[Fire Emblem 10] Halfway to Darkness
Nov. 18th, 2009 08:12 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
runicloreHalfway to Darkness
Author: Amber Michelle
Rating: K
Warnings: n/a
Word Count: 1340
Gauntlet Theme: 31 - so monochrome and so lukewarm
Comment!fic Prompt:
Fire Emblem 10, Sephiran/author's choice, "...Must I?"
................................................................
After the light of Judgment faded, once night fell upon silent Tellius and Zelgius slept deeply, each breath heavy, long, deep, Sephiran rose from the oval bed and parted the curtains to find his robes and get dressed. He didn't want companionship when he saw this goddess; she was darker than he remembered, too quiet, too stiff, as if she still slept and this Ashera was a dream - a sleepwalker. Keeping his expression and posture neutral for the sake of his escort would strain his ability to keep his thoughts secret from the goddess. Eventually it would all come out - his part in the creation of these wars she punished Tellius for, his desertion of the duty she charged him with before beginning her long sleep - and the sharp, bitter jolt Sephiran experienced when she awakened and first spoke to him.
If Ashera had changed after Yune's imprisonment in the medallion, that shift was negligible when compared to the emptiness he saw in her now. Even divided she'd shown emotion - dimmed, faint like a dying candle, but there, influencing her tone and expressions, the motion of her body, and now-- nothing. That sour taste that crawled down his throat at her awakening remained. Zelgius had thought him unwell when he refused to eat, but Sephiran didn't think he could swallow anything but water - and even that, sparingly.
How Zelgius slept so deeply, Sephiran could not fathom. He listened to the even rhythm of the general's breathing while putting on yesterday's clothing in the dark, nothing but memory and his hands guiding him around the room, to the door, out into the hallway. Everything was the same - the position of the furniture, the shade of the light globes illuminating the corridor, brighter now that the windows, up near the ceiling where the wall curved inward like a buttress, shed no moonlight. His bare feet were silent. Ornaments on his robe chimed and clinked, silenced themselves, began again. Golden embroidery spelled out his rank, belts of gold links and long, brass, oval plates the size of his finger expressed Ashera's favor, for they were from her own collection of offerings gathered since ancient days, before such a thing as calendars and years were introduced to her children. Her other gifts to him waited in storage; they would have to be brought out.
Long minutes stretched between his chambers on the fourth floor and Ashera's resting place on the fifth, all of them quiet and cold. Sephiran didn't notice the chill of the floor, but felt it on the air when his fingers got stiff and cold, and the tips of his nose and ears. Her receiving room was warmer; the shimmer of her aura, like sunlight, heated the stone floor and his black robes. He started to kneel and stopped at the sound of her voice.
"Come here, Lehran, and keep your feet." Ashera sat at the edge of a wide, blue stone bench that might generously be called a throne, though it had no back, nor was it adorned. Only shielded, if she so wished, by gossamer curtains. "I want you to explain the rebels marching southward from the place you call Daein."
Her hands rested on the bench on each side, partly concealed by the feathered decoration on her sleeves. Sephiran looked at her left and hoped Ashera would not take it amiss if he refused to look her in the eye. Ashunera would have; this goddess, however, often demanded obeisance fit for a mortal ruler. "They would be the exceptions to my judgment on the fitness of humanity. If they maintain their balance of power as I last knew it, the party should be led by three: the beorc Ike, Micaiah, and my Empress."
Herons marched with them. Ashera probably already knew, but--
She motioned for him to continue, and Sephiran told her what he knew of each individual in brief - the important parts, their deeds and allegiances, their natures when it came to fighting. Of Sanaki he stressed her stubborn will and sense of duty; she would be unable to accept the death of her nation passively. Any good leader would protest - Altina would have. She would have argued to the end, despite the danger to her person or traitorous implications of questioning her goddess. Micaiah he did not know as well, but thought she must be similar. The personal sacrifices she made in defending Daein spoke well of her sense of justice. She might have been a good ruler, if not in Begnion; the senate would've discovered her soft spots and sank their claws in so deep she, like her ancestors, would never escape.
If Altina's daughters were spared, and perhaps Ike, and the remainder of the heron tribe, the world might yet be salvageable. Starting from scratch would be difficult for Ashera, Sephiran realized now. She had nothing to give. Wind, water, and blossoms once laced her aura, which now felt stagnant, like air trapped too long in a stone chamber. It was like the desert, only dust and heat. Standing close to her made breathing a battle, each breath heavy and humid.
