[A/N: The thing about writing in a fandom for so long is that after a while your characters start to follow set lines: I actually got a little bored walking halfway through Rules 13 – my Basch and my Balthier seem to be speaking old conversations already spoken by earlier fics. So here's trying some het for a while just to keep my interest in writing. XD;; (yes, I have written het before, I just got into slash) I seriously do want to write more for Heroes, but hearing about the casting list for next season makes me sad.
Feb 20 – Clad in the beauty of a thousand stars
Kindred spirits
I For I am yet unfamiliar
Ashelia B'nargin Dalmasca considered her reflection in the thrice-polished silver. Sixteen. She was still late to bloom (a desert flower through and through, so she had once been told, though this not unkindly), and she thought, critically, that the too hot, too prettily feminine dress that bared her shoulders and clung to her skin, down to her hips, to be swept in a flowing fishtail at her feet, that this dress made her look far more boyish than she already was. (Oh, for her skirts and blouse and boots!)
"Nonsense," Maethel, the plump ladies' maid that had once also been her nursemaid huffed, as her surprisingly agile fingers arranged the heavy necklace of emeralds at her neck. "You look gorgeous, my lady."
"The dress looks gorgeous," Ashe corrected. The freckles over her nose and cheeks had yet to fade, she was too thin, and she rather wished that the Gods had seen fit to gift her somewhat more amply with curves. She was tall for a Dalmascan, but at the moment this only made her look gangly. "Or it would, on a woman."
"It would look like a swathe of curtains on myself," Maethel said sternly, and for a moment, imagining the matronly, no-nonsense old woman in this cocktail of silk and chiffon made Ashe smile. Behind her, in the reflection, Maethel's wrinkled apple face creased into a motherly grin. "Now smile like that, habibat, smile like that later for Maethel, sweet child."
Maethel was fussing over her dress, her nervous excitement all too evident. Like the mother she hardly remembered would have fussed over her, Ashe thought. Only Maethel called her beloved: for now (ah, but then, she should not dare hope). "'Tis already as perfect as you can make it, raqi'qah."
She could barely walk in the damned shoes, heeled slippers of silk and gold, and they hurt the soles of her feet. She wished she had practiced, wished that the heat of the sun didn't mean that the makeup favored by women of northern lands was impractical, wished that she was older.
For peace, her father had said. One month ago. Archadia turns its attention south, my child. And if it so wishes, the Empire can crush us easily.
Archadia has an Emperor of age yet unmarried. Ashe was young, but she had grasped her father's thought immediately, though after that, she had faltered. But I…
You need only meet him, her father had said, and kindly, if uncomfortably. She understood only what that had meant afterwards, when she was alone in the library, her favorite place to sit and think. An invitation to meet was clear invitation for… arrangements, in the words of politics.
And this she did for Dalmasca, a child trying to be pretty as a doll, unused to her slippers and her smile so un-Queenly under her freckles, to meet an Emperor, and her resentment was growing. "Why do the Archadian Princelings take so quickly to war?"
She had not meant that to be wondered out aloud, but Maethel clicked her tongue at her and fussed (again) at her too-hot, impractical feminine silk gloves, that caught her skin to her elbows and made her palms sweat. "Do not say that to him when you meet him, habibat."
"I do have sense, old mother," Ashe chided gently.
Somewhat mollified, Maethel turned to squint out of her window. At least this room would be hers still, no matter what happened, Ashe thought: she had heard the servants talk – if there was marriage there would be a separate bridal chamber, not that they thought she would live in Dalmasca, afterwards. That thought had frightened her: the furthest Ashe had been on visits had been Bhujerba, to her uncle's. The Empire seemed distant.
I do not want this, Ashe thought, suddenly and fiercely, just as Maethel touched her wrist. "We should be away, Princess."
0.1 Ever Since
Dalmasca, Vayne decided, was too hot: he'd known it was desert, but in the vague way one knew that snow was cold – he hadn't known how gods-damned bloody searing it was, the grounds during the dry season cracked and sun-blasted and choked with sand, gods-forsaken and barren. He was going to roast in his armor, Vayne thought, sourly.
