[Final Fantasy Tactics] Where War Dwells

[runiclore]

Where War Dwells
By: Amber Michelle
Prompt: jilted
Character(s): Ovelia
Words: 598

For: kytha (original request post is here)



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The candle on Ovelia's dressing table burns steadily, a high flame as long as a finger and black at the end where it cools and becomes smoke. The edges of the mirror are dark after many such nights; it belonged to her mother, and the silver is tarnished at the top where the frame curves to a point at the center, like the end of a hand-dipped candle. Maybe her mother waited like this too, arranging her golden pins on their trays, then the silver, before pushing them back into the jewelry box and starting on the clips and filigree combs, which she would never wear because she wasn't queen and the court did not care if her presence graced their parties or salons.

Delita is still on campaign, and the woman Ovelia might call an acquaintance - not a friend, there are none of that type in the royal capitol - had not shown her face at the door after all. She doesn't mind very much. It would have been nice to hear music, but she remembers listening to the orchestra play for her wedding banquet and wishing for the unadorned chants that echoed between rooms at the monastery while she chopped vegetables according to their pace and mended vestments that had been fine once, when Orbonne was more prosperous.

Before the war, Brother Simon said. Everything was so much better before it blighted Ivalice.

But which war? If Ovelia is to be honest, they sometimes run together like ink splashed with water.

She can't tell if she wishes for Delita's presence or not. Sometimes he holds her, by the arms, by the waist, and in the way he looks down at her she thinks he might love her. He has never said so. He doesn't say much of consequence to her; he wants her to read poetry and tell him what discussions her tutors walked her through on the rare occasions she learned skills not practical. She might read a popular play, and he will heap sarcastic criticism upon its portrayal of commoners, make her laugh, tell her what it's really like for a man below the peerage when the days are good - as they must be if a farmer has time to sit a hero down and regale him with local stories.

Then she'll ask about the lions, and Delita will fall silent. He might make a non-committal answer, or direct her to the chamberlain, because he has thought about the war all day and simply wants to rest. He'll lay his head in her lap, and she can remember the cool strands of his dark hair sliding between her fingers. His scalp is slightly oily. He'd scrubbed it mercilessly on washing days until Ovelia took the soap from him and explained that only made the condition worse. She should know - look at her own hair. It hangs heavy over her back right now, still damp all the way through, and a fire blazes in the hearth so she won't catch a chill, and imparts a strong maple scent with its heat.

Ovelia wouldn't have considered attending a salon tonight if he were here. She would have pressed him into the copper tub by the shoulders, massaged soap into his hair, and climbed in to soak with him until the water cooled. He liked it scalding hot, and she couldn't bear it before then.

Yes. She would have liked that. It is her misfortune war dwells more in his thoughts than she does.


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Comments

[reynardfox.livejournal.com]

Beautifully done. Ovelia is such a fascinating character.

[oniric-angel.livejournal.com]

I am awad and very glad! For this is the first Delita related story I can remember that did not fell all over angst. It's... refreshing. The simplicity magnifies it and little details/hints always make the fluff more interesting whith this kind of open conclusion. Thanks for that nice read!