Salvage Ch. 1
Feb. 21st, 2007 08:55 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
serindranaTitle: Salvage Ch.1 :: A Knight of Convenience
Rating: PG
Spoilers: HUGE spoilers for the end of LE. You've been warned!
Word Count: 3747
Characters: Sophia/Vincent, and Mad-Thane
Summary: Things are spiraling downwards when they should be getting better.
Notes: Here's my lovely, slightly cracktastic fic - part one! I'm currently looking for a reliable, quick beta - this part didn't need one, as I edited it heavily myself, but I'm interested in finding somebody who knows the series to look over the next parts~
Oh, and this part is so dedicated to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
shinra_inc! X3 Cross-posted to Over the Sky.
A Knight of Convenience
She's weak. She feels her legs shaking as she walks away from the grand dais, disappearing back into the shadows of the royal palace, away from the officials and soldiers and supplicants that have gathered to seek her word. Her hand is on the ornate wall, hot and sweaty and sticking feverishly to the enamel. She leans against it heavily, closing her eyes and trying to steady herself.
Behind her, she hears hurried footsteps, the clack of military boots. They come closer, pause for a moment, then speed up until she feels two gloved hands. One braces her side, the other turns her face towards him. They are familiar and warm, but somehow unwelcome. She cringes away before giving in, relaxing to his touch.
"Highness?" he murmurs, voice heavy with concern and fear. He's seen her at her worst these past few weeks, the days she has barely been able to rise from bed from guilt and fear. But she has been getting better - until today. Today her body burns and trembles more than it ever has before.
She sinks into his arms, something she rarely allows herself to do. She opens her eyes and looks at him for a moment, the worried press of his lips and the concerned look in his gaze, before swallowing hard and squeezing her eyes tightly shut once more.
"Highness, what's wrong?" He sinks to the floor with her body, cradling her in his lap. Later, guiltily, he'll remember the feel of her pliant body, needing his touch. He'll wish they could have stayed like this longer. But for now, he simply worries and frets and tugs off his gloves so he can mop the sweat from her brow. He undoes the clips fastening her headdress, setting it aside.
"I feel... ill..." his Empress murmurs through parched lips. "Vince..."
Vincent's mouth hardens. This is no panic attack, no lasting affliction from those final days of war. This is something he cannot heal with words and careful touch. This is something he does not recognize and has little practice with. So he rises again, carrying her in his arms. He leaves her headdress on the marble floors and takes her back to her rooms and calls for the doctor. Her few remaining engagements of the day are forgotten and fade away with the shadows.
Empress Sophia Forrester Anatoray, leader of all Prestale, is pregnant at age nineteen. The doctor is sure, and he looks at Vincent with searching eyes. Sophia refuses to tell who the father is. Vincent knows, though, even if he doesn't know the details. There can only be one person.
He looks at the doctor, hand inches from Sophia's back. She refuses to look at either of them. "Call the prime minister, and return here," he says after a moment. Mad-thane will have to be told. The world will have to be told, eventually, but not until the former admiral can put the right spin on things.
The doctor leaves quietly, and Vincent sits down on the bed beside Sophia. He reaches out to brush his fingers comfortingly along the curve of her waist and hip. She's in a white nightgown now - doctor's orders, until her sickness passes. No corsets. She flinches away, burying her face against the pillow. For a moment, she looks her age - a scared teenager unprepared for all that lies ahead of her. There is so much work to be done for the good of all, and now... now she is carrying an unborn child, as well.
Vincent does not persist, and simply sits by her quietly. He prepares for the floodgates to break as they have done so often recently. But he is far from ready when she speaks, voice tremulous and pained and sad on so many different levels that he can't begin to understand, yet still so mature and controlled.
"It was Alex," she whispers, taking a deep and shaking breath.
He looks at the far wall for a long moment before replying. "... I know. You wouldn't have-"
"Stop." She's close to tears, and he has no right to make her cry. He is the close friend, the confidante, the protector - but not the lover. Alex could make her cry, had taken advantage of that all too often, even in his death. But him? No. Not for him.
Vincent reaches out and touches her hair, loose now, far enough from her head that she won't notice. He takes some measure of stolen comfort from touching the silken strands. His bare fingers glide over the sheets beneath, and his mind drifts to thoughts of her smiling, the way she used to before he died.
The door opens, and Mad-thane walks in, solemn and grave as only he can be. The doctor is dismissed, and the three are left alone in silence.
