Disclaimer: Final Fantasy X and Final Fantasy X-2 are © Square-Enix.
Rating: T because there are some dark themes, but everything is done in suggestion. There is nothing explicit whatsoever.
Warning: This fic contains very minor spoilers for those of you who haven't retrieved the sphere involving Seymour and another 'character' in FFX-2. Even if you have retrieved the sphere, I bet you couldn't spot the spoiler! As I said, it is rather miniscule. However, this fic contains major spoilers if you haven't reached Bevelle in FFX.
Sidenote: This fic is written in a timeline created from supposition and consideration for an alternate timeline without Tidus' presence.
Summary: Lord Seymour dresses his bride in black. She should be thanking him, really -he is doing her a favor. "May you live and die as one." Onesided Seymour/Yuna
Trembling into Blue
When the Lord Seymour sees her, she is shrouded in white, pale and opalescent against an opaque moon.
She does not see him, but feels him, like swaying grass against her calves -a curious touch, and easily fleeting. The Lady has learned that this presence calls to her in a most dangerous murmur found in rolling waves and leaping thunder, but for now, it can be ignored.
He watches her lift the pure white of her skirts with soft palms and thin fingers as she makes her first step into the water. The transition is smooth and almost flawless; the touch of the arch of her foot against the surface makes soft ripples akin to patterns on blue silk.
She still holds her arms out at her sides, summoning balance as she takes the next step. The pyreflies tickle against her skin with their iridescence and quivering motions. They are waiting, coaxing for release, though the young summoner still does not know all the steps, and sometimes splashes water with a toe digging into the surface before she catches herself again.
Seymour could teach her these little intricacies hidden within the art of sending. He could teach her balance and posture, the proper way to grip her staff. But he won't. If she doesn't learn it on her own, she wouldn't be worth half as much to him as she should. So for now, he watches and waits.
She pirouettes into weightlessness when the water funnels and swirls around her. The Lady has almost conquered the waters, but still, she cannot call them her own. Still, she holds great promise.
The Lord shivers into a snake-like smile. Soon, he decides. Soon...
o0o
It is in the heat of the small hut that Lord Seymour visits her. He is taken aback by the simplicity he finds in Besaid, with its lazy breezes and primitive structures, but he doesn't hold it against her. After all, she is a diamond in the rough. There will be time for refinement later.
The Lady will not look at him with her eyes as he enters, but makes shy and gentle gestures with the soft press of a frown as she stumbles over formalities and other small nuisances that she really, would much rather not deal with. She bites her lip softly, motions towards a wooden chair that the Lord finds unappealing (but will bear with a smile) and tangles her fingers together.
Lord Seymour finds this all quite amusing -because, hidden behind the ulterior motives and decay of natural emotion, he can recognize the youth in this woman. He'll try to muster some sadness when the sharpness of her eyes dull and her innocence fades. He'll also try not to smile too broadly when a greater power is laid in his hands, because such things are to be accepted with humility, false or not.
Dutifully, the Lady kneels before him because propriety calls for it, and lets the chestnut of her hair shadow her eyes. And because she is conscious of her actions, she knows that it is improper for her to shirk against this august man's hollow laugh as he speaks in his lilting voice, saying that, 'It is quite unnecessary, my dear". So she looks at her palms and tries not to recoil at the touch of his large hand atop her head, placating and patronizing all at once. She feels as if she is being rewarded, like a dog with a gentle pat on the head, and allows a quiet shiver to take her at the thought of being someone's pet. The Lady rises and unfurls her clasped hands, taking her own seat across from him, thinking that she has just been insulted in a very small way, but insulted nonetheless.