Silence fell once Sephiran finished his explanation. The goddess did not breathe or fidget. He was accustomed to standing for long periods of time at his empress's left hand, and to keeping his mouth closed during situations when any decent human being would want to flare up and attack the senior senate's proposals. How long had he contented himself to stand there on the dais and allow them to twist the law whichever way pleased them, forcing Sanaki to sign their papers and remove rights little by little as it benefited them? How long since he had stopped defending laguz because his proposals were always defeated before making it to the floor?
He'd tried-- hadn't he? He raised Sanaki well, he treated his subjects well, he tried to help others; wasn't that enough to vindicate him? Sephiran wasn't at fault for the dissolute nature of the senate. Even if he'd stayed after losing his birthright--
"You always used to sing while I thought," Ashera said softly. Her voice, for once, didn't echo.
Sephiran met her gaze, resisted the urge to clench his hands in the fabric of his robe, where cold curled and clenched in his stomach. "Please accept my apology."
The tilt of her head indicated she would not. "I have forgotten much," Ashera said. Her lips thinned a moment, the first change in expression he could recall since their reunion. "But I know you are a creature of song, Lehran. Sing while I contemplate our next course of action."
"I--" His throat tried to seize. "It is unfortunate, but I-- I have lost--"
"Nonsense." She closed her eyes, perhaps to avoid his expression, whatever it might be. "You've a voice to speak. Nothing is lost."
If only she knew how long Sephiran had tried to convince himself that was true. Change was difficult after so long; he knew his own voice and the undertones of magic it always carried-- knew it for so long this new voice sounded like it belonged to someone else, still, after almost eight hundred years. Eight centuries amounted to little in the course of his life.
Must I? he wanted to ask, again, and again, until she tired of his game and sent him away. Could she be exhausted? Exasperated, maybe, but that would only result in an order to do as he was told.
A mourning dirge was what Sephrian gave voice to - for himself, or his goddess, or Tellius, he couldn't be sure. Perhaps all three. And like his goddess, the sound was empty, stale, and lost halfway to the darkness.
...
Author: Amber Michelle
Rating: K
Warnings: n/a
Word Count: 1340
Gauntlet Theme: 31 - so monochrome and so lukewarm
Comment!fic Prompt:
Fire Emblem 10, Sephiran/author's choice, "...Must I?"
................................................................
After the light of Judgment faded, once night fell upon silent Tellius and Zelgius slept deeply, each breath heavy, long, deep, Sephiran rose from the oval bed and parted the curtains to find his robes and get dressed. He didn't want companionship when he saw this goddess; she was darker than he remembered, too quiet, too stiff, as if she still slept and this Ashera was a dream - a sleepwalker. Keeping his expression and posture neutral for the sake of his escort would strain his ability to keep his thoughts secret from the goddess. Eventually it would all come out - his part in the creation of these wars she punished Tellius for, his desertion of the duty she charged him with before beginning her long sleep - and the sharp, bitter jolt Sephiran experienced when she awakened and first spoke to him.
If Ashera had changed after Yune's imprisonment in the medallion, that shift was negligible when compared to the emptiness he saw in her now. Even divided she'd shown emotion - dimmed, faint like a dying candle, but there, influencing her tone and expressions, the motion of her body, and now-- nothing. That sour taste that crawled down his throat at her awakening remained. Zelgius had thought him unwell when he refused to eat, but Sephiran didn't think he could swallow anything but water - and even that, sparingly.
How Zelgius slept so deeply, Sephiran could not fathom. He listened to the even rhythm of the general's breathing while putting on yesterday's clothing in the dark, nothing but memory and his hands guiding him around the room, to the door, out into the hallway. Everything was the same - the position of the furniture, the shade of the light globes illuminating the corridor, brighter now that the windows, up near the ceiling where the wall curved inward like a buttress, shed no moonlight. His bare feet were silent. Ornaments on his robe chimed and clinked, silenced themselves, began again. Golden embroidery spelled out his rank, belts of gold links and long, brass, oval plates the size of his finger expressed Ashera's favor, for they were from her own collection of offerings gathered since ancient days, before such a thing as calendars and years were introduced to her children. Her other gifts to him waited in storage; they would have to be brought out.