David - because that is who he is behind closed doors - breaks it first. He is pragmatic always, even before his paternal instincts. "What will you do?" he asks her, coming to stand by them. "Will you keep the child?" His voice is even though his eyes are troubled. Vincent can tell that he wants to talk of it as little as they both do.
Sophia stiffens, and Vincent shoots David a dark, accusing look. Do not hurt her.
"I'm sorry, Sophia," he says, dropping to his knees as a father to a child, "but you must decide, and soon. Before word gets out."
She rolls over for the first time, looking David in the eye before shooting Vincent a confused, sad look. He reaches out a hand to touch hers, and this time, she laces her fingers with his. No gloves between them.
"I..." She looks down at herself, free hand touching her still-flat stomach. She feels warmth - her own, normal body heat, feeling just a little special for once - and shuts her eyes. In the darkness, she can feel Alex, some little bit of him lingering, hanging on to her, something saved from the wreckage of Delphine's flagship. Something she can love unconditionally just the same, preserve of him, pass on to those who never knew him. Her one last personal tie to her captain, the legacy of one night where they both let their guards down.
"I won't lose this child," she whispers after a moment, feeling new weight settling on her already bowed shoulders.
Vincent takes a deep breath.
"Then we must make plans," David says, eyes turning soft now. Sophia looks at him questioningly, and he bows his head. "We must make excuses. While the world is changing and the hearts of the people are yours for now, we must explain this child."
"Explain it as it is," she murmurs, hand squeezing Vincent's. "The child of Alex Row - the hero."
David pauses a moment, eyes widening in realization, understanding. Then he shakes his head. "No. He is no hero to the people, Sophia. You know as well as I do - the role the Silvana played cannot be told. It has wronged too many, killed too many, to become our savior. And should it become widely known that you were on board the Silvana, so close to the criminal Alex was..."
"And how could they use it against me?" she asks, almost too quickly. She understands his logic. They have been over this (in different form, of course) over and over again. She wants to venerate Alex as the savior he still remains in her eyes. He wishes they could, but can only put forth - in hushed words, at that - the Silvana as a part of the whole. The Silvana cannot be glorified, only accepted as real and present.
"You unite two very different worlds, Sophia. Your position as Empress over all of Prestale rests on the pleasure of the people. You may be a wonderful and benevolent ruler - in fact, I have no doubt that you are and will continue to be - but you still signify the absolute monarchy your father honed into a deadly force against his nation. The moment you falter, Disith and Anatoray might split once more. Now is a time for strong, united leadership - the Blue Planet beckons, but it is unsettled and raw. We possess only one way to reach it. To put that up to division..."
"I understand," she murmurs, sighing. "Then what do you suggest we do? Immaculate conception?" Her voice is derisive as she mentions long-lost tales of gods and messiahs. "Is that what we do?"
"Of course not." He glances over at Vincent. "I propose... a marriage of convenience."
Vincent meets David's eyes with a look of confusion, then dawning comprehension and fear. "No, David," he murmurs, feeling Sophia's hand turning to stone in his. I will not force her to do this. "She will not marry any of Nestor's sons, the Disith heirs." But the words are empty, spoken only to prolong the inevitable.
"Of course not," David says, slowly. "No, because their leaders are not hereditary in the least. That would be foolish, pointless; it would explain nothing. The courtship would take too long, the negotiations would be tedious at best. There may be a better match, however."
Sophia sits up abruptly, and Vincent almost leaps to push her back down. She needs her rest. But she forces him away, sitting up and starring down at David with hard, jade eyes. "And just what do you have in mind, then?"
"Marry the head of our military," he says quietly, glancing at Vincent. "You two have known each other for so long, and are so closely linked now in public opinion, that it would make sense. The people would applaud it. And it would solve our problem."
She looks at David for a long time in silence, then meets Vincent's eyes. He looks away, unable to keep her gaze. His heart is trying to leap and jump and skip for joy, but he knows he cannot let it show. No, Sophia is unhappy - that he cannot have. He will never punish her for the sake of his own happiness.
She is taking in the lines of his face now, thinking. She thinks so much these days, spends so much time musing over political machinations. Even as the beloved "protector" of the people (though her true role is unknown and will probably remain so for years), she still has to fight for her position. The people are afraid of a powerful ruler after so long, but the nobility is too corrupt to give senatorial power to just yet. She walks a careful line, balancing public and private opinions. And now she considers a marriage of convenience with a quiet gravity far beyond her years.