It doesn't take him a long time to recite the well-practiced words, stiff and formal, of his proposal. He doesn't hide his smile when she pales and flutters soft words out of her lips, something insignificant and along the lines of: "I thank you for your offer. But I need some time..." He isn't ruffled, and grants her a month to think it over. He will not be denied.
o0o
Within a week, Lord Seymour has noticed the young woman's progress. She has already passed the trials and has managed to summon her first Aeon. It would seem as if the Lady was hastening her motions to spite him without being aware. He can observe her with his chin resting on a fist, and wonder at what else the Lady is capable of, and whether or not this could work to his advantage. For now, he'll praise her through restricted words caught on parchment and wait expectantly for her kind words in return.
o0o
Four days after the young summoner's noted accomplishments, a small, Manila envelope finds its way onto the Lord's oak desk. The Lord tears the crease with a nail and frowns at the slanting cursive that belongs to Lady Yuna: I apologize in advance for any inconvenience that I have laid upon you, but I feel the need to inform you, that as of now, I plan on starting my pilgrimage. You must understand how important this is to me. Please do not take this as a slight, but my pilgrimage comes first and I do not feel that it is right for me to ask you to wait as a result of my actions. I truly am deeply sorry. Signed, Lady Yuna.
Lord Seymour claws for paper at his desk and takes the quill to the inkblot. His letter is brief, with only four words to grace the page: My offer still stands.
There is a threat hidden behind the insistent words, but he is sure that she won't catch it, not right away anyways.
o0o
At the end of the month, Lord Seymour does not receive a letter, but the Lady herself. She shivers and trembles, but this time, she meets his eyes, because really, what else is there to lose? The pilgrimage is never completed, there were...complications. She fumbles with her cloak, lets it fall to the floor. He notices that she is still in her summoner's robes, now blood spattered and dirty. Formality is lost between hesitant tears and a quivering voice.
"Lulu is dead", she says. The tears spill onto her face without caution and the moon painted into the sky behind her, makes them pearls. She notices his stiffness, how he won't break through the barrier of status, honorifics and polite handshakes, to console her. She'll learn not to look for such things in him, she decides. The Lady does not allow herself to break into sobs, and whisks the wetness off of her cheeks with the back of her hand, apologizing for her weakness.
He takes her wrist softly in his, tries to hold it without hurting her as he leads them both to the high-backed chair facing the fire.
"Because of this..." she tries to say 'tragedy' but fails and bites her lip, leaving her words to wander and lose themselves amongst the tangled vines and harsh stone of Guadosalam. "Because of the circumstances, I am unable and unwilling to continue my pilgrimage. For this reason, I came to inform you myself, that I accept your offer of marriage" she finishes.
Lord Seymour takes her limp hand, presents a kiss to the tender skin and asks her 'if this is what she wishes?' He already knows that much of her has already yielded to him, and so, the question is a tease. Only instinct will tell her this, and by then (if he has planned it correctly), it most certainly will be too late. He waits patiently during the absence of her eyes taking on the moon, the sky, the stars and allows his thumb to brush the underside of her wrist.
"What other option is there?" she asks no one. "If it will unite the people, what more is there to wish for?"
He eases into a smile, as he answers, "Nothing else, my dear Nothing else."
o0o
At the wedding, Lord Seymour is given many felicitations, many of which, he accepts with a true smile and his Lady's hand linked with his. Beneath the veil, her head is ducked and her strained smile is private, but he can accept this knowing that he has already broken a part of her without even trying.
In her wedding dress, in front of the stretch of sky and earth, Lord Seymour's bride finds where she rests -between personal sadness and overwhelming duty. And in the eyes of the people, she is stunning. The Lady will forgive them later for their ignorance, even as she waves to them with a gloved hand captured with white lace and silk ribbons. There is still time for peace, so in the mean time, Lady Yuna will practice tentative smiles and glances of her husband between her lashes in order to hide her own dissatisfaction. It is a small price to pay.
"May you live and die as one", the priest said.
Later on the cost will be greater.
o0o
On their wedding night, Lord Seymour leads her to her chambers and gives her time to undress while he tends to other matters.
Despite the vacancy in her eyes, the Lady is nervous, even as she lets the waterfall of white silk cascade and fall to her ankles. She finds the nightgown (also silk and also white) spread before her on the bed. Lady Yuna is luminous in white, vibrant in her own way though it doesn't reach her eyes. Rose petals drift across the floor, the bed, and the vanity. She crushes the soft, red petals between her fingers and presses the scent to her skin -behind her ears, beside the arch of her neck, across her collarbone, any place that her husband may discover during the night.
