Standard Disclaimer: Xenogears characters and settings belong to Squaresoft, all else is mine, babee.
Author's Voice: Holy cow, I'm actually writing for something other than FF8. No, I have not forgotten my other stories. I'm merely putting them on the back burner for now while I figure out what to do with them. Since I'm working a lot lately, I find I no longer have as much time to craft these stories.
What Might Have Been
It was mostly quiet over Bledavik. Somewhere, a dog barked. Children out way past their bedtimes screamed at one another with their youthful games of hide and seek. Laughter echoed from one of the bars along the central square. And all Bart could do was lean over the balcony of the royal palace's highest tower and listen in on the city that he ruled over now. Calloused hands felt over the limestone that constructed the railing holding him back from taking a flying leap to the ground below. Hands that once knew the heat of battle by whip or Gear controls were now going idle to attend to the duties of a King. He tried. He tried repeatedly to give the kingdom back to the people; it was in his father's will, his greatest wish. But after the events that nearly destroyed the world, the people cried out for a King. And they got their wish. Bartolomei Fatima was a king now, like it or not.
"Your Majesty?" a quiet voice called from the shadows of the royal suite. Sigurd's taller, far more graceful form drew back one of the curtains, the fabric rustling against a hand before swaying closed behind him again. "I was looking for you. You've been elusive as of late."
"Sig, you could just call me Bart, you know," came the terse response, Bart refusing to look over his shoulder at the half-brother who insisted on using formal titles even in private, "Or shall I start calling you Your Highness? All this is just as much yours as it is mine."
"You never minded me calling you Young Master," Sigurd replied, sounding almost amused by the youth's protests. However, he remained quiet at the insistence that the kingdom was half his. Even now, the stoic man quietly refused this birthright his father tried to bestow upon him before Edbart's untimely death.
"I grew up with it, Sig. You and Maison always called me that. Things are different now. I'm your brother. For just once… call me Bart, would you?"
A hand reached up toward Bart's hair, brushing sungold locks away from his face, fingers touching against the eyepatch briefly before withdrawing. It brought the young king to shiver, feeling that brief empathic touch from the taller man beside him. How strongly Sigurd loved him shamed him into silence, no longer willing to snap and behave in such a surly manner, for the moment at least. Sigurd sighed heavily, joining his half-brother at the edge of the balcony to lean against the limestone railing. "You've always been my brother, Bart. All that's changed is that now you know."
Silence permeated the still air between the brothers, each pondering what to say to the other. It was actually Sigurd who finally broke it with a question that sounded more like a statement, "You're not happy."
Bart glanced up sharply, somewhat startled at the pronouncement. Golden eyebrows furrowed, a frown creasing his lips downwards. "Well no shit, Sig. I haven't been happy for a while. Thanks for noticing, finally. You all set me up as a King, I can't get anyone to even consider our father's will and greatest wish and now today I'm told I'm marrying Margie next month whether I like it or not because it's always been the tradition for the Nisan Mother and King of Aveh to rule jointly."
Sigurd sighed again, touching at his temple at the onslaught of his brother's emotions. "Perhaps I was understating your feelings, then." It certainly felt like it. What could he possibly tell Bart to assuage these feelings? There wasn't much, other than the same things the youth had heard time and again. He was born into this responsibility, and everyone has to do things they don't want to. It's life. "I don't think Margie is a bad match for you, Y—Bart."
Bart sulked after that, a little upset with himself that he'd snapped at Sigurd, but far too stubborn to apologize for it, either. "She's a kid, Sig. I don't have the heart to…" he trailed off and just shrugged his shoulders in a gesture of the helplessness he felt inside. On the Yggridsil, he was always in command. Maison and Sigurd could beg him all they wanted to not to do something but he could just go ahead and do it anyway. Now that he was King, well, things didn't work that way. There were politics to consider, nobles to placate, rules to be followed. He often felt like he'd been tossed into a nest of vipers and had to somehow navigate it without getting bit.