Vincent is not the man she loves. He may grow to be so, but not for many, many years of healing and living. But he is kind and sweet and he cares for her deeply. She knows this with unfailing certainty. He would make a good husband and a good father (though perhaps a rash and bold Emperor). But she fears letting him in.
Still, these past weeks she has learned that to take up the mantle of leader means to suffer, to suffer more and deeper than any can know. Her deepest desire is now to protect her people, and if their protection requires she suffer, then she will.
Their wedding is held as soon as is possible. It is met with as little fanfare as she can arrange (which is to say, only a step below what her father's wedding must have been). She wishes there had been more courtship, false though it would have been. Her head is still spinning with fear and emotion and every bit of her yearns for the world to just stop turning. She wants rest. And a little part of her whispers that this is just the beginning, that this is the short-lived happiness won after the battle.
But as long as she is dressed in white and veiled and beautiful, she keeps her composure. She looks Vincent in the eye when they say their vows, feels his gloved hands against hers, knows his chivalrous streak sings at the chance to protect her just this little bit more. Her voice is steady as she promises to love and cherish him always, and her fingers only tremble slightly when he slides the ring onto her thin finger.
When he kneels before her and kisses her hand as gently as he can, her legs tremble and she feels faint. This is irrevocable, unchangeable, but every bit as necessary as putting herself at the head of the Anatoray-Disith alliance. Her heart thuds to imagined beats of war drums as he leads her from the large, open platform where she had been crowned Empress. They descend the endless steps, and every time she feels as if she is about to fall, he braces her with as much care as he can. They make it down together, walking silently and solemnly, her veil and overdress trailing behind them, his ceremonial sword glinting in the sun. She jerks slightly when the ships above begin firing celebratory broadsides. Vincent puts gentle pressure on the hand he still holds.
The crowds of cheering citizens are waiting for them when they return to the palace proper, and she ascends to the main balcony with Vincent beside her, now as husband in place of military advisor. Between the two of them, they give a carefully orchestrated speech. The cries of adoration roll over them. And then comes the feast and festival, the celebration stretching though all the city, through all the world. She sits beside her husband at the head of a table holding noble and commoner alike. A few of her crewmates are there, offering quiet congratulations. Winna eyes her with something akin to concern and wonderment, that her superior would marry so soon after the death of their captain. Campbell is supportive but quiet. When they are all together like this - and it has been very rare over the past weeks - their grief intensifies to the point where their mouths are sealed shut and they can barely raise their eyes to each other.
She can see them sitting along the sides of the table, the people she's known for years and years. And she thinks, as she looks into Tatianna's accusing eyes, that she has somehow betrayed them all. She thinks they must resent her for some reason even they're not sure of. Traitor to the memory of their captain, perhaps. What was once a hopeless crush they all understood and perhaps even joked about is now a sacred memory, and for her to do this-
But Vincent is touching her hand gently once more, and she knows her eyes are beginning to fog with tears again. She glances over at him and smiles faintly behind her veil.
By the time the celebrations end, the sky has grown dark and overcast. She can barely stand without the world spinning (more from stress than anything physical this time), and Vincent and David both help her back into the deep recesses of the palace. David wants to talk about the future, but she doesn't, and Vincent asks him quietly to leave. When they are alone, he helps her from her veil and overdress, but leaves her to change on her own. There are two separate beds for now, set apart. In time, perhaps, they will sleep beside one another. But now Sophia needs her solitude when she sleeps.
Before she can fall into dreams (because of her nightmares, Vincent doesn't know just yet), though, they sit in the window together. He brushes her hair carefully, and she sits against him as a doll against a stand. Hesitantly, he takes a chance to wrap an arm around her, comfortingly. He does nothing further, except allow her to collapse against him in a pile of tears and whispers.
When she has cried for what seems like hours to Vincent's pained mind, she finally drifts into quiet sleep. He watches her, illuminated by the moonlight streaming in through the glass. He thinks on captains and executive officers, war and love, coffee and stars and wind and air and hearts. He has his ideas about what happened. He thinks, believes quite sincerely, that first of all, Alex had been drunk. It wasn't something out of the ordinary those days, and something Sophia would have been used to. And Alex would have been exhausted and strained and drunk and maybe, just maybe, Sophia had taken off her glasses or cast a stray glance behind her or walked a certain way. It had triggered something in his friend, and Alex had seen not Sophia, not the wonderful woman that served him and helped him, but a wavering ghost. Something ephemeral and fleeting had possessed him, and Sophia had let him pull her close without protest, even when he whispered 'Euris' against her skin. And Vincent is sure that that was what had happened - because he can't let himself believe for a moment that Alex had truly loved her, had cherished her the way she deserved to be cherished, had even called her by her name when he was laying the groundwork for so much pain.
