had won them victory. A victory costly by far, and so much from one boy’s genius.
Leon stirred again, coiling, as behind him, the bear shook itself awake, listening to its master’s temper. “Wraithe. Sheathe your blade.” Noah said sharply, and reluctantly, there was a clink of metal behind him, angry. “If you defeat another in battle, would you blame and break his sword?”
“I hear you, ser,” Wraithe said sullenly. “I beg your pardon.”
“Did your liege send you out to greet us by yourself?” Basch enquired, frowning slightly, and Noah could understand his sentiment: Ffamran was young, mayhap young enough to speak unwisely in the face of certain danger, young and unarmed before a score of knights, all of whom had lost shieldbrothers to his technology.
“I chose to,” Ffamran said then, merrily, “To ascertain your intentions.”
“And had they been ill?” Basch seemed amused, a little inappropriately so, Noah felt, but then, pretty youths like Ffamran had always been to his brother’s taste.
“Then you may have found me a little less unarmed then you would have imagined.” Ffamran retorted smartly, smirked, and added, just as lightly, “Your Majesties.”
Wraithe growled, but Ffamran had already turned his back on them, walking to the door, pressing his palms to the salikawood. Threads of gold shot forth from his touch, curling into the gargoyles etched at the corners of the doors, and slowly, ponderously, they slid open.
The throne room within was high ceilinged and long, lined with tapestries and framed paintings, behind the throne a curve of crystal windows. The Sun Throne was empty; instead, before it and at the foot of the steps, stood the Emperor of Archades, Lord Gramis Solidor, his back bent from age, dressed plainly in black robes and uncrowned. He stood upright with the aid of a plain walking stick, and looked every inch the commoner, save for his keen, calculating steel gray eyes. Beside him, tall and proud, his eyes cold and imperious, was Vayne Solidor, the eldest remaining son, his military jacket black and unadorned, unarmed. On Gramis’ other side was a child, his chin held high despite the fear evident in his pinched eyes, Larsa Solidor, also in black.
“Like a funeral,” Ffamran said, his cheer harsh in the silence and somber sight. “Your Imperial Majesty Lord Gramis Solidor, your Highnesses Lord Vayne and Lord Larsa: I present the High Kings of Landis, their Majesties Lord Basch and Lord Noah fon Ronsenburg. The Master of Arms, Lord Jameson Wraithe. The Adeptus, Lady Elainea Etherion. Here to discuss the terms of surrender, no doubt.”
“Enough, Ffamran.” Gramis said, his tone clear and harsh from his withered throat. “You are dismissed.”
“Hardly,” Ffamran disagreed, grinning, devilish again, “The sacrificial lamb begs leave to be present while it is auctioned, your Majesty.”
Gramis’ lips thinned further, but Vayne smiled, faint and sharp and merciless, as perfectly poised and composed as he had been on the day he had slain their father. “If you so wish it, Ffamran.”
II
“What curious affectation allowed two kings in the place of one?” Vayne asked idly, one long, sleek leg folded over the other, his back pressed against a steelglass window, gloved hands in his lap and long, silky hair tied to the nape of his neck, watching the clouds pass. They were en route to Niar, the second largest city in the Archadian Empire, to settle administrative matters on the transference of power, and Vayne was there to add some formality and weight to the edict.
Or so the official story would read. Noah knew better. Gramis had sold his eldest remaining son and his weaponsmith to the lion and the wolf for the relative autonomy of preserving a fragment of his rule under a tithe. Snakes did not owe much to their own, it seemed.
Elsewhere, Basch was graciously, if under Wraithe’s disapproval and Etherion’s indulgence, providing Ffamran with a guided tour of the engine rooms that would undoubtedly end, Noah felt sourly, in his brother’s chambers and an equally guided tour of the youth’s impeccable beauty; Solidor did not offer treasures but bait.
“Lord Noah,” Vayne prompted politely, his mouth quirking, his sharp eyes darting from Noah’s eyes to the brandy in his hands, then back to the clouds, amused. “Do not worry overmuch about your brother. The Bunansas match the breadth of their curiosity in machinery to the depth of their total disinterest in politics.”
“An Landisser gunship destroyed the airship which held the Doktor,” Noah pointed out, skeptical.
“And I slew your father,” Vayne retorted, his unreadable eyes giving lie to the humor on his lips. “If you mean to have us quartered and hung in your capital, I must admit the method of conveyance has me much confused.”
“We are not barbarians.”
Vayne stared him, in silence, then he smiled, and looked back to the clouds, inclining his head. “My apologies. Indeed you are not.”
Somewhat taken aback, Noah found himself saying, “In Landis, identical twins are considered to possess one soul. As such, were identical twins born to hereditary, they inherit together.”
“But the mere fact that you have two separate ‘shieldbeasts’ should indicate differently, should it not?” Vayne shot a pointed glance at his arm, sheathed now in the starched wool of his Imperial jacket. A neat little smirk. “Your Majesty.”