Long minutes stretched between his chambers on the fourth floor and Ashera's resting place on the fifth, all of them quiet and cold. Sephiran didn't notice the chill of the floor, but felt it on the air when his fingers got stiff and cold, and the tips of his nose and ears. Her receiving room was warmer; the shimmer of her aura, like sunlight, heated the stone floor and his black robes. He started to kneel and stopped at the sound of her voice.
"Come here, Lehran, and keep your feet." Ashera sat at the edge of a wide, blue stone bench that might generously be called a throne, though it had no back, nor was it adorned. Only shielded, if she so wished, by gossamer curtains. "I want you to explain the rebels marching southward from the place you call Daein."
Her hands rested on the bench on each side, partly concealed by the feathered decoration on her sleeves. Sephiran looked at her left and hoped Ashera would not take it amiss if he refused to look her in the eye. Ashunera would have; this goddess, however, often demanded obeisance fit for a mortal ruler. "They would be the exceptions to my judgment on the fitness of humanity. If they maintain their balance of power as I last knew it, the party should be led by three: the beorc Ike, Micaiah, and my Empress."
Herons marched with them. Ashera probably already knew, but--
She motioned for him to continue, and Sephiran told her what he knew of each individual in brief - the important parts, their deeds and allegiances, their natures when it came to fighting. Of Sanaki he stressed her stubborn will and sense of duty; she would be unable to accept the death of her nation passively. Any good leader would protest - Altina would have. She would have argued to the end, despite the danger to her person or traitorous implications of questioning her goddess. Micaiah he did not know as well, but thought she must be similar. The personal sacrifices she made in defending Daein spoke well of her sense of justice. She might have been a good ruler, if not in Begnion; the senate would've discovered her soft spots and sank their claws in so deep she, like her ancestors, would never escape.
If Altina's daughters were spared, and perhaps Ike, and the remainder of the heron tribe, the world might yet be salvageable. Starting from scratch would be difficult for Ashera, Sephiran realized now. She had nothing to give. Wind, water, and blossoms once laced her aura, which now felt stagnant, like air trapped too long in a stone chamber. It was like the desert, only dust and heat. Standing close to her made breathing a battle, each breath heavy and humid.
Silence fell once Sephiran finished his explanation. The goddess did not breathe or fidget. He was accustomed to standing for long periods of time at his empress's left hand, and to keeping his mouth closed during situations when any decent human being would want to flare up and attack the senior senate's proposals. How long had he contented himself to stand there on the dais and allow them to twist the law whichever way pleased them, forcing Sanaki to sign their papers and remove rights little by little as it benefited them? How long since he had stopped defending laguz because his proposals were always defeated before making it to the floor?
He'd tried-- hadn't he? He raised Sanaki well, he treated his subjects well, he tried to help others; wasn't that enough to vindicate him? Sephiran wasn't at fault for the dissolute nature of the senate. Even if he'd stayed after losing his birthright--
"You always used to sing while I thought," Ashera said softly. Her voice, for once, didn't echo.
Sephiran met her gaze, resisted the urge to clench his hands in the fabric of his robe, where cold curled and clenched in his stomach. "Please accept my apology."
The tilt of her head indicated she would not. "I have forgotten much," Ashera said. Her lips thinned a moment, the first change in expression he could recall since their reunion. "But I know you are a creature of song, Lehran. Sing while I contemplate our next course of action."
"I--" His throat tried to seize. "It is unfortunate, but I-- I have lost--"
"Nonsense." She closed her eyes, perhaps to avoid his expression, whatever it might be. "You've a voice to speak. Nothing is lost."
If only she knew how long Sephiran had tried to convince himself that was true. Change was difficult after so long; he knew his own voice and the undertones of magic it always carried-- knew it for so long this new voice sounded like it belonged to someone else, still, after almost eight hundred years. Eight centuries amounted to little in the course of his life.
Must I? he wanted to ask, again, and again, until she tired of his game and sent him away. Could she be exhausted? Exasperated, maybe, but that would only result in an order to do as he was told.
A mourning dirge was what Sephrian gave voice to - for himself, or his goddess, or Tellius, he couldn't be sure. Perhaps all three. And like his goddess, the sound was empty, stale, and lost halfway to the darkness.
...