Violet Black (feldwebels) wrote in emillion, @ 2013-11-09 11:42:00 |
|
|||
The four-month engagement had been a hard time, to say the least. Traveling was one of the best ways to craft intimate bonds with other people, but only when they were already somewhat synchronised: when they weren’t, it was like wearing in a new boot too soon, all chafing and abrasive and bound to cause a blister, a rupture that slowly grew between the number of their traveling party. The Blades were irritable, still reeling from losing two of their number (three, if one counted Shaw). They’d taken on a couple new recruits to fill the gaps, but were sore from grief and the shock of having their routine overturned. None were so crabby as Rictor Cassul himself, all his warts and foibles on display as he struggled to acclimatise to their new addition, the Feldwebel who was smaller than him, who had to look slightly up to meet his eye, who was nothing like the tall and broad and blond Shaw. Their journey entailed long days of travel on chocobo-back, dusty nights sleeping beside the campfire, and clammy expeditions into the heart of the forest while the trees ate the sky overhead. And the four months – eventually, agonisingly slowly, laboriously – passed, bringing the Silver Blades limping back into Emillion. It would be easier to bond now that they were back in civilisation, yes? Without the strain of travel, tight quarters, and long hours to wear them down? So Fw Violet Black started encouraging the group dinners, all of the Blades clustering around the same table in a private wing of the cathedral refectory. It wasn’t a half-bad idea — they were eating dinner together like a family, like the family they were supposed to be. Instead, Cassul’s bad mood still lingered. Not mutinous: he was respectful, he paid the right lip service, but the man’s heart obviously wasn’t in it. And sometimes, that resentment festered. Violet was doing the best that she could given the circumstances. Managing a group of men that quietly despised her because she was not the man who'd come before her was difficult, but not impossible. She'd found it important to cling to the ones who were more open to her as Feldwebel and to let the narrowed eyes and unspoken words of the ones that disliked her go ignored. She was trying to be the bigger person in an effort to win the boys over. Rictor Cassul, of course, proved to be quite tougher than she'd imagined. Violet had read his file the most out of all the Blades; she tried to understand where he came from, what he believed. But when your second-in-command didn't trust you because you were a woman... well, it was difficult to have patience in moments like those. Still, for the most part, Violet came off as pleasant or, in the worst cases, reserved. The dinners were always a bit uncomfortable, there was a cloud that hung over the meals even on the best of days, but it was improving little by little. She could now laugh with Balder or share a tale with Millie. For the most part, she left the ones who didn't quite trust her to their own devices, while also giving them opportunities to speak. After nearly finishing her meal, her eyes scanned the room and lingered on Rictor, who had a deep scowl on his face. Violet quietly sighed and turned her attention to Filip, the youngest of her recruits. She said, "I was thinking that perhaps we might want to do something besides eating together in the next few weeks. I would be open to your suggestions. Perhaps something charitable? I could be talked into something enjoyable, though you should make a good case for it." She smiled and felt just a little awkward. These were growing pains, she knew. Eventually leading like this would become second nature. Violet couldn't wait for that day. “Oh, yes,” Filip said, as nervously pleasant and earnest as his Korporal was caustic lately. “Especially since it seems we’ll be here in Emillion a while, and not jetting off. Faram’s work comes in many varieties.” The buzz of casual conversation persisted at the other end of the table, but Rictor sat closest to Black – he was meant to be her shield-arm, her lieutenant, but instead his position at the table simply meant a sullen, conspicuous silence in her vicinity. It was childish — he knew it was childish, even as he fell victim to his own whiplash temper and abiding bitterness. (Shaw himself would be disappointed if he knew, a small voice told himself. You’re acting like a fucking idiot.) So when Rictor sat in silence and spooned food into his mouth, he sat there contemplating the internal quandary, the seesawing between duty and a rejection of his new superior. Many of his instincts said to behave, say aye and salute and bow, obey her orders without question. And then, unbidden, the old chivalric code came back to mind: guard the honour of fellow knights; serve your liege lord (or lady, evidently) in valour and faith; obey those placed in authority; give succour to widows and orphans (and wasn't she a widow?); eschew meanness; respect the honour of women. But then. “Many varieties, aye,” Rictor found himself saying, the words slipping out before he could reel them back in. “Maybe we could knit tea cozies and booties for Hellebore next.” … Ah. Refrain from the wanton giving of offense. He knew he always fucking forgot one of the tenets. An uncomfortable silence filled the room as eyes swept from Rictor to Violet. It was as though the Blades had forgotten to breathe in that moment, so unsure what might follow such outright disrespect. Violet, for her part, seemed largely unbothered… save for the way her brows knit together and how her lips formed a tight line. She thought for a quick moment, knowing that someone speaking to her so out of turn was utterly unacceptable. It was a weakness to let such a thing pass without some sort of punishment, but