The western hall is in need of a new portrait, the last now nearly two years out of date, as neither Vayne nor Larsa have been much interested in slowing down long enough to allow for one. The rest of the space is lined with old Solidors, and Vayne has made more than one impromptu lesson out of the walk, entertaining Larsa with tales of battles won and honors granted while checking off the names in his own mind, the grand game of just which conquering titans of old walked around in ladies' undergarments. No paintings remain of his brothers, all of those destroyed when they were judged to be traitors. Every personal possession, every private document seized by the Judges or burned outright. A decent Firega can reduce a man's entire life to nothing in minutes.
Vayne has a single memstone remaining from his eldest brother, discovered months after the fact, tossed in randomly among his own possessions. It is nothing much, the notes from some long distant meeting, reminders for a day's activities that have less than no meaning now. He has nearly gotten rid of it half a dozen times, yet for some reason it remains, tucked in the back of a desk drawer, a compromise Vayne barely understands, though is only with himself.
He is not early, but Larsa still stumbles in late, trying to pretend as if he hasn't just run the length of the northeast corridor. He is freshly scrubbed and attired, and Vayne can see a slight red patch along the knuckles on his right hand, the scrape doused carelessly to heal.
"Who won, then?"
The look his brother gives him, as if he needs to ask, and Vayne reaches out to ruffle his hair but Larsa ducks away, laughing. Judge Magister Drace appears at the door, taking up a position near the wall, between them and the door. Which means his brother has likely been sparring with either her or Gabranth this afternoon, and she has nothing else to do at the moment than indulge in silently disapproving of his existence, as usual.
"Seven to four. I took three goals."
"Well done. You might be able to find a future in it, if you should tire of being a prince."
Larsa sits down, while Vayne remains standing, just slightly behind and to the side of the chair. Open sky behind them, as high as they are, though they've sat for this once before, and he knows the artist has already sketched the backdrop from a lower room, the Archadian skyline stretching out instead, the Senate pavilion - of all things - in full view, though it does have a certain grandeur despite the interior, much like the rest of Archades. The woman leans around her canvas, and Vayne can see her frowning slightly, because Larsa is fidgeting, tugging at the high collar that… no, starched lace? Really?
"Gods save us, brother. Who dressed you in that and why didn't you have the good sense to tell them no?"
Larsa scowls, two red spots high on his cheeks, though he is doing his best to pretend it is in insult rather than embarrassment. "It seemed a bit… excessive, but I… I did not wish to cause offense."
"If you don't put up a fight, they'll be coddling you like this forever." Even the servants reluctant to admit their precious charge is growing up. Vayne can sympathize, yet there is nothing to be done for it.
"Hold still."
He carries the dagger with him always, an easy weapon to conceal, especially here in the palace where it is considered bad form to walk around openly armed, no matter how many have come to a bloody end within its walls. It is too far a distance to hear if Drace's breath catches, the Judge Magister's armored form revealing nothing, not the slightest shift of movement. Vayne still imagines she is standing a bit more rigid, her eyes fixed to the fraction of space between the point of the dagger and Larsa's throat, as he delicately cuts the ridiculous trim off the collar. Of course his brother notices none of it, still a bit annoyed, all childish pride with no idea at all that there could be anything to fear. It is petty, to taunt her so, but Drace is the equal fool for ever rising to the bait.
"The Grand College took the match today. Are we going to the finals?"
"I should imagine so." Vayne says, knife back in its sheath as he leans away. Larsa flashes him a grateful grin, returning quickly to a poised alertness, the sort of formal stiffness that has Vayne longing to shove him over, far preferring an informal slouch over the reminder of what must be, how fast the time is passing. It feels no span at all, some days, since he had held Larsa in the crook of his arm and promised him the whole of the world.
"I have two jockeys who've petitioned to ride Zephyr in the Tchita Twelve-Turn." It is his brother's fastest bird, a brilliant white-gold, little more than two years old, and already a champion several times over. "Lord Bailean wishes to stud him with the hens in his flock, and says I can have my choice of the eggs."
"… and then you will finally have a chick of your own. Again. Remind me, how many birds before they stop being a flock and start petitioning for a seat in the court?"
Where he's standing, he can see Larsa struggle not to turn and glare at him, though his voice conveys the proper annoyance well enough.
"I only have eight, and Lai is too old now to do much but sleep in the sun. I am hardly neglectful."
"I would never presume it."
A messenger at the door, a little later than he'd expected. The message brings less progress than he'd assumed, Rasler's forces doing a fair job of holding their position even against Bergan's heavy assault. A young king, unexpectedly tossed into the fray, but he has the sense to listen to his veteran advisors. A few of those, though, are from Landis, and ought to know that the Empire will not stop, will never stop. Perhaps Nabradia had no choice but to pin themselves down, but the fortress will be a tomb in short order no matter its defenses. However many men Rasler has on that paling, Vayne very much doubts it will be enough.