“No cumbersome titles in private,” Noah said brusquely, left to wonder if he had inadvertently conceded some ground, as Vayne arched an eyebrow, then inclined his head again. “And no. Shieldbeasts bond to their wielder’s minds, not their souls, so the reasoning stands.”
“Curious,” Vayne decided, relaxing further, his eyes half-lidding. “The current Consul of Niar is a vain man, proud but efficient. The taxes he institutes are fair, the laws just, and the judiciary is adequately monitored for corruption. You would do well, I suggest, to keep him in power.”
“And I should listen to your counsel?”
“Merely a suggestion,” Vayne said, with his sharp smile, “Or should you prefer, we could engage in a similarly token tour of your airship with an equally token segue into-”
“That is not my intent nor interest,” Noah interrupted curtly, “You overstep yourself.”
“Truly? A pity,” There was a thin vein of mockery there, too slight for Noah to adequately take offense without seeming petty. “Then why am I here, ser? The firing squad or the noose? Your people see my bloodline as akin to serpents as our crest; I would not be so much trophy as liability.”
To that, outright, Noah had no answer.
III
Landis, Ffamran decided, was far too bloody cold even in autumn, worse than the depths of Archadian winters, even curled under layers of furs and over Basch’s muscular frame. The fingers petting his back slow, drowsy, and as they dipped from habit between his legs, Ffamran squirmed, wriggling and shameless over Basch’s flat belly. A soft, rumbling chuckle, as Ffamran reached boldly beneath him, grasping for sated flesh and stroking.
“If you want cock so early in the morning,” Basch said huskily into his ear, “Then put it inside by yourself.”
“I see your famed subtlety at work, your Majesty,” Ffamran retorted dryly, and the king chuckled again, shifting under him as Ffamran arched back under heavy furs, stroking the nail of his thumb over the wet slit, squeezing until thick flesh was fully engorged, stretching even his long fingers in a wide circle.
Ffamran liked to talk in such circumstances. It tended to challenge his ingenuity, particularly at the stretch of pain as he guided Basch up to seat himself all the way within. The king groaned, deep and hoarse, and Ffamran lost no time in beginning his maddeningly even pace, something he knew would eventually prompt Basch into rolling them around and driving him into the bed the way he preferred.
Being a de facto prisoner of war could be so entertaining. “Your brother warmed up to Vayne yet?”
“I am not sure that… is possible,” Basch rolled his hips upwards, causing a breathy purr but nothing else.
“He can be very charming if he wants to be.”
“Like you?” Basch’s lopsided grin indicated that, good-natured and benevolent as this king appeared, he was at the very least as sharp as the other.
“Mayhap a level lower than I,” Ffamran returned, as cheekily as he could, “’lest you wouldst imply, your Majesty, that you are ‘easy’, as street cant would term it.”
“Flattering yourself and insulting me in the same breath.”
“And yet you laugh.” Ffamran wiped a hand on the sheets and reached forward, tracing with the pad of his thumb the curve of Basch’s mouth. The king bit, grinned around the digit, and rolled them over with practiced ease.
When this ended, as it would inevitably, Ffamran felt, it was entirely likely that he would miss it.
IV
Leon sniffed Vayne’s palms politely, then turned a mournful, disappointed stare at Noah, disconcerting even in his shieldbeast’s smallest form, a translucent, fiery lion as tall as Noah himself at the shoulder. At Noah’s querying thought, Leon snorted, and looked over pointedly to its right, where Fenris was nuzzling Ffamran, the youth chuckling as his fingers passed through the shieldbeast’s muzzle, Basch beside him and his arm so very discreetly around Ffamran’s waist, even with the Graycloaks keeping watch behind them, Wraithe undoubtedly scowling himself into drink somewhere behind a tree.
The thought made him grin, and Leon shook its mane, slightly affronted by his sudden inattention. Noah apologized, and his shieldbeast, with marked, playful condescension, accepted, settling down on its haunches.
“’Tis been six months,” Vayne noted, with a sidelong glance at Archadia’s weaponsmith. “Even Ffamran has found it surprising.”
“My brother is sentimental.” Noah sat down, careless of starched sleeves and the tails of his coat on the meadow. “Hence the trek here.” The meadow was partially circled by trees, opening to Noah’s left to a view of a town, at the corner, the imposing Chapterhouse of the Ronsenburg traditional holdings.
Vayne had been… useful, for a second opinion if nothing else. As an advisor, he proved himself eminently illuminating, even if he was not entirely, Noah felt, to be trusted. Which was just as well.
Ffamran’s laugh cut short into the sound of a kiss, and Noah rolled his eyes heavenward even as Vayne seemed to laugh silently as his side. “It is Spring,” Vayne pointed out, so very mildly, his eyes dark and curiously intense. “Ser.” When Noah arched an eyebrow, inviting Vayne to elaborate on his cryptic remark, the former Prince merely smiled, inscrutable.
On their way back, with Vayne occupied discussing primary production planning strategies with their Home Secretary, Aelthar, and with Ffamran providing unnecessary and often irrelevant comment, Basch rode up to Noah’s side, his smile wide and honest. “If you like him, you like him.”
