[Fire Emblem 10] First Blood
Oct. 9th, 2009 01:16 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
runicloreFirst Blood
Author: Amber Michelle //![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
myaru
Game: Fire Emblem 10: Radiant Dawn
Characters/Pairing: Sephiran, Zelgius (also gen and yet not)
Warnings: spoilers?
Words: 1856
Prompt:
Fire Emblem Tellius, Sephiran/Zelgius, first meeting
.............................................................
The Great Sage traveled many roads, it was said, owed his allegiance to none save the goddess, and Zelgius had in his mind's eye an image after the high clergy in Daein, those who stayed after the king's ascension: a man in white clerical robes embroidered with thread of gold, adorned by rings and chains of the same, and a cloak richer than the king's velvet or an Apostle's fine mantle-- in red, or saffron, colors the goddess was said to favor when she was awake.
What he met, when the Sage graced the small township of Sella where Zelgius was stationed, was a tall, thin man in a dusty, mud-stained brown cloak with a fraying hem, covered by long hair dark as a raven's wing and fine as silk spread over his back and curling on the dusty cobbled street while he knelt beside a beggar. Too young, he thought immediately, yet-- the staff, often remarked upon and described by storytellers for its unique design, marked him. Zelgius paused at the corner to watch as others had - a housewife, an acolyte he recognized from the chapel, an orphan - but it seemed there was not a healing to be witnessed, only the exchange of brass coins and a brown paper package stained by grease at the folds. Food.
Wisdom is embodied in the sage. His hands heal all ills. Such was also said of him. He delivered mothers and children thought impossible to save, brought the ill back from the brink of death.
Stories of that nature were always exaggerated. However--
The sage stood up, secured his staff across his back, and Zelgius went to meet him before the others dared, not quite sure what he would say. May I carry something for you? Perhaps his invisible pack or the satchel he wasn't wearing; it seemed he carried nothing but the staff, the cloak laying flat against his back when he rose.
No, perhaps the ludicrous, may I buy you a drink? as the sage was not only young, but fair of skin with narrow, vivid green eyes and delicate brows, the sort of features one did not expect to find on a man in Daein. Begnion, perhaps, where it was said the great families spent centuries perfecting their eugenics; Crimea, naturally, the current popular jest being a lewd comparison between their royal knights and fainting noblewomen. Who else was there?
"Have you business with me?"
Zelgius blinked, and found the sage returning his stare. Heat pooled in his throat, crept up to his ears, and he bowed to hide it, hoped his hair fell to cover the evidence. "Great Sage." He was slow to straighten, and the heat coloring his skin lingered to make formality difficult. The man might be young, but the slight lift of his eyebrow and unwavering nature of his gaze made Zelgius feel he was a child caught in some impropriety. "I-- admit you are not what I expected. Please accept my apology."
The eyebrow arched higher, and his mouth curved slightly. So words spreads, he murmured under his breath, and the sun conspired with the shadows of the buildings to shimmer on his hair when he came forward. His eyes strayed to the insignia on the clasp holding Zelgius's cloak, and down, perhaps to a glint of armor beneath the black wool. "You must be the garrison commander," he said. "This is fortunate. I meant to speak with you after completing my business in the city. Are you available, or shall I go to the staff officer and make an appointment?"
"That won't be necessary." Zelgius glanced aside, found their audience gone. The textile merchant watched them through his window; a tavern stretched three windows and a door down past the shop, the interior too dark to reveal who might be watching. "What do you need from Sella, my lord? Perhaps I can help."
"Yes." He angled his body to walk around Zelgius, cloak parting to reveal plain wool robes, not particularly fine, nor bleached white. "I suspect you can."
*
The office Zelgius occupied as commander of the fortress outside of Sella was less an official meeting place and more like an armory with a desk wedged into the back corner near the window. He sat on an unfinished oak stool to do his paperwork, which he surrendered to his guest when they entered. Stands of spears two deep lined the far wall, beneath the long rectangle of window, which cast sunlight onto the worn stone floor in four distinct squares, the light cut by iron bars. Their passage sent sparkling dust swirling; more was disturbed when he pulled a crate behind his desk and tossed its burlap covering into the opposite corner, and the scrape grated on his ears, his spine, drowned out the shouts from outside. The practice yard was in use. He thought of apologizing and decided not to.
"How can I help you?" he asked when his guest was seated and he'd tried the crate as a chair, only to find it wanting. His armor was too heavy. It creaked and felt like it would split beneath his thighs.
