FFXII: Ashe, Gabranth, Reddas
Scene: Pharos in the game
Title: One on one
Certainly Artistic license used.
Rating: Pg-13
It is easier to forgive an enemy than to forgive a friend. --
William Blake
"Why do you hesitate?"
The hurricane around them seethed; yet, it coursed, strident; it drew back against the pillars, advancing in and out like a hovering bird of prey; protesting with a jangle of internal bells, lacerated through iron and living tissue alike .
"Lady Ashe, I slew your king, I slew your country, do these deeds demand vengeance?"
Yes! Yes! Her eyes narrowed into slits, and she wanted, oh she wanted….
And if it were weeks before, even two years before, where her sorrow yawned; her grief intense, the rawness would forever smolder her gut –tearing flesh apart to reach to her father's true murderer.
His hands, they were readying, beside the pillar, he stood; his voice traced no regrets, no turning back; as if he too were waiting for this: Ashelia B'Nargin of Dalmasca, he knew had been set up for this ageless moment.
It was time.
She was for the present, raging faithfully, as true as the storm outside, deepening her eyes—sharpened against the falling shadow, her mouth pliant with careful coordination. Willful hands gripped the hilt, sweat forming along the fragility of her brow, daring the electric energy around her; breasts lifted in passionate display through the misted interior; a heady sensational thrill surrounded her, within the tower above the perilous cliffs.
And the pirate with the pinkish-pale pants, bearing double swords crossed blades bought from Balfonheim, true steel and rarer because of the spoils from treasures deeper in Ivalice's depths; further locked away in the clouds among floating continents too far, too wide to reach for the common man.
"…..Cid ordered this of him, to learn of the Nethicite's true power…"
The pirate looked over the twin blades, pushed back by the younger man, and he cried out, "Try as we might, Gabranth, but history's chains bind us too tightly!"
Reddas received only a disgusted grunt from his former comrade, and was shoved neatly aside. Upon the floor, swept in marble and graceful designs circling as the shards and the stones from the Occuria.
"Judge Zecht..." Gabranth lifted his chin, let his eyes linger, drinking in the man's presence.
"Do the dead not demand it?" The Judge Magister repeated, to Ashelia this time, ignoring the former Judge he once dined and fought alongside with. His eyes searched the woman, finding something there in similar fashion.
Was there any revenge left in her?
Where was the fire he saw before climbing the peak to get to her?
So, he had waited, came out of hiding, where she was tending the power-drenched blade in her hand, shining and streaming with mystical energy.
She was not even angry—not anymore—because all the anger had been used up; to slap and spit daggers to a man who wore the same face as the murderer of her father.
It wasn't because she was non-plussed at the implicative suggestion, perfect though it be—to strike him where he stood—arrogant bastard in the flesh, in metal and cold blood; all steel and acrimony, with the commandment on his side; however, twisted and corrupt it may be.
"What of your broken kingdom's shame?" He urged, voice muffled deep in the signature helm. Armour bearing horns and sharp edges, clanked with a mightier sound when he had produced the phallic whiplash weapon—lethal in its owner's embrace.
She breathed, the sound soft and breathy, her parted lips sensual under the gripping power of the Pharos's mist. It was then that she held fast to Gabranth's eyes, "What's done is done," her movements, languid and visceral.
The past is gone, she told him, closing the gap between them; and Gabranth, that was what he was named, by the grace of Reddas's call; by the voice now occupied by the man-the knight- she respected, again, now more than ever before.
She stepped closer, under the storm of seduction, where the winds of the Pharos's secrets were whipping by, slashing across their drawn faces; forlorn; destructive; heated breaths lingering close; and the clash of Dalmascan true heir and the man with murder in his hands, stared endless in verdict.
Her hands were hot, not a trickle of sweat clung, because the air was crackling above them; against her hair, forming pale strands against her pale cheeks. The sun cryst vibrated like a machine, pumping through with orange and white lightning—as if drawing the very existence of the Pharos's lighthouse into its soul.
When she was close enough, unafraid of her father's murderer, aware of the face of Basch; aware of the kindness, the protection and love he had given her through out the journey.
And in those final moments, she was filled with a forgiveness not unknown to her heart.
The ball, closed off from the light and permission darkened dull, rolled straight to his feet. Its finality became a severe blow, and the Judge unsheathed his sword, steel sliding out—bitterness drenched in its pointed aggressive hum.
She couldn't know, no, not when the Occuria had always planned, before she brought her merry group climbing the Pharos; they were closed off with the mist, thickened as a dividing wall between.
Cut off from the rest—so that the true test of fortification and decree, hung between the three.
Reddas was full of fight, because he could not forget the haunted faces of Nabudis, his heart severed by the mere thought of it; he would not strike down Gabranth unless he had to; to shield those from his former resolution, ignorant though it was, under Cid's orders.