He glances up, to find that Larsa has turned, watching him closely.
"It's nothing."
"No, it's not." Larsa doesn't look away, already the gaze, that cool, Solidor regard - and finally Vayne relents, handing the paper over.
"Your fault, lord brother." He says, all airy smugness, solemnity evaporating with the smile he can't quite hold back. "You are the one who taught me to pay attention."
"Brat."
It does not take long, though, for all amusement to fall away. It has been difficult, that he must always be the bearer of bad news for his little brother, that the world must continue to disappoint. Vayne is the one who taught Larsa about lying, about war and infidelity and theft in all its perfectly legal forms. That the citizens of his Empire can be cruel, or lazy, or fools, just like his enemies - who may only stand against him out of circumstance, rather than any ill intent. All of it necessary, all that the world would eventually bring to his door, though at least Vayne can be here now, to drag what is most ugly into the light, and show it plain.
"… this is wrong." Larsa says softly, and Vayne is gratified that he keeps his voice low, this conversation not even for Drace to overhear. "I understand… I have studied, and been told that this is not a decision anyone takes lightly - but truly, there must be a better way."
A blind spot, a flaw of familial trust, that Larsa will not ever find his father to be at fault, that his part in it must be only some grand mistake, a misunderstanding. Whatever Gramis might assume, Vayne would never force Larsa to choose between them. As far as he is aware, the Emperor has hewn to this unspoken truce as well, though out of honor or guilt or the fear Larsa would not choose him, there is no way of knowing.
Certainly, Gramis thinks Vayne has done it all to protect himself. Making Larsa a prince of the people, gentle and noble and unspoiled - and there is advantage in it, to be sure. Worth too much the way that he is, to ruin it all by turning him against Vayne now, and that is all the Emperor can see. As if there could be no other reason, that Vayne would fight to keep Larsa from being a murderer before he was even a man.
"It will be your turn soon enough, little brother, to help chart a new course for Archades. For now, you must pay attention. Observe who is troubled by such events, and more importantly, who is not. Which among the people welcome such conflicts, and see opportunity there - and how many do not even think of the war at all. If you are to desire peace, there are those whose self-interest, whose own goals - good or ill - demand they be your enemy. A thousand different reasons why a man might have to go to war, though he may wish for peace."
"Come back a Judge, or do not come back at all." Larsa murmurs, and Vayne wonders about the conversations he's been having with his friends, those young men just starting to realize the sorts of choices they will soon have to make, the kinds of lives they might be led into living. It is not uncommon, among the higher Houses, to place some very specific demands on their first sons and daughters, with the expectation that a second will be waiting, should they fail to live up to the challenge.
Judge Magister Drace herself comes from such a family, one brother dead at childbirth and the other a sickly, weak thing that did not live long into his adolescence. The common assumption that her father had killed him, worked him to death in an attempt ensure his legacy as Judge Magister stayed in the family. With his death, all obligation had fallen then on the first daughter, on Drace, and she had traded her debut in society for endless drills with the sword, a merciless regimen under the unforgiving eye of her father. Not as amazing that Drace had succeeded him in the position as that she came out of it with any personality left to speak of.
The mood lightens considerably, as Vayne shifts the conversation to less worrisome topics, and eventually he is left to relate the specifics of Draklor's new flying machine, and promising a visit and no, Larsa is not allowed to fly it. Ever. Not even if he promises to go at a crawl. The clock chimes, an hour-and-a-half later, and his brother rises from the chair, looking back with a half-worried, half-hopeful expression.
"I… there is a… party. A small gathering, and I have been invited. I ought prepare. The daughters of House Maignart have asked. Judge Drace needs not attend such a silly… but I thought, perhaps, that you might come?
Which means that Larsa's tried very hard to avoid being invited at all - rather difficult to do with attendants who do little more than receive invitations on his behalf - and now he needs his brother to be his excuse for leaving early.
"I believe I have no prior engagements."
Larsa smiles, thanks the artist and departs, with Drace a step or two behind. Vayne lingers for a moment, the painting much further along, a rather radiant quality to the light, and at the moment it is Larsa in full focus, with Vayne as a less-defined shadow in the background, like some spectre of ill conscience. A fair resemblance to the truth, some would say. The painter seems to notice where his attention falls, her smile carries an edge of apology.
"I thought it would be better to catch the young lord as best I could for now, and perhaps finish your portion alone, later. I know it can be difficult to ask those of his age to sit still for so long."
"A wise courtesy. I thank you."