Because if he had, then Vincent can never, never measure up.
It is unfair of Vincent to vilify Alex like this, but he can't help it. His knightly honor blinds him, and he can only see Sophia now as a damsel in distress, a fair maiden that needs to be held and rescued and told that everything will be all right. And what Alex has done is unforgivable, even if unintentional. So Vincent holds a grudge against him, even as he wishes they had had more time to get to know one another again, after all the years had passed. There are so many cups of coffee that could have been and now will grow cold because Alex went off and died too early. And really, that's it - Alex died too early and Vincent resents him for that, too. It is selfish, he knows. But Alex was his friend and his comrade and his rival and his brother, on some level. And so for leaving too soon because of revenge for young love, and for hurting the woman they both care for in some way, he hates and loves Alex all at the same time.
Sophia is sleeping peacefully for the time being, and he strokes her hair and her cheek and wishes, wishes desperately that somehow this could have happened under happier circumstances. He wishes that she could love him as he loves her, without Alex's memory and future troubles complicating everything. He wishes that her father had never put her aboard Alex's ship, and that somehow, the Guild could somehow have still been brought down, and that he could have, afterwards, carried her away to some faraway place where they could be together and she would never have had to know pain.
He has seen her grow up, seen her turn from a quiet, grave little girl into a strong woman, mature beyond her years. Marius always kept him informed, kept him tethered as his right-hand man. He had watched Marius take her under his wing, protect her from her madman of a father. When her father had confined her solely to the palace, Marius had made her a swing in the garden. When her father had taken that swing away, he had taught her to make little birds from paper, birds that could catch the wind and soar away like she would never do.
And when she had entered military academy, he had watched her carefully, kept track of her progress. He knew that Marius had some sort of plan, some plan that the madman approved of. He had worried. But then he had been sent away to find men Marius trusted and do the sneaky sort of work he didn't quite like, and he had lost her. She had disappeared off the face of the world, and when he asked Marius, he only received a small, knowing smile in return.
He hadn't known she was aboard the Silvana. Marius never mentioned it, and Vincent understood why. If he had known, he would never have fired on Alex. Duty can only push him so far, and even if ordered by Marius himself, he is certain he would never have hurt her. He barely knew her at the time, true, except from short tea times Marius held between the three of them (coffee would have been better) when she was younger, but he was already thoroughly enchanted. She was the princess he would protect and save, come hell or high water.
And he got his chance, rescuing her from certain death just in the nick of time, and helping her claim her rightful place as Empress after Marius sacrificed his life to kill her father. He stayed close and rallied the army behind her, made sure she was secure. He even tried to carry her away from danger, literally, when Delphine's flagship had hovered above her coronation, when that rain of blood-red petals had covered everything.
But she was strong and willful and she wanted to return to Alex. He was shocked when he first realized that that was where she had been all along, by Alex's side. He wanted her safe, and Alex was decidedly not. In the end, though, it was Alex who saved her when Delphine came knocking, not him. And though he is now the one stroking her hair and cheek, and not Alex, he knows that he can never be her knight in shining armor (or shining, nicely pressed dress uniform, at any rate). Alex holds that distinction quite clearly.
The night is half old when he carefully shifts, lifting her in his arms (she's losing weight and it worries him) and carrying her to her small bed. He tucks her in, watches as she turns away from him and curls up. He is still thinking of Alex and Sophia and coffee and love and every bit of her he cannot hope to fully understand or have. He is still thinking of all that when the sun rises and she rises and they have breakfast and coffee together in silence.
Rating: PG
Spoilers: HUGE spoilers for the end of LE. You've been warned!
Word Count: 3747
Characters: Sophia/Vincent, and Mad-Thane
Summary: Things are spiraling downwards when they should be getting better.
