another's shadow [ffxii, larsa, basch] Fandom: FFXII Title: Another’s Shadow Author: logistika_nyx Rating: PG (::wince:: sorry~) Other: for prompt, ‘Larsa/Basch, barehanded, throwing down the gauntlet.’
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Larsa is bereaved, and newly Emperor, and in his brother’s absence he does not know what he is supposed to do.
--the newest Judge Magister had not the will nor wit to win an argument with Zargabaath as yet, not over so petty a point as an old custom --
He knows is what needs to be done. The task is one for a man, but he is barely twelve; a boy cannot order for men would not listen. Even Vayne had been sixteen when he made his move, when his older brothers had died. It is these last two Judge Magisters that will preserve what peace can be found in the heart of a twelve year old boy. Where Basch would preserve the boy as well, Zargabaath thinks only of the peace.
--his protests that no Landisi lords nor Dalmascan dynast had asked such a thing were rebuffed, for no Landisi lord nor Dalmascan dynast had ever sat on a Solidor’s unsteady throne; and no Solidor had ever sat on a throne so insecure--
This peculiarity to Basch bemuses Larsa, that the man could care so willingly for a charge not his own, a son not his own. But Basch is a peculiarity, articulated in a hundred foreign ways, not the least of which is his unwillingness to wear his brother’s helm even as he assumes his brother’s duty.
--it was not an argument Larsa should have overhead, for he burned with shame; that the bones of him were dwarfed by the chair, the height of him trivial against the mass of better men, that no loyalty nor love did prompt this from Vayne’s court and Vayne’s old guards; this is continuity; this is stability; this is what we must do to survive, irrespective of who sits within that gilded cage --
Larsa finds more familiarity in Gabranth’s helm than Basch’s face. A Judge Magister hides his face behind his helm and has no need to learn to guard his expression. Amplified through the armor, it is his voice that needs to hold level, firm, unwavering even in nuance. Basch is ill-suited to his brother’s role yet; an unwary voice betrays him regularly with too much passion, too much concern. His years of bare-faced Dalmascan politicking have left him guarding the wrong attribute.
-- as Zargabaath steps to the side Larsa sees then what his armored bulk shielded - the court who watches, the nobles who wait, and Basch who steps up next, in his brother’s armor but already with his helm doffed, with no loyalty even to Vayne to compel him to this, to kneel--
It is Basch’s face Larsa can never read, even bare; it is his voice that betrays the unexpected warmth in the man even where it makes him sound even less like his brother. Basch proves more like Drace than Gabranth, too diligent in his duty, too absolute to consider that others could bear weakness in their heart of hearts. Against his staunchness, against the memory of what Drace was likewise willing to sacrifice for the sake of such unproven blood, Larsa finds himself lacking, weak, and achingly missing Gabranth’s vague, doubting sarcasm. So many lives, surrendered for Larsa’s sake, and Basch’s just another; yet Larsa cannot determine his own worthiness.
--yet Basch steps up and onto to the dais and kneels, his gauntlet cold, rough leather and metal plate against Larsa’s fingers, his lips dry and scratchy on Larsa’s bare right hand, his cropped hair against Larsa’s left hand as it places a fool’s benediction on Basch’s crown; Larsa bids Gabranth rise and he does so with a stiff spine, so tall that Larsa blushes; Larsa must whisper a bidding that Gabranth bend; Larsa still has to stretch to kiss Basch on the lips, and at that the man flushes too--
Basch is not his brother, and Larsa is not Vayne.
--a farce, a game, to convince the court, a kiss of fealty where there is none; the nobles wait their turn, and every word and kiss and heart to follow is hollow--
That lack makes the new Emperor – almost bitter.
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Larsa is twelve, and an Emperor, and discovers that Ivalice has a new name for him. One that is, at least, not Solidor.
The Barefaced Emperor, they call him.
Basch tells him the name is a compliment; barefaced and honest where Vayne was otherwise. Larsa does not hide behind any veil, not one of hair, words or wisdom. He will not pretend he is anything but what he appears, a boy struggling to be a man; but even this argument smacks of assumption, that Larsa is young enough to be beguiled by Basch’s twisting of words. Zargabaath tries the same, to tell Larsa the name is a proud one; barefaced and brazen, to seize the peace from what Vayne left shattered and forge a new empire.