The sage pushed his hair behind an ear, and appeared less ethereal without direct sunlight to make his skin glow as it had on the way over. His cloak draped back, pooled on the floor around the stool to reveal-- nothing. No adornments, no protective articles of clothing. "The commander at Nebula insisted I register with him before making use of my talents within the city," he said, folding his hands. "I would like to have that - or any other administration we must take care of - out of the way before I make my rounds."
Zelgius wished the crate had a back to lean against. The wall was too far away. "There's no such policy as far as I know." He leaned forward instead, arms crossed on his bare desk. His parchment and writing box were still upstairs to remind him it was time to write a letter to his mother, much good it would do. "Corvus, correct?" The sage nodded. "He's an idiot."
His guest broke into a smile he immediately tried to hide by rolling his lips in and covering his mouth. "He was... trying, I will say that much."
The man had mannerisms fit for Begnion - and their priests, even the good ones, were not to be trusted. Not with what he wanted. He tried not to sigh, and felt the tension knot in his chest. "Heal who you want," Zelgius said. "As long as it doesn't bankrupt you. Maybe you can rope one of the local monks to help."
"The clergy and I do not get along." The sage looked away, or seemed to; his dark lashes covered his eyes, and his fingers picked at a thread on his robe. "My ideas regarding who deserves my services, and when, have alienated many of my colleagues." Saying so didn't appear to bother him. His lips were still curved slightly when his hand dropped to his lap again. "If there are any wounded or crippled soldiers currently under your command, I will see them before I go."
Zelgius stood up. "We'll pay you."
The great sage stood after him and twitched his cloak closed with a slender hand. "I never accept payment for my work."
Yet he'd given everything he had to that beggar-- or so it appeared. Maybe there were hidden pockets in that robe. "I understand how you feel," Zelgius said, "but I am not authorized to accept charity, especially from a Begnion agent."
The man's eyes widened and he stepped back, once, before his fingers clenched in his cloak. "I am not from Begnion." His smile disappeared. "If you insist--" His voice strained, and he turned his back on Zelgius with a swirl of brown cloak around his ankles, stirring up dust. "The proceeds will go to the poor. Precious little else does."
Zelgius's hand twitched to grab his shoulder, yet he only said, "Wait-- please," when the sage moved toward the door, and waited for the brown cloak to sway into stillness. "I apologize." Again. "Your manner-- no, it doesn't matter. The assumption didn't do me credit, and after you offered to spend your skill so generously on my men..."
"A commander who cares for his flock?" The sage's eyes slid back to him, glinting, his back to the sun, though the wall threw back a gray glow that lit his profile. His hand hung from the door knob by the fingertips. "Unusual in Daein." It fell. "You approached me first, commander--?"
"Zelgius."
"Commander Zelgius," the sage repeated. "I am Sephiran." Zelgius felt his back stiffen, as if he should bow again now they were properly introduced, but Sephiran continued past the formality. "You sought my attention with intent down there on the street. Why?"
Zelgius swallowed, felt a knot in his throat. "Is that not a normal occurrence?"
In shadow, Sephiran's expression was almost invisible. "To purchase my services, yes, quite often - as often as I am accused of being a spy, at least here in Daein."
"You are unusual here." Heat again suffused his throat, his ears, his face, made the weight of his cloak and armor drag him down to the floor. Zelgius wondered if he should obey their command and prostrate himself.
"Well." It might have been Sephiran's posture that indicated he'd removed his gaze. "I'll be--"
"They say you heal anything," Zelgius blurted, and clenched his hands into the lining of his cloak when the dark head tilted and the fringe of the sage's hair swayed. If he wasn't from Begnion-- but even if he was, maybe, maybe. "Even laguz. Even Branded."
Sephiran stood still, seemed not to breathe. Zelgius waited, his own breath suddenly loud, louder than the percussive snaps and strikes outside from sword drills, louder than the swordmaster's shouts and the booming answer from sixteen different throats. Then Sephiran let go of the door knob and pulled his hand into his cloak, against his chest. "I see." He looked over. "Who? Where? I will be discreet."
Nerves made Zelgius's stomach flutter, made him sick to the stomach and his limbs tremble at the same time. His armor was all that kept him from falling to his knees. "It's true."
"The goddess does not discriminate between races," Sephiran said, turning toward him, taking two steps away from the door, then three. "Who needs healing? And what is the problem?"
The clasp of Zelgius's cloak slipped twice from his fingers before he snapped it loose and swallowed, hard. "Me."
