Headphones: An FFXII Fanfiction Playlist
A/N: I got this idea from zestychicken2, who is in the process of writing 47 drabbles based off of the first 47 tracks on her iPod. I will be doing 50, because I am a Virgo rising and therefore am uncomfortable with awkward numbers, haha. Thanks, zestychicken2, for the jump-start.
Please R&R these as you see fit.
ONE
Song: Agnus Dei
Artist: Rufus Wainwright
Album: Want Two
Rabanastre burneth.
Nabradia was a blot on the horizon, still smoking, when the Archadians came in low over the city and began to open fire. Ifrit showed no mercy; thousands of bodies burned under its onslaught, and Bergan laughed madly to hear them scream.
There was no-one to lead Dalmasca's men against the coup. Raminas dead, Heios Nabradia dead, Ronsenburg a traitor, and Azelas long gone, presumed dead, wandering through the desert.
Ashelia B'Nargin is huddled in bed, the curtains drawn, curled in a foetal ball among the sheets. They still smell like him. She may never leave this bed. She may never move. She might never breathe again.
Rasler. Rasler. Let it burn, let it rot, let them come, let them kill me.
Rasler.
Tilia knocks on the door softly.
"My Lady, I beg you, we must..."
Ashelia can only cover her ears with her arms and scream wordlessly at the top of her lungs. Even her dear nursemaid, frail and lovely and wise, will not be able to shoo away this nightmare. The madness of grief has come for the Lady Ashe, and she will never recover.
All dead. All dead, all lost, nothing to run from, nothing to run to, only smoke and flame and cypress coffins spread over the land like stones, thousands upon thousands of dead, faceless men that her father could no longer defend from the basilisk.
A sharper knock this time. Metal on wood rather than flesh. And then, swiftly, the door opens, and he is there. Faram, sweet mercy, my husband, a miracle ... But no, it is not Rasler, she realizes, almost too late; her lips are already parted, aching for a kiss, when she sees that the soldier before her is Azelas.
"My Lady..."
Sick with misery and fear and relief, Ashe collapses into his arms, too weak to think of decorum. Decorum, pfah. She is widowed and orphaned and naught but seventeen. She may well be struck dead for the shame and the sorrow of continuing to breathe. What is decorum to such a wretch?
"My Lady... The Archadians are coming for you. We must fly... Please, Princess."
She can only sob. He shakes her a little, bracingly, without apology.
"Please, Ashe. We must fly. I won't lose you. Not now!"
Resolute, Azelas plucks her from the bed and carries her, still in her widow's weeds, from the room. Tilia listens to them go, her sightless Bangaa's eyes swimming with pearly tears.
"Azelas... protect her..."
"As is my charge, Lady Tilia. Pray and keep watch. I shall return."
* * *
Tilia waits. She prays, she weeps and listens and curses the cannon fire.
Ashelia B'Nargin Dalmasca will never return.
* * *
Come dawn's first light, the city is in ashes. The survivors are wandering aimlessly, vacant-faced as the dead. Their mourning is piled upon mourning, their shame running thick and fast as the tears on their faces. Ashelia B'Nargin is dead, and with her the last glimmer of hope for a new Galtea.
The grieved whispers run like water through the city. The Lady Ashe jumped from the south spur of Garamsythe, drowned in the rush of sewer water. None will search for her body, and none will dare to say her name for more than a week, lest a cry of sorrow rise in every heart within reach of ears.
Rabanastre falleth.