She doesn't flinch when he enters the room (because a summoner knows to disguise discomfort), and she doesn't look at his eyes when he asks her to remove his robes (because fear composes itself beautifully in her eyes).
The Lady Yuna does, however, allow herself to welcome the ghost of a kiss across her lips (because there are certain sacrifices she must make, not as a summoner, but as a wife).
o0o
Between signing papers and legal documents, the Lord will peer down at his wife from his window. Sometimes, he allows himself to feel guilty for using her so shamelessly, but then, he remembers that the cycle of life and death must continue. And so, he tips the candle over the edge to drip wax on the crease of the envelope and stamps his insignia to seal the letter that will quietly empower the Guados as they raise their army. He has his beautiful bride to thank for his militaristic movements, so the date of the attack on the Ronso will coincide with the date of her birth. It is a malicious gift to give his bride, he knows, but she'll appreciate it later on. There is solace in death and she will have to learn to accept it, just as he has.
o0o
Three weeks later, the Lady Yuna receives news of Kimahri's death. She asks her husband as gently and respectfully as she can, if she may journey to Mt. Gagazet in honour of her late guardian. The Lord takes her face in his hands, kisses her temple, and refuses. She mustn't learn the truth yet, he reasons, she is not ready for it. She must sleep tonight as fitfully as is expected, stirring with the lies in her head: her precious Kimahri died in a battle between his tribe and another.
It doesn't make sense to her, even as she twists and turns, because conflict between the tribes had been mended years ago. For now, she will not question her husband, but search for clues in his gestures. Tomorrow, she decides, she will sit with him by the fire in his office, and observe the letters he receives and the ones he sends in return. The Lady is not ignorant in her grief, but well aware of the secrets that travel from parchment to parchment to and from her husband's desk. She knows that there are some orders that you must honour, and for that reason, she will not climb out of her window and steal into the night on a trustworthy horse to reach Mt. Gagazet. No, she will pray for Kimahri's wandering soul and take a knife to the inside of her arm in two clean slits as the Ronso do in mourning and purification for their deceased.
o0o
Lord Seymour does not ask her about the shadows of cuts on her arm the next day. He is well aware of her presence in his room, trying to focus on the small print of a dusty book. Every now and then, he catches the movement of her flickering gaze when the scratch of quill on parchment resounds in the room. Her efforts are admirable, but she will not learn anything today.
o0o
The absence of the Lady at the dinner table is mildly surprising to Lord Seymour. He truly, does not wish to upset her any further, and already the young woman is beginning to suspect though he has made sure to keep her from trailing gossip and the wails of mourners.
When he finds her, the Lady Yuna is lying down on the cold bricks of a low wall, blinking away chilled tears into the watery grey-blue of the sky. She is aware of his eyes on her, but she will be stubborn and disobedient for once, and trains her wavering gaze to the wooden ornament suspended in the air with her raised hands.
He notices the earring now, even though he has seen its vague shape falling with the honeyed hues of her hair before. Parts of it are wooden, but smooth in shape and the glass beads dangle harmoniously with the other fragments as one piece. It would look almost crude at first glance, but Lord Seymour can recognize Ronso handiwork when he sees it.
It starts to rain, but the Lady has never minded its touch and she does not heed it now. One drop collapses onto her neck, another on her knee, the third, on the glass beads. She watches the water tremble around the curve then feels the sudden touch of it against her lips. Her husband collects her in his arms and brushes the tears away from her face even though the rain is making new trails.
"You are mad with me."
It is a statement; not a question but Lady Yuna's silence confirms his remark.
o0o
The next morning when Lady Yuna awakens, there are a pair of earrings beside her pillow, much more stunning than the one she adorns.