Larsa is twelve yet, and at twelve all names sound like an insult, a moniker more an epithet. Barefaced; as though he was unashamed of what Vayne had wrought, unashamed of his undeniable Solidor blood. Even Zargabaath would have him become another Solidor, if not another Vayne, wielding a firm, just sword to inflict peace on the world.
Vayne would not have tolerated such a name. Any name, for all of what they call him now. Gabranth would have defended Larsa against hearing any of it.
But Larsa is not Vayne, and Basch not Gabranth. Larsa cannot challenge the world, cannot order other men to do so on his behalf. When he hears the barracks joke of the Barefaced Emperor bent bare-arsed over the steel-clad knee of one or the other of his nursemaids, spanked for snatching at sweets too greedily, Larsa makes himself laugh.
He cannot change the world, his name, nor the Empire. Larsa can only change himself. Larsa is a Solidor and wishes himself not. He cannot hide from the weight of either name, the one of his birth nor this gifted one.
He will be a barefaced Emperor instead of a Solidor. Larsa vows to Ivalice there will be no more hiding, behind helms or veils or arms. He tells Ivalice, promises them, that there will be no more Magisters to follow this last pair, no more judging from the shadows, no more faceless executions; the Judiciary is to be dismantled, even as occupying forces are withdrawn.
Where it matters, Larsa does not tell; he asks, does not order. Basch loses his helm gladly, and tells Larsa he is not as young as he seems. It is Zargabaath who is stubborn, irritated with the declaration, compliant, and strangely proud.
.
Larsa is fourteen, and an Emperor, and weeps in private over Zargabaath’s death.
Basch finds him with the same unerring instinct his brother had for distressed Solidors, kneels before the greatchair that swallows Larsa’s curled awkwardness and sobs alike, and he waits. Larsa cannot embrace him; Gabranth taught him that armored shoulders do not prove a comfortable place for weeping. Larsa looks away.
A bare hand on his chin startles the young Emperor. Basch has discarded his gauntlets to wipe away the wet with a callused thumb. The Judge Magister is expressionless, not mocking, not pitying, but then, Larsa has never learned to read Basch’s face.
“He is gone,” Larsa says, bitter, “and the scavengers will swoop. They call me a Barefaced Emperor. I have stripped away all wealth and regalia, every sword and shield, so they think my seat upon this throne protected only by the mailed fist that no longer stands behind me.”
“And what am I, then?” Basch asks. “Do you think I will let you fall simply because I stand alone?”
“Zargabaath—was Vayne’s man first, and my father’s man before that.” Larsa’s breath shudders. “Now I cannot hide in Vayne’s shadow. The last – is gone. Now what insults will the Senate say to my face, what names will they call me, before they rip me down?”
Basch laughs, a sound that never hurts as much as it should. “I should be taking offence, that you name me a worthless defender.”
“I…had not intended…” Larsa breathes. “My apologies.”
Basch’s hand is in Larsa’s hair, tousling, but Basch pulls back a moment later, abrupt as though startled. He is never presumptuous; Larsa must look appalling to break Basch’s guard so, whatever the informality that lies between them. He wipes at his eyes again with the lace of his cuffs, scratchy on tender skin.
“You are yourself,” Basch says, “and no one would expect you to be like Vayne. Even your apologies mark you as distinct. Vayne’s fault was in that he could not consider another’s words without hearing the echo of his own.”
“Thus I am weak, to be bound to apologize constantly, for every waking moment meets with another mistake.”
“Hardly a weakness to apologize. A strength, should you learn from each apology you make.”
“What should I learn, but that I lack—“
Basch snorts, dismissive. “To avoid making the mistake to begin with.”
“For certain,” Larsa says, and the rancor swells then, thick and viscous. “But some mistakes cannot be unmade. Every move I have made towards reparations with Archades’ neighbors is met with demands, with hunger, until we bleed our wealth into them even as our own lands diminish. Archades will be consumed, and all for a mistake, and what shall I learn from my apology then?”