Vayne is just about to make his goodbyes, when he notices a sketch from the corner of his eye, half-tucked under a palette. He tugs it free, hearing the woman inhale sharply, not quite panic, but no one has ever considered his extra attention a good thing. It is a fast sketch, of Vayne leaning down to speak to his brother, while Larsa has turned to look up at him, paying close attention. The particular expression of his, rendered perfectly, where he is weighing every word, though Vayne doesn't remember saying anything worth that much effort. His own gaze is… well, the woman is talented, but he is certain has never looked quite that content in all of his life.
Vayne will still ask to keep it, and she will say yes.
A few of the more enterprising mothers still set their daughters in his path, though Vayne's been unattached for so long it is as much a token gesture as anything, and were he to actually take an interest in a House's more promising first child, it would be interesting to see what the result might be.
Larsa, however, is dangerously close to being buried in girls, court opinion or simply maternal optimism that he is in higher regard with the Emperor than his older brother - so sweet, so handsome, so kind - and therefore the ultimate goal of any House with ambitions, which would be all of them. Vayne has seen this play out before, the machinations to gain his attention will be as careful and methodical as any military strategy, even if Larsa has yet to even look at a one of them with anything but polite regard. It seems possible that the final effect of all their work will simply end with Larsa fleeing in panic at the slightest sound of a rustling skirt.
House Maignart has a heavy presence within the court's most frivolous social circles, not even the sort of gossip with much political value. It is headed by a tedious lady with two quite pretty and equally tedious daughters, and a lord who has opted out of tediousness by showing up drunk and falling asleep on a comfortable chair in the corner of the room. Ah, nobility.
On his arrival, all the expected overeager and rushed greetings. Compliments on how handsome and refined his little brother is and how good he looks dancing with whichever daughter Vayne is supposed to find more worthy of - perhaps, one day, a more private interlude? He is polite and says a number of meaningless things no one is listening to anyway, and then he is free to move to a secluded corner and be treated like furniture by the brightly-clad flock of attendees who are little more than half his age and make him feel three times as old. It must be what Cid feels like, with every new batch of graduates a little younger, marking yet another passing year.
"Quickly. Hide me."
Vayne turns a little as Larsa ducks around him, his back mostly to the room, which will block his brother from view for approximately no time at all, but he is obligated to at least make the attempt.
"I must say, it is not unlike watching some very odd-colored hounds course a hare. You are all still in one piece, I hope?"
Larsa rolls his eyes, a disgruntled, long-suffering grin that only Vayne is privileged to see. He wonders if there is a girl among those out there on the floor that will be of any use in keeping his brother from burning out completely before he reaches twenty-five.
Vayne gestures to the far wall, away from the festivities. "Around the corner here, there is a window, and just outside that is a very convenient tree. I say we make our escape, and perhaps you can show me how you manage that one-handed turn at speed without tipping your bird or breaking your neck."
He deserves the annoyed look, for daring to suggest Larsa rides like gravity is negotiable. "It's not that difficult."
"Then it shouldn't take long for you to teach me."
A slight smile. "I hear civilized people prefer to use the door."
"Civilized people take two hours to say their goodbyes."
As if on cue, a girlish cry cuts through the air, absurdly overdramatic. "Lord Larsa? Where have you gone?"
He cringes.
"Ten minutes."
High, light laughter and the smell of expensive, imported roses and a pair of delicate hands wrap around his brother's arm, tugging him back into the fray. Larsa's expression shifts even as he turns, back to what is only polite and gracious and Vayne doesn't have to worry about any romantic flights of fancy quite yet, at least not from anyone in this room. He returns to paying vague attention to this week's popular if uninspired waltz, and the footsteps of the young dancers, some obviously more studious than truly interested, others making up for less attentive practice with great enthusiasm.
"You are very indulgent with him."
"He has never given me reason to regret it."
One of those rare occasions, where he speaks before he looks, though the voice is unfamiliar and it even takes Vayne a moment to place the face. Fair enough, dark eyes and long, dark hair, currently bound up in a long train of mourning black, and it's easy enough to know her then.
"Good afternoon, milady."
Thea Akaste Iachnel, of House Iachnel, all of whom are mourning the sudden death of their father, Senator and patriarch. A rare thing, the airship crash that had cost him his life, but even rarer that it didn't seem to be intentional. Not even from within the family - Iachnel was surprisingly tight-knit for such an old House, holding no small amount of sway within the Senate practically from its inception, but rather quiet about it all, disappearing into the background simply by measure of sanity and solidarity.
"All Archades mourns with you in the passing of your father."
A slight smile, accepting the courtesy. If her grief is false she is remarkably good at the charade, a pale fragility in her manner, that she looks calm and composed now only due to a conscious effort. It is convincing enough, that Vayne follows the empty politeness with a more personal truth.
"I must say, we did not tend to agree, but it never seemed to bother either of us."
A real smile then, fond and remembering and not at all for him. "He liked you. You caused trouble, and made him work for what he wanted. It cleared away some obstacles, those people who preferred easy gains."
