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Blunder
Fandom: Final Fantasy VI
Characters: Edgar
Word count: 1000
Warnings: None
Notes: GYWO yahtzee, "capable." I think I started this story in the wrong place, and I consider it a bit of a failed experiment generally, but I think the idea's fine. Maybe it's worth having another go at it sometime with better planning. Anyway, here's a teenaged Edgar having a weird one
Chancellor Bassani said, dubiously, “Sire, if you don't feel equal to the task, I can make your excuses.”
Still so strange, being called “sire” by men in their fifties – men older than Dad ever lived to be. The King of Figaro, a newly minted eighteen years old, suppressed the urge to rub at his temples, as it would send the wrong signal. He played it off as though he'd only raised his hand to adjust his hair, which he did often enough anyway – it was such an awkward length. He'd hacked most of it off the night that – well, no good thinking about it in detail; suffice it to say “the night things changed” - and it hadn't yet regrown enough to be tied back easily. “It's fine,” he said. “I'm not fragile. What'll it be, fifteen minutes? And then I can go get drunk and make myself a nuisance to women. Pardon me, Chancellor,” he said lightly, seeing the man wince, “of course I meant I'll engage in – ah, calm contemplation, or something. You know. I'll stare down soberly and beneficently while the people throw wreaths at my feet. Or whatever.” The Chancellor still looked unconvinced. Edgar put a confidential hand on his shoulder. “If I need an extraction I'll spill something on myself, how's that?”
The Empire had begged leave to send a gift on this, His Majesty's first birthday since the coronation (his first birthday without his twin) and, in all candor, his mind went a bit blank every time he had to think about it. Lucky he wasn't often called upon to be candid. Lucky his mind was commonly supposed to be empty to begin with.
“Do be careful.”
“Of course. I'll make sure I'm not standing on anything that might stain.”
“If it please Your Majesty to stop being so obtuse -”
“Your objection is noted, your concern is appreciated, and I'm going ahead. I can hardly slight such a powerful ally.”
The Empire's messenger this time had asked to make a brief appearance in the forenoon, and then “in deference to His Majesty's busy schedule” proposed to withdraw to guest quarters for the remainder of the day. He would depart the following morning for business elsewhere on the continent. Edgar wasn't quite sure how to interpret this: as a sign he was near the bottom of Gestahl's priority list? As a rebuke for failing to invite the Empire to whatever birthday festivities they presumed he was having? And without knowing what it was meant to say, he couldn't be certain how to react. It was certainly strange behavior, but what sort of response were they hoping to get? And should he give them that, or something else entirely?
(The ministers had tried to tell him who should and shouldn't be invited, and he'd said “the kingdom is in mourning” and refused every list that had any foreign dignitary on it at all. Making it blanket policy was at least more diplomatic than singling certain people out for exclusion, although probably still a blunder.
Maybe blundering sometimes was fine, in the interest of showing Gestahl he was harmless. He only wished he was enough in control to mess up on purpose.)
He shook his head. “Chancellor, what do we know about this messenger?”
“Very little, Sire. It's no one Figaro has had dealings with before, apparently a minor court functionary from Vector.”
“Hm. On a scale from one to ten, how insulted are we?”
The Chancellor hedged. “I couldn't possibly put a number -”
“Sending a nameless errand boy to pay one's compliments to an allied royal.” Edgar raised an eyebrow. “Rude, isn't it?”
“Perhaps the gift requires special handling. Perhaps this... person is the most qualified to do so.”
“What happened to the legate from before?” The legate who had withdrawn in the early months of Dad's illness – nothing suspicious there. “Not dead already, is he?”
The Chancellor frowned. “These are questions for your Chief of Intelligence, Sire, and if I may say – they're not questions for the very morning of the meeting.”
Edgar sighed, bowing his head in acknowledgment. “Right as always. I -” but he wasn't supposed to apologize for things, these days, not casually and not to a social inferior. It had implications. People had cared less about those implications when he was merely crown prince. “I appreciate your patience with me. You have my assurances I won't make the same mistake twice.” He straightened, smiling wryly. “I can't make guarantees about any other mistakes.”
He hadn't wanted to think about today – as if that could stop it from arriving. It was here now. Sabin wasn't. Nothing would be the same again.
He adjusted his hair, one more time. He checked his cufflinks. He would go be pleasant to an agent of his father's murderer; he would accept the murderer's gifts with no appearance of suspicion. He would be warm and friendly and a bit stupid (stupid wasn't hard), and he would hint at desiring a closer alliance. In the months to come there would be letters to dictate and, if all went well, only longer and more arduous meetings to broker, only finer and finer needles to thread.
Outside the reception chamber the Chancellor said, “The signal, remember. Spill something if you -”
“I remember.” Edgar clasped his hands behind his back. They'd started shaking, but this did not and could not change his resolve. Imagine if Sabin were here. Imagine if Sabin were the one who had to make nice with these bastards. Imagine the body count.
Whether or not Edgar felt equal to the task was of no import. No one else could do it. He waved off the servant offering him a drink – he had no intention of calling for help, and he wouldn't risk letting his unsteady hands betray him into it.
