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'And the Blades Reflect' (companion piece)
Title: And the Blades Reflect (companion)
Fandom: FF13/Prince of Persia 08
Pairing: Cid/Elika
Rating: PG?
Length: 883 words
Summary: In response to this, and a series of AU PSL threads with the lovely Azi: The start of their marriage is rocky. Elika reflects.
She watched. From above, they seemed insignificant, two flashes whirling back and forth in the hot noonday sun. Occasionally they came together with a crash of bells and a sizzle that rang through the courtyard, but it failed to rouse her blood.
Naveed had never wanted to teach her the shamshir.
They danced first slow, then quick, pausing only for the dark shape to correct the form of the pale one. She strained to catch hurriedly-spoken advice. The marble was warm underfoot, threaded with glass and stone that twinkled. Her toes curled. It was possibly even too hot, but she'd run these rooftops too many times as a child to notice now. Folded in a neat squat, she brought her arms down between her legs and drummed her fingernails against the edge of the rainwater drain. Running like a child, indeed; that was what she was doing now, wasn't it? By all accounts, so soon after their marriage, she should be by his side.
Her eyes fell to them again, more focused now. The captain of the guard was an effective teacher, and while his superiority was clear, his opponent was holding firm. She imagined them then, like a sharp old hunting dog holding off the panther for his master, his experience winning over the crushing power of the claws and teeth. A crowd had gathered, some courtiers halted on their promenades, servants carrying water jars or baskets of supplies, all stalled in the dust to observe. She hesitated. Should she feel proud? Her husband, so willing to learn about his people. Her lip curled, and she drew herself up.
Soft cat steps took her from the gates to the main door, easily vaulting over marble pinions, tucking herself into shadow to avoid the guards as they floated past on their rounds. A hop and a skip to the royal tower, then up a trellis to her room, the periwinkle hot but solid under her grasp. (She privately congratulated herself on having made a very good hypothetical assassin.) The serving girl, watering the plants inside, only barely muffled a cry as Elika's head appeared at the window. Elika laughed, hauling herself up inelegantly.
"You must stop doing that, my lady," she chided, but set aside her water jug to help her mistress inside. "It's unbecoming of the Queen."
"And have all my servants grow comfortable? Never," Elika teased, wearing good spirits like a cloak. "Now, I need my feet bathed, Dasha."
Dasha hurried off in a sweep of black hair and annoyed murmurs to fetch the basin, while Elika gathered the reports she'd left sitting on her reading table. Skimming, she slotted them into two piles: those she could tend to by herself, and those that required her husband's approval.
It struck her somewhere between a trade agreement and a tax law proposal: she would never be rid of this man. Unhappy, she attacked the pile of her own documents just as Dasha attacked her feet. Between the scouring at her ankles and the whir of ink on parchment, she just barely managed to dislodge the thought.
Some hours later, she heard one of the attendants drawing a bath, heralding his arrival. Soon he was at the door, sweat still shining at his brow from his efforts. By then she had sat herself down with slippers and a history of the Arabian peoples, happily lost to adventure; his arrival reminded her that these quarters were now shared. Of course.
She wiggled her perfumed toes, watching as he set aside first his blade, carefully, then his shirt, with enthusiasm. Her body betrayed her by reacting, and that reminded her of their wedding night, not ten days before. He had...taught her many things that night. He had hurt her. His eyes fell briefly to the documents she'd set aside for him, then on her. She curled her perfumed toes like she'd done on the railing. She imagined sharing that part of her life with him, an unspoken truth that all the servants knew, all of them who'd known her from girlhood; the image failed to hold, freezing on his stern disapproval.
A panther. Her eyes followed the movement of his turning shoulders, aware of some unknown danger. He stood close, leaning longingly towards the bath. From where she sat she could smell the dirt and metal and sweat. She wished it were more unpleasant.
"My lord." An acknowledgement. He took her hand, kissed her fingers. "My lady." The very image of politeness. Cold, a bit distant.
Perhaps it was unfair to judge him merely for erupting into her life in a way neither of them could truly control, the machinations of power sweeping them in. Of course, they were both responsible for the duration of this marriage, and even its happiness, if there was any to be found. And yet she still couldn't find the will to be charitable just then, so instead she crossed her legs defensively.
He glanced at her as he moved towards the steamy smell of jasmine, probably to invite her. She could see the movement out of the corner of her eye, but carefully avoided lifting her gaze. He moved on.
No, she was certainly being unfair. He deserved a chance, even a meagre one. Perhaps next time.
Next time.
Fandom: FF13/Prince of Persia 08
Pairing: Cid/Elika
Rating: PG?
