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rose_in_winter2019-03-29 07:02 pm
lassarina) wrote in rose_in_winter2019-03-29 07:02 pm
[Final Fantasy XII] Client Crown
Characters: Ashe, Vayne
Contains: N/A
Wordcount: 987
Notes: Written forgenprompt_bingo round 15, "Freestyle AU." In this case, the AU where Ashe does not escape the palace, and becomes a client queen to Archades.
Betas: None
Summary: She wears her crown not by her own will, but another's tolerance; still, within these limits, it is hers.
"Faram."
As the crown is lowered onto her head, Ashelia thinks she could grow to hate priests. She bore them no great liking already, for she has seen them most clearly at funerals—ten for those whom she loved, at last count: eight brothers, a husband, and a father. Now they seal this, her second marriage, to crown and country rather than consort, and it is a hideous lie. She wonders that the priest can keep a straight face as he pronounces her Queen, wife to Dalmasca now and evermore.
A client queen, with a crown not yet on her head when she signed the terms of Dalmasca's surrender. In truth, the terms were not ungenerous: she keeps her crown, and her army (on paper), and her lands, and gains Nabradia in truth, for there was no one else of Raithwall's line who would take the Emperor's terms. Unlike her father, her brothers, her husband, Ashelia has survived.
All she must do is send troops to Archadian wars, and taxes to Archadian coffers, and sweet words of surrender to Archadian ears. She is astonished they have not given her an Archadian husband to complete the subjugation—astonished, yet grateful, for also they have left her Vossler as her Knight-Captain, in lieu of the traitor.
She turns from the priest to face the assembled dignitaries. Fully a half-dozen Judges Magister stand to the side, where their massive helms do not obstruct the view of those of wealth and position. In the front row is the Consul, the Emperor's eldest surviving son, fair of face and manner, who has been so polite as she plans her coronation. Yet never has Ashelia forgotten—Vossler does not let her forget—that it was Vayne Solidor's hand which wielded the sword that cut down his two elder brothers for treason. He would require less incentive to slay an obstreperous subordinate, and that is what she is. For today, he smiles broadly, as he might for a chocobo that is put through its paces without fault.
She raises the scepter of Raithwall in both her hands, the gold warm after being held throughout the ceremony. The sunlight streaming into the cathedral bounces off it with blinding brilliance. She lowers it and clasps it near to her heart, yet not against it, for the delicate chasing would tangle with the lace of her gown, and it would be undignified. Dignity is all she can lay personal claim to; she will not yield it so cheaply.
The dignitaries cheer.
The Consul rises, and approaches to ten paces' distance, where he gives her the proper bow of an ambassador to a reigning monarch, note-perfect in performing this fiction. "Long live Ashelia B'nargin Dalmasca, Queen of Dalmasca and Nabradia!" His voice is made for speeches and grand halls, and rolls smoothly through the air, as though his land had not orchestrated this moment.
Ashelia has not forgotten that Nabudis, the jewel box of Nabradia, lies broken and haunted in the wake of Imperial attack; she has not forgotten her husband's broken body, nor his funeral, nor the gravestone upon which she personally lays fresh flowers every third day. She forgets nothing, but her training was excellent, and she smiles as though she had ascended to her throne in the fullness of time, with her father lost to age, not a traitor's knife. "Dalmasca and Nabradia welcome the friendship of Archades," she says, and though her voice is less deep than the Consul's, she too knows how to make it carry through the entire cathedral.
"Will Your Majesty grant me the honor of escorting you to the door?" He asks it as though he truly means the question, as though he would let her say no. Even his expression is open and welcoming.
For half a heartbeat she considers asking for Vossler instead, but impulse is a luxury of young princesses. She unclenches one hand from her scepter and offers it to him. "We accept your gracious offer, Lord Consul."
He approaches in perfect meter, and when he takes her arm, his fingers are warm on the thin fabric of her sleeve. He says nothing as he escorts her down the long aisle, to the door. There he pauses, and lets drop his arm.
He really is treating this as though it were a coronation in truth, of a nation in friendship with his. She wonders what he gains.
The guards swing open the door, and Ashelia, Queen of Dalmasca and Nabradia, steps into the glaring sunlight of Rabanastre alone, and raises Raithwall's scepter to the sky. Her people cheer, and if it is perhaps less full-throated than the last time she left this cathedral newlywed, still they put on a good show. She is grateful. Their apparent enthusiasm will make it easier to protect them; a compliant populace draws fewer threats than restive.
Vossler falls in behind her as she goes to the open carriage that will carry her to the feast. Vayne Solidor is nowhere to be seen. Vossler hands her up, and she braces herself against the bar, raising her free hand to wave. Her people will feast today, as well, thanks to generous gifts of foodstuffs from Rozarria, whose prince Al-Cid is present for her coronation. He is too far down the line of succession to matter, and were Dalmasca independent, she would be forgiven for thinking it an insult, but as a client state, she is surprised Rozarria speaks at all. She will discuss it with Vossler later, once they have discerned where safe conversations may be held, away from prying ears.
The crown weighs heavy on her head, the scepter on her arm. Power is uncomfortable, her father always said, but somehow she did not expect its physical trappings to be so.
