Wild Eyes
a k a n t h a e - h i m e
Authoress' Note & Disclaimer: This was completely centered around the title. Inspired, thought of, whatever. It's got hints of not only Basch & Ashe but also Basch & Vaan - a genre rarely seen in the Final Fantasy XII world, maybe even less than Balthier & Basch. Enjoy this and give some feedback because I've been feeling rather out of it lately (and I pulled several muscles in my legs and arms, thus my misery) and I need to get back on the ball somehow. The author-food's all but run out - let's put it that way.
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i. the daggers of speech
The desert pauper's eyes were flickering, dimming, dying - same as he was, poor man, because both of them were dying someplace in somewhere that didn't really matter anymore because everyone else was already dead. Basch wasn't surprised that he should fight so against death but when one comes to end of one's allotted time on earth one should surrender to the push and pull of that particular chasm. Necrophobes were only comprising of those who could not die because they still had unfinished business; heavens knew he knew that so fucking well it wasn't funny anymore and probably never had been.
Basch had seen too many wild eyes for that and he had already accepted the fate he was fated for. He was going to linger in Limbo for sure, maybe a bit of him aching for the way Ashe's teenage eyes wandered over his face (trusting, oh-so-trusting, and with a bit of deception mixed lying therein because no one had ever looked at him like that), or the way Vaan would jostle him (ah, the feel of another human being's touch – if he could be called a human being) into submission with his jagged words.
"He killed my brother!" was one phrase he remembered dearly. It struck like daggers in his heart. With the absolute certainty of destiny's hand behind it, those five simple syllables had been strung together into the most sentence he had ever let reach his ears. Not even the scorn Dalmasca as a whole had once born for him had been this furious, this fiery, this...endearing.
And not only had he come to love the sound of that mellifluous voice but he had also come to love even more so the things associated with it. Vaan, in short, reminded him of all the things he had lost and what his redemption would truly mean to him if it meant he would gain all of that.
In his folly Basch fon Ronsenburg had allowed himself to forget one of the only real reasons he fought. He fought not only to protect his Lady, his Savior, but also to protect what awaited him at the end of his fearsome struggle.