Notes: Here's my lovely, slightly cracktastic fic - part one! I'm currently looking for a reliable, quick beta - this part didn't need one, as I edited it heavily myself, but I'm interested in finding somebody who knows the series to look over the next parts~
Oh, and this part is so dedicated to
shinra_inc! X3 Cross-posted to Over the Sky.A Knight of Convenience
She's weak. She feels her legs shaking as she walks away from the grand dais, disappearing back into the shadows of the royal palace, away from the officials and soldiers and supplicants that have gathered to seek her word. Her hand is on the ornate wall, hot and sweaty and sticking feverishly to the enamel. She leans against it heavily, closing her eyes and trying to steady herself.
Behind her, she hears hurried footsteps, the clack of military boots. They come closer, pause for a moment, then speed up until she feels two gloved hands. One braces her side, the other turns her face towards him. They are familiar and warm, but somehow unwelcome. She cringes away before giving in, relaxing to his touch.
"Highness?" he murmurs, voice heavy with concern and fear. He's seen her at her worst these past few weeks, the days she has barely been able to rise from bed from guilt and fear. But she has been getting better - until today. Today her body burns and trembles more than it ever has before.
She sinks into his arms, something she rarely allows herself to do. She opens her eyes and looks at him for a moment, the worried press of his lips and the concerned look in his gaze, before swallowing hard and squeezing her eyes tightly shut once more.
"Highness, what's wrong?" He sinks to the floor with her body, cradling her in his lap. Later, guiltily, he'll remember the feel of her pliant body, needing his touch. He'll wish they could have stayed like this longer. But for now, he simply worries and frets and tugs off his gloves so he can mop the sweat from her brow. He undoes the clips fastening her headdress, setting it aside.
"I feel... ill..." his Empress murmurs through parched lips. "Vince..."
Vincent's mouth hardens. This is no panic attack, no lasting affliction from those final days of war. This is something he cannot heal with words and careful touch. This is something he does not recognize and has little practice with. So he rises again, carrying her in his arms. He leaves her headdress on the marble floors and takes her back to her rooms and calls for the doctor. Her few remaining engagements of the day are forgotten and fade away with the shadows.
Empress Sophia Forrester Anatoray, leader of all Prestale, is pregnant at age nineteen. The doctor is sure, and he looks at Vincent with searching eyes. Sophia refuses to tell who the father is. Vincent knows, though, even if he doesn't know the details. There can only be one person.
He looks at the doctor, hand inches from Sophia's back. She refuses to look at either of them. "Call the prime minister, and return here," he says after a moment. Mad-thane will have to be told. The world will have to be told, eventually, but not until the former admiral can put the right spin on things.
The doctor leaves quietly, and Vincent sits down on the bed beside Sophia. He reaches out to brush his fingers comfortingly along the curve of her waist and hip. She's in a white nightgown now - doctor's orders, until her sickness passes. No corsets. She flinches away, burying her face against the pillow. For a moment, she looks her age - a scared teenager unprepared for all that lies ahead of her. There is so much work to be done for the good of all, and now... now she is carrying an unborn child, as well.
Vincent does not persist, and simply sits by her quietly. He prepares for the floodgates to break as they have done so often recently. But he is far from ready when she speaks, voice tremulous and pained and sad on so many different levels that he can't begin to understand, yet still so mature and controlled.
"It was Alex," she whispers, taking a deep and shaking breath.
He looks at the far wall for a long moment before replying. "... I know. You wouldn't have-"
"Stop." She's close to tears, and he has no right to make her cry. He is the close friend, the confidante, the protector - but not the lover. Alex could make her cry, had taken advantage of that all too often, even in his death. But him? No. Not for him.
Vincent reaches out and touches her hair, loose now, far enough from her head that she won't notice. He takes some measure of stolen comfort from touching the silken strands. His bare fingers glide over the sheets beneath, and his mind drifts to thoughts of her smiling, the way she used to before he died.
The door opens, and Mad-thane walks in, solemn and grave as only he can be. The doctor is dismissed, and the three are left alone in silence.
David - because that is who he is behind closed doors - breaks it first. He is pragmatic always, even before his paternal instincts. "What will you do?" he asks her, coming to stand by them. "Will you keep the child?" His voice is even though his eyes are troubled. Vincent can tell that he wants to talk of it as little as they both do.
Sophia stiffens, and Vincent shoots David a dark, accusing look. Do not hurt her.
"I'm sorry, Sophia," he says, dropping to his knees as a father to a child, "but you must decide, and soon. Before word gets out."