A lie, but very well delivered. If she wishes to play at polite conversation, Vayne can serve as an obliging partner.
"I hope the Senate has given you a fair welcome, in light of the unexpected circumstance."
"I am honored that I would be considered worthy of my father's seat." No real surprise that it passed down so easily. As much as the Senate adores beating their breasts over centuries of Solidor rule, there are very few Houses that ever cede power once they have attained it. "My eldest brother remains the head of our House, but he prefers to keep with his business in the North."
Alras Kilvarin Iachnel could have easily ranked Judge Magister, if he hadn't absconded for the wilds the moment he'd finished at the Akademy. A joke among most of upper Archades, that the Senator's son had gone feral, spent his days fighting bears and biting the heads off fish and running with the same wolves that bared their fangs upon the Iachnel crest. He'd even raised a pack of his own half-wild children, all presumed to be bastards, certainly not a one of them possessing any actual sense of civility. A good deal of presumption, all resting on the fact that none of them had ever bothered to come to Archades, that it was the city that had rejected them and not, perhaps, the opposite.
House Iachnel's northern lands encompassed a vast, rich country: mining and timber and considerable resources, and they were careful, protective stewards. Bergan had made an attempt to negotiate a new border only a few years ago, an incursion that could have been quite profitable for him, but it had not gone very well at all. He might have been as much beast as man, but Alras knew how to hold on to what was his.
"I would ask you to dance but I fear I don't know the steps." Vayne says, and Thea grimaces slightly, clearly choosing his corner to be out of the way as well, rather than try to draw him into the festivities.
"I don't believe they do either."
The girl currently dancing with Larsa has managed to put her feet down on anything but the dance floor, though there is barely the flicker of strain in his brother's smile. It might be necessary to find him a pair of steel-toed boots, like the ship hands wear, if this is to be his foreseeable future. A few shy stragglers hover at the edge of the dance floor, too nervous or held back by their attendants, along with those who prefer to gossip behind fluttering fans. A young man stands alone near the entrance, though the girls outnumber the boys and there is nothing particularly wrong with him, perhaps not quite old enough yet or perhaps simply not Larsa - there are surely girls here who will dance - or have been told to dance - with the Emperor's son or none at all.
"My little brother." Thea says, and again if her affection is at all feigned it is well done. "This is the first season he has been much out in the court. He was sickly as a child, and chafes now beneath the constant attention of his sisters. I do believe he considers Lord Larsa to be all that is enviable, especially his seat on a chocobo, and he is… a bit afraid of the beasts, though he would die of embarrassment to hear me say it."
"My brother has every intention of taking a new egg to raise. I doubt it would be difficult for him to acquire another, though I warn you he is quite particular with their care. He will not think well of anyone who shirks their duties, even if they should become tiresome."
Or disgusting. Vayne remembers vividly when a pretty hen, the blue-green of uncut gemstones, had suddenly fallen quite ill, and it had seemed she would be lost. Larsa had been determined to nurse her himself, even when he'd ended up wearing most of the medicine he'd tried to get down her throat. The bird had survived, though Larsa had required two baths to stop smelling of wet feathers and stable muck, and Vayne was fairly certain they'd just burned the clothes.
"It was the particular wish of our father, that my brother be taught to earn what he would desire. With any luck, it will keep him from the worst sorts of folly." Thea's eyes meet his, steady and sure. "We expect great things from him. It is something I believe we have in common."
No such thing, as an idle conversation between a Senator's daughter and an Emperor's son, and to bring his brother anywhere near the matter means she is either innocent or incredibly stupid and Senators are never innocent, even the new ones. Vayne regards her for a long moment, and she allows it without comment or apparent concern, her tone light and conversational when she speaks again, though the words are not nearly so meaningless.
"In light of the sure victory over Nabradia, I am surprised Draklor would ask for such a pittance of an increase."
Vayne turns away, keeping his gaze to the rest of the room. Larsa is dancing again with one of the Maignart girls, while their mother looks on with what would be called hope were it less openly predatory.
"I believe there are few of your fellow Senators that would consider it so."
"Enough that it will pass, with my support."
It is a rare Senator that would even stand in the same room with him, let alone with what actually sounds like a peace offering, a gesture of goodwill. It isn't possible. None of them would ever break ranks to get close to him, not like this, not at all worth the risk. Vayne glances around, but he can see no one taking any particular notice. It is too silly, this children's dance, far too frivolous an affair for any real business to take place.
Perhaps the reason she is here now.
"How long had you been training for a Senate seat, before this?"
It is meant as a caution - this is not how things are done, do not pretend you are unaware - yet she remains perfectly composed.