Noah did not bother to demand how Basch knew. “And if I swear that you are mistaken?”
“Then if I am mistaken, I am mistaken,” Basch said, in the irritating way only a brother could manage, sidestepping Hunter out of Noah’s punching range. “Archades is ours now, Noah. A few spoils would not go amiss.” This last was said facetiously.
“I would tell you to fear the snake for its fangs, were I you and intending to give advice.”
“Since you know that still,” Basch said carelessly, “Simply exercise care.”
“And the issue of succession?”
“Succession is,” Basch grinned slyly, “Easy enough to arrange, with the glut of princesses about our Empire who are undoubtedly just as willing to exercise a certain degree of mutual freedom.”
Later that night and alone in his chambers, Noah envied his twin his easygoing nature.
V
Gramis finally passed away of age, in the night, and just as promptly, Vayne made it known via general public announcement that he was abdicating his right to token succession to his brother, now fifteen years of age, as well as retiring from all forms of political life, permanently.
This did not surprise Basch, much to Noah’s irritation, when they learned of it, and just as blandly, Basch had suggested that they visit Archades to attend the state funeral as well as the following coronation.
“We can send a representative,” Noah said, with a murderous glance at his brother once alone in their study. Vayne had returned to Archades after seven months in Landis, something which had given the Landissan Court much relief; the selfsame Court that had once suggested that the brothers take the biggest snake from the War back with them such that they could watch over him closely. Since then, Noah had pointedly made no further contact with Vayne, inasmuch as Ffamran had merrily remained in Landis and in his brother’s bed.
“Ffamran wishes to attend,” Basch said, so very untroubled, and Noah wished that he could punch him.
VI
Three years had turned Ffamran tall and lean, all wolflike muscle instead of soft, puppyish flesh, as tall again as Vayne, who met them at the Aerodrome, again in black, again in mourning, at his side, Larsa Solidor, whose expression was as carefully inscrutable as his brother’s, even as Ffamran grinned at them both and shook Vayne’s hand.
“It is a great honor to receive you for this occasion,” Larsa said, a little stilted and obviously rehearsed, “Your Majesties Lord Basch and Lord Noah.”
“Our condolences on your loss,” Basch said soberly, watching Ffamran enthusiastically shake the gloved hand of the first helmeted judge behind Larsa. The sole survivor of the wars, the Lady Drace; she chuckled, artless in her hollow helm, then clasped Ffamran tightly on the arm. A friend, then, or a keeper.
“Thank you, your Majesty,” Larsa said, blinking, and looking up at his brother, but Vayne gave no outward cue, his smile faint as he inclined his head at them both, doll-like, his limbs loose and boneless.
VII
Noah had drunk enough good brandy four hours into the coronation dinner to stumble out of the ballroom for air, feeling fuzzily stupid as he did so. Wyntergarde was far larger than he vaguely remembered, sound carried through the night, and he clenched his teeth as he picked out Ffamran’s controlled, mischievous laugh, underscored by his brother’s chuckle.
Vaguely annoyed, now, Noah strayed sullenly further where he had just promised his brother that he would stay close, the halls silent, empty, his shieldbeast uncomfortable under his arm, the brand hot and writhing on his skin. Inebriation brought out the worst in Noah.
The trimmed gardens, the damage from the wars long repaired, lessened his bloodlust, the air fresh, cool and crisp, and Leon settled, uneasy, as Noah rocked back on his heels and took a deep breath, curling and uncurling his fists, then he flinched, as Leon burned on his skin, the familiar searing touch of activation. Staggering, he nearly fell through the incandescent form of his shieldbeast as it curled protectively around him, growling.
Vayne was approaching them, visibly unarmed, looking amused. The gold thread on his blue vest and his white shirt alone could likely feed a contingent, Noah thought, most uncharitably, his lips curled in a sneer and his eyes ferocious.
“I sought you out when I could not find you,” Vayne said, cultured and even, his eyes flickering over the spirit lion. “Your brother worries.”
“He does that often.” Noah said, hoarse from the violence in his soul, “And usually, he sends a girl.”
“This is not Landis,” Vayne smiled, all curled lips and unreadable eyes, “A maiden fair of Archadian blue would have fallen quite under the weather, at the sight of your soul entire.”
“And you?”
“And I,” Vayne said, every stride catlike in his calculation, his gloved palm outstretched for Leon’s muzzle, “Merely wonder what it would feel like to be burned.”
If the Archadian smirked when Noah roughly dragged him close, the king did not see it.
VIII
Somehow matters concluded in Vayne’s private chambers. In the morning glare from the bedroom windows, nursing a hangover and a foul taste in his mouth, Noah sat up, ran his eyes over the curled form beside him, and vaguely remembered driving up into slender hips, mottling sleek thighs with bruises. On his arm, Leon slept, its violence sated, and Noah flinched as long fingers crept over his hip.