.
Author: Amber Michelle //
myaruGame: Fire Emblem 10: Radiant Dawn
Characters/Pairing: Sephiran, Zelgius (also gen and yet not)
Warnings: spoilers?
Words: 1856
Prompt:
Fire Emblem Tellius, Sephiran/Zelgius, first meeting
.............................................................
The Great Sage traveled many roads, it was said, owed his allegiance to none save the goddess, and Zelgius had in his mind's eye an image after the high clergy in Daein, those who stayed after the king's ascension: a man in white clerical robes embroidered with thread of gold, adorned by rings and chains of the same, and a cloak richer than the king's velvet or an Apostle's fine mantle-- in red, or saffron, colors the goddess was said to favor when she was awake.
What he met, when the Sage graced the small township of Sella where Zelgius was stationed, was a tall, thin man in a dusty, mud-stained brown cloak with a fraying hem, covered by long hair dark as a raven's wing and fine as silk spread over his back and curling on the dusty cobbled street while he knelt beside a beggar. Too young, he thought immediately, yet-- the staff, often remarked upon and described by storytellers for its unique design, marked him. Zelgius paused at the corner to watch as others had - a housewife, an acolyte he recognized from the chapel, an orphan - but it seemed there was not a healing to be witnessed, only the exchange of brass coins and a brown paper package stained by grease at the folds. Food.
Wisdom is embodied in the sage. His hands heal all ills. Such was also said of him. He delivered mothers and children thought impossible to save, brought the ill back from the brink of death.
Stories of that nature were always exaggerated. However--
The sage stood up, secured his staff across his back, and Zelgius went to meet him before the others dared, not quite sure what he would say. May I carry something for you? Perhaps his invisible pack or the satchel he wasn't wearing; it seemed he carried nothing but the staff, the cloak laying flat against his back when he rose.
No, perhaps the ludicrous, may I buy you a drink? as the sage was not only young, but fair of skin with narrow, vivid green eyes and delicate brows, the sort of features one did not expect to find on a man in Daein. Begnion, perhaps, where it was said the great families spent centuries perfecting their eugenics; Crimea, naturally, the current popular jest being a lewd comparison between their royal knights and fainting noblewomen. Who else was there?
"Have you business with me?"
Zelgius blinked, and found the sage returning his stare. Heat pooled in his throat, crept up to his ears, and he bowed to hide it, hoped his hair fell to cover the evidence. "Great Sage." He was slow to straighten, and the heat coloring his skin lingered to make formality difficult. The man might be young, but the slight lift of his eyebrow and unwavering nature of his gaze made Zelgius feel he was a child caught in some impropriety. "I-- admit you are not what I expected. Please accept my apology."
The eyebrow arched higher, and his mouth curved slightly. So words spreads, he murmured under his breath, and the sun conspired with the shadows of the buildings to shimmer on his hair when he came forward. His eyes strayed to the insignia on the clasp holding Zelgius's cloak, and down, perhaps to a glint of armor beneath the black wool. "You must be the garrison commander," he said. "This is fortunate. I meant to speak with you after completing my business in the city. Are you available, or shall I go to the staff officer and make an appointment?"
"That won't be necessary." Zelgius glanced aside, found their audience gone. The textile merchant watched them through his window; a tavern stretched three windows and a door down past the shop, the interior too dark to reveal who might be watching. "What do you need from Sella, my lord? Perhaps I can help."
"Yes." He angled his body to walk around Zelgius, cloak parting to reveal plain wool robes, not particularly fine, nor bleached white. "I suspect you can."
*
The office Zelgius occupied as commander of the fortress outside of Sella was less an official meeting place and more like an armory with a desk wedged into the back corner near the window. He sat on an unfinished oak stool to do his paperwork, which he surrendered to his guest when they entered. Stands of spears two deep lined the far wall, beneath the long rectangle of window, which cast sunlight onto the worn stone floor in four distinct squares, the light cut by iron bars. Their passage sent sparkling dust swirling; more was disturbed when he pulled a crate behind his desk and tossed its burlap covering into the opposite corner, and the scrape grated on his ears, his spine, drowned out the shouts from outside. The practice yard was in use. He thought of apologizing and decided not to.
"How can I help you?" he asked when his guest was seated and he'd tried the crate as a chair, only to find it wanting. His armor was too heavy. It creaked and felt like it would split beneath his thighs.