"It has not been long. I have a great deal to learn, I admit - but I have always been instructed, since my earliest days, of how best I might serve my family. House Iachnel has ever found it wise to bend as the world changes, my lord, rather than struggle against it in futility." Thea is not watching him either, her gaze distant, voice calm and cool. "I will not lie, I would it were I had my father back, and we were not speaking now, yet I am here and there is the future to consider, for my House and for all Archades."
House Iachnel is extremely tight-knit, and successful because of it, though not as much as might be possible, were they to reach for more. Sisters well married, cousins and nephews as bankers and mages, scholars and even a Judge here and there, if Vayne remembers right, and overlooked only as they had never made a run on the throne. Yet.
"In any future, there are always opportunities for those seeking glory."
Thea smiles. "Glory casts a considerable light, your Grace. My father believed that humble labors bring their own rewards, even if they be unseen and unsung."
Why bother risking a battle for a throne, when it is easier not to have it - to profit in the background, to be invisible among the rise and fall of more ambitious men, and let another House stand as the target? Maintain neutrality, and grow ever richer with as small a risk as possible. It is completely mercenary, and matches to what he knows of Iachnel's past - and is as yet the best suggestion she might not entirely be lying.
"I fear I can offer little you will find modest, lady. If the Senators have not made their opinion of me plain, you need but wait."
Maybe the slightest hesitance in her expression, like a man at the game board, confident yet aware he sets out a piece that cannot be withdrawn.
"It is not the right of nervous old men, to seek immortality by chaining themselves to the young. If a man is drowning, and you cannot save him, you must free yourself, whatever the cost. It is no virtue, to be dragged down as well. I am not the only one who thinks it so."
It is high treason, then, that they are trying to hang around his neck, the Senate using her to draw him in - but that is giving them considerable credit, more initiative than they have ever shown before. The alternative is no less believable, that she has just made the first overture toward a tentative alliance. At the very least suggesting there are those amenable to a changing of the guard. How interesting.
"Lord Brother, there you are! There was… I mean, we had something to… discuss?" A hasty bow to Lady Iachnel, the look in Larsa's eyes more than a little urgent, and Vayne bows to her as well.
"Yes. If you will excuse us."
"Good day," she says politely, though it is clear she is confused, since they're not going anywhere near the door. Perhaps it is best to let her see him play the fool to the hilt, before she makes up her mind about wishing to put any further faith in his abilities.
The Senate will have to be dealt with, Vayne has known it for some time. Only tolerating his father as long as they have because they can see the end in sight, and believe their patience will finally be rewarded. Undoubtedly advising Gramis against giving him the throne, and there is every chance he will heed them, and so Vayne's life would be shortened to a matter of opportunity. Larsa would serve their needs admirably well, or at least they would assume so, and then he would voice an opinion they did not want to hear and then he would be dead.
The only nightmare Vayne has ever had. Of being chained away in some dungeon while the crowds gather and the executioner sharpens his sword - quick and clean, he knows well enough how it goes. Larsa would walk with his head held high, because Vayne never taught him to be proud but he is a Solidor and Solidors bow to no one. His brother would give them nothing, noble to the very end.
Vayne always wakes up then, with half the shout still on his lips, wrists aching from imagined chains and the vow that he will kill them all for this, he will see Archades burn and he will kill them all.
It would be far less dangerous, to only cut away what had to be sacrificed, while leaving the structure intact. A Senate more amenable to compromise, or at least not entirely hostile to their Emperor. If Iachnel were truly serious, if there were others who shared her view - a Senate privately allied with House Solidor would be the sort of security his ancestors could only dream of.
It also is the sort of temptation an ambitious senator might throw out in front of him, that Vayne would make a mistake and she could only profit from it. Lady Iachnel is at a disadvantage, a young woman in an old man's game, and perhaps the offer is nothing more than the hope it might raise her standing among her fellows. Nothing to do in the near future but wait and see what happens next. He can afford to be patient, if she wishes only for the length of rope necessary to hang herself.
Vayne slides the window open, carefully reaching for the nearest branch, though it is quite solid and holds steady beneath his weight, easy to swing out to a proper foothold. Larsa makes an impatient sound behind him, but it isn't long before they're both dangling in the air like proper idiots. It's been a few years since he's bothered climbing out a window, and his boots are too fancy for the proper grip. Larsa is still up near the wall, perfectly secure with his knees on the branch and his arms yanking on the top of the pane.
"Problems, brother?"
"It won't move!"
Inside, the music comes to a halt, the dance finishing to the sound of light applause. Vayne cannot see much from where he's managed to climb, the tree not particularly high but the branches twisted at odd angles. A shame, it would be interesting to see what the senator thinks of this, but at the moment it's a bit more worrying how loud the branches are creaking, as Larsa continues in his futile attempt at closing the window.
"Leave it, then. Better an imperfect escape than none at all."