She rolls over for the first time, looking David in the eye before shooting Vincent a confused, sad look. He reaches out a hand to touch hers, and this time, she laces her fingers with his. No gloves between them.
"I..." She looks down at herself, free hand touching her still-flat stomach. She feels warmth - her own, normal body heat, feeling just a little special for once - and shuts her eyes. In the darkness, she can feel Alex, some little bit of him lingering, hanging on to her, something saved from the wreckage of Delphine's flagship. Something she can love unconditionally just the same, preserve of him, pass on to those who never knew him. Her one last personal tie to her captain, the legacy of one night where they both let their guards down.
"I won't lose this child," she whispers after a moment, feeling new weight settling on her already bowed shoulders.
Vincent takes a deep breath.
"Then we must make plans," David says, eyes turning soft now. Sophia looks at him questioningly, and he bows his head. "We must make excuses. While the world is changing and the hearts of the people are yours for now, we must explain this child."
"Explain it as it is," she murmurs, hand squeezing Vincent's. "The child of Alex Row - the hero."
David pauses a moment, eyes widening in realization, understanding. Then he shakes his head. "No. He is no hero to the people, Sophia. You know as well as I do - the role the Silvana played cannot be told. It has wronged too many, killed too many, to become our savior. And should it become widely known that you were on board the Silvana, so close to the criminal Alex was..."
"And how could they use it against me?" she asks, almost too quickly. She understands his logic. They have been over this (in different form, of course) over and over again. She wants to venerate Alex as the savior he still remains in her eyes. He wishes they could, but can only put forth - in hushed words, at that - the Silvana as a part of the whole. The Silvana cannot be glorified, only accepted as real and present.
"You unite two very different worlds, Sophia. Your position as Empress over all of Prestale rests on the pleasure of the people. You may be a wonderful and benevolent ruler - in fact, I have no doubt that you are and will continue to be - but you still signify the absolute monarchy your father honed into a deadly force against his nation. The moment you falter, Disith and Anatoray might split once more. Now is a time for strong, united leadership - the Blue Planet beckons, but it is unsettled and raw. We possess only one way to reach it. To put that up to division..."
"I understand," she murmurs, sighing. "Then what do you suggest we do? Immaculate conception?" Her voice is derisive as she mentions long-lost tales of gods and messiahs. "Is that what we do?"
"Of course not." He glances over at Vincent. "I propose... a marriage of convenience."
Vincent meets David's eyes with a look of confusion, then dawning comprehension and fear. "No, David," he murmurs, feeling Sophia's hand turning to stone in his. I will not force her to do this. "She will not marry any of Nestor's sons, the Disith heirs." But the words are empty, spoken only to prolong the inevitable.
"Of course not," David says, slowly. "No, because their leaders are not hereditary in the least. That would be foolish, pointless; it would explain nothing. The courtship would take too long, the negotiations would be tedious at best. There may be a better match, however."
Sophia sits up abruptly, and Vincent almost leaps to push her back down. She needs her rest. But she forces him away, sitting up and starring down at David with hard, jade eyes. "And just what do you have in mind, then?"
"Marry the head of our military," he says quietly, glancing at Vincent. "You two have known each other for so long, and are so closely linked now in public opinion, that it would make sense. The people would applaud it. And it would solve our problem."
She looks at David for a long time in silence, then meets Vincent's eyes. He looks away, unable to keep her gaze. His heart is trying to leap and jump and skip for joy, but he knows he cannot let it show. No, Sophia is unhappy - that he cannot have. He will never punish her for the sake of his own happiness.
She is taking in the lines of his face now, thinking. She thinks so much these days, spends so much time musing over political machinations. Even as the beloved "protector" of the people (though her true role is unknown and will probably remain so for years), she still has to fight for her position. The people are afraid of a powerful ruler after so long, but the nobility is too corrupt to give senatorial power to just yet. She walks a careful line, balancing public and private opinions. And now she considers a marriage of convenience with a quiet gravity far beyond her years.
Vincent is not the man she loves. He may grow to be so, but not for many, many years of healing and living. But he is kind and sweet and he cares for her deeply. She knows this with unfailing certainty. He would make a good husband and a good father (though perhaps a rash and bold Emperor). But she fears letting him in.
Still, these past weeks she has learned that to take up the mantle of leader means to suffer, to suffer more and deeper than any can know. Her deepest desire is now to protect her people, and if their protection requires she suffer, then she will.