“There should be coffee available outside this room,” Vayne murmured, his voice so precise even upon waking, “And a potion for your disposition.” His eyes questioned where his tone did not.
“Leon is feral,” Noah found himself explaining - he did this too often before Vayne, then, then and now, it seemed. “While my brother’s Fenris submits easily to his will.” A wolf was a step away from a dog, but cats of all natures were innately wild. “Sometimes the mood takes me.”
“And your brother will send a girl.” This was spoken mildly.
“It is different in Landis,” Noah said, irritable, “And I am far less likely to hurt a girl.” He drew fingers over Vayne’s bruised flanks, pointedly, but the Archadian merely smiled lazily through swelling lips, and this pushed Noah to speak the question on his mind for the past week. “Why did you abdicate?”
“I have no interest in only the semblance of power.”
“Such words are dangerous,” Noah warned, if halfheartedly.
“They would be, had I no purpose. I will stay with my brother and preserve him, until he learns to live by himself; after that, we shall see. Had I abdicated any earlier, in his formative and most impressionable years, that could have had unfortunate consequences. Now my existence serves as a deterrence to any who might seek my brother ill.”
“They are afraid that were he to die before you, you would assume the throne? What if they were to kill you first?”
“I am difficult to kill,” Vayne said, his smile sharp, and his fingers warm against the small of Noah’s back. “Will you come back to Archades, Lord Noah?”
It was not a request, bold from a Prince who had long fallen out of power; Noah laughed, with a harsh bark, reached behind him, and curled roughened digits tightly over Vayne’s elegant fingers.
-fin-
.
- Final Fantasy XII, Noah/Vayne: reversal - apology could gift him with freedom
[Here is some Extremely Late fic. I am sorry, prompter, but work + prototype + another fandom ate my life.]
When Landis had embraced the chaos grounds that ran rife through its forests, a millennia ago, instead of rejecting them as the Knight Order had first counseled, it had found monsters, mutation, disease, but more importantly, the wild magic that allowed their mages and healers to turn back the rot in the Mist, purge their forests clean, and at the depths of the greatest of the woods, the Wraithsong Expanse, they found the shieldbeasts.
The sentient, ancient creatures of Mist, more ghost than animal, had found host in the disciplined minds of the Knights of the Order. Each squire that rose through the ranks would stay a squire until chosen; and each Knight that passed in battle or in age would be mourned by both his compatriots and by his closest, inhuman companion of all. Wielded with care, respect and imagination, even the Archadian Empire’s impressive technology had failed.
- Foreword from The Knights of Landis, circa 920, Professor Maleki Wraithe, University of Landis, University Press.
A violent soul
I
The crimson flag of the lion and wolf was a chattering, proud pennant behind them, held high by their herald as their chargers hesitated at what remained of the shallow, wide marble stair to Wyntergarde - the whimsical, elegant Solidor summer retreat. To Noah’s right, most of the stair, aye, the foundation beneath, had shattered, gouged away to reveal a sheer, dizzying drop all the way down to Lower Archades; in the jagged, conical edges something of his brother’s shieldbeast, Fenris.
“You are distracted, brother,” Basch murmured beside him, as their Graycloaks hurried up in perfect file to line the stair, halberds at attention before them. The twins dismounted in unison, handing the reins to their royal squires; benign Hunter to Malkin and errant Seeker to Oberst. Noah felt uncomfortable in their ceremonial armor, all blood-red enamel and ridiculous gold, the lion’s maw across his shoulder plates; the wolf’s jaws over his twin’s - Archadia was warm in summer, too warm for trueborn sons of Landis.
“Aye. I see no reason why we must meet the conquered in their castles, as though seeking audience.”
“We have no resources after this war to adequately manage this city, let alone the entirety of the remnants of this Empire. Better to receive them as vassals, than humiliate them as prisoners and have to install consuls in their place. You did agree to my counsel,” Basch pointed out, with his gentle, inexorable patience.
“It sounded reasonable whilst in the comforts of our airship,” Noah retorted, in ill grace, though he absently ran fingers over the thin leather between his gauntlet and the overlapping steel leaves of his arm plates, as his shieldbeast stirred under his skin with the now-familiar burn of the unforgiving sun. Leon touched his mind, curious as to his unease, and then resettled as Noah soothed it. “What said Fenris?”
“Fenris?” Basch looked mildly surprised, and with good reason - Noah had yet to query his brother’s shieldbeast’s opinion on matters of diplomacy. “He sleeps, and has no interest.” His brother grinned, faintly mischievous. “Had I known you this uncomfortable, I would not have asked you to come.”
“Hah! You, who would nag me the rest of my life about appearances? Feh, as though you wouldst have allowed me to remain.” Noah muttered, as they ascended the delicate stair heavily, the thick cloak, furred with a lion’s tawny mane, dragging at his heels behind him. He comforted himself in noting that his twin seemed similarly uncomfortable in the heat, in his near identical armor, his cloak furred with a wolf’s wiry scruff, Durendal likely as heavy at his hip as Excalibur was on Noah’s.
