final fantasy xii. larsa & penelo. mild spoilers through bhujerba. g. characters belong to square-enix.
be not afraid.
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The skycity is beautiful and sunlit as it defies gravity, holding them aloft in an endless swirl of cerulean and clouds. Penelo watches through the vast window of Marquis Ondore's drawing room (every bit of it spotless, crystal clear, glass fit for the gods). In Rabanastre, she was eternally looking up from the proverbial gutters, reaching endlessly for a height she'd thought unattainable. Now she looks down, tries to see her home from above, and it's as if...
"Lovely, isn't it?" Larsa says, elegance evident in every enunciation. He raises a slender hand, presses fingertips to the window in a way she hadn't dared to -- lest she leave smudges on that perfect, pristine surface. With his other arm bent gently behind his back, he tilts his head to regard her.
His gaze is steady, unwavering; surely, he awaits a response. Penelo tries to smile, to ignore years of hatred and terror of this boy's heritage, and her expression almost conveys this. It doesn't feel fake; rather, honest. Not as guarded or hesitant as she'd thought it would be. It's as if...
"Oh, yes. It's wonderful..." She smiles again, freer this time, and nods her appreciation and gratitude. "Thank you again for helping me."
In one smooth motion, Larsa lowers his hand, bows, and reaches for hers. This is chivalry, Penelo thinks, this is what it means to be a real gentleman. He kisses her hand, softly and slowly. Penelo feels embarrassed, overwhelmed, patronized -- for much of her recent life she's been trash, the rubbish shoved into the slums so as not to offend the rich. If Larsa only saw her palm, saw how labor-calloused it was, she knows he'd feel differently. She knows, for that's how things are.
"It was my pleasure, Penelo. Duty alone does not command my actions."
He holds her hand, securely and reassuringly; she doesn't have the heart -- or desire -- to let go.
The sky shifts around them, winds swirling and twirling and whirling outside; she imagines that if she felt this sort of safety more often, her dancing would vastly improve. Larsa's grip is warm and reassuring, and it's as if...
She suddenly needs to sit down.
The luxurious couch easily accommodates her light weight. The transitional moment lingers -- will he? won't he? -- the guilt, the doubt, the worry creep back to assault her, until Larsa sits calmly and quietly next to her.
"Relax," says Larsa with a smile that says everything.
Penelo tries, and it's as if the world has begun anew.
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( follow me; i will give you rest. )
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--- elendraug (at) yahoo . com
01/18/2007