Their wedding is held as soon as is possible. It is met with as little fanfare as she can arrange (which is to say, only a step below what her father's wedding must have been). She wishes there had been more courtship, false though it would have been. Her head is still spinning with fear and emotion and every bit of her yearns for the world to just stop turning. She wants rest. And a little part of her whispers that this is just the beginning, that this is the short-lived happiness won after the battle.
But as long as she is dressed in white and veiled and beautiful, she keeps her composure. She looks Vincent in the eye when they say their vows, feels his gloved hands against hers, knows his chivalrous streak sings at the chance to protect her just this little bit more. Her voice is steady as she promises to love and cherish him always, and her fingers only tremble slightly when he slides the ring onto her thin finger.
When he kneels before her and kisses her hand as gently as he can, her legs tremble and she feels faint. This is irrevocable, unchangeable, but every bit as necessary as putting herself at the head of the Anatoray-Disith alliance. Her heart thuds to imagined beats of war drums as he leads her from the large, open platform where she had been crowned Empress. They descend the endless steps, and every time she feels as if she is about to fall, he braces her with as much care as he can. They make it down together, walking silently and solemnly, her veil and overdress trailing behind them, his ceremonial sword glinting in the sun. She jerks slightly when the ships above begin firing celebratory broadsides. Vincent puts gentle pressure on the hand he still holds.
The crowds of cheering citizens are waiting for them when they return to the palace proper, and she ascends to the main balcony with Vincent beside her, now as husband in place of military advisor. Between the two of them, they give a carefully orchestrated speech. The cries of adoration roll over them. And then comes the feast and festival, the celebration stretching though all the city, through all the world. She sits beside her husband at the head of a table holding noble and commoner alike. A few of her crewmates are there, offering quiet congratulations. Winna eyes her with something akin to concern and wonderment, that her superior would marry so soon after the death of their captain. Campbell is supportive but quiet. When they are all together like this - and it has been very rare over the past weeks - their grief intensifies to the point where their mouths are sealed shut and they can barely raise their eyes to each other.
She can see them sitting along the sides of the table, the people she's known for years and years. And she thinks, as she looks into Tatianna's accusing eyes, that she has somehow betrayed them all. She thinks they must resent her for some reason even they're not sure of. Traitor to the memory of their captain, perhaps. What was once a hopeless crush they all understood and perhaps even joked about is now a sacred memory, and for her to do this-
But Vincent is touching her hand gently once more, and she knows her eyes are beginning to fog with tears again. She glances over at him and smiles faintly behind her veil.
By the time the celebrations end, the sky has grown dark and overcast. She can barely stand without the world spinning (more from stress than anything physical this time), and Vincent and David both help her back into the deep recesses of the palace. David wants to talk about the future, but she doesn't, and Vincent asks him quietly to leave. When they are alone, he helps her from her veil and overdress, but leaves her to change on her own. There are two separate beds for now, set apart. In time, perhaps, they will sleep beside one another. But now Sophia needs her solitude when she sleeps.
Before she can fall into dreams (because of her nightmares, Vincent doesn't know just yet), though, they sit in the window together. He brushes her hair carefully, and she sits against him as a doll against a stand. Hesitantly, he takes a chance to wrap an arm around her, comfortingly. He does nothing further, except allow her to collapse against him in a pile of tears and whispers.
When she has cried for what seems like hours to Vincent's pained mind, she finally drifts into quiet sleep. He watches her, illuminated by the moonlight streaming in through the glass. He thinks on captains and executive officers, war and love, coffee and stars and wind and air and hearts. He has his ideas about what happened. He thinks, believes quite sincerely, that first of all, Alex had been drunk. It wasn't something out of the ordinary those days, and something Sophia would have been used to. And Alex would have been exhausted and strained and drunk and maybe, just maybe, Sophia had taken off her glasses or cast a stray glance behind her or walked a certain way. It had triggered something in his friend, and Alex had seen not Sophia, not the wonderful woman that served him and helped him, but a wavering ghost. Something ephemeral and fleeting had possessed him, and Sophia had let him pull her close without protest, even when he whispered 'Euris' against her skin. And Vincent is sure that that was what had happened - because he can't let himself believe for a moment that Alex had truly loved her, had cherished her the way she deserved to be cherished, had even called her by her name when he was laying the groundwork for so much pain.
Because if he had, then Vincent can never, never measure up.