He could even understand the need, the drive of this twin, who bore the same striking profile as the knight; brother against brother; enemies under different flags; and he would take his sword to stop the bleeding.
"Gabranth," Zecht cried out, panting, lifting himself easily off the smooth floor, "I know what it is you feel in your heart; I too was under the direction of Cid's command; but you, your duties are stamped higher in that you're cut off from this farce; you're honour bound to your Emperor, his death was only an illusion; your loyalty to him was truer than any who had ever served under him."
Noah growled, baring teeth within the helm, eyes blinking back the storming atmospheric cyclone that surrounded them.
Even as the Occurrian idly watched, faint debris between the stones and the mist clung and held; the ancient wanderers of power and might, bearers of truth and lies, grinned waiting for the young man in armour to incite. Whilst the woman, truer than the kings before her, had gone down on one knee, unbearable to watch—where she exposed her wounded pride, once lost, upon the altar.
She would have been awarded a medal, no—a trophy of substantial means, more than what was given to the grand kilties, to the passing fathers, the royals before her,
It was without some kind of inner curiosity that the three would face even a greater decision:
Who would take up the offer?
The man who had once enacted the destruction of an entire country, the woman whose power was lost through lies derived from her only living kin, and the man who left a country gone, hound though he be—begging for his honour; finding duty in his heart. Was there not a chalice to be sought? Where the immortals could place their secrets to those who would take it?
Not for the Garif, who were a race that never understand the power; because their kind could not bear steel against nature and the living; warriors they all were; they were not meant to wield; nor were these hidden occurian gems made for the common man whose intelligence only allowed so far.
Ashelia dropped down the displayed occurian sword, finalizing the action.
A fight was anticipated, pregnant in the air.
She was ready, not because Reddas was there, but because he stood there, waiting for her.
"You are our saint, Ashelia," the gods were taunting, growing angrier, "you were the one—to weave history!"
Even as the air expanded, as it filled the room with colours of magick so ancient, she felt the twinge of bruised pain, the gentle mouth-sensuously closed, parted tentatively.
She didn't want to be what they wanted her to be—she could never be free that way; even as the mist tore at her eyes, whipped around her hair, growing paler in the glowing light, she tore her greedy gaze away from Rasler's imitation.
The stone must be cut, she said beneath her breath.
But the gods had plans, weaving their influence around their charges, where Cid was the most submissive to their charms, Gabranth kept to his path.
"A shame," he whispered, "you should have taken it, it was yours to take," and he drew close, breath becoming tattered in the Pharos's grip.
"Take up your blade, my lady, he means to challenge you." Reddas warned.
"And you…" Ashelia braced, tension rippled across her skin, eyeing her enemy languidly.
Gabranth returned the slow heat of her gaze, "then it is true…" he uttered low, indifferent.
She barely moved, feeling the physical thrill of the anticipated battle. Yes, she had placed the bitterness and revenge aside, buried them deep so they would never haunt or rule the rational. Instead, she was given a chance to fight in place of that cast off, bearing herself before him.
Irony came knocking at her door, and her used blade thrummed against her body.
"That I bear no grudge against my father's murderer?" she offered, but left no room for him to counter, "You're wrong, and you're right."
There was no room for friendship between them, nor will there ever be love lost—but the stone was being cut away, and their concentrated hate sent them turning to the pirate digging deep into the core.
Bright flashes met their eyes, and Ashe inwardly gasped, as time crawled on ether. She could not save him, because Reddas was too far into the cryst, steel halfway in.
Gabranth grit teeth and hardened his eyes against the onslaught of power being sliced; he was seeing again, the action of a man that had sent an entire population to empty ruin; seeing Zecht cut a jagged path across the power.
Power so great it blasted through--and Ashelia dropped easily on the floor from the intense flare; she was being hauled up, not understanding why--could hear Reddas scream to take her away from here.
Even as he was wont to back away, to leave the Princess, Gabranth wrapped his arm around Ashelia's midsection, hauling her between the pillars, where heavy debris started to fall.
He would do this because there was another time, another moment when he would face her and feel her vengeance. It was meant to be.
While she tried to move forward, an instinct—attempting to save, or try to lure Reddas away from catastrophe, there was only empty knowledge that his soul would move on. Like all the rest—like her father, Rasler, and the empty sorrow would drip like a continual downpour of numbing emotion.
The last she saw of Reddas, her eyes fighting to see—an explosion that left her semi-conscious—explosion of blood, stone, and tattered material trailing downward fast as a destroyed, bursting dam.
Not even magick could bring him back. She knew this, even as her heart swelled beneath Gabranth's armoured arm held fast, feeling the intrusive metal against her flesh—digging slight and distracting.
She could hear the cries of her friends stairs and stairs below; somewhere in the thick mist. Ashelia steeled herself, because there would be time to mourn when the cryst slumbered, taking with it, a man longing for eternal sleep.