"She's sixteen. She's no more a child than you are," Sigurd pointed out, resting a hand on Bart's shoulder in an attempt to make him turn around and look at him. The youth jerked his shoulder free from the attempt, scowling now in typical Fatima stubbornness. The elder brother shook his head after that and let out another long sigh. "Bart, someday perhaps you'll see that this is for the best. I know it's cold comfort and I know I sound like I'm talking down to you. But Maison and I have never wanted anything other than to protect and love you."
"Smother me, that's a better word for it," Bart spat out, feeling rather spiteful at the moment. Sigurd finally decided to just give up, hearing that. When his brother threw a temper tantrum, he was excessively good at demeaning insults.
"Then I'll leave you here to sulk. We can discuss this when you decide to behave like a man," he replied calmly, doing his best not to wince at the angry and hurt look shot at him for the effort. But, he didn't remain after that, drawing the curtain aside to stride through the royal suite and back out to the corridors of the palace. Soft light filled the halls via floorlights near the walls. Since Shakhan's defeat, there had been extensive renovations to remove the usurper's presence from the palace. Already things resembled the times of Edbart. Sigurd smiled faintly at the thought, the face of his father appearing mentally for a moment. It saddened him that Bart never really knew his father, and sometimes he wondered what might have been. How his brother might have turned out had Shakhan not taken everything and broken it that fateful night so long ago.
"You appear pensive, Master Sigurd. Mayhap you've spoken to His Majesty recently?" Maison's voice stilled Sigurd's thoughts and made him turn to face the old knight.
"Yes, Bart is a handful. And he's still sulking about the betrothal," Sigurd sighed in reply.
"The Young Master has always been a handful, Sigurd."
That brought both men to chuckle; memories stirred of a much younger 'Young Master' and the antics he got into. This lead to reminiscing and eventually to both men ending up downstairs in the kitchens, drinking tea and talking fondly of another, far more innocent and idyllic time.
"Your father was just as bad as bad as the Young Master, if not worse," Maison sighed, shaking his head over the rim of his teacup. "In fact," he then added, the cup being immediately set down, "I recall a time when we both were admonished by his father for getting into the sewers and coming home reeking to high heaven. So, you see Master Sigurd, with time most Fatimas do finally settle and so shall Master Bartolomei."
Sigurd couldn't help but laugh at that image, never having imagined that Maison was any kind of troublemaker as a child. Then again, he never thought of his own father as that kind, either. Taking into account his own wild days at Jugend, it made sense, in the scheme of things. Bart was still only eighteen, and had a lot of energy to run off before settling into adulthood. "I never realized it was so easily explained."
"Yes," Maison agreed with a nod of his head, followed by a knowing wink, "It is merely a Fatima trait to be rather… wild while young."
Sigurd was about to begin another tale, something Bart had done while young, when a quiet coughing interrupted the pair. The two glanced toward the doorway to the kitchens to see one of the servants standing there, clutching her skirts and behaving rather nervously near the pair.
"Excuse me, Sirs, but I was asked to come find you. His Majesty is missing."
"Missing?" Sigurd asked incredulously as he got to his feet at nearly the same time as Maison. Surely Bart would not be so childish as to pull the running away stunt. Before, when he was much much younger, he had tried on a number of occasions to run away, only to be found by Maison and given the royal spanking he had coming to him. But now… there was so much more at stake. He wasn't a child trying to run away, he was a man and had responsibilities. The thought made Sigurd's blood boil with an anger that rarely surfaced anymore.
"Dammit," Sigurd cursed, uncharacteristic of him, but in anger even he resorted to unpleasantries. "Maison, if he's done what I think he's done, I am going to kill him."
The old knight just sighed and rubbed at one of his temples before pulling out a hankerchief to dab at his forehead. "You and I both, Master Sigurd. Perhaps we should search the palace first. He might not really be missing, just hiding to think. Sometimes your father did that."
Sigurd nodded in agreement, "And when I find him, he's going to discover that he is not too old to spank."
(To be continued… my I sure made things sound nice and happy and normal to begin with. Next chapter I'll start twisting stuff, don't worry.)