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rose_in_winterCharacters/Pairings: Ashe/Vossler
Rating: G
Contains: Reference to canon character death
Wordcount: 598
Notes: Written for the Final Fantasy Kiss Battle meme.
Beta: None
Summary: Ashe is weary of the darkness that entraps her, and angry at Vossler for enforcing it.
Sometimes Ashe thinks she will never see the sun again.
She does see it, from time to time, when Vossler deems it safe—but most often that is as the sun sinks beneath the horizon, as he judges that the tricky shadows will make it less likely for someone to recognize her. For a woman raised on desert sun and wind, one who escaped to them whenever possible despite her governess's efforts to keep her complexion smooth and pale, this endless darkness of the Rabanastre waterways is nearly as bad as the loss of her loved ones.
But only nearly.
Vossler has taken a detachment of his most trusted men out to strike at the flanks of the Imperial bastards who walk her land as though they own it, and Ashe seethes at being left behind. She paces massive twisting patterns through the waterways beneath her city, and counts her irritations in the beat of her boot heels against the ground.
She knows better than to call him out in front of the men, but that does not stop her from following him toward his quarters, nor from entering with him when he is insufficiently quick to bar her way.
She folds her arms across her chest and glares at him.
"Majesty." His voice is carefully neutral.
"I am weary of being left behind, Vossler." She watches through narrowed eyes as he puts Nightmare aside in her sheath, marking the care he takes with his left arm that tells her he is wounded. "I am capable with a sword and I know the city. I should be going with you."
Not waiting for his reply, she goes to the small chest in which he keeps medical supplies, and removes two potions. She takes them from the end of the neatly arranged row, not the beginning, so that he can mark when his supplies run unacceptably low. She stands, the vials clinking in her hand, and meets his gaze head-on.
"'Tis naught that requires a potion," Vossler says very carefully. "A bandage will suffice." He does not move to remove his armour.
Ashe strides across the room, and does not slow or deviate as she approaches him. He takes a step back to avoid her running into him, and his back meets the wall. He winces.
Ashe waits, not with patience but with fierce concentration. When he still does not remove his armour, she clinks the bottles in her hand. "Vossler," she snaps.
His shoulders tighten, and his face goes entirely blank. "Majesty," he says in that empty, neutral tone, "am I being commanded as a knight in your service, or as a man who betimes shares your bed?"
She could hit him for that, truly she could, and her free hand clenches into a fist, but rather than striking him, she steps closer to crowd him against the wall and crushes her mouth against his.
She remembers kissing Rasler to have been tender; even at their fiercest passions they were not savage at each other as she and Vossler so often are. His teeth scrape her lip, and his hand—his uninjured hand—comes up to clench tight in her hair.
She pulls back, her mouth already throbbing, and shoves the potions into his hand. "In either case, you are of little good to me bled out, wouldn't you agree?" she says.
He says nothing.
Ashe lets her lip curl in a little derisive smile. "You cannot keep me locked away forever, Vossler. Even princesses must grow into queens."
He is still silent as she leaves his quarters.
Rating: G
Contains: Reference to canon character death
Wordcount: 598
Notes: Written for the Final Fantasy Kiss Battle meme.
Beta: None
Summary: Ashe is weary of the darkness that entraps her, and angry at Vossler for enforcing it.
Sometimes Ashe thinks she will never see the sun again.
She does see it, from time to time, when Vossler deems it safe—but most often that is as the sun sinks beneath the horizon, as he judges that the tricky shadows will make it less likely for someone to recognize her. For a woman raised on desert sun and wind, one who escaped to them whenever possible despite her governess's efforts to keep her complexion smooth and pale, this endless darkness of the Rabanastre waterways is nearly as bad as the loss of her loved ones.
But only nearly.
Vossler has taken a detachment of his most trusted men out to strike at the flanks of the Imperial bastards who walk her land as though they own it, and Ashe seethes at being left behind. She paces massive twisting patterns through the waterways beneath her city, and counts her irritations in the beat of her boot heels against the ground.
She knows better than to call him out in front of the men, but that does not stop her from following him toward his quarters, nor from entering with him when he is insufficiently quick to bar her way.
She folds her arms across her chest and glares at him.
"Majesty." His voice is carefully neutral.
"I am weary of being left behind, Vossler." She watches through narrowed eyes as he puts Nightmare aside in her sheath, marking the care he takes with his left arm that tells her he is wounded. "I am capable with a sword and I know the city. I should be going with you."
Not waiting for his reply, she goes to the small chest in which he keeps medical supplies, and removes two potions. She takes them from the end of the neatly arranged row, not the beginning, so that he can mark when his supplies run unacceptably low. She stands, the vials clinking in her hand, and meets his gaze head-on.
"'Tis naught that requires a potion," Vossler says very carefully. "A bandage will suffice." He does not move to remove his armour.
Ashe strides across the room, and does not slow or deviate as she approaches him. He takes a step back to avoid her running into him, and his back meets the wall. He winces.
Ashe waits, not with patience but with fierce concentration. When he still does not remove his armour, she clinks the bottles in her hand. "Vossler," she snaps.
His shoulders tighten, and his face goes entirely blank. "Majesty," he says in that empty, neutral tone, "am I being commanded as a knight in your service, or as a man who betimes shares your bed?"
She could hit him for that, truly she could, and her free hand clenches into a fist, but rather than striking him, she steps closer to crowd him against the wall and crushes her mouth against his.
She remembers kissing Rasler to have been tender; even at their fiercest passions they were not savage at each other as she and Vossler so often are. His teeth scrape her lip, and his hand—his uninjured hand—comes up to clench tight in her hair.
She pulls back, her mouth already throbbing, and shoves the potions into his hand. "In either case, you are of little good to me bled out, wouldn't you agree?" she says.
He says nothing.
Ashe lets her lip curl in a little derisive smile. "You cannot keep me locked away forever, Vossler. Even princesses must grow into queens."
He is still silent as she leaves his quarters.