AN: This is a collection of short fics I've written over the last few months. They were all over at my lj, except the last one, which is an exclusive for this collection. I feel so pretentious for saying that. These aren't the best quality, but they were written with heart, and that's what counts! Anyway, the plots, in order, deal with Nino, Priscilla, Legault/Heath, Legault/Heath again, the Lords, and a very special character named Nutella Franchesca Smith. Enjoy them. More will be forthcoming once I built up another cache.
SECRET BOOK
THE WHITE FANG
She came apon them quietly. There was no shock at all. As time passed, people gradually got used to the pale, cheerful little girl with puppy-dog eyes.
At first she was a joke. Nobody, least of all the brothers Reed, could believe that Sonia (the Queen Bitch, they called her behind her back, although in those days she wasn't quite so bad) could have raised such a naive daughter.
Nino believed in the Fang. Her whole heart went into the organization; eventually they realized it was probably the most noble thing she'd ever been exposed to, and she devoted herself to it. She swore the oaths. Lloyd thought it was crazy, a little girl striking her palm with a dagger and vowing to uphold justice in the world at the cost of as many lives as necessary. Ursula laughed out loud during the ceremony but felt sorry afterwards and healed the scar.
Since not one among them wanted her working as an assassin, she became an errand girl. Not that the job didn't require some skill of its own. If she had inherited nothing else from her mother, no-one could best Nino at the mage arts. Soon she was a familiar sight; a smile on her face, a huge tome dusty tome of magic at her side.
Once, laughingly, Linus called her the White Fang. The nickname stuck.
They didn't tell her when Nergal became the power behind the organization. They didn't tell her when Legault was ordered to kill Aisha, when Uhai was taken aside and told that he would obey Sonia directly if he knew what was good for him, when Jaffar went out at night and killed a wife or child to spread healthy respect among the nobility. They pretended, for Nino's sake, that the Fang was as it had always been.
Because really, that was part of the justice they were upholding.
PRACTICAL
Priscilla comes across Rath on the outskirts of the camp one night, as she takes in the pleasant breeze off the lake nearby. He's sitting cross-legged, chewing on a piece of dried meat, staring deep into the embers of a dying fire.
She doesn't know him very well. They've never fought close on the field, and they have very little in common. To be honest, she's not sure what to think of the Sacaens; they're not like people where she comes from, cultivating smiles and pleasant conversation to hide what they feel.
"What are you eating?" she asks, not taking the liberty of sitting down where she is quite possibly not wanted.
Rath turns his gaze on her. It's slightly unsettling. There are few people in the world, she thinks, who could handle the scrutiny of those eyes.
"My horse." He swallows, then speaks again. "She died last week."
Priscilla's teeth come down on her tongue. "I see. I'm... sorry. Did you have him for very long?"
Silence for a moment. "Since she was a foal." Rath stares harder, as if testing her. In the darkened firelight his meal gleams where his mouth has touched it.
"...You can try some."
She bends down and takes it.
"It's good," she says, after the warm meat has lodged in her stomach. The breeze turns colder. Eventually she heads back to her tent, goosepimples forming along the length of her arms.
Two weeks later her own horse dies. She doesn't cry, but she doesn't eat him, either.
TOO LATE
Legault, when he meets Heath, tries to avoid forming an attachment.
He feels vaguely guilty for it, like one of those melodramatic assassins who pretend they know nothing of love. Legault isn't an emotional cripple. He's proven that to himself over and over; with the Reed family, with Nino, with Uhai, with Ursula, with Aisha.
Most of those people are dead now. His capacity for love has taken a lot of damage. Right now, anyway, he needs to take a break from caring. Maybe when Nergal is dead he can start again. Not until then.
So he manages to ignore Heath's good looks, his brash, friendly attitude, his competence in self-defense, the idealistic streak that he maybe still shares a little of himself.
He sees Heath flying his wyvern early one morning, low to the ground, so as not to attract unwanted attention. His thighs grip the animal's back resolutely.
When he returns to the ground and dismounts, hair blow in tangles around his face, he spies Legault and, perhaps too exhilarated from his ride to really recognize him, waves. His eyes are in the sky. Inside, he is still flying.
Legault tries to look away. It's too late, his heart has leapt into his throat, there's nothing to be done about it. He is in love.
HONOUR
The mercenary life didn't suit him.
He was a knight. He didn't belong with these people, whose morals consisted of profit and personal gain, who lived their lives without a thought for a higher purpose or even the lives of those around them. They joked, and talked, and sat around a campfire like normal men, but there was no honour in them. They lived for money.
Sex with Eubans was a reflex, and gladly infrequent. It made him disgusted with himself. It was out of a desire to have some respect or at least desire for his commander. That didn't happen. Sometimes, afterwards, he would feel physically ill, longing for a bath that wasn't there.
The night he joined Eliwood's band he felt clean for the first time in a long while.
Of course he wasn't eager to do anything to destroy that. He had friends again. He had people he could talk to, people with ideals. The sense of desperation he had felt as a mercenary gradually left him. He was at peace. To ask for anything else would be foolish. He slept alone.
Legault confused him. He was too cunning, too self-interested. What he had seen of the Black Fang indicated that they didn't desert so easily. The man obviously had some sort of motive for leaving; one stronger than simply fleeing a sinking ship. Even so, as much as he looked (and he did look, more than necessary, more than he would have liked), there was nothing there except a smirk and dispassionate eye.
One day Legault almost died protecting Rebecca. It wasn't particularly dramatic. Heath was watching as he sped forward, pushed her to into the mud on the field, and promptly got a spear in the stomach for his trouble. He spent the rest of the battle with Serra, who managed somehow to pull his guts back into proper working order.