“You forget the friends you have won with your apologies, your willingness to learn. Rozarria will hold true, Dalmasca will stand firm, whatever the minor turmoil wording the new treaty stirs.”
“The Senate will not stand for it. They will depose me. They think me weak.”
“They will not; you are not.”
“They long for another Vayne,” Larsa whispers, “for at the least Vayne did assure Archades supremacy. I am afraid, Basch, that I will have to become another Vayne to lead Ivalice down this path to peace we walk.”
Basch rocks back on his heels, his fingers splayed on the arms of the greatchair. Larsa cannot meet his eyes, and looks only at his hands where they sink into the cushioning, the fingers tense. Basch rises, abrupt.
“Such a fear is misplaced,” Basch says, and he sounds perplexed for all that Larsa will not meet his eyes. “Regardless of the blood and flesh that binds you, your mind is always your own, your motivations. Consider, that I shared a womb with my brother made his mind no more mine, as you should well know now. There is no logic in your fear.”
Fear never follows the path of logic. “I would wish that I was any other house but Solidor, for the name is cursed--”
“--there speaks a boy instead of an Emperor. Names are nothing but names. ‘Solidor’ is no curse to bear any more than ‘Gabranth’ is. Every man’s blood bears traits of worth as well as weakness.”
“More weakness than –“
“Do not,” Basch says. “To wish you were other than a Solidor is a boy’s melancholy you can ill afford regardless of your years. Would you deny everything of worth about your brother, your father? Every man’s blood bears traits worthy of redemption, Larsa, and you are theirs as well as yours.”
That merely stings when Basch says it though it would burn from another’s lips; nevertheless, Larsa is fourteen and everything is met with the worst of him. “So if I do not become another Vayne, I am condemned to become his apology?”
Basch only smiles, despite the venom. “No more than I am Noah’s. And I am not. I am your man, Larsa, as I stand.”
Another apology rises then. Larsa must bite it down. “I…Ah, Basch, I can’t help but think – what do you –“ Larsa chokes -- “this throne would be better in another’s hands. Do you think—“ and Larsa wishes he could sound anything but what he does in this moment, a child, a too-young child, “--it would?”
“Consider your wording, Larsa. Idle contemplation. You do not even suggest that you would give it up. All of this is prompted solely by your fear that it will be taken from you. That,” Basch smiles, “says more to me about truth of your intent than any of your hesitations.”
That warms and chills all at once, like shame, like joy, like a kiss. “I would not shirk the burden even if I prove inadequate for the task,” Larsa says, subdued and flushed and burning. Of a sudden he wishes Basch were anywhere but here, looking down at him like that. Fondly.
“There speaks a Solidor,” Basch says, warmly, “a true Solidor. And in truth, Larsa—“ Basch kneels again, catches his eye though Larsa still blushes like a child and devoutly wishes he could stop, “the only blight I have ever seen on the name of a Solidor is that they consider the interests of others to such an extent they forget the worth of the individual.”
“I--Basch--“
Basch’s hand is heavy on his shoulder, an affectionate touch that does little for Larsa’s blush.
“Have more faith in yourself, Larsa,” says the Judge Magister. “I do.”
.
Larsa is sixteen, and an Emperor, and he will not fight for what he knows to be right because rightness should be enough.
Dalmasca spouts scorn, light-lipped and defiant; Rozzaria will not bow for a barefaced boy even though Larsa does not ask them to do so. Balfonheim and Bhujerba stand back to back, city-states demanding and defending their respective rights to autonomy as though the nature of the world – even their world – did not depend on the strength of interconnection. The non-hume contingent is no less rebellious, cold, silent; the Kiltias still stubborn, old men clinging to nightmares. Solidor strength cannot be so easily forgotten, even when before them stands only a barefaced boy. Religion refuses to see the State; nature refuses to see the city; pirates refuse to see the kings.