Sky pirate logic, if such a thing exists. The last time Balthier had been caught, from what the papers said, he had been hanging half out a window himself, though wearing nothing but a smile and his assurance it was all simply a misunderstanding.
Vayne can only imagine the subsequent escape had been quite... memorable.
His brother finally relents, scrambling quickly down - and this is all a good deal more fun than it ought to be. The sort of thing he never got to do much of at his brother's age - and had he even noticed then, that there was no one to accompany him on these sorts of adventures? Had it ever seemed as obvious as it does now, how the Emperor had deliberately kept him isolated? Nowhere to go. No one to ask for guidance, if he'd even known what to ask.
Once, when he was very young, it seemed his father was capable of anything. An intricate planner, an architect of all fates. It is all but inevitable that Vayne will meet only what is left of the man he'd like to face, when things take their final turn. A shadow fueled by nothing but paranoia and far too much compounded guilt gone sour with time.
"Go! She's coming! Faster!"
A good thing it isn't so much a private garden as a bit of unremarkable green space, a simple terrace, so there's no one around to see them, as Vayne reaches for a place to brace his weight just as Larsa steps on his hand and with a hiss and a truncated yelp and the snap of a few minor branches Vayne plummets to the ground without any hint of grace, landing flat on his back just in time for his brother to fall on top of him, elbow solid in his gut, and he'd grunt if he could manage the breath for it.
Larsa scrambles toward the base of the tree, hiding behind it, Vayne content to stay where he is, mostly covered by the overhang of a low shrub. He tries quietly to catch his breath, spitting out half a leaf, gloriously undignified. Larsa's eyes are bright, a hand over his mouth to keep quiet, glancing from him and up and back again.
"Lord Larsa?"
The girl's voice grows louder, likely standing at the window, though he can't see her. Poor thing, nothing in her tutelage to handle the idea of well-born sons of Archades flinging themselves out of windows. Vayne really ought to be ashamed of himself.
"Lord Larsa? Where have you gone?"
His brother's shoulders shake with silent laughter. As young as he is it is still supremely satisfying to act against what is reasonable, to break with expectations. Only more of those to come, less to smile about with each new obligation, and all too soon a day when Larsa won't remember what it was when life seemed simple. A few moments later, they hear the sound of the window falling shut.
"I believe they call that a successful escape." Vayne says, the silence now only marked by a bit of wind in the leaves. So quiet, it is hard to imagine they are all but in the center of the city. It will be dark soon, already the light is a golden wash along the side of the buildings. From the right angle, the palace will shine as brightly as the sun.
"I ought to apologize, later." Larsa says, looking back up.
"I'll accept it now." Vayne replies, raising an affronted brow at the withering glare. "You did land on me. I believe I may have even ripped my coat."
"Heaven forbid, lord brother. How shall you go on?"
Sarcasm, another side to his brother that only Vayne gets to see. Larsa is afraid to wield it in public, worried over court opinion, that he is setting a proper example, that it is unkind - but he is free to be whoever he wants here, with his older brother as his only audience. If it is only that Vayne's sins, what he has done and what he is capable of are greater and more terrible than anything Larsa can dream - well, at least some good has come of it at last.
"We ought go in, before it gets too late." Vayne says, but the ground is comfortable and he is in no hurry to move. His brother idly twists a dandelion free, crushes the tuft in his hand and opens his palm into the wind, watching the tiny seeds float free.
"Has the battle ended, then?"
He does not look at Vayne. An attempt at being casual that fools no one.
You had your chance. The chance to keep him innocent and useless and happy, and you chose this instead. Or perhaps it was ever Larsa's destiny. No choice, there was never a real choice - and yet, should anything happen, should he suffer some terrible fate Vayne cannot see coming, it will not much matter if he did what he could, if he did his best for his little brother. It will not matter at all.
"No word yet, though I expect it shortly. Rest easy - this is not your fight, and none of the responsibility rests with you." Keep his hands clean, for as long as he possibly can. "You must always do what you are able, but no one expects you to put all the world to rights. At least, not today."
"Archades is not peaceful, even when she is at peace." Larsa says quietly, not looking to him for answers or reassurance. "I will find another way. I must."
Vayne does not believe in gods that bless the acts of men, and even if it were so, he does not merit their beneficence by any means. Yet still the bargain, practically a prayer, fierce as ever for what he knows he has no right to ask for and does not deserve.
Just let him do this. Let him make this one thing in the world right and good, and better than it was before, and he will ask for nothing else, and the world may do as it will with him.
The sun sets, and there is no message, and time passes and there is still nothing, and now Archades is a sea of hazy lights, the windows mostly reflecting the brightness of the room and Vayne is pretending to read while waiting for word of the battle, listening to a very talented and quite lovely woman play the violin. It is a piece he recognizes, though the exact name escapes him – she has played it before, knows it is one of his favorites - and he watches her body twist slightly through the long, drawn notes, hair falling past her shoulders, loose curls like the fanciest of formal script, dark against her pale skin.
