Author's Note: Just a little drabble of a conversation I think would be likely to happen at some point. Penelo ain't yo' bitch, Dalan! Represent!
... I am truly sorry that I actually just said that.
Man, Vaan would open a can of kick-ass on Lowtown if he ever found out.
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Disclaimer: I don't own Final Fantasy XII, nor any of its respective characters, settings, etc.
Bad Hand
"What?" Penelo glanced wildly from Old Dalan to the stranger at his side: a tall, voluptuous women with dark hair and darker eyes. Neither looked expectant.
"It's a simple trade," said the woman, who had introduced herself as Lythia. Penelo doubted it was her real name. "I'd be happy to teach you. As a favor to dear Dalan."
Penelo, still in shock, let her eyes roam over Lythia. She had seen her before, on street corners, under the awnings of bars. As usual, she left little to the imagination, with a skirt that hugged her thighs and a fitted top. "I…" Penelo's throat was dry; she felt like she was stranded in the Estersand, not surrounded on all sides by Lowtown's damp walls. "I appreciate it, really, but I don't… I don't want to be a prostitute."
Old Dalan, hookah poised between wizened fingers, neither laughed nor sighed. He merely turned to Lythia and said, "A moment alone, if you don't mind." Lythia obediently nodded and excused herself, smiling briefly at Penelo as she passed.
Old Dalan's voice was something Penelo usually liked hearing. It was rich and broken, from some land she couldn't fathom, and on it floated the most wonderfully spun stories of rogues and royals. But now she dreaded it, because as old as Old Dalan was, his ways were even more archaic.
"Girl," he said, speaking to her as he had when she was only just up to his knee, "no one want this life."
Penelo, who knew that quite well, stayed silent. Her fingers tugged at the hem of her shorts while she toyed with the notion of shouting at him. Things like, I'm only fifteen! or, I'm going to be a dancer! But quiet she remained, because no one yelled at Old Dalan, not even clueless Vaan.
"You have been dealt harsh cards by fate." He blew smoke out that spun upward, of and around itself, and hugged the ceiling. "The card of beauty, the card of poverty. Apart they may sometime be terrible, but together they are always."
"Well, I don't want them!" It was meant to sound forceful, but came out as a choked whisper. She went on, louder, more even, "There are lots of girls prettier than me that aren't… aren't prostitutes." Even the word made her feel ill. "I could be a barmaid or work at the market. And Vaan says he's going to be a sky pirate. Maybe I could go with him."
Old Dalan nodded, milky eyes amused in a way that wasn't mocking, but antagonized her nonetheless. "Vaan dreams, but can he do? This life is hard, true, but simple. This life you will live because this life let you live."
The way he spoke, heavily between inhalations of tobacco, incensed her. Why should Old Dalan decide her future? Old Dalan who grew up in some faraway country, who spoke in riddles and rhymes, who advised her as a father would? He did not know her, only of her and girls he thought were like her. Girls who took easily to fate and whatever cards it dealt them – girls who never learned to bluff a bad hand.
"No," she muttered. "Then fate has dealt me demise, because I would rather die." She looked up, eyes meeting his. He would think her foolhardy, naive, young. He could think anything he liked of her, she decided. He was not destiny itself; he could only sit in his corner of Lowtown, smoking day and night as if the world did not affect him, and control the things in his growing circle of information – but not her. "I have a full hand. I have love and ambition and pride."
"Stubborn girl," he started, but she cut across.
"And I have stubbornness. You watch, Old Dalan." Penelo turned to march out, cheeks red, fists shaking. "Fate can deal as much as it wants, but only I pick what I play."
She left, and only looked back once.