II White Knights
Ashe was wavering between feeling nervous, standing beside her father and sweating gently in the damned dress (damn fashion and their damned feminine layered dresses), as she watched the sleek silver and gold airship land with a roar of glossair on the promenade, and feeling amused, at the palpable tension from the two generals behind her.
Basch fon Ronsenburg and Vossler York Azelas clearly Did Not Approve, Ashe thought, and had to swallow a giggle. She did not need to turn around to know that both of them were likely staring hard at the dark outlines of the Imperial fleet, which hovered at a respectful distance over the desert from Rabanastre. Destroyers ringed the massive cruiser Leviathan: she'd not seen so large a ship, and as much as it disconcerted the knights behind her, it intrigued her. What sort of trappings would an Emperor's cruiser have, gold and furs and precious art?
Lost in that line of inquiry, Ashe blinked when her father murmured her name. The Archadian procession was descending from the airship, first a row of marching Imperials, brilliantly silver in their impractical full armor (she had definitely heard Vossler snort behind her, and Basch shush him with a mutter). It was strangely military, and she heard the uncomfortable murmurs from the crowd, as the Imperials split into two rows, turning with clockwork precision, marching a step, then turning again, their halberds crunching down against flagstones, as they formed a path for the rider that followed them.
She had been told he was handsome, but Vayne was beautiful, Ashe thought, trying to suppress her blush. There were few other words to describe Archadia's Emperor, who sat tall and proud on his tasseled white chocobo, a fringe of long, silky black hair combed over his aquiline features, dressed in ornate ceremonial armor of black enamel and iridescent green scale mail, gold trimming and leaf over greaves and gauntlets, the Solidor sword-insignia emblazoned over his chestplate. A white brocade cloak flowed heavily from sweeping shoulderplates, fashioned cunningly from overlapping silver and gold to resemble the swept wings of an eagle.
His steed was obviously spirited, bulkier, a charger, not a courtier's toy, even under its mother-of-pearl saddle and velvet cloth, and though it obeyed its master's touch there was an evident wildness in its yellow eyes that promised that the steed would be happy to find an excuse to kick or peck anyone else who came too close. Basch was probably admiring it now, Ashe knew, his tension about the ships on the skyline temporarily forgotten. The desert bred several good pedigrees, but the white chocobos were rare, with none left wild, the strains kept only in the royal Houses of Rozarria and Archadia.
Vayne dismounted a good fifteen paces away and whispered something at his steed: it eyed him almost reproachfully, and he patted its beak. It chirped, but did not bite. That told Ashe more than the trappings that the chocobo accepted and knew its master, that it didn't bite Vayne for the liberty. A war prince.
The Emperor smiled politely through the herald's unnecessary introductions that extolled her father's full name and rank, then his, then hers. "Your Majesty, I thank you for your hospitality." His tone was carefully friendly, if formal.
"You honor us with your presence," her father replied. "Please, stay as long as you wish, Emperor Vayne."
"I am afraid that business calls me quickly back to Archades," the Emperor apologized smoothly, turning to her, "For this I feel regret, as your desert kingdom has already surprised me with its beauty."
A courtier's lines, Ashe thought, with some disappointment, and absently gave him her hand, following the cue – then blinked, as for one moment she met his eyes, read the cold intelligence and the ruthlessness, the tightly controlled passion. Behind Vayne's dark eyes, a wolf looked back at her, curious – then was gone, as he brushed a kiss over the back of her wrist.
She was blushing and she couldn't control it, staring hard at Vayne as he looked back up, but he was unreadable again, as Ashe used the lines she'd long learned. "Your Majesty is most kind."
Vayne inclined his head at her, turning to address the generals, and Ashe abruptly felt confined in the choking web of royal civility and custom, felt the impulse well within her, knew her father would chide her afterwards but did not care. "I have not seen a breed like your charger before, your Majesty."
