"The High Price of Trust", Final Fantasy XII, Ashe/Penelo
Title: "The High Price of Trust." Author: zombie_fetus Rating: PG. Warnings: None. Post-Leviathan spoilers. Summary/Prompt: Final Fantasy XII - Ashe/Penelo - touch - breathe into my hands/or cup them like a glass to drink from. Ashe continues to weigh the repercussions of events on the Dreadnought.
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The noise of the inn’s evening crowd soaks through the floor. Below the room her party stirs, savoring their final evening in the arms of civilization. Ashe cannot find it within herself to join them. Her traveling clothes are replaced with only a worn, cotton shift; old and frayed, it typically maintains the spot at the bottom of her travel pack. Her shared room is tiny, size enough for two small bedrolls and a compact chest, but it is sufficient space to work. She stretches out, pushes against the floor, pulls herself up and away from her thoughts, from the tightness in her chest, from the sword that lays beside her, a thick slab too large and dull to be considered hardly more than a plank of metal.
Her muscles begin to ache and Ashe feels the sweat slide down her back, her face. She has control of this small thing, she declares, pushing against the scuffed wooden floorboards. The door creaks open and a rush of humid air pours into the room with muffled cries and laughter but she does not look away.
Penelo shuffles into the room, sinking down to the wrinkled pallet beside her. “I’ve brought you something from the kitchens,” she says earnestly. She sets a small clay pot onto the floor beside her, removes its tiny lid and steam lifts up, tickling the air with the scent of tealeaves and mint.
Ashe’s sigh mingles with her labored breath and she lifts herself from the floor. She sits straight, knees to the floor, coaxing forward a strained vestige of politeness. “I appreciate the gesture,” she says to the small pot and not to the girl and her sincere expression. She reaches for a clean washcloth beside her, content that her response is both polite and sufficient to ward away further attention.
Ashe is not adverse to reason. Sharing a room is cost-effective and practical. Penelo is the most appropriate choice among her comrades, considering age and sex. This did not oblige the princess, however, to confide herself in this otherwise stranger. Apart from the battlefield, there had not been much to say between them.
Penelo merely endures the silence. She does not move from her seat or appear deterred in her provocation of the other young woman into a conversation.
“Do you require something of me?” Ashe asks finally, wiping the sweat from her face, the tiny pot of tea nestled comfortably between the two.
“Mm,” Penelo shakes her head, “Well, no. I guess I just thought that perhaps-“
Her confidence falters for a moment, just enough for Ashe to interject, to cut this conversation off at the feet. “I am grateful for your kindness,” she says firmly, “however there is nothing I require of you, Penelo. You may find the others to be of better company.”
Penelo almost relents to her dismissal, tilts her head and tenses her shoulders just so, but the hesitation quickly ascends into a further and stronger resolve. “I don’t believe that, you know.”
Ashe leans back onto the palms of her hands, brushing against the sword splayed across the floor. “Mine is not a burden to be shared.”
“You don’t need to be strong all the time,” Penelo counters softly, leaning forward, reaching out.
“Perhaps,” she answers, taking the bait despite herself, “and if I am not, will those who depend upon me not inevitably suffer from my weakness?”
Penelo flinches at the unsaid name that suffocates the air. She understands, reads between her words. The girl moves and attempts to sit beside her. Ashe tenses visibly as the room seems at once to constrict. She hears Penelo begin to speak, as if she could know of her burden, as if they are equal in their shared losses, and she knows just what this conversation has become. The pity crawls sickly in her chest and she raises herself to stand, achingly and deliberate.
“Enough of this,” Ashe says and it is not a request. “I would be alone.”
Much to her dismay, Penelo will have none of this and endures yet still. She stands straight and meets her face to face and they nearly match each other’s height. Ashe does not, however, fail to recognize the difference between them; they are not the same. They are not equal.
The girl before her simply closes her eyes and lets the words wash over her, lets the tide swell and recede. Her movements are slow and easy and she watches Ashe’s gaze, matching her fire with equivalent power. She lifts her hands to touch Ashe, cupping the sides of her face with careful, tentative fingers.
“Maybe the people who care about you are willing to share your burden. You should trust them, Ashe.” Penelo feels hot breath on her wrist, exhalation.
“I know too well the price of trust,” she declares with pride and desperation.
Penelo turns away, pulling back her touch. At last she relents, Ashe thinks in quiet relief, but the heat upon her face still lingers. She watches as the girl carefully kneels down to take the teapot.
“Leave this,” she asks suddenly, queerly possessive of it.
And she does without word, slipping quietly out of the room and retreats to the downstairs crowd, leaving the princess to her solitude and her sword.
Ashe finds the tea lukewarm and over-brewed, the taste sweetly strong. She trains again numbly, until the noise from below her and inside her finally retreats and Ashe cannot recall when she at last finds sleep. Still exhausted, she wakes to the bedroll beside her and Penelo’s belongings completely removed, leaving only a lonely emptiness in their stead. Ashe reaches out and touches the cold, wooden floor where she might have otherwise been, stuck between this small, bare space and a silent plank of metal.