Lord Seymour frowns when she places the small pieces of jewelry in his hands and whispers, "I cannot accept this." At this moment the Lord is aware that he can never win her back, but it no longer matters. The first stage is complete and the second is nearing.
o0o
Lord Seymour is the first to notice his young bride's depression because he knows to look for it. The servants are given half-hearted smiles that die as soon as they grace her lips, and gentle refusals to the offered foods and desserts. The Lord is a bit different, and so he is given a complete smile that only falters when he turns his back. If he looks closely, he can see that there is a secret telling in her eyes, one that she has happened upon recently -one that paints venom onto the curve of her lips when she smiles. He doesn't mind this at all because her smiles have always been ineffectual.
o0o
As Time stretches it's dark hand, the Lord finds solace in the stirring of power dancing within his palms while the Lady secludes herself to the mottled textures and shades of green and vermilion in the gardens. It doesn't suit her, Lord Seymour admits, to be in his garden of crimson roses bleeding petals onto aged stone.
Lady Yuna finds it comforting, however the appearance, to be with the moon when it glows and the sun when it rises. It is easier, within the walls of ivy, stone and roses to meet each sunrise and sunset. The servants don't understand, but her husband accepts it.
She is careful, when she plucks a young rose from its vivacious neighbors and rests it in her lap. Her skirts flutter as she brings her knees up, placing pale feet on the bank of weathered stone.
He watches every movement, finding beauty in misery -even as she traces the thorn of a rose across the lines of her palms, drawing rubies up to bead the surface. His tragic wife does not even flinch when the thorn cuts deeper across the same lines, joining the rubies into a darkened line that smears when she flexes her fingers, testing movement.
When the Lady Yuna returns to her Lord, he takes her palms together in his and binds each in strips of white. He lowers his mouth to the bandages dotted with red and licks away the coppery taste on his lips. Now, he can admit to himself that this woman is divine in her own angst. He can guess that she'll be even more beautiful in death.
o0o
It doesn't surprise him to see her as she is, thin, and wraith-like. Often, her presence is lost among louder ones, but she has always been a quiet person. The changes are slight and not as prominent as they will be in the future, but her eyes now travel ghost-like and incipient as if nothing is worth noticing completely. This is how he knows that she is slowly eroding, trembling into the blue pieces of a shattered sky.
She knows this too, but somewhere, mid-way between her thoughts, she decides that it isn't worth fighting. The Lady Yuna allows her husband to lay out silks and soft cottons of a black monochrome, because she can agree with him that red is a colour that is far too sultry for her to adorn, and black is fitting, really (if she thinks it about with a glass of wine in her hands and her husband's rough hands clawing at her shoulders). Because, at the back of her head, a voice tells her that she has lived too long, with too many unfulfilling promises and only curses to bring upon the people that look to her for hope.
Lord Seymour is a stranger to her when his hands touch the swarthy silk melting into her skin. She doesn't like how the gown shifts soundlessly with her movements, for it would seem as if she has already ceased to exist, and despite her resolution, she isn't ready to drift to nothing just yet. Lady Yuna could laugh quietly to herself when he leaves, because it has only been a year, and already the Lord is dressing his stolen bride in black. She should thank him, really, because he is doing her a favor. She'll relay her gratitude on her deathbed because her voice should be too weak by then to scatter bitter words into his ear. And despite it all, she is grateful. Or at least...she'll learn to be.
o0o
One day, a servant enters the Lord's study and reports that one of the kitchen knives is missing. The Lord's lips twist in an amused snarl, but he disregards the podgy, old servant who cannot properly conceal her distress. The Lord is not worried because the blade is not meant for his throat. He can trust his wife to kill herself quietly when she is ready.
o0o
Lord Seymour decides that he should set his sights higher. With the flick of his wrist, he signs the document and seals it. In three days, he'll take Bevelle.
o0o
The document never reaches the commander in charge, and the Lord's plans are delayed. For once, he fears that his message has been intercepted, but he becomes aware of the resilience in his wife's eyes and another suspicion flourishes. There are enemies within his household and these are the ones he cannot forgive.
Lady Yuna waits for her traitorous husband as she sits atop the silken sheets with strips of parchment covering her lap, her legs and the sheets like coarse lace. She addresses him with a curt nod and a stiff 'My Lord'. He knew all along that it was she, but the anger has bloomed into a red wave that crashes upon all other thoughts and rationality. He chances a look at the shreddings laid about her like crumpled petals then looks to her again, "Did the letter displease you?"