Basch merely looked complacent, having already had his way, damned bastard, as the Greycloaks swept into the corridor before them, flanking their path. As beautiful and delicate as Wyntergarde looked, it had been built well; the corridor had been a murder room when barricaded, and despite efforts made to expunge the stench of death, Noah felt Leon curl back to attention in his mind, the shieldbeast scenting the ghost of violence with catlike satisfaction. From Basch’s sudden silence, Noah could only guess that Fenris had reacted similarly, their armors’ ringing steps the only sounds in the silenced castle.
The bloodstains grew deep in the woodwork of the second floor, and Noah found it odd how he saw neither guard nor servant come forward to greet them. Behind their herald, by the way the Order’s Master of Arms, the Paladin Wraithe, muttered darkly to himself under his breath, he supposed him equally uneasy.
“Speak your mind, Jameson,” Basch invited, sharing his twin’s thought.
“Smells like a trap,” Wraithe said bluntly, as blunt as the dire bear that slept within his arm. Wraithe had hardly ever bothered with honorifics, even when their father was slain in the Archadian war and the twins had claimed their birthright together. He had all but raised them, after all. “I am sure we did not kill that many of the tech reliant cowards.”
“Hardly,” Noah said, automatically, and Basch explained, without thinking, “Hardly all cowards, Jameson.”
“Huh. The Judge-Magisters fought well. Some of the guards. But most? Useless. They’ve gone soft in Empire and just as well. You saw what Lower Archades looked like.”
“A matter that will be improved,” Basch’s gentle, quiet determination settled Wraithe’s feathers. Before them, the Graycloaks murmured as they reached the end of the wide, wood-panelled hallway lined with somber portraits on Noah’s left, and with delicate painted crystal windows to his right, smashed ruthlessly in parts: before the great salika oak doors, wrought with silver and gold, that led to the throne room, was a slender youth.
A handsome youth, at that, mayhap all of twenty winters, with short-cropped, caramel hair and a wicked mouth curved into a devilish smile, dark, dancing eyes, white silk shirt and fawn gray breeches tucked into high boots, his chin not yet whiskered. He stepped forward as they approached, his white-gloved palms outstretched to show that he was unarmed, his smile remaining even as the Graycloaks before him crossed halberds before his path.
“My, my, such an unwelcoming welcome, for the welcoming party,” the youth purred, all charm and no fear in the face of Landis’ best. “I must beg pardon, sers, for my liege felt pomp and ceremony self-serving in such circumstances. The staff and soldiers of Wyntergarde have been temporarily dismissed.”
“Temporarily?” Wraithe asked, suspicious. “Who are you, boy?”
“Your lack of recognition does not serve you well,” the youth said, pouting prettily. “Aye, temporarily, for the young Highness Lord Larsa had quite refused to leave his brother, and is yet soft of heart in the fair chance that your men might decide to indulge in somewhat less pleasant pleasantries.”
“You are Ffamran Mid Bunansa,” Basch identified dryly. “Son of the late Cidolfus Bunansa. Archadia’s weaponsmith.”
“I happen to have invented far more than weapons,” Ffamran said, aggrieved, seemingly oblivious to how the Graycloaks tensed, their eyes angry. Ffamran’s infernal devices, combined with his father’s creations, had almost managed to turn the war in Archadia’s favor; in the end, only a desperate, suicidal gamble, headed by both Basch and Noah, a spearhead into the heart of Archades itself, had won them victory. A victory costly by far, and so much from one boy’s genius.
Leon stirred again, coiling, as behind him, the bear shook itself awake, listening to its master’s temper. “Wraithe. Sheathe your blade.” Noah said sharply, and reluctantly, there was a clink of metal behind him, angry. “If you defeat another in battle, would you blame and break his sword?”
“I hear you, ser,” Wraithe said sullenly. “I beg your pardon.”
“Did your liege send you out to greet us by yourself?” Basch enquired, frowning slightly, and Noah could understand his sentiment: Ffamran was young, mayhap young enough to speak unwisely in the face of certain danger, young and unarmed before a score of knights, all of whom had lost shieldbrothers to his technology.
“I chose to,” Ffamran said then, merrily, “To ascertain your intentions.”
“And had they been ill?” Basch seemed amused, a little inappropriately so, Noah felt, but then, pretty youths like Ffamran had always been to his brother’s taste.
“Then you may have found me a little less unarmed then you would have imagined.” Ffamran retorted smartly, smirked, and added, just as lightly, “Your Majesties.”
Wraithe growled, but Ffamran had already turned his back on them, walking to the door, pressing his palms to the salikawood. Threads of gold shot forth from his touch, curling into the gargoyles etched at the corners of the doors, and slowly, ponderously, they slid open.