Length: 883 words
Summary: In response to this, and a series of AU PSL threads with the lovely Azi: The start of their marriage is rocky. Elika reflects.
She watched. From above, they seemed insignificant, two flashes whirling back and forth in the hot noonday sun. Occasionally they came together with a crash of bells and a sizzle that rang through the courtyard, but it failed to rouse her blood.
Naveed had never wanted to teach her the shamshir.
They danced first slow, then quick, pausing only for the dark shape to correct the form of the pale one. She strained to catch hurriedly-spoken advice. The marble was warm underfoot, threaded with glass and stone that twinkled. Her toes curled. It was possibly even too hot, but she'd run these rooftops too many times as a child to notice now. Folded in a neat squat, she brought her arms down between her legs and drummed her fingernails against the edge of the rainwater drain. Running like a child, indeed; that was what she was doing now, wasn't it? By all accounts, so soon after their marriage, she should be by his side.
Her eyes fell to them again, more focused now. The captain of the guard was an effective teacher, and while his superiority was clear, his opponent was holding firm. She imagined them then, like a sharp old hunting dog holding off the panther for his master, his experience winning over the crushing power of the claws and teeth. A crowd had gathered, some courtiers halted on their promenades, servants carrying water jars or baskets of supplies, all stalled in the dust to observe. She hesitated. Should she feel proud? Her husband, so willing to learn about his people. Her lip curled, and she drew herself up.
Soft cat steps took her from the gates to the main door, easily vaulting over marble pinions, tucking herself into shadow to avoid the guards as they floated past on their rounds. A hop and a skip to the royal tower, then up a trellis to her room, the periwinkle hot but solid under her grasp. (She privately congratulated herself on having made a very good hypothetical assassin.) The serving girl, watering the plants inside, only barely muffled a cry as Elika's head appeared at the window. Elika laughed, hauling herself up inelegantly.
"You must stop doing that, my lady," she chided, but set aside her water jug to help her mistress inside. "It's unbecoming of the Queen."
"And have all my servants grow comfortable? Never," Elika teased, wearing good spirits like a cloak. "Now, I need my feet bathed, Dasha."
Dasha hurried off in a sweep of black hair and annoyed murmurs to fetch the basin, while Elika gathered the reports she'd left sitting on her reading table. Skimming, she slotted them into two piles: those she could tend to by herself, and those that required her husband's approval.
It struck her somewhere between a trade agreement and a tax law proposal: she would never be rid of this man. Unhappy, she attacked the pile of her own documents just as Dasha attacked her feet. Between the scouring at her ankles and the whir of ink on parchment, she just barely managed to dislodge the thought.
Some hours later, she heard one of the attendants drawing a bath, heralding his arrival. Soon he was at the door, sweat still shining at his brow from his efforts. By then she had sat herself down with slippers and a history of the Arabian peoples, happily lost to adventure; his arrival reminded her that these quarters were now shared. Of course.
She wiggled her perfumed toes, watching as he set aside first his blade, carefully, then his shirt, with enthusiasm. Her body betrayed her by reacting, and that reminded her of their wedding night, not ten days before. He had...taught her many things that night. He had hurt her. His eyes fell briefly to the documents she'd set aside for him, then on her. She curled her perfumed toes like she'd done on the railing. She imagined sharing that part of her life with him, an unspoken truth that all the servants knew, all of them who'd known her from girlhood; the image failed to hold, freezing on his stern disapproval.
A panther. Her eyes followed the movement of his turning shoulders, aware of some unknown danger. He stood close, leaning longingly towards the bath. From where she sat she could smell the dirt and metal and sweat. She wished it were more unpleasant.
"My lord." An acknowledgement. He took her hand, kissed her fingers. "My lady." The very image of politeness. Cold, a bit distant.
Perhaps it was unfair to judge him merely for erupting into her life in a way neither of them could truly control, the machinations of power sweeping them in. Of course, they were both responsible for the duration of this marriage, and even its happiness, if there was any to be found. And yet she still couldn't find the will to be charitable just then, so instead she crossed her legs defensively.
He glanced at her as he moved towards the steamy smell of jasmine, probably to invite her. She could see the movement out of the corner of her eye, but carefully avoided lifting her gaze. He moved on.
No, she was certainly being unfair. He deserved a chance, even a meagre one. Perhaps next time.
Next time.
no subject
Oh, bb. :3 This was LOVELY. Elika being so tsun and the running around on rooftops and thinking about being a hypothetical assassin and just yes. So much yes and love and keysmash. asjdkfl;asf
This ship. Thank you so, so much for writing it with me. I LOVE YOU ♥♥♥