Vayne glanced at her, then back at his impatient mount. "The white chocobos are bred only in the Margrace and Solidor stables, your Highness. Which is quite a pity, given the strained relationship between our Houses. Pure white chocobos such as my Caesar are more of a rarity now than the norm."
"Does he take poorly to others?"
"It bites its handlers, sometimes," Vayne said, his tone dismissive of her girlish curiosity, and that settled it.
And Ashe knew she should cede the conversation to Basch and Vossler, but the damned irritation of the dress, her curiosity at the wolf and her overall resentment of the situation was building. She walked to the chocobo, heard Basch's startled warning murmur of Princess behind her, knew as it clicked its beak at her that she could well be bitten. Then it swiveled its head to look past her, at its master, and stilled its ruffling feathers at some hidden gesture, though it still eyed her resentfully.
At least one other creature did not like this stilted ceremony, Ashe thought, and had to smile, reaching forward to stroke its soft ruff. This obviously surprised the animal, which cocked its beautifully bred head, its beak parting warningly, and Ashe reached with her small fingers under the strap of its bridle to the soft, ticklish spot under its cheekbone that Basch had shown her once, albeit with his far more friendly charger. It could still bite her, could still peck her deep to the bone, and for one moment Ashe realized how bloody stupid this was, how childish… and then Caesar began to churr, in the deep, vibrating fluting whistle of a chocobo's pleasure.
"You are so beautiful," Ashe murmured to it, and it closed its eyes, its churr deepening. The scolding afterward would be worth it, and besides, this didn't matter, she knew, if Vayne wanted the kingdom she could have been fat and deformed and insane for all he would have cared.
"Can you ride, Princess?" Vayne asked behind her, and she flinched, startled. She hadn't heard him approach. She half turned, and Vayne seemed amused: instinctively, her ire rose – then she saw the wolf again, in his eyes, watching her, and she hesitated.
"Your Majesty," Vossler was clanking up to them to intercede. "The Princess is-"
"The Princess would be pleased to ride," Ashe said, as imperiously as she could, holding Vayne's eyes, saw the wolf bare its teeth into a grin: Vayne smirked, his back to Vossler, inclined his head, and there was challenge there, as he folded his fingers together to give her a leg up.
That she pointedly ignored – Basch had taught her, after all – hooking one stupid silk-slippered toe into the stirrup and pulling herself a little precariously up onto Caesar's back, glad for the flowing dress and not caring how much a view of her leg rearranging skirts had just flashed Vayne and Vossler. Certainly the general Did Not Approve, from his scowl, though her father was carefully expressionless and Basch was very badly trying to hide a smile.
The bird chirped, slightly confused, though it allowed her to settle and take the reins. She could feel its coiled power, and wondered how it would be like to give it its head over the sand, and thought well, why not, gripping it with her thighs and urging it forward, guiding it. It responded easily enough to her touch, and the Dalmascan people, at least, were certainly amused, grinning encouragingly at her (did you see what our Princess did to their Emperor) and parting, 'accidentally' getting into the way of the Imperial soldiers who faltered for a moment in their lines until they saw their Emperor give a half-shake of his head.
"Thank you, your Majesty, I will be sure to return him safe," she called over her shoulder, not daring to see her father's expression, and took it to a canter, then a run, towards the eastern gate. The wind caught her hair and blew it wild over her shoulders.
0.2 princess
Vayne was still watching the girl make off with his prized chocobo when King Raminas began to apologize, a little ponderously, for her age and whimsy: he blinked at the old King for a moment, startled - why would Raminas apologize for having so magnificent a daughter – then remembered himself and fell to courteous pleasantries.
