Chapter Text
The sky looks so much bluer from this side of the window, Larsa thinks wryly, staring absentmindedly. A sharp rap on the desk next to his knuckles brings his attention back to his current lesson, much to his disappointment. His tutor, a severe woman that rather dauntingly looks like a Zu, glares sharply down at him.
“Shall I repeat the question, your highness?” she asks dryly.
“My sincerest apologies that made you believe that my fullest attention was not with you,” Larsa replies smoothly. “But there is no need.”
Professor Zu raises an eyebrow. “And the answer is…?”
Larsa remembers the questions well, even if he had been daydreaming. Why did the Empire succeed in conquering Dalmasca? He’d gotten good at thinking of other things and hearing what people said to him at the same time. If it had been truly important, his full attention would have on the conversation at hand, but tedious history lessons that he had already read about on his own years ago are not one of them.
“The Dalmascans lost the war two years ago because they lacked sufficient manpower and adequate weaponry.” Larsa thinks of all the airships and aircars and airtanks that had been shipped off to Rabanastre, all of the bombs and guns and men. He wonders about the ones who didn’t return, and he feels a sense of protectiveness towards his people, a sense of disapproving irritation towards the savage Rabanastrans. “The Empire had superior tactics and machinery, so threatening the city to surrender was easily done.”
Zu narrows her eyes. Larsa leans back in his chair, sensing a challenge rising in her, one he will easily meet. He’s been spoon-fed this talk since an early age. The Empire is superior. Submit to the Empire and find true glory.
“However…?” his tutor presses for more. Uncomfortably, Larsa shifts in his plush chair, tapping his fingers on the table. Here is where the theory doesn’t make much sense.
“However,” he continues slowly, “the Rabanastrans still resist Archadian rule.”
Zu nods. “But it is only a matter of time before they accept our protection and come to adopt our ways. And then the Empire will flourish.”
“Yes,” Larsa says distantly, feeling his eyes slide out back towards the window and the sky. It doesn’t look nearly as blue as before, but rather the steely gray weather that Archadia often saw. Larsa wonders what the skies in Rabanastre look like. “Such flourishment as Ivalice has never seen.”
“A ship to Bhujerba?” Larsa asks his bodyguard, a bit surprised. Gabranth nods, his stony gaze concealed by his sunglasses. Larsa frowns, pleased but puzzled. “And to what do I owe this joyous opportunity?”
“His majesty believes it best if you take a tour of the city and become acquainted with both it and Marquis Ondore,” Gabranth rumbles monotonously. Larsa crosses his fingers, thoughts quickly racing over the possibilities and reasons for this seemingly innocent trip.
Larsa’s father was not wont to send his youngest son on any trip for any simple reason. Larsa's mind needn't wander far to come up with one potential reason. Making connections at such a young age, where most believed him to be a naïve and easily swayable fifteen year old, could prove beneficial in later years and a possible reason. The Marquis would prove a valuable friend if Larsa could manage to charm him, which he has no doubts about accomplishing. Vayne is not the only prince that can ooze charm like some sort of diplomatic Flan.
But that can’t be the only reason. His father loves him very much, of that Larsa is positive -- but house Solidor is known for its schemes and plans. Larsa is sure that there’s an ulterior motive lurking somewhere in there. Perhaps sniffing out treachery from the slippery Marquis? Or assuring his father that the mines sent out only the purest magicite to fuel the aircars and automatic spellcasters and guns? Larsa sighs, leaning back in his chair and observing his gloved hands, the papers on his desk to be used for studying, and finally the reflection of the sky outside on Gabranth’s sunglasses. The clouds distantly move, soft and unconcerned. How Larsa envies them of their freedom.
In that instant, the beginning of a scheme that could rival his father’s and brother’s begins to form in his mind. Oh, it would cause trouble and a grand hullabaloo, of that he is sure. It took all of his self-control not to allow a wicked grin to spread across his face.
Well, his father may want to use him for some ulterior motive, but Larsa is keen on using the trip for his own ideas.
“How soon do we leave, Gabranth?”
