Logistika_nyx is responsible for suggesting this as a 10 100-word drabble exercise. Point of view ranges from deep inside Vossler's head to pulling back well outside his person. Warning: the zoom of the lens might whiplash a little given that these are drabbles. This is a companion story to The Servant & The Master.
Old Saying…
The third son of a man who sits on the Council of Lords belongs to the King. His fealty is to his nation, not the patch of land bearing his father's name.
At thirteen years of age, Vossler was tall and broad shouldered on his day of squiring. He could ride with the weight of armor worn by a knight. Two years later he was granted that title.
"Which man among you has courage to perform our king's will without question?" Rumor of war spread through their barracks before the king's highest captain arrived.
Vossler stood tall and stepped forward.
Make Believe…
There are soldiers, there are knights, but highest of all are the knights vowed to the Order. Vossler was seventeen and fully a man when he spoke these words: 'I ask our Great Father to bless me with strength and long life. May the Mother of All accept this token of my love and devotion.' Around the neck of a painted statue, he hung a diamond pendant strung on a golden chain.
'In the name of the Father, I hereby pronounce you wed to Mother of All from this time forth. Faram.' The priest's words echoed through the empty temple.
Done Away With…
The foreigner did not understand his vows. Basch translated the words literally, applying syllogisms that reeked of peasant's philosophy. Vossler found humor in his companion until the day Basch brought a silk-clad camp girl back to their tent.
"Tonight, she is Mother of All." The foreigner's pale hands slid beneath translucent silk strung about the girl's waist.
"Do not—" Words wasted, Vossler's warning was ignored.
Basch unwrapped the girl's thin clothing as if a gift and collapsed in a tangle of limbs. Vossler was unable to turn away, even when Basch pulled out and came on her glistening skin.
Running Away…
Is it better to be the king or to be the captain commanding the king's forces? One leads a nation and the other leads a nation's men, yet both rely on their men's loyalty. Yes, a king can grant land and title to those who deserve favor, but it is often the captain of the Order who grants recognition of a man's deeds. But what makes a young man loyal once he holds a sword? Loyalty, in the end, is rarely stronger than a man's blood.
The nobleman's wife moans beneath Vossler. Her third son will belong to the king.
Wars…
Sheer need brought so many young recruits. Knights, they called themselves, but they were boys: poorly trained and inadequately equipped. They swore their oath en masse while kneeling in the plaza in front of the palace. They had little understanding of what Dalmasca was fighting for.
Vossler stepped over another lithe body felled by an arrow. Their presence in battle was a waste. Their blood was weak, untouched by the noble strength that fills a great man with valor and lifts him to do what he must. These were children of lesser men. Now their blood stained Dalmasca's golden sand.
Sunrise, Sunset…
One death followed another, severing Dalmasca's royal line as prince and king perished.
Yet, it not the male line that makes rule true: He who wears Dalmasca's crown is but a plowman tilling the Earth, and the Earth is made fertile once Her waters rise, then seeds are sown, O Holy Mother, and those blessed as her consort will return to the Earth, embraced in her bosom in peace, waiting to be reborn. Faram.
She is not princess, but queen, and she huddles against Vossler. Nervous gasps of breath heat his neck. Hard footsteps of soldiers thunder in the corridor.
Forgetfulness…
Their story is a believable lie: a nobleman and wife reduced to a wretched state of penury. War had humbled rich and poor alike, leaving them all to rot in the bowels of Lowtown.
Few recognize Vossler; he had lived his adult years among those now dead. Anyone who recognizes him has sworn an oath to the Resistance upon blade's edge. No one recognizes Ashelia; she had been too precious a flower to be touched by desert winds.
They walk through crowded alleys that stink of fried meat and tobacco. He touches her waist as if she were his wife.
You & Me…
Basch stood before him: a deserter freed from chains turned debt collector, but always a knight who refused to stray from the true path. Vossler laughed at Basch's interpretation of the oath.
Long ago, Vossler spoke his oath to Pashtarot and Fandaniel, Knight Star and Protector, gods of the summer sky. They may be slow to respond but they never forget. They saw Vossler's mistake: Ashelia slipped from his shield.
Have the gods sent Basch on the heels of Deudalaphon, the Benevolent, or wielding the thunder of Adrammelech? This man tried to hide his past; a deceiver cannot be trusted.
Blind...
"We'll reinstate her on Rabanastre's throne and she will continue to live as your queen." Ghis's emphasis made clear that he knew what Vossler wanted. He wanted her hot breath against his ear as they lay together in the dark. He wanted to inhale the flower-washed scent of her hair as she took him in.
He wanted this because he knew that she knew that she needed him.
Each night, once done, salty sweat will suction their skin together after he falls atop of her flesh, sightless in midnight darkness, dear God, dear God, and he will catch his breath.
Undone…
They should condemn him to forever avert his eyes, but Vossler begged the Gods to allow him sight of his earthly queen upon his entry into heaven. He should not suffer punishment for his devotion. All he had done had been for her, although the Gods knew why.
He gave for their future, their nation's future, and for every man who claimed citizenship in the heart of ancient Galtea. He would have fallen down before his Queen's feet, naked and willing: he who keeps the land great and fertile.
Basch harbored no such desires; in that, Vossler could trust him.