III The Winged
Dalmasca looked plain from the air during the evening, Ashe thought, with Rabanastre as its jewel under the endless dark sky, small and defiant against the sand. She could feel a faint chill, even through the steelglass she leant against: Vayne's cabin in the Leviathan had a wall of glass, hullside, bordered with rich velvet cushions on the ground that seemed a little out of place. The rest of the Leviathan, including its Emperor's quarters, were spartan, a cruiser built for war, with little thought of creature comforts. The cabin was spacious, but other than a wardrobe, an armor and weapons rack, a rather motley, colorful framed painting, a desk stacked with parchments and books, a bed with plain sheets, there was nothing else that spoke of royalty.
"My brother's," Vayne said, catching her inquiring glance. He was dressed somewhat less formally, in a sleeved white shirt and soft breeches that swallowed corded muscle: now he looked every inch a courtier, even leaning against the glass with his long legs stretched before him. "He is ten," he added.
"Prince Larsa."
"Aye." The fondness in his smile was fleeting, as he glanced up briefly at the painting. His brother's hand, likely. Ashe felt a faint knot in her belly, as she looked back at her city. The Leviathan might be free of comforts, but that made it no less a symbol of power.
"What do you want from Dalmasca?" she asked then, a little defiantly. "The Empire has always left us alone. We buffer your borders from Rozarria."
"So you do," Vayne said, and he smiled again, this time patronizing. Humoring her, Ashe thought, with some irritation.
"We do not have any resources that the Empire does not already possess," she persisted, "And worse, were we to marry, your Empire's relationship with Rozarria may yet be strained."
"Were we to marry," Vayne repeated, slyly, and she blushed, hating herself for doing so – he was obviously baiting her.
"I doubt you tarry here because you enjoy the weather," Ashe snapped, having seen him sweat in his armor.
Her glare only made his smile widen, but he looked away first, sipping from his champagne. He hadn't offered her any; Ashe recalled irritably, only fruit juice: that told her eloquently enough what he thought of her. A child. Angry now, Ashe pulled herself up to him, hating the elaborate heavy ruffles of the endless new dresses she had to wear in Vayne's presence, grabbing the flute of champagne from him and draining it, rolling the bittersweet fizz in her throat as she leaned forward to press her lips firmly to his.
Vayne made a startled sound, but opened his mouth to share the dregs easily enough, allowed her to fumble her first kiss, with her so self-consciously stiff, her cheeks flushed bright and wondering what in Raithwall's name was she doing, then he took the flute gently from her fingers, setting it aside, and pulled her into his arms, stroked one gloved finger up her back to her bared shoulder, pressed her up against him (so warm), his tongue chasing the memory of champagne past her lips.
0.3 the cloak of stars
"You are here for Dalmasca, are you not?" she demanded, when they parted; kisses and caresses had not softened her unpolished steel, as Ashelia Dalmasca sat back against the glass, against the clear velvet dark spotted with a thousand stars, her birthright, and Vayne merely smiled: he could not lie, not at that moment, though he wondered if he should.
IV And This is How
"And that is what you are to do, Princess, if he tries anything inappropriate," Vossler said, his tone clear that in his opinion, in Vayne's case, heinous and inappropriate behavior would only be a matter of time.
Vossler was being serious, but Basch, the victim of demonstration, was laughing uncontrollably, despite being flat on his back on the courtyard, which fell to both Generals arguing. Ashelia hid her grin hastily before she worsened Vossler's temper – the man was simply being protective, even though his soldier's vocabulary was struggling to find 'appropriate' words with which to describe what he meant her to do to salient parts of Vayne's anatomy were he to 'try anything'.
"Vossler," Basch managed to cough, sitting up on the packed earth of the practice courtyard, "I very much doubt the necessity of this. The Emperor may indeed be a cunning snake, as you say, but I do not think that-"
"Do not mind him, Princess, he is easily bought," Vossler sniffed. Basch had been allowed to ride Caesar around for an hour and his opinion of Vayne had changed. Though that was probably inexorable, Ashe felt: Basch had an inevitably sunny opinion of just about everyone (like a gods-damned puppy, she had overheard Vossler say once). "I will give you a dagger as well that you can probably hide in your skirts…"
"Oh yes, and that would not be trouble at all," Basch commented to the cloudless sky. Vossler's scowl deepened, and Ashe had to bite her tongue to swallow her giggle.