The throne room within was high ceilinged and long, lined with tapestries and framed paintings, behind the throne a curve of crystal windows. The Sun Throne was empty; instead, before it and at the foot of the steps, stood the Emperor of Archades, Lord Gramis Solidor, his back bent from age, dressed plainly in black robes and uncrowned. He stood upright with the aid of a plain walking stick, and looked every inch the commoner, save for his keen, calculating steel gray eyes. Beside him, tall and proud, his eyes cold and imperious, was Vayne Solidor, the eldest remaining son, his military jacket black and unadorned, unarmed. On Gramis’ other side was a child, his chin held high despite the fear evident in his pinched eyes, Larsa Solidor, also in black.
“Like a funeral,” Ffamran said, his cheer harsh in the silence and somber sight. “Your Imperial Majesty Lord Gramis Solidor, your Highnesses Lord Vayne and Lord Larsa: I present the High Kings of Landis, their Majesties Lord Basch and Lord Noah fon Ronsenburg. The Master of Arms, Lord Jameson Wraithe. The Adeptus, Lady Elainea Etherion. Here to discuss the terms of surrender, no doubt.”
“Enough, Ffamran.” Gramis said, his tone clear and harsh from his withered throat. “You are dismissed.”
“Hardly,” Ffamran disagreed, grinning, devilish again, “The sacrificial lamb begs leave to be present while it is auctioned, your Majesty.”
Gramis’ lips thinned further, but Vayne smiled, faint and sharp and merciless, as perfectly poised and composed as he had been on the day he had slain their father. “If you so wish it, Ffamran.”
II
“What curious affectation allowed two kings in the place of one?” Vayne asked idly, one long, sleek leg folded over the other, his back pressed against a steelglass window, gloved hands in his lap and long, silky hair tied to the nape of his neck, watching the clouds pass. They were en route to Niar, the second largest city in the Archadian Empire, to settle administrative matters on the transference of power, and Vayne was there to add some formality and weight to the edict.
Or so the official story would read. Noah knew better. Gramis had sold his eldest remaining son and his weaponsmith to the lion and the wolf for the relative autonomy of preserving a fragment of his rule under a tithe. Snakes did not owe much to their own, it seemed.
Elsewhere, Basch was graciously, if under Wraithe’s disapproval and Etherion’s indulgence, providing Ffamran with a guided tour of the engine rooms that would undoubtedly end, Noah felt sourly, in his brother’s chambers and an equally guided tour of the youth’s impeccable beauty; Solidor did not offer treasures but bait.
“Lord Noah,” Vayne prompted politely, his mouth quirking, his sharp eyes darting from Noah’s eyes to the brandy in his hands, then back to the clouds, amused. “Do not worry overmuch about your brother. The Bunansas match the breadth of their curiosity in machinery to the depth of their total disinterest in politics.”
“An Landisser gunship destroyed the airship which held the Doktor,” Noah pointed out, skeptical.
“And I slew your father,” Vayne retorted, his unreadable eyes giving lie to the humor on his lips. “If you mean to have us quartered and hung in your capital, I must admit the method of conveyance has me much confused.”
“We are not barbarians.”
Vayne stared him, in silence, then he smiled, and looked back to the clouds, inclining his head. “My apologies. Indeed you are not.”
Somewhat taken aback, Noah found himself saying, “In Landis, identical twins are considered to possess one soul. As such, were identical twins born to hereditary, they inherit together.”
“But the mere fact that you have two separate ‘shieldbeasts’ should indicate differently, should it not?” Vayne shot a pointed glance at his arm, sheathed now in the starched wool of his Imperial jacket. A neat little smirk. “Your Majesty.”
“No cumbersome titles in private,” Noah said brusquely, left to wonder if he had inadvertently conceded some ground, as Vayne arched an eyebrow, then inclined his head again. “And no. Shieldbeasts bond to their wielder’s minds, not their souls, so the reasoning stands.”
“Curious,” Vayne decided, relaxing further, his eyes half-lidding. “The current Consul of Niar is a vain man, proud but efficient. The taxes he institutes are fair, the laws just, and the judiciary is adequately monitored for corruption. You would do well, I suggest, to keep him in power.”
“And I should listen to your counsel?”
“Merely a suggestion,” Vayne said, with his sharp smile, “Or should you prefer, we could engage in a similarly token tour of your airship with an equally token segue into-”
“That is not my intent nor interest,” Noah interrupted curtly, “You overstep yourself.”
“Truly? A pity,” There was a thin vein of mockery there, too slight for Noah to adequately take offense without seeming petty. “Then why am I here, ser? The firing squad or the noose? Your people see my bloodline as akin to serpents as our crest; I would not be so much trophy as liability.”
To that, outright, Noah had no answer.
III
Landis, Ffamran decided, was far too bloody cold even in autumn, worse than the depths of Archadian winters, even curled under layers of furs and over Basch’s muscular frame. The fingers petting his back slow, drowsy, and as they dipped from habit between his legs, Ffamran squirmed, wriggling and shameless over Basch’s flat belly. A soft, rumbling chuckle, as Ffamran reached boldly beneath him, grasping for sated flesh and stroking.
“If you want cock so early in the morning,” Basch said huskily into his ear, “Then put it inside by yourself.”