Vayne is not so far gone, not as inhuman as some would believe, that he cannot appreciate her charms, or imagine enjoying her company. The offer from her father has come long since - she will not wed if he would like her for his mistress, though he pays her handsomely just to hear her play.
Who knows just how much more she receives from the Emperor, to speak of all that she might see or hear?
In the service of his father, all but from the moment he had summoned her to play for him, along with two of his footmen, likely his valet, the head groom, his fencing instructor, his tailor - it goes on. Larsa's valet as well, though Vayne had made a decent case where the man's true loyalties ought to stand, and given that he'd done so while holding him by the front of his coat from the balcony of the fifty-eighth floor of the palace, Vayne thought he'd been well understood.
The sonata ends, and the violinist lowers her instrument, flexing her bow hand, her smile all that is gracious and inviting, and even to think of kissing her is to imagine his father listening to the report of it, and the thought makes Vayne unimaginably weary. If he were to take a wife it would be much the same - if she did not belong to Gramis from the start he would surely find a way - and gods forbid there were any children, that he be forced to weigh the life of his own blood against his brother's chance to rule. His child stands no chance, even as a hypothetical Vayne knows this, and the last thing in this world he ever wishes to be is a father. So much easier, that things remain as they are, the world complicated enough as it is. If Gramis wishes to strike at him, he will have to do it under his own power. Vayne is no longer obliged to provide the ammunition.
"I am sorry to keep you so long." He says, before she can begin the next piece, ready to dismiss her, and seek out what word he can on his own. It will be another day in Nalbina, perhaps, if the paling has lasted this long. He gives them a week at the very most. Every hour, another opportunity for Raminas to make his stand.
"It is an honor as ever, my lord. If you would like-" Whatever she is going to say is lost, as his messenger finally appears. The violinist bows, and takes her leave quietly, the door closing behind her as Vayne opens what he quickly realizes is the final report, a letter that really ought to be far longer for all that it contains.
So very simple, isn't it, in the end? No matter how great the battle, or how much is at stake, the end is always simple. Vayne himself will be a few lines on a page, someday. The whole of the Empire cut down to a passing mention, in some old book that no one ever reads.
He sits down, and goes over the report once more, as the world finally slows to an unfortunate crawl, the race over before it ever began.
"You got me my funding. You magnificent bastard."
Cid is all barely-checked excitement, bursting into the room, quite obviously hasn't stopped moving since Vayne left him. Neither of them keep anything like normal hours much of the time, so nearly all of Cid's impromptu visits take place long after nightfall. Usually when he is in such a mood, all but bubbling over with some discovery he cannot keep to himself, though now it's clear he's come to Vayne for the full story of his unexpected success.
"I just got the word that it will go through. I don't know how in the hell you managed it so fast. Do I even ask, or would I rather not know?" The clink of glasses, a bottle being shifted to his open hand. "I've been told this is extremely expensive champagne, from… some place I can't pronounce. You're not supposed to be able to get it across the border. Nothing like a man from Balfonheim who owes a favor."
"Nalbina is ours," Vayne says, tonelessly, "and Rasler of Nabradia has been killed in the battle."
House Solidor has not deigned to enter combat since the time of Vayne's great-grandfather. It is simply not done, would be considered a vote of no confidence against the vast Imperial forces for their leaders to actually set foot on the battlefield. A strange conceit, really. If Vayne were given leave to fight his father might be rewarded with his dearest wish, that he have only one heir for the throne.
Cid sets the bottle down. "What response from Dalmasca?"
"None."
"Nothing. No word at all? "Raminas must know-"
"-that we've widowed his daughter? I imagine he must, by now."
The doctor is pacing now, as he does, all thought of celebration forgotten. "… and he does nothing?"
"For now." It is but a pause, not a stalemate and not even a regrouping - what will Dalmasca have to regroup with? Attacking the fortress had been meant to shatter their resolve, and it seems Archades has succeeded even beyond their expectations.
"… I suppose we didn't manage to hold the body?"
"Of course not. Nabradia's king will be buried in Dalmascan soil, and the princess will no doubt be married off to Rozarria as soon as her father can make the match with one of Margrace's heirs. Unless he gives her away to the Marquis first."
An interesting bit of trivia, how the bloodlines of so many noble houses are twisted together in unexpected places. Go far back enough on Ondore's line, and it does indeed share a few branches with House Solidor. No one is particularly pleased about this.