Larsa’s hands bear no callus of the sword, by choice. He no longer learns anything to do with warfare, refuses to take that path again. He has no defense but what others would offer him. He will not dress under the weight of Solidor regalia. Years of wishing that name be torn from him as easily as the regalia seems not to avail. His presence alone sparks discontent, as though no Solidor could consider anything other than himself.
Larsa dresses as a penitent, in linen instead of lace, his head uncrowned. He has opened Archades’ borders, returned territories, made amends, all in exchange for this. He bares himself, speaks bluntly, without deception. Unlearning those years of skill prove more painful than he had expected.
Still, Ivalice does not see Larsa, sixteen, and an Emperor. Ivalice sees a Solidor and a ploy where there is none. The Barefaced Emperor offers too much; he offers more than he has, he gives it all back and takes - nothing. It is only Solidor shadows that provoke their suspicion.
Swords are drawn over matters too complex for legality. Anger sparks. Ashelia spits at Balthier’s daydream of a city to fly free, despite that no sword lies between them. Jote is leaving with the non-hume contingent despite Fran and Nono’s assurances of fair dealings, standing at Balthier’s back. Ondore is disgusted despite his niece and his blood married amongst half the humes in the room. Al-Cid is languid with ease of provocation, until the Kiltias add their voices to the mix, faithless against the faithful.
They are all friends out of this room, as much as people such as they can be friends. But even such association will not overlook that he is Vayne Solidor’s brother first and foremost.
Larsa can only sit, silent, because he cannot fight for what he knows to be right. Force would be Vayne’s answer, force, guile, layered under words and wiles. It cannot be Larsa’s path. He will not be his brother, and they will not make him into another Vayne though they all strive to do so.
The weight of Basch’s gauntlet shatters the argument.
The last Judge Magister throws that gauntlet into the centre of the table so no one misses its path, not Jote at the door where she moves to leave, not Al-Cid at Ondore’s throat with shouted sarcasm. Next to Larsa’s rough robe, Larsa’s loose hair, Larsa’s slightness, it is the armored mass of the Judge that draws everyone’s eyes, commands everyone’s silence as he unbuckles his other gauntlet.
“Is that a challenge, Gabranth?” Balthier asks for Balfonheim; Ashelia on his heels snarls, “Dalmasca will meet whatever blade you think to set at our throats, Solidor, even he.”
“A challenge,” Basch says. “Not one of blades. Of name against name, seeing as you are so quick to wield them against hope.”
The second gauntlet follows the first. Basch is barehanded, knuckles pressed to the tabletop, his weight forward. He does not meet anyone’s gaze, nor does anyone seek to meet his.
“A challenge,” Basch says. “Yes. But I challenge one thing only, and in this enlightened company note I do speak from experience. I challenge your preconceptions that a man is bound by what name he wears, for this argument is based on nothing more than that.”
The silence that follows is a different one now, compressed instead of tensioned, tight instead of taut. When the silence snaps, shatters like a poorly forged blade on the renewed buzz of argument, Basch withdraws to resume his guard. His bare hand touches Larsa’s shoulder, a comfort as scant as the linen. His touch leaves an imprint of heat.
Gabranth taught Larsa to fight, rapier and dagger, hands and feet, words and wit. It is only now that Larsa realizes Basch teaches him to do the opposite.
Basch is not Gabranth. Gabranth would have challenged fury with fury, regardless of what his orders stated. Only Basch would think to challenge fury with surrender; with a mirror instead of a sword. The quality of their blood consistent, to honor and defend: the quality of their selves distinct.
Larsa thinks, then, that perhaps it is more feasible than he had considered: to be a Solidor, but more than just another’s brother.
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Larsa is eighteen, and an Emperor, and on the eve of armistice he will get everything he has ever wanted.
His word dismisses the guard. His hand turns a polished brass handle. His shoulder shifts a double-thick oak door. Within, in these rooms he has not broached for six years, he finds that rumors rampant within the last bureau of the Judiciary prove, so bitterly, to be true.
The last Judge Magister works until he falls, to sleep curled at his brother’s desk.
Larsa’s breath catches, his step muffled in lush carpet remembered from six years past. A pen lies discarded involuntarily, an unlaced cuff ink-stained, paired forefingers likewise. The desk is neat to the point of obsession, with twin lamps placed precisely offset from opposing corners.