“I see your famed subtlety at work, your Majesty,” Ffamran retorted dryly, and the king chuckled again, shifting under him as Ffamran arched back under heavy furs, stroking the nail of his thumb over the wet slit, squeezing until thick flesh was fully engorged, stretching even his long fingers in a wide circle.
Ffamran liked to talk in such circumstances. It tended to challenge his ingenuity, particularly at the stretch of pain as he guided Basch up to seat himself all the way within. The king groaned, deep and hoarse, and Ffamran lost no time in beginning his maddeningly even pace, something he knew would eventually prompt Basch into rolling them around and driving him into the bed the way he preferred.
Being a de facto prisoner of war could be so entertaining. “Your brother warmed up to Vayne yet?”
“I am not sure that… is possible,” Basch rolled his hips upwards, causing a breathy purr but nothing else.
“He can be very charming if he wants to be.”
“Like you?” Basch’s lopsided grin indicated that, good-natured and benevolent as this king appeared, he was at the very least as sharp as the other.
“Mayhap a level lower than I,” Ffamran returned, as cheekily as he could, “’lest you wouldst imply, your Majesty, that you are ‘easy’, as street cant would term it.”
“Flattering yourself and insulting me in the same breath.”
“And yet you laugh.” Ffamran wiped a hand on the sheets and reached forward, tracing with the pad of his thumb the curve of Basch’s mouth. The king bit, grinned around the digit, and rolled them over with practiced ease.
When this ended, as it would inevitably, Ffamran felt, it was entirely likely that he would miss it.
IV
Leon sniffed Vayne’s palms politely, then turned a mournful, disappointed stare at Noah, disconcerting even in his shieldbeast’s smallest form, a translucent, fiery lion as tall as Noah himself at the shoulder. At Noah’s querying thought, Leon snorted, and looked over pointedly to its right, where Fenris was nuzzling Ffamran, the youth chuckling as his fingers passed through the shieldbeast’s muzzle, Basch beside him and his arm so very discreetly around Ffamran’s waist, even with the Graycloaks keeping watch behind them, Wraithe undoubtedly scowling himself into drink somewhere behind a tree.
The thought made him grin, and Leon shook its mane, slightly affronted by his sudden inattention. Noah apologized, and his shieldbeast, with marked, playful condescension, accepted, settling down on its haunches.
“’Tis been six months,” Vayne noted, with a sidelong glance at Archadia’s weaponsmith. “Even Ffamran has found it surprising.”
“My brother is sentimental.” Noah sat down, careless of starched sleeves and the tails of his coat on the meadow. “Hence the trek here.” The meadow was partially circled by trees, opening to Noah’s left to a view of a town, at the corner, the imposing Chapterhouse of the Ronsenburg traditional holdings.
Vayne had been… useful, for a second opinion if nothing else. As an advisor, he proved himself eminently illuminating, even if he was not entirely, Noah felt, to be trusted. Which was just as well.
Ffamran’s laugh cut short into the sound of a kiss, and Noah rolled his eyes heavenward even as Vayne seemed to laugh silently as his side. “It is Spring,” Vayne pointed out, so very mildly, his eyes dark and curiously intense. “Ser.” When Noah arched an eyebrow, inviting Vayne to elaborate on his cryptic remark, the former Prince merely smiled, inscrutable.
On their way back, with Vayne occupied discussing primary production planning strategies with their Home Secretary, Aelthar, and with Ffamran providing unnecessary and often irrelevant comment, Basch rode up to Noah’s side, his smile wide and honest. “If you like him, you like him.”
Noah did not bother to demand how Basch knew. “And if I swear that you are mistaken?”
“Then if I am mistaken, I am mistaken,” Basch said, in the irritating way only a brother could manage, sidestepping Hunter out of Noah’s punching range. “Archades is ours now, Noah. A few spoils would not go amiss.” This last was said facetiously.
“I would tell you to fear the snake for its fangs, were I you and intending to give advice.”
“Since you know that still,” Basch said carelessly, “Simply exercise care.”
“And the issue of succession?”
“Succession is,” Basch grinned slyly, “Easy enough to arrange, with the glut of princesses about our Empire who are undoubtedly just as willing to exercise a certain degree of mutual freedom.”
Later that night and alone in his chambers, Noah envied his twin his easygoing nature.
V
Gramis finally passed away of age, in the night, and just as promptly, Vayne made it known via general public announcement that he was abdicating his right to token succession to his brother, now fifteen years of age, as well as retiring from all forms of political life, permanently.
This did not surprise Basch, much to Noah’s irritation, when they learned of it, and just as blandly, Basch had suggested that they visit Archades to attend the state funeral as well as the following coronation.
“We can send a representative,” Noah said, with a murderous glance at his brother once alone in their study. Vayne had returned to Archades after seven months in Landis, something which had given the Landissan Court much relief; the selfsame Court that had once suggested that the brothers take the biggest snake from the War back with them such that they could watch over him closely. Since then, Noah had pointedly made no further contact with Vayne, inasmuch as Ffamran had merrily remained in Landis and in his brother’s bed.