The door slips open with barely a sound, another servant on the threshold, pausing until he is impatiently waved in. Cid is frozen with his back to the door, watching over his shoulder as Vayne retrieves more unpleasant news from a small silver tray. Both thinking the same thing, this is the notice that Raminas has finally remembered he has the means to end the war. This is the alliance between Dalmasca and Bhujerba and Rozarria and hell, at least Vayne can worry about any daggers in his back for the foreseeable future - they'll need him now, that much is damned-
He stops, fingers brushing over the green wax seal that bears the twin serpent Solidor crest, edges dusted in gold - direct from the Emperor's own hand. Vayne is sketching out a dozen plans to defend himself before he ever breaks the wax, eyes flicking over the contents, tossing it into the fire before his father's man has even shut the door behind him. It says nothing, and everything. As always.
Cid is still watching. Vayne rubs the bridge of his nose, lets out a slow breath. He feels very tired, and yet a part of him is tense and ready, could leave tonight, right now, to finish things as soon as possible.
"We are to offer a treaty of peace with King Raminas, should he agree to surrender."
"Surrender what? The Shards?"
As if any mention of them will ever be written down. "Fables, Cid. Legends. Archades does not go to war over fairy tales."
"It is no treaty then."
"We can ill afford one, by any terms. Raminas may be fixed in his determination not to strike, whatever his reasons may be, but Rozarria will petition him harder than ever now, and his daughter's tears may well weaken his resolve over time. She was barely wed." Vayne pauses. "Do you think they were in love?"
"Who is to say?"
It makes little difference - it is done, and it will continue much the same. Far more than one man killed in the battle today, more than one widow that will feel no comfort in sharing the same grief tonight. Families on both sides, preparing to make swift and careful preparations to soothe the souls of the dead, and it will all, as ever, go on.
"To bring the body of her husband as our wedding gift. Were I in her place, such an thing would never fade." And that if it were only as insult. Only simple duty between Rasler and his bride, an ill-considered alliance without any real affection. If it had been otherwise?
Ask him what he would do, had it been Dalmasca's victory, and Larsa's body on some cold stone bier.
"The Emperor has made his wishes known. He believes it too great a risk to leave Raminas open to act, or his daughter free to be the link in a new alliance. He wishes to find a solution, as quickly as possible. End the line of the Dynast-King here, and the threat… and of course, it ought appear as if it was an act of insurrection, rather than Archadian involvement."
"Dalmasca murder their own king? Why the sudden need for theatre?"
"Archades no longer holds faith in the Marquis of Bhujerba, that his self-interest is enough to ensure his loyalty. Rightly so, Rozarria would gladly offer him any number of favors, should he side with them openly. It is tasked to me, then, to deliver up such an… encouragement for his continued support." No matter what happens, it will be easier than it ought to be. He has a talent. "I am again in the jesses, and will fly."
If he should fail, if it should go wrong, Gramis would surely enjoy being able to deny all culpability. Claim Vayne had been acting entirely of his own accord, and watch the last great threat to his reign perish in a spectacular fall to earth. The very best kind of weapon, highly skilled and completely disposable.
Cid frowns, contemplating, though they have moved into subjects far more to Vayne's particular set of skills.
"It seems unlike him, to trust you."
"I am certain he will be watching. Surely it is not without risk, but I am far too useful for the purpose and he has little other choice. Who else can give him what he needs? Bergan?"
"Perhaps Raminas truly knows nothing. Even Venat may be mistaken."
Vayne shakes his head. "Whatever it is that stays his hand, I do not believe the king to be a fool - he knows where the Sun-Cryst is, if anyone in this world still does."
"Doubtful he will be persuaded that we wish to eradicate it, when I cannot convince myself of the fact."
"He will be persuaded it will save his life, and the life of his daughter, to give it over, and beyond that - we shall see."
No need to follow the Emperor's plans, not if he can get that power in his hands - and Vayne can, and will. What then? Hold the Sun-Cryst long enough, at least to deal with his father, and make sure Rozarria knows to mind their manners?
A coronation gift for Larsa. A new age of peace. It does not seem such a terrible ambition.
Vayne pushes himself out of the chair, forcing back the surge of checked ambition, all that former urgency slipping into new plans, new strategies. The doctor shakes his head in grim amusement.
"It seems a far sight saner to treat with him, than the alternative. Silence the Marquis and commit regicide without detection? Of course you already have an answer, I am sure."
Vayne takes the bottle, the cork popping hollow rather than festive, here in this quiet room, with very little left to celebrate.
"Did you know Judge Gabranth has a brother?"
Cid raises a brow, taking the proffered flute. "It signifies?"
"It might."
Vayne pours himself a full glass, with every intention of finishing the bottle and likely finding another, whether Cid is game or no. All will continue on as it has, any hope of solid gains pushed forward a month, six months, and he must be patient but there is hardly a need for him to meet the start of it sober.
The flute is cold in his hand, tiny bubbles tracing upward paths through a hint of gold. He smiles, all too easy to think of a proper toast, and raises the glass.
"To better men."