The ship is a thing of beauty and grace, sprawling across the port with a golden gleam shining where the weak sunlight hit. Larsa breathes in the air, shouldering his private bag higher, before stepping onto the boarding walkway. The metal clunks pleasantly beneath his boots, but the sound of guards saluting and cocking their guns as he walks by is not so pleasing to his ears. Larsa wishes they could be less… Less conspicuous and looming. The feeling of having his already small stature further enforced in his mind’s eye does not make him all that happy.
The inside of the ship is plush and… Decidely too red. It makes him feel as if he’s living in a stomach, or inside the mouth of some giant creature. His shudders his distaste away, brushing off a questioning glance from Gabranth. He doesn’t want to make his overly serious body guard too concerned about himself -- it would only make his plan harder to enact. He gives a small smile to Gabranth, hands hanging straight by his sides. Gabranth stares stonily at him for a small moment before inclining his head slightly, which Larsa recognizes as the man’s own form of acknowledgement. Larsa’s quite fond of the burly bodyguard, and for a second feels vaguely guilty about the consequences Gabranth is sure to face after Larsa completes his plan. But only for a second, and then the two are moving on to the interior of the ship.
Larsa spends the majority of the ride in his own room, sorting through papers detailing the trade and economy of Bhujerba. Most of the documents he’s already read, but Larsa thinks it wise to refresh his memories. It will be his first time to the city for a long while, and he’s a little unsure of himself. He specifically pays attention to the maps, careful to not spend any more time on them than any other document lest he should raise Gabranth’s suspicions. By the time he feels that he has sufficiently memorized the entire layout, a servant is knocking to bring in lunch.
Larsa thanks the servant kindly, hiding a smile at her surprised blush. It’s a pity nobility don’t treat servants with more etiquette when it warms the heart so pleasing others.
As Larsa begins his meal, he addresses Gabranth behind him. “How much longer till Bhujerba?” he inquires, making small talk. Larsa understands that his guard prefers using less words, but sometimes silence become too tedious even for him.
“Perhaps another several hours, your grace.”
“Several?” Larsa sighs, laying down his fork and lifting his wineglass, swirling it around. “I’m afraid I can’t bear the boredom. What am I to do? Critique the curtains?” He flourishes his hand, pointing out the hideous drapes in question.
Gabranth doesn’t smile, but he says seriously, “I could look for some duke or duchess on board for you to acquaint yourself with, if you so wish to relieve yourself of boredom, my liege.”
Larsa positively chokes on his wine, dreading the idea. Gracious, the hounds would be planning his marriage with some daughter or another within minutes, all the while making thinly veiled insults upon his family and heritage. Larsa would rather throw himself out the window of the ship, or shoot himself with Gabranth’s gun.
At Gabranth’s resigned look, Larsa laughs. “I’m perfectly fine here, Gabranth. You know, I actually do find these curtains perfectly interesting.” He stands up to finger the red horrors. “Look at all of this fringe. Isn’t it…” Larsa searches for the word while Gabranth comes over to stare at the curtain as well. “Droll?” Larsa proposes.
“If the curtains do not suffice, your grace, than we can practice your hand-to-hand training,” Gabranth suggests, his lips not twitching an inch.
“I hope you jest, Gabranth,” Larsa says gloomily, peering up at the looming figure. It’s not that Larsa is bad at fighting, but rather he doesn’t effortlessly perfect it like everything else, which can be frustrating. He works hard, though, to impress his brother and father.
Also, there’s the fact that Larsa abhors needless violence. He would much rather practice his white magick than hand-to-hand. Or even sword fighting. Who even fights with swords nowadays, anyways?
A Solidor should always be prepared, Vayne had once told him. A Solidor has every card up his sleeve, and even then a few more surprises.
Larsa hadn’t understood, at the time, but now he does. Vayne is always prepared for anything, always unflappable. It’s a point of awe for Larsa, a model for him to follow after, even as he crosses into adulthood. Larsa wishes he could be more like his brother. At the same time, Larsa feels it dangerous to be so perfect. There has to be at least one flaw somewhere, no matter how detestable the idea should be.