She folds her hands into her lap, "Very much so. It spoke dangerous volumes to which I could not allow to be heard. I had hoped," her eyes rise to meet his steely gaze, "that the signature had not been yours."
"But it was."
There is a brief duel of their gazes, but she surrenders, "Yes, it was. May I venture to question your animosity towards Bevelle, and..." she pauses as if trying to dispel a shameful memory, "the Ronso?"
Ah, so she has figured it out. Perhaps she knew all along and tried at playing the victim without realizing it. "No you may not. I would suggest that you involve yourself in matters that pertain to you."
He notices vaguely, that she is wearing white and her eyes are lambent with the fire dancing within its confinements. The Lady Yuna is no longer his wife but his enemy.
"These matters do pertain to me, and I intend to involve myself with such things from now on. It was a grievous mistake for me to have left things to you." She collects each piece of paper with an open palm then eases herself off of the bed, stokes the fire and tosses them in and speaks to the flames, "This cannot be forgiven."
Lord Seymour locks the door behind him, "It is a relief then, that I do not seek your forgiveness."
"It is the forgiveness of the people that you should seek," she murmurs, a dangerous and brazen sound that quivers with her soft voice.
The man does not ask, but realizes that his wife has also been writing letters. If he isn't careful, everything will be lost to her graceful slanted cursive caught on ink and parchment. How many truths will she reveal? How many does she know...? Far too many.
The Lady does not flinch when he raises his hand as if to hit her, because pain has no feeling -it has left her so long ago along with despair and innocence and foolish wishes for a union that will bring peace to the people. How could a marriage do something so divine if it was decaying at the roots?
"They won't know," he rasps, lowering his hand. Then a bit more evenly, with something settled in his head, he reiterates, "They won't know."
But fear has made him skittish and fervent. He takes a key hidden beneath his shirt and drifts like a phantom out of the door. The Lady hears the lock click shut. This isn't her first time being his prisoner.
o0o
For two days, Lord Seymour informs the servants that his wife is ill and requests to be alone. He decides, that he'll deliver her meals himself lest the servants turn the knob and frown at the lock. She is always turned away from him, even as he places the tray on the floor, purposefully letting the glass of water clatter when it touches the stone. He doesn't see if she bothers to eat, though he never cared much to begin with.
"What do you seek in the deaths of innocent people?" she asks one day, barely a whisper.
"There is life in death" he hisses back. "You would never be able to appreciate the concept completely."
She is a madonna, alive and austere while he trembles with fury. "You want the spiral to continue. But, my Lord, you must know that it will all come full-circle. You cannot escape your own fate. Your death is nearing...what will you do then?"
"I promise to bring your life to an end before my own existence ceases. You need not know more than that."
They look to each other at the same moment and a battle sears between their gazes.
"We shall see..." she whispers.
They'll keep their secrets to themselves.
o0o
Despite the situation, Lord Seymour still shares his bed with his wife -they are both masters at hiding their hostility. Every night, he unlocks the door as he enters, looks to his wife, and then locks the door again. This is the only time that the Lord and Lady may be prisoners together.
The Lord presses the key into his palm and hides it with his thumb even though his wife has not reduced herself so much that she will sneak glances to find the little bronze skeleton that keeps her captive. He is proud and disappointed that she hasn't relented yet. When he approaches, she has already risen, but as always, he orders her onto the bed as he murders the flickering candlelight, and searches on the walls for a place to hide the key; the darkened room will never betray his movements. He makes sure that it is a different place each time. Sometimes, he slips in another key through the crevices in the stone walls, but this one is meant to frustrate because it opens another door and not this one that confines her.