Later Heath asked him why he had done it. He didn't even know Rebecca.
"She reminds me of a girl in the Fang," he said. "Besides... life isn't any fun if you're only living it for yourself."
That night, he waited awkwardly on Legault's bed, and didn't leave until morning.
AS THE HART LONGETH
There has been a battle. They have won.
No other statement has quite the same effect, or explains so much of the festivities taking place in their makeshift camp on the Dread Isle. Wine flows like water. Laughter and merriment echo through the dark hills. A good time is had by all.
Lord Eliwood and Lady Lyndis sit together, in companionable silence, some distance away from the noise of the nearest bonfire. The latter is nursing a mug of Etrutrian ale. The former is staring across the flames as Hector lifts up girls on a board.
This is something he learned to do in school. Hector was known for being an awkward dancer, so the daughters of nobility from the nearby finishing school avoided him at balls. He found ways to keep himself otherwise amused during these engagements. One of them was to hoist benches (occupied by girls who weren't dancing either) onto his shoulders and carry them around the ballroom. This got him into trouble.
(Sometimes, when Hector had been politely shown the door for exhibiting this 'talent' so often, Eliwood found him outside staring grimly at the hall door. He turned to Eliwood, cleared his throat, and extended a hand. "Let's dance."
"I... I don't know how to follow," he had replied dumbly.
Hector shrugged. "I'll follow, then. I'm no good at these things anyway."
They had danced several sets together. They only stopped when Hector noticed that Eliwood's hands were getting cold and sent him inside.)
Now, using a length of wood taken from Merlinus' tent, he is lifting several army members above his head. The girls- or mostly girls, Lucius is quite drunk and has apparently agreed to be a part of this spectacle- laugh and clutch the edges for dear life.
Hector's face is bright with sweat. He looks proud, even of such a small thing.
"Do you mind," Lyn asks quietly by his side, "if I speak my thoughts? I don't want to offend you."
Eliwood shakes his head. "No, not at all."
Lyn smiles sheepishly and looks him in the eye. Eliwood has to turn around to meet her gaze. As he does, he realizes that he has been staring at Hector for so long he can see him even without looking. He closes his eyes briefly, trying to burn that image into his memory.
"I... I used to envy you your sense of duty," starts Lyn. She takes another sip of her drink and shudders a little as it runs down her throat. "I would do anything for my grandfather, but it's not the same. You're devoted to your family, your house, Pherae... all of Lycia. I still do find that admirable. But all the same..."
Her voice takes on a dreamy quality, as it usually does when she speaks of Sacae. "I miss the plains. I miss the wild stretches of grass where my village would ride. I long for them... and although my heart keeps me in Caelin, it also calls me back to my home. I know you also have... things that you wish for."
(Eliwood follows her gaze to the other side of the fire, where Hector is laughing and drinking half a wine bottle in one go. He wipes his mouth with a the back of his hand. Eliwood bites his lip hard.)
"There's a difference between us. One day, my duty will give way to my own desires. Then I will return to Sacae." She pauses for a moment, apparently deep in thought. "I do not think that there will ever be such a day for you. And I pity you that."
Eliwood coughs as though smoke from the bonfire has been blown into his lungs. "Lyn, I..."
"I'm sorry." Lyn turns away, shaking her head. "I spoke rashly. In my village, we often said that drink is the mortal enemy of restraint. Please forget my words."
"No, not at all," replies Eliwood with an attempt at a gracious smile. "I only wish you wouldn't worry about me. My duty makes me very happy. I have no need of anything else." He rises from his seat. "I think I'll retire for the night. I could use a good night's sleep, after today."
(But for that night, and many nights afterwards, his sleep is restless and filled with strange dreams.)
BONUS: MARY SUE
Everyone in the army agrees that there was something strange about Nutella Franchesca Smith.
She's very beautiful, of course. Gleaming blonde hair that falls to her knees in waves, deep sea-green eyes that seem to penetrate your very soul, skin fairer and smoother than that a baby's, ecetera. Nevertheless, she's a little awkward to be around.
Maybe it's the fact that she can use Light, Dark, and Anima magic at the same time, something Canas has verified is technically impossible. Maybe it's how she keeps talking about 'computers' and 'bishies' and how everything is so 'kawaii.' Maybe it's that she claims to be the Princess of Sacae, Lycia, Erutria, and Ilia, countries which for the most part do not even have monarchies. Maybe it's how every conversation with her seems to become either a discussion as to her various merits or a heartfelt confession where she reveals her tragic past.
In any case, most people take pains to avoid her. Especially Raven.
The first time they talk, she attempts to get him interested in her. It doesn't work. The second time, she plays it cool, pretending she doesn't care about him; this results in a complete lack of conversation, because he doesn't care about her, either. Every attempt is met with complete indifference. Finally she made references to her knowledge of his background. Other than a hint of rage in the way he walks away, it too is a failure.
And then one day she walks in on Raven and Lucius making it passionately in the back of a supply tent.
Priscilla finds her on the other side of the camp, head in her hands, rocking back and forth with an expression of utter horror. "No," she chants, "Raven's not gay, he's in love with me, Raven's not gay, he's in love with me..."
"Don't worry," says Priscilla, laying a comforting hand on Nutella's shoulder. "I said the same thing, when I found out."
That's it. "BUT YOU'RE HIS SISTER!" she screams, and lights on fire, dissolving into a pile of ashes right before Priscilla's eyes.
Priscilla stares at the ashes for a few minutes, but you can't heal someone who's disintegrated. After a while she heads off to play a game of crokinole with Sain.