He made himself smile, and went in.
Characters: Edgar
Word count: 1000
Warnings: None
Notes: GYWO yahtzee, "capable." I think I started this story in the wrong place, and I consider it a bit of a failed experiment generally, but I think the idea's fine. Maybe it's worth having another go at it sometime with better planning. Anyway, here's a teenaged Edgar having a weird one
Chancellor Bassani said, dubiously, “Sire, if you don't feel equal to the task, I can make your excuses.”
Still so strange, being called “sire” by men in their fifties – men older than Dad ever lived to be. The King of Figaro, a newly minted eighteen years old, suppressed the urge to rub at his temples, as it would send the wrong signal. He played it off as though he'd only raised his hand to adjust his hair, which he did often enough anyway – it was such an awkward length. He'd hacked most of it off the night that – well, no good thinking about it in detail; suffice it to say “the night things changed” - and it hadn't yet regrown enough to be tied back easily. “It's fine,” he said. “I'm not fragile. What'll it be, fifteen minutes? And then I can go get drunk and make myself a nuisance to women. Pardon me, Chancellor,” he said lightly, seeing the man wince, “of course I meant I'll engage in – ah, calm contemplation, or something. You know. I'll stare down soberly and beneficently while the people throw wreaths at my feet. Or whatever.” The Chancellor still looked unconvinced. Edgar put a confidential hand on his shoulder. “If I need an extraction I'll spill something on myself, how's that?”
The Empire had begged leave to send a gift on this, His Majesty's first birthday since the coronation (his first birthday without his twin) and, in all candor, his mind went a bit blank every time he had to think about it. Lucky he wasn't often called upon to be candid. Lucky his mind was commonly supposed to be empty to begin with.
“Do be careful.”
“Of course. I'll make sure I'm not standing on anything that might stain.”
“If it please Your Majesty to stop being so obtuse -”
“Your objection is noted, your concern is appreciated, and I'm going ahead. I can hardly slight such a powerful ally.”
The Empire's messenger this time had asked to make a brief appearance in the forenoon, and then “in deference to His Majesty's busy schedule” proposed to withdraw to guest quarters for the remainder of the day. He would depart the following morning for business elsewhere on the continent. Edgar wasn't quite sure how to interpret this: as a sign he was near the bottom of Gestahl's priority list? As a rebuke for failing to invite the Empire to whatever birthday festivities they presumed he was having? And without knowing what it was meant to say, he couldn't be certain how to react. It was certainly strange behavior, but what sort of response were they hoping to get? And should he give them that, or something else entirely?
(The ministers had tried to tell him who should and shouldn't be invited, and he'd said “the kingdom is in mourning” and refused every list that had any foreign dignitary on it at all. Making it blanket policy was at least more diplomatic than singling certain people out for exclusion, although probably still a blunder.
Maybe blundering sometimes was fine, in the interest of showing Gestahl he was harmless. He only wished he was enough in control to mess up on purpose.)
He shook his head. “Chancellor, what do we know about this messenger?”
“Very little, Sire. It's no one Figaro has had dealings with before, apparently a minor court functionary from Vector.”
“Hm. On a scale from one to ten, how insulted are we?”
The Chancellor hedged. “I couldn't possibly put a number -”
“Sending a nameless errand boy to pay one's compliments to an allied royal.” Edgar raised an eyebrow. “Rude, isn't it?”
“Perhaps the gift requires special handling. Perhaps this... person is the most qualified to do so.”
“What happened to the legate from before?” The legate who had withdrawn in the early months of Dad's illness – nothing suspicious there. “Not dead already, is he?”
The Chancellor frowned. “These are questions for your Chief of Intelligence, Sire, and if I may say – they're not questions for the very morning of the meeting.”
Edgar sighed, bowing his head in acknowledgment. “Right as always. I -” but he wasn't supposed to apologize for things, these days, not casually and not to a social inferior. It had implications. People had cared less about those implications when he was merely crown prince. “I appreciate your patience with me. You have my assurances I won't make the same mistake twice.” He straightened, smiling wryly. “I can't make guarantees about any other mistakes.”
He hadn't wanted to think about today – as if that could stop it from arriving. It was here now. Sabin wasn't. Nothing would be the same again.
He adjusted his hair, one more time. He checked his cufflinks. He would go be pleasant to an agent of his father's murderer; he would accept the murderer's gifts with no appearance of suspicion. He would be warm and friendly and a bit stupid (stupid wasn't hard), and he would hint at desiring a closer alliance. In the months to come there would be letters to dictate and, if all went well, only longer and more arduous meetings to broker, only finer and finer needles to thread.
Outside the reception chamber the Chancellor said, “The signal, remember. Spill something if you -”
“I remember.” Edgar clasped his hands behind his back. They'd started shaking, but this did not and could not change his resolve. Imagine if Sabin were here. Imagine if Sabin were the one who had to make nice with these bastards. Imagine the body count.
Whether or not Edgar felt equal to the task was of no import. No one else could do it. He waved off the servant offering him a drink – he had no intention of calling for help, and he wouldn't risk letting his unsteady hands betray him into it.
He made himself smile, and went in.