"Vossler, I thank you for your concern, but so far Vayne has shown himself to be a gentleman," Ashe said primly. "I do not think that a dagger would be a good idea." And besides, Vayne had already returned to Archades: it had been a month, and Ashe was beginning to wonder if her impulsive actions had made him rethink the arrangement. As long as there was no war.
"This is for your own good, Princess," Vossler said, clearly determined to be patient (a rare enough occurrence). "Now pay attention. If he does this… Basch, would you be fucking cooperative for once – ah my apologies for the language, your Highness – then you should respond with…"
0.4 the wine
Yasri Jalvas of House Jalvas, socialite, heiress, political schemer extraordinaire and technically his closest friend, insisted that Vayne attend her soiree when he returned, where he found to his amusement and (a little) consternation that the fluttering, perfumed highborn butterflies now bored him.
V All that glitters
Ashe wondered if she should be offended that in the end, Vayne had married her for a stone, not even for the kingdom. She supposed that she should feel lucky: the fact of marriage meant that Dalmasca had been spared in exchange for her dowry (not quite so herself), but Nalbina had not been so fortunate.
She had known he was ruthless, but still… Dalmasca had been used. By circumstance of marriage they could not respond to their ancient treaty with Nalbina, which had capitulated under siege and threat and surrendered their shard. And the fact remained that no one seemed to know what Vayne wanted all the shards for. Legend spoke of untold power locked in their dulled hearts, but she had played with the shard in the treasury when she was a child and had felt nothing.
Now she stood at the balcony of the palace in Rabanastre (yet more reason to know he had cared only for the damn stone – he hadn't bothered himself to even ask her presence to Archades) and fingered the red gold wedding band, considered being dramatic and flinging it out to the street. She glared at it, and then slipped it back onto her finger, angry and jerky and bitter.
0.5 coldy so
Vayne was not quite surprised when on his next obligatory visit to his wife in Dalmasca she was queenly furious, coldly polite, and disinclined to speak to him. Two stiffly formal days afterwards, he retired to Archades with relief. The inquest into his father's 'death' and the Senacy's apparent involvement needed a little more interference, and he had little time, he told himself, to spare for the niceties of coddling females. And there was still the matter of Giruvegan.
VI Words upon words
He held her in the dark against the wall of stars, aboard Leviathan, later that day, until he had told her everything, his tone brutally frank, almost unemotional, as he described motive and action and consequence; she was not quite sure she understood. Occuria control, Empires and the fate of Solidors: such words were the words of playwrights and bards, not an Emperor's.
"I said you would not believe me," Vayne murmured at the end, into her hair.
"And I said my father believed you."
Vayne shrugged. "I do not care if he believes me." As she glared at him, the wolf smiled, amending, "But I would like you to. Someday."
Silver tongued, manipulative spider, she told herself, as she pushed Vayne onto his back and straddled his waist, to her right her kingdom under the glass, digging her nails into him as she arched to kiss him, claim him, mark his growing smirk with a reddened lip. And yet he left his hands on her hips, as Ashe stripped him of his shirt, her nervousness evident only in the way she chewed on her lip as she did so, holding his challenging stare as she scratched long nails down his chest. As Vayne gasped, Ashe studied him, frowned at the scars. A war prince. She ran the pad of her thumb curiously from the long one with the jagged edge, that went over his rib cage almost to his belly, felt him growl, and settled back over his hips (Gods, she could feel him stir, beneath her) and followed her thumb with her tongue, instead, felt muscle twitch restlessly, the scar tissue rough on her lips.
He was hers now, Ashe thought vengefully: certainly this, he would not have foreseen, even with all his calculation; but as much as she had given him the damned stone she would take her due for it, not allow him to give her redress. Vayne was already hard, as she drew him out of his breeches (she would not be shy, nor would she blush), and the Emperor hissed as she took the taut, hot weight in her hands, experimentally, wrinkled her nose at the spicy musk, squeezed, secretly pleased to watch him buck and growl, deeper, his hands fallen to his sides, his eyes hooded. "Ashelia."