The Magister is less ordered. He needs a shave. His hair curls at his collar. His face crumples in sleep, his brow lined, his lips lax, and the very linen of his garb is a naked vulnerability.
Basch’s hand splays on his desk, raw across the knuckles. Hair curls on the back, the blonde salted; Larsa cannot look away from where tendons flex on the back of that hand, tensioned, unwary, that fingertips move, abstracted on lacquered wood.
Basch dreams. Larsa watches until the weight of his gaze proves his undoing.
A sharp breath comes; a clenched fist follows. Larsa has too many regrets to be eighteen, to be an emperor, that even disturbing Basch’s peace fills him so he aches, wordlessly.
“Excellency.” The word comes thick with sleep; Basch nevertheless rises to meet him, unashamed with how he rubs his eyes open, yawning, stretching. “You honor me to attend my rooms unannounced. Had I known you wished something I would have conveyed it to your chambers promptly.”
“My only wish is to be here.”
Larsa moves closer, to place his hand on Basch’s shoulder, to let his touch seek. Warmth penetrates through that shirt, warmth and a heartbeat, steady, unhurried.
“Larsa,” Basch asks, unmoving, “are you well?”
“You are not your brother.”
The words are the wrong ones. The same words in Vayne’s mouth would have proven enough, more than, to buy and sell loyalty, love, but Larsa is not his brother either and knows this, does not regret it. Words come to Larsa bare, stripped of meaning, harsh, but honest; something Vayne could never have considered.
Basch says nothing, words nor face, not even as Larsa’s fingertips curl to apply pressure against that still-resilient muscle.
“I have come to apologize for ever presuming you could take his place.”
“I have never sought to do so,” Basch says, momentarily wry. “I can give only of what I am. That must prove enough for that’s all there is.”
His wryness does not hold; his humor neither. Larsa’s hand abandons its position over Basch’s heart, slides up along a prominent collarbone to find the thick cord of the man’s neck, pulse speeding. The broken earlobe cannot be sensitive still, but Basch flinches when Larsa touches there. His eyes close as Larsa runs his thumb along the old scar, the clipped corner of eye and brow.
He does not gasp even when Larsa lets his fingers go where they want; to trace lips, jaw; to tangle in to tangle in hair longer than his brother ever wore, but for once. Larsa stands half a head taller than Basch. He does not have to stretch to do this. The Emperor must bend instead.
Basch’s lips are rough, ready, open, and unlike all else that has passed between them these past six years, the kiss is brief.
“This,” Basch breathes, his eyes still closed, “Larsa. I --”
Larsa bows further, Larsa kneels on lush carpet to take Basch’s bare hand, to press his lips to Basch’s knuckles, to taste his wrist. Back, then front; bent, then open-palmed. Basch’s hand curls, until hard fingertips touch Larsa’s cheek. The Emperor’s breath escapes him.
Basch tries again, his breath ragged. “I cannot give you what you want.”
“You are mistaken,” Larsa says. He releases Basch’s hand, stands taller, penitent before his better. “You gave me everything when you chose this exile willingly. I would give you something back. Your choices have all been taken from you to this date so I have come to give you a new choice, of where you would make your bed. Will you return, to Landis, to Dalmasca, to--?”
There is no hesitation. “I would not. Exile proves less an alienation than you think it. It is here, where the land does not own me, where memories do not linger, that universality can be embraced, those elusive thoughts that present us all with our true life’s challenge. A challenge that cannot be met with a sword. Peace, Larsa. I find it here.”
“This pleases me.”
“I made this choice a long time ago, Larsa, and not to please you nor my brother. This is my choice.”
“That pleases me even more.”
Basch says nothing, but Larsa is learning to read the Magister’s expression. Wondering. Tentative. Larsa takes his leave; the salt of Basch’s skin lingers.
“My Emperor,” Basch calls after him, “sleep well.”
“You as well,” Larsa replies, and because he is eighteen and a youth as well as an Emperor, he adds, smartly, “although you may find your rest somewhat easier if you use a bed rather than a desk.”