it would be difficult to garner respect if she simply sent Rictor to his quarters to pout. And so Violet decided it best to go down a different route. She’d always been aware of the fact that she might need to come down hard on the tougher of the Blades. It was, after all, her job to train and lead, not to befriend. It might make them all loathe her in the end, but it was a price Violet was willing to pay. Better to be respected than liked, she figured. Turning slightly in her seat, Violet made eye contact with Rictor and held his gaze, a small blaze of fire behind her eyes. “It seems, Korporal, that you do not approve of my being appointed into this position, hm?” she asked, not altogether unpleasantly. Though she was deeply annoyed, she seemed, at least on the surface, to be utterly still. Calm. Collected. “Am I correct?” The man went still as a stone when she called it out: exposing the adamantitan in the room, the one that had been a chip on his shoulder for so many months. Behind him, he could feel Leveren and Lorz staring at him in horror, their gazes burning holes into the back of his neck. Rictor’s mind whirled and spun, desperately trying to think of what to say. Politely prevaricate? Wave it aside and bury their issues for one more day? But that infamous Cassul stubbornness had sunk in, like a beast taking up residence and deciding that it wasn’t going to leave until it was outright banished, until it was picked up by the scruff of the neck and bodily flung out. Another of the tenets was to speak the truth at all times. That, he had no trouble with. So Rictor faced it head-on. “Correct,” he said, staring back, his jaw tight. Violet lowered her gaze to her hands, which were folded delicately on the table. Aware of the fact that all eyes in the room were on her and waiting to see where this scene went, Violet forced herself to think quickly and calmly. There was no room for ego here. Though she might have liked to raise her voice and argue, it would get her absolutely nowhere and, in fact, make her look like a weak fool. What she needed was to earn respect on Rictor’s terms and on the terms of the other Blades. And so, after thinking for half a minute, she returned Rictor’s gaze with a steady stare of her own. “Well then,” Violet spoke softly, a humorless smile on her lips. “It would seem we are at a disagreement.” She brought the one glass of wine she allowed herself a day to her lips and drank deeply. When she was done, she rose to her feet. “I sincerely apologize,” she said, looking around the table at everyone but Rictor, “but it would seem our dinner is about to be cut short. Leave your plates where they are. I require all of you to go to the training room. Now.” There was steel in her voice, but no fire. The certainty in how she spoke was enough to make the Blades look uneasily at one another and then slowly rise. Then, she turned to Rictor. “Korporal, get your weapon. I have a wager for you. Best me in battle and I will resign. Then you will be free to speak to the Hauptmann on a more suitable replacement for Heron Shaw.” She spoke the former Feldwebel’s name in an effort to annoy. Rictor’s temper was one of his greatest weaknesses. Though she couldn’t yell at him for his lip, she could certainly find subtle ways to ruffle his feathers. In one smooth movement, Violet was on her feet. Quietly confident, she was sure beyond the shadow of a doubt that Rictor could not win in an outright battle with her and it showed. Violet’s gardists let her lead the way out of the room, the group lagging behind as she disappeared to her private quarters to fetch her katana—the weapon they’d seen her use in battle time and time again, swiping clean through limbs and decapitating monsters. Rictor desperately wished he still had his beer and that they were still back at the dinner table, chipping away at their grilled fish and soup and bread. He rose grimly from his seat like a man condemned, fetching his swordbelt from the wall and clutching it in a vise-like grip as they walked down the hall. “What in Faram’s name are you thinking?” Balder hissed, scurrying forward to pull up alongside his friend. “You’re going to die. Leveren’s going to take your position and then I’m going to have to be Vizekorporal. And you know how much I bloody well hate responsibility, Ric.” “Yeah, well,” Rictor stared straight ahead stonily, not meeting the other man’s eye, “responsibility builds character.” There was ice in his veins, tamping down his anger with the mortified prospect of what was coming. And even he was wise enough to know what was coming. Women were built for dance and magic, aye, but she also had more than a decade’s worth of experience over him. Millie bounced at his heels, the newest recruit’s head darting left and right in an attempt to take in the entire scene. Derrick and Filip (the inseparable duo) bent towards each other, whispering as the group progressed down the hall. He didn’t want to see what Raol’s expression was like. Balder’s words had struck a nerve and rung true. Rictor was younger for this position than he ought to be. If he fucked up too much, then perhaps they would turn around and hand it to Raol instead. He would have to excel, push himself as hard as possible, never stop— But it was too late. The whole lot of them were swept up and into the training room, where Violet waited patiently in the centre. The Blades lined up along the wall like spectators at a sporting match, fidgeting and shifting from foot-to-foot. Rictor swallowed. He’d made his bed, so he’d just have to lie in it and do his very fucking best. He readjusted his grip on the gunblade, shifting his feet on the mat, and back into the rock-solid stance that Shaw had taught him. Breathed in through his nose, out through his mouth, feeling the air flow through his lungs. “Ready?” the