It is unfair of Vincent to vilify Alex like this, but he can't help it. His knightly honor blinds him, and he can only see Sophia now as a damsel in distress, a fair maiden that needs to be held and rescued and told that everything will be all right. And what Alex has done is unforgivable, even if unintentional. So Vincent holds a grudge against him, even as he wishes they had had more time to get to know one another again, after all the years had passed. There are so many cups of coffee that could have been and now will grow cold because Alex went off and died too early. And really, that's it - Alex died too early and Vincent resents him for that, too. It is selfish, he knows. But Alex was his friend and his comrade and his rival and his brother, on some level. And so for leaving too soon because of revenge for young love, and for hurting the woman they both care for in some way, he hates and loves Alex all at the same time.
Sophia is sleeping peacefully for the time being, and he strokes her hair and her cheek and wishes, wishes desperately that somehow this could have happened under happier circumstances. He wishes that she could love him as he loves her, without Alex's memory and future troubles complicating everything. He wishes that her father had never put her aboard Alex's ship, and that somehow, the Guild could somehow have still been brought down, and that he could have, afterwards, carried her away to some faraway place where they could be together and she would never have had to know pain.
He has seen her grow up, seen her turn from a quiet, grave little girl into a strong woman, mature beyond her years. Marius always kept him informed, kept him tethered as his right-hand man. He had watched Marius take her under his wing, protect her from her madman of a father. When her father had confined her solely to the palace, Marius had made her a swing in the garden. When her father had taken that swing away, he had taught her to make little birds from paper, birds that could catch the wind and soar away like she would never do.
And when she had entered military academy, he had watched her carefully, kept track of her progress. He knew that Marius had some sort of plan, some plan that the madman approved of. He had worried. But then he had been sent away to find men Marius trusted and do the sneaky sort of work he didn't quite like, and he had lost her. She had disappeared off the face of the world, and when he asked Marius, he only received a small, knowing smile in return.
He hadn't known she was aboard the Silvana. Marius never mentioned it, and Vincent understood why. If he had known, he would never have fired on Alex. Duty can only push him so far, and even if ordered by Marius himself, he is certain he would never have hurt her. He barely knew her at the time, true, except from short tea times Marius held between the three of them (coffee would have been better) when she was younger, but he was already thoroughly enchanted. She was the princess he would protect and save, come hell or high water.
And he got his chance, rescuing her from certain death just in the nick of time, and helping her claim her rightful place as Empress after Marius sacrificed his life to kill her father. He stayed close and rallied the army behind her, made sure she was secure. He even tried to carry her away from danger, literally, when Delphine's flagship had hovered above her coronation, when that rain of blood-red petals had covered everything.
But she was strong and willful and she wanted to return to Alex. He was shocked when he first realized that that was where she had been all along, by Alex's side. He wanted her safe, and Alex was decidedly not. In the end, though, it was Alex who saved her when Delphine came knocking, not him. And though he is now the one stroking her hair and cheek, and not Alex, he knows that he can never be her knight in shining armor (or shining, nicely pressed dress uniform, at any rate). Alex holds that distinction quite clearly.
The night is half old when he carefully shifts, lifting her in his arms (she's losing weight and it worries him) and carrying her to her small bed. He tucks her in, watches as she turns away from him and curls up. He is still thinking of Alex and Sophia and coffee and love and every bit of her he cannot hope to fully understand or have. He is still thinking of all that when the sun rises and she rises and they have breakfast and coffee together in silence.
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Date: 2007-02-22 02:31 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-02-22 02:32 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-02-22 03:59 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-02-22 03:59 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-02-22 04:04 pm (UTC)By the way, spotted a typo in the third-from-last paragraph: "...when that rain of blood-red petals and covered everything."
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Date: 2007-02-23 12:05 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-02-23 03:53 pm (UTC)Also, is it just me, but wouldn't the best way to unify two disparate bodies be by joining them? Hell, look at the EU and Greece/Turkey, or even the Six-Party Talks. I dunno. I see how you needed this, but a Sophia/Vincent marriage seems like it'd be more useful to quell disputing people within Anatoray.
I know this is all either plot or infrastructural, but just my $0.02. I'll try to suspend my disbelief. :-P
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Date: 2007-02-24 01:59 am (UTC)Plus... just WHO would she marry in Disith? Tell me. :P Nestor? No. Then who?
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Date: 2007-02-24 02:00 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-02-27 11:42 am (UTC)