The sage pushed his hair behind an ear, and appeared less ethereal without direct sunlight to make his skin glow as it had on the way over. His cloak draped back, pooled on the floor around the stool to reveal-- nothing. No adornments, no protective articles of clothing. "The commander at Nebula insisted I register with him before making use of my talents within the city," he said, folding his hands. "I would like to have that - or any other administration we must take care of - out of the way before I make my rounds."
Zelgius wished the crate had a back to lean against. The wall was too far away. "There's no such policy as far as I know." He leaned forward instead, arms crossed on his bare desk. His parchment and writing box were still upstairs to remind him it was time to write a letter to his mother, much good it would do. "Corvus, correct?" The sage nodded. "He's an idiot."
His guest broke into a smile he immediately tried to hide by rolling his lips in and covering his mouth. "He was... trying, I will say that much."
The man had mannerisms fit for Begnion - and their priests, even the good ones, were not to be trusted. Not with what he wanted. He tried not to sigh, and felt the tension knot in his chest. "Heal who you want," Zelgius said. "As long as it doesn't bankrupt you. Maybe you can rope one of the local monks to help."
"The clergy and I do not get along." The sage looked away, or seemed to; his dark lashes covered his eyes, and his fingers picked at a thread on his robe. "My ideas regarding who deserves my services, and when, have alienated many of my colleagues." Saying so didn't appear to bother him. His lips were still curved slightly when his hand dropped to his lap again. "If there are any wounded or crippled soldiers currently under your command, I will see them before I go."
Zelgius stood up. "We'll pay you."
The great sage stood after him and twitched his cloak closed with a slender hand. "I never accept payment for my work."
Yet he'd given everything he had to that beggar-- or so it appeared. Maybe there were hidden pockets in that robe. "I understand how you feel," Zelgius said, "but I am not authorized to accept charity, especially from a Begnion agent."
The man's eyes widened and he stepped back, once, before his fingers clenched in his cloak. "I am not from Begnion." His smile disappeared. "If you insist--" His voice strained, and he turned his back on Zelgius with a swirl of brown cloak around his ankles, stirring up dust. "The proceeds will go to the poor. Precious little else does."
Zelgius's hand twitched to grab his shoulder, yet he only said, "Wait-- please," when the sage moved toward the door, and waited for the brown cloak to sway into stillness. "I apologize." Again. "Your manner-- no, it doesn't matter. The assumption didn't do me credit, and after you offered to spend your skill so generously on my men..."
"A commander who cares for his flock?" The sage's eyes slid back to him, glinting, his back to the sun, though the wall threw back a gray glow that lit his profile. His hand hung from the door knob by the fingertips. "Unusual in Daein." It fell. "You approached me first, commander--?"
"Zelgius."
"Commander Zelgius," the sage repeated. "I am Sephiran." Zelgius felt his back stiffen, as if he should bow again now they were properly introduced, but Sephiran continued past the formality. "You sought my attention with intent down there on the street. Why?"
Zelgius swallowed, felt a knot in his throat. "Is that not a normal occurrence?"
In shadow, Sephiran's expression was almost invisible. "To purchase my services, yes, quite often - as often as I am accused of being a spy, at least here in Daein."
"You are unusual here." Heat again suffused his throat, his ears, his face, made the weight of his cloak and armor drag him down to the floor. Zelgius wondered if he should obey their command and prostrate himself.
"Well." It might have been Sephiran's posture that indicated he'd removed his gaze. "I'll be--"
"They say you heal anything," Zelgius blurted, and clenched his hands into the lining of his cloak when the dark head tilted and the fringe of the sage's hair swayed. If he wasn't from Begnion-- but even if he was, maybe, maybe. "Even laguz. Even Branded."
Sephiran stood still, seemed not to breathe. Zelgius waited, his own breath suddenly loud, louder than the percussive snaps and strikes outside from sword drills, louder than the swordmaster's shouts and the booming answer from sixteen different throats. Then Sephiran let go of the door knob and pulled his hand into his cloak, against his chest. "I see." He looked over. "Who? Where? I will be discreet."
Nerves made Zelgius's stomach flutter, made him sick to the stomach and his limbs tremble at the same time. His armor was all that kept him from falling to his knees. "It's true."
"The goddess does not discriminate between races," Sephiran said, turning toward him, taking two steps away from the door, then three. "Who needs healing? And what is the problem?"
The clasp of Zelgius's cloak slipped twice from his fingers before he snapped it loose and swallowed, hard. "Me."
.