“Ffamran wishes to attend,” Basch said, so very untroubled, and Noah wished that he could punch him.
VI
Three years had turned Ffamran tall and lean, all wolflike muscle instead of soft, puppyish flesh, as tall again as Vayne, who met them at the Aerodrome, again in black, again in mourning, at his side, Larsa Solidor, whose expression was as carefully inscrutable as his brother’s, even as Ffamran grinned at them both and shook Vayne’s hand.
“It is a great honor to receive you for this occasion,” Larsa said, a little stilted and obviously rehearsed, “Your Majesties Lord Basch and Lord Noah.”
“Our condolences on your loss,” Basch said soberly, watching Ffamran enthusiastically shake the gloved hand of the first helmeted judge behind Larsa. The sole survivor of the wars, the Lady Drace; she chuckled, artless in her hollow helm, then clasped Ffamran tightly on the arm. A friend, then, or a keeper.
“Thank you, your Majesty,” Larsa said, blinking, and looking up at his brother, but Vayne gave no outward cue, his smile faint as he inclined his head at them both, doll-like, his limbs loose and boneless.
VII
Noah had drunk enough good brandy four hours into the coronation dinner to stumble out of the ballroom for air, feeling fuzzily stupid as he did so. Wyntergarde was far larger than he vaguely remembered, sound carried through the night, and he clenched his teeth as he picked out Ffamran’s controlled, mischievous laugh, underscored by his brother’s chuckle.
Vaguely annoyed, now, Noah strayed sullenly further where he had just promised his brother that he would stay close, the halls silent, empty, his shieldbeast uncomfortable under his arm, the brand hot and writhing on his skin. Inebriation brought out the worst in Noah.
The trimmed gardens, the damage from the wars long repaired, lessened his bloodlust, the air fresh, cool and crisp, and Leon settled, uneasy, as Noah rocked back on his heels and took a deep breath, curling and uncurling his fists, then he flinched, as Leon burned on his skin, the familiar searing touch of activation. Staggering, he nearly fell through the incandescent form of his shieldbeast as it curled protectively around him, growling.
Vayne was approaching them, visibly unarmed, looking amused. The gold thread on his blue vest and his white shirt alone could likely feed a contingent, Noah thought, most uncharitably, his lips curled in a sneer and his eyes ferocious.
“I sought you out when I could not find you,” Vayne said, cultured and even, his eyes flickering over the spirit lion. “Your brother worries.”
“He does that often.” Noah said, hoarse from the violence in his soul, “And usually, he sends a girl.”
“This is not Landis,” Vayne smiled, all curled lips and unreadable eyes, “A maiden fair of Archadian blue would have fallen quite under the weather, at the sight of your soul entire.”
“And you?”
“And I,” Vayne said, every stride catlike in his calculation, his gloved palm outstretched for Leon’s muzzle, “Merely wonder what it would feel like to be burned.”
If the Archadian smirked when Noah roughly dragged him close, the king did not see it.
VIII
Somehow matters concluded in Vayne’s private chambers. In the morning glare from the bedroom windows, nursing a hangover and a foul taste in his mouth, Noah sat up, ran his eyes over the curled form beside him, and vaguely remembered driving up into slender hips, mottling sleek thighs with bruises. On his arm, Leon slept, its violence sated, and Noah flinched as long fingers crept over his hip.
“There should be coffee available outside this room,” Vayne murmured, his voice so precise even upon waking, “And a potion for your disposition.” His eyes questioned where his tone did not.
“Leon is feral,” Noah found himself explaining - he did this too often before Vayne, then, then and now, it seemed. “While my brother’s Fenris submits easily to his will.” A wolf was a step away from a dog, but cats of all natures were innately wild. “Sometimes the mood takes me.”
“And your brother will send a girl.” This was spoken mildly.
“It is different in Landis,” Noah said, irritable, “And I am far less likely to hurt a girl.” He drew fingers over Vayne’s bruised flanks, pointedly, but the Archadian merely smiled lazily through swelling lips, and this pushed Noah to speak the question on his mind for the past week. “Why did you abdicate?”
“I have no interest in only the semblance of power.”
“Such words are dangerous,” Noah warned, if halfheartedly.
“They would be, had I no purpose. I will stay with my brother and preserve him, until he learns to live by himself; after that, we shall see. Had I abdicated any earlier, in his formative and most impressionable years, that could have had unfortunate consequences. Now my existence serves as a deterrence to any who might seek my brother ill.”
“They are afraid that were he to die before you, you would assume the throne? What if they were to kill you first?”
“I am difficult to kill,” Vayne said, his smile sharp, and his fingers warm against the small of Noah’s back. “Will you come back to Archades, Lord Noah?”
It was not a request, bold from a Prince who had long fallen out of power; Noah laughed, with a harsh bark, reached behind him, and curled roughened digits tightly over Vayne’s elegant fingers.
-fin-
.