The Lady is already aware of this however, and sometimes, when he appears to be asleep, she will take the fake key and let it clatter to the ground, just for her husband's amusement. The minute that he begins to suspect is the moment that she must worry. For now, she must pretend to sleep and wait until her Lord is truly slumbering (because she knows that he is waiting just as she is) and gets up slowly from the bed. She takes the blade that she had stolen not too long ago and conceals it atop the ledging that surrounds the border of the room. No light will reach it there. The Lady Yuna climbs back into bed as carefully as she left it, and smiles. Her husband is not the only one hiding something precious.
o0o
The Lady presses herself against the wall and halts her breath, waiting for the murmurs to continue.
"The Crimson Squad is no more. Maester Kinoc betrayed us." The unfamiliar voice paused as if preparing to admit a harsh truth. "And my friends...they turned on me as well. I have no place else to go."
Lord Seymour's voice rang through the brick quite clearly and the Lady could imagine him at his desk with a scroll laid before him, with only half of his attention on his visitor. "Then why do you come to me? I, too, am a maester of Yevon."
There was a substantial pause before the visitor (whom the Lady judged to be a young man) murmured his response: "I don't suppose Maester Kinoc and a certain other maester might be vying for power behind the scenes?"
The Lady does not bother to listen for the pause because she already knows the answer that will drift between the two men. Time is striding away from her swiftly. Something has to be done.
o0o
Fear is settling in and the Lord Seymour cannot guess why, but it is amusing to him. The Lord makes sure that his eyes are closed tight and his breathing is even when his wife rises from the bed each night. His wife does not see his feral smile in the dark. She won't ever find that key.
o0o
Her heart is beating clumsily even as she removes the thin, silver ornament from her hair and ventures toward the wall. She twists the ornament around in her fingers and presses the small teeth of it into a crease in the wall, searching for the sound of metal touching metal. Lady Yuna has already ventured for it before, has already disposed of the fake key so that it won't fool her during the night.
The Lady Yuna cringes when the teeth scrape lightly against the stone in a harsh sound. She looks to the dark form of her husband, then searches for the flickering movement beyond his eyelids indicating that he is dreaming. She can't see much detail from where she stands, but there is only the movement of his chest rising and falling in the dark, and she is desperate enough now to continue anyways.
She searches until the sky lightens and there is a slanted moon dripping light onto the stone floor. The key is still lost between mortar and brick -a place that she can't find even though her life depends on it. There is only one other untried option.
The blade is still lying solemnly atop the ledging when she looks, raised on her toes while chancing a look to her bed. Without thinking, it is already in her hands. The cold, daunting glint of steel takes the moonlight and claims ownership. Lady Yuna allows her delicate shadow to break over the refined jaw, broad shoulders and definitive chest. There is a soulless look to her eyes if her sleeping husband would care enough to look, but he doesn't stir, even as she crawls into bed, tucking the weapon against her chest as she lies down sideways to face him as he is now -a portrait painted with moonlight and greedy shadows. She cries silently despite herself as she lifts it to point against his heart. Her eyes focus on the point where pale skin greets the sharp point. It should be so easy, so easy after he killed Kimahri, after all of the innocent lives were taken. It shouldn't hurt her more than it would hurt him.
'Forgive me' she begs and closes her eyes.
There is no sound, only a sigh that touches her lips then vanishes. When she opens them, the Lord's eyes are on hers, brushing the tears away slowly and gently. He smiles at her softly and contemptuously, his words like a resonating whisper that chisels into her heart, "You couldn't do it."
She sighs in one shuddering breath that hollows her out and speaks against his fingers at her lips. "No", she whispers. He picks up the knife dropped between them, tosses it to the floor in a hissing scrape and pulls the woman to his chest. Despite it all, the Lord can number his wife's days on an unmarked calendar just as she does for him.
Everything is as it should be.
o0o
The Lord and Lady wave to the people from their balcony. The height disguises the couple as linked arms and proud smiles, but the people would never be able to see the crimson cloak of murder shared between their shoulders. There is only blissful ignorance and time -too much and too little hovering around them. Now the Lord and Lady remain together dutifully between decievingly ordinary days of discussion, dinner, and pleasantries. But, the night is theirs. That is when they must wait, until one loses their life to the other...
o0o
"May you live and die as one", the priest said.
o0o
End