"Your redress, my Lord Vayne," Ashe told him tartly, though she was unsure. What was she to do next? This had certainly, she thought, biting down on her instinctive laughter, not been covered by Vossler's and if he does that.
"Allow me," Vayne said gently (though she can hear his impatience), taking her into his arms to kiss her until she lost her stiffness, despite the heat she could still feel against her thigh, then he rolled her over, his fingers quick over the fastenings of her dress, her undergarments, and Gods, her fingers dug deep into his shoulders as Vayne began to knead a breast, his lips closing over the other, long dark hair silky and ticklish as it spilled on her skin. Ashe arched under his skilled touch, threw back her head and gasped as he suckled, wrapped her legs instinctively around his waist to urge him further, leant up to bite at the lobe of his ear. He growled – the wolf growled – and Ashe wondered how many women the wolf had known, compared to the Emperor, had to smile as she tangled her fingers into his silky mane.
She was wet when Vayne finally touched her, kissing down her belly, stroking soft folds with sword-roughened pads, and he grinned lazily at her as she pushed herself up onto her elbows. "Vayne."
"Are you virgin?" he inquired, pulling a thigh onto his shoulder, and she could only stare at him, openmouthed, for a long moment. Vayne chuckled. "I take it that you are."
"Fuck you," she snapped, her temper flaring at his cavalier smile, not caring how his eyebrows rose and thanking the Gods for Vossler and his persistent vocabulary, trying to kick, "If that amuses you then-"
"It does not," Vayne said soberly, though she saw his lips twitch briefly into a grin, and pushed his case by attending to her thoroughly with his tongue. Ashe shuddered, writhing, as he lapped, sure and hard, unable to recognize the startled, hitching gasps her throat made as his tongue delved into her, thrusting, a promise, and she cried out as orgasm took her, shaking, numb, the ache between her thighs still throbbing. She shivered when he kissed her, afterwards, as Ashe tasted herself on him, felt Vayne purr as he pressed between her legs, waiting. The wolf waited, as she bit him gently over the pulse at his neck, smiled into it as Vayne growled, one of his hands firm under the small of her back and the other braced into the cushion at her head.
Finally, Ashe reached shakily between them, under her, guided the heavy prick somewhat nervously and awkwardly to herself, and frowned, as Vayne pushed her fingers away and pressed his forefinger against her, instead, working into her heat, nuzzling her cheek as she wrapped her arms tightly over his neck. She clamped around him, at the second, uncontrollably, felt Vayne tense in her arms and mutter a curse, and whispered his name in her next breath into his ear.
When he moved into her he was slow, careful; still she gasped as her body fought to adjust, bit his shoulder to silence her pain when he pushed deeper and took her maidenhead, Vayne's soothing whispers garbled against her hair, as he rocked deeper, taking; Ashe dug her nails into his shoulders and clawed down his back, scarring him, blinking back tears and baring her teeth as he arched into it, his wolf daring hers, and it is now that she understood, as she pushed her ankles against his back, pulled him deeper. This skirmish was hers, Ashe thought, as she leant up to claim parted lips, felt Vayne tense under her palms as she rocked against him, demanding more; even as he moved deeper within, stoking her pleasure, her hand was tight in his mane and clawed over his shoulder; hers.
Ashe was first spent, as Vayne's long fingers between them teased ecstasy from her folds, but he was not long to follow, shuddering atop her as he snarled, and at the end she took another kiss before he withdrew, bit hard enough to draw blood when he did, and licked the coppery tang over her lips.
0.6 the wolf thinks
Vayne gathered his sleeping Empress in his arms and splayed one hand over her belly; she murmured something in her sleep and curled closer, as he stroked fingers up to her ribs, her breast, and back to her navel, fixed his eyes on the window. From where he lay, he could see only the sky.
-fin-