She smiles for her people, the easiest of the tasks she will undertake today, and steels herself for the feast.
Contains: N/A
Wordcount: 987
Notes: Written for
genprompt_bingo round 15, "Freestyle AU." In this case, the AU where Ashe does not escape the palace, and becomes a client queen to Archades.Betas: None
Summary: She wears her crown not by her own will, but another's tolerance; still, within these limits, it is hers.
"Faram."
As the crown is lowered onto her head, Ashelia thinks she could grow to hate priests. She bore them no great liking already, for she has seen them most clearly at funerals—ten for those whom she loved, at last count: eight brothers, a husband, and a father. Now they seal this, her second marriage, to crown and country rather than consort, and it is a hideous lie. She wonders that the priest can keep a straight face as he pronounces her Queen, wife to Dalmasca now and evermore.
A client queen, with a crown not yet on her head when she signed the terms of Dalmasca's surrender. In truth, the terms were not ungenerous: she keeps her crown, and her army (on paper), and her lands, and gains Nabradia in truth, for there was no one else of Raithwall's line who would take the Emperor's terms. Unlike her father, her brothers, her husband, Ashelia has survived.
All she must do is send troops to Archadian wars, and taxes to Archadian coffers, and sweet words of surrender to Archadian ears. She is astonished they have not given her an Archadian husband to complete the subjugation—astonished, yet grateful, for also they have left her Vossler as her Knight-Captain, in lieu of the traitor.
She turns from the priest to face the assembled dignitaries. Fully a half-dozen Judges Magister stand to the side, where their massive helms do not obstruct the view of those of wealth and position. In the front row is the Consul, the Emperor's eldest surviving son, fair of face and manner, who has been so polite as she plans her coronation. Yet never has Ashelia forgotten—Vossler does not let her forget—that it was Vayne Solidor's hand which wielded the sword that cut down his two elder brothers for treason. He would require less incentive to slay an obstreperous subordinate, and that is what she is. For today, he smiles broadly, as he might for a chocobo that is put through its paces without fault.
She raises the scepter of Raithwall in both her hands, the gold warm after being held throughout the ceremony. The sunlight streaming into the cathedral bounces off it with blinding brilliance. She lowers it and clasps it near to her heart, yet not against it, for the delicate chasing would tangle with the lace of her gown, and it would be undignified. Dignity is all she can lay personal claim to; she will not yield it so cheaply.
The dignitaries cheer.
The Consul rises, and approaches to ten paces' distance, where he gives her the proper bow of an ambassador to a reigning monarch, note-perfect in performing this fiction. "Long live Ashelia B'nargin Dalmasca, Queen of Dalmasca and Nabradia!" His voice is made for speeches and grand halls, and rolls smoothly through the air, as though his land had not orchestrated this moment.
Ashelia has not forgotten that Nabudis, the jewel box of Nabradia, lies broken and haunted in the wake of Imperial attack; she has not forgotten her husband's broken body, nor his funeral, nor the gravestone upon which she personally lays fresh flowers every third day. She forgets nothing, but her training was excellent, and she smiles as though she had ascended to her throne in the fullness of time, with her father lost to age, not a traitor's knife. "Dalmasca and Nabradia welcome the friendship of Archades," she says, and though her voice is less deep than the Consul's, she too knows how to make it carry through the entire cathedral.
"Will Your Majesty grant me the honor of escorting you to the door?" He asks it as though he truly means the question, as though he would let her say no. Even his expression is open and welcoming.
For half a heartbeat she considers asking for Vossler instead, but impulse is a luxury of young princesses. She unclenches one hand from her scepter and offers it to him. "We accept your gracious offer, Lord Consul."
He approaches in perfect meter, and when he takes her arm, his fingers are warm on the thin fabric of her sleeve. He says nothing as he escorts her down the long aisle, to the door. There he pauses, and lets drop his arm.
He really is treating this as though it were a coronation in truth, of a nation in friendship with his. She wonders what he gains.
The guards swing open the door, and Ashelia, Queen of Dalmasca and Nabradia, steps into the glaring sunlight of Rabanastre alone, and raises Raithwall's scepter to the sky. Her people cheer, and if it is perhaps less full-throated than the last time she left this cathedral newlywed, still they put on a good show. She is grateful. Their apparent enthusiasm will make it easier to protect them; a compliant populace draws fewer threats than restive.
Vossler falls in behind her as she goes to the open carriage that will carry her to the feast. Vayne Solidor is nowhere to be seen. Vossler hands her up, and she braces herself against the bar, raising her free hand to wave. Her people will feast today, as well, thanks to generous gifts of foodstuffs from Rozarria, whose prince Al-Cid is present for her coronation. He is too far down the line of succession to matter, and were Dalmasca independent, she would be forgiven for thinking it an insult, but as a client state, she is surprised Rozarria speaks at all. She will discuss it with Vossler later, once they have discerned where safe conversations may be held, away from prying ears.
The crown weighs heavy on her head, the scepter on her arm. Power is uncomfortable, her father always said, but somehow she did not expect its physical trappings to be so.
She smiles for her people, the easiest of the tasks she will undertake today, and steels herself for the feast.