“Brothers are mysterious, are they not, Gabranth?” Larsa muses. Gabranth doesn’t answer, but the man is obviously uncomfortable. Larsa looks back and is startled to see neck tendons standing out on his neck. Gabranth takes a deep breath, as if to steady himself, before nodding sharply. “Yes, my lord.” Larsa stares at his bodyguard, too surprised to even think of propriety in this instant. Gabranth’s jaw tightens, and Larsa realizes that he must be embarrassed by his sudden loss of emotional neutrality. The younger quickly turns back to the window, observing the island growing gradually larger.
Larsa is positively intrigued.
There’s a mystery here, one that the loyal bodyguard will be reluctant to share. Larsa knows it’s none of his business, of course, but that can’t stop his insatiable curiosity. Finally, a novelty in my life, Larsa thinks, wheels already turning in his head. He knows better to press the issue further, though, and instead says, “I think we shall hold off on practicing. My pride has still not quite recovered from the last time we sparred.”
Gabranth’s rumbling voice answers him stonily, as emotionless as before his slip-up. “Of course, lord Larsa,” is all he says.
My wish is his pleasure, Larsa muses, almost bitterly. He looks past the curtains to the window that extends across the entire wall, staring into the sky. His heart tugs somewhere, anywhere besides this stifling ship and the idea of his every desire being fulfilled. Where is the fun in that? Larsa wonders. The adventure?
A knock at the door interrupts his musings, and Larsa gives an inquiring glance to Gabranth. The bodyguard shrugs slightly before strolling over to the door and opening it, hand on his gun. In spills a nobleman traveling to Bhujerba on imperial business, his wife and daughter. Larsa smothers his groan to put on a smile; he recognizes that scheming glint in their eyes, and knows what’s in store for him: house alliances, marriage proposals, trading, and probably subtle jabs at his family history.
The trip to Bhujerba is proving very tedious indeed.
Larsa can’t quite describe his relief when he feels the airship shuddering, signifying their arrival to Bhujerba. In the distance, Larsa can see the majestic city floating in the air, planes and airships soaring around it, the few aircars hovering around the airways cleverly built by Moogles. Larsa turns back to his guests, who had multiplied over the last several hours, and (gleefully) apologizes that he’s very sorry, but he must excuse himself to prepare for docking. The nobles practically fall over themselves to wish him good health before leaving, but first they must remind him of their eligible daughters.
Larsa slumps in a chair when the last one leaves. Gabranth makes no comment, but Larsa knows the solemn man is sympathetic to his plight. Finally, Larsa compels himself to change into something more fitting of meeting the Marquis, shoving more practical clothes into his bag for later. A servant soon comes by to tell them they’d docked.
Larsa smoothes out his three piece suit dismally, shooting a look at Gabranth.
“Well, this is as good as it’s going to get, I’m afraid,” Larsa tells him. Gabranth doesn’t answer, merely opening the door for the young prince. Larsa sighs dramatically before slipping out into the hallway, his feet hardly making a sound on the plush, Dalmascan carpets.
As he enters the Aerodome of Bhujerba, he tries hard not to crane his neck to look at the people and the wares in there. The ceiling overhead looms, amplifying the sound of the crowd and the multitudes of voices. The Bhujerbans mill about, heading for far away cities, selling their wares to new passengers, or saying greetings to loved ones. They make wide berth for the incoming Archadians, Larsa notices, and a hush descends on those near them, their eyes glittering as they silently watch the pale foreigners. Larsa can’t help but frown slightly at the reaction; for sound allies, they are quite suspicious of the Archadians.
Gabranth gently ushers him to the entrance, and it’s difficult to restrain himself from eyeing all the wares and trinkets sold right outside the entrance. An aircar waits for the two, comfortably cool inside compared to the warmth of the Bhujerban air. Larsa idly wonders why the floating city is so humid when it floats so high up. The aircar ascends, people milling about on the ground level of the city becoming smaller. Different walkways trailing along the sides of buildings come to their level, a lane mostly reserved for taxis and aircars. Along these levels, people chat on the verandas and walkways, leaning against the railing carelessly; Larsa casually wonders what would happen if that railing were to break, allowing the citizens to spiral down into a messy death.
Suddenly, Larsa feels himself being thrown forward in his seat. The aircar swerves, nearly crashing into the next lane. He can hear the driver shouting in surprise, and Gabranth even gives a startled grunt. Within