Korporal asked. (He wasn’t.) Violet stood in the center of the room with her blade in hand. She wore the same black dress she had for dinner, but her hair was tied back into a tight ponytail. Her stance was casual; she simply stood with feet apart while both hands cradled the hilt of her katana. There was only a spot of color on her, a blue ribbon that wrapped around the katana’s hilt and danced across her knuckles. Violet noticed with some satisfaction that Rictor seemed paler than he had ten minutes ago. Perhaps it was cruel to taunt the boy so, but there was a mean streak in Violet and sometimes she reasoned that punishment of one’s enemies wasn’t so terrible a thing. She reined in the feeling and had the grace to at least not smile at his pain outwardly. A quick glance around the room told her that most were expecting this to be quick and brutal. Their faces were grim and nervous. Violet couldn’t exactly blame them. When Rictor approached, Violet allowed him a moment to prepare himself. Once he’d spoken, she nodded and the battle was begun. It was Violet who made the first step, elegantly moving in a circular motion while twirling her katana in hand. When she stopped, she pointed her blade at the Korporal and gave him a dead stare. There was still plenty of room between them and she seemed to want him to make the first swipe, if just to see how he’d react to her. When he did, with a reckless lunge, it was almost as she would have predicted. Rictor’s movements were strong and steady. He certainly wasn’t without skill. But Violet had once been a knight, herself, and she’d never especially cared for the way the class handled their weapons. Knights were all force and fury, while, she’d found, samurai were all fluid motion and quick strikes. The switch from one class to another had suited her well and given her insight whenever facing a knight in battle. He threw himself at her, but with her training, Violet knew how to use Rictor’s force against him. She blocked his blows, sometimes to the point of rocking him on his feet. When she went in for her own swipes, she all but danced around him. If it hadn’t been so tense in the room, the other Blades might have noticed how pretty it all looked from the outside, the two of them meeting and coming apart and clashing again. But it didn’t go on for very long. Rictor managed to up his pace and block some of Violet’s blows, which meant he was better than she’d initially assumed, but he couldn’t block her entire flurry of movements. She took the necessary care to avoid cutting her Korporal. It seemed needlessly cruel to make him bleed and didn’t exactly look professional, either. Instead, she nicked his clothing at the arms and legs, enough to make it evident that she could have done serious damage if she’d really tried. She also hit him with the hilt of her katana when she could, the Korporal absorbing the damage admirably, but clearly outranked in this battle. Cassul kept coming at her, however, relentless in his determination—the other Blades winced as each deft blow landed. They watched as their Korporal toiled away on the practice mat, the two combatants’ swords singing as they struck. He was all brute strength and endurance, fast on his feet and skilled, but it was nowhere near enough. In the end, her small size worked in her favor and when he swiped at her, sweating and already bruising in places, she used her own blade to deflect and move into his space. Putting all her weight into her elbow, she hit him as hard as she could in the solar plexus. The wind was driven out of him and Rictor folded in half like a jackknife. Violet knew it was over by this point and only made a few quick strikes to his side with the hilt of her katana in sensitive spots on his sides to push her point home. Rictor would be bruised and aching by morning and was in enough agony in the moment to fall to the floor, gasping and defeated. Balder made a strangled noise from the wall, halfway between a nervous laugh and an expression of concern. The tension in the room reached a breaking point and Violet decided it needed to end. She bowed to the fallen Korporal and then fetched her sheath. Turning, she spoke to Rictor, “When you are able to move again, you will do our dishes.” She raised her gaze to the other Blades, “It is a direct order that no one help him.” A pause. “In the morning,” she said once again to Rictor, “you will, if you are able, join me for a sunrise jog.” Her tone was conversational and almost pleasant. The other Blades all turned their attention to the Korporal, curious for his response. Were this a real fight, he’d have been spitting blood by now. Instead, the man was bruised and winded, nicked and bleeding but not seriously so: his pride was the only casualty of the night. Rictor staggered back to his feet, rising from his knees. For a moment, there was the half-mad thought that it felt like being knighted all over again, the Cardinal crossing himself over the newly-minted Silver Blade. The words were still branded into his memory: I, Rictor Adelard Cassul, swear diligently and faithfully to abide by all that has just been read out to me, so grant me Faram and so help me his Saints. They were all watching him. “Yes’m,” he finally said, stiff in both voice and bearing, his face carved into the best semblance of stoic neutrality he could muster. Violet gave a nod and left, leaving her gardists behind. The moment she was gone, they burst into excitable chatter and gossip like a gaggle of schoolchildren. “Told you so,” Balder said amiably, drawing up and squinting at his friend’s minor wounds, giving a slight tsk of disappointment. “Oh, get fucked.” Rictor wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his sleeve, walking gingerly as they made their way back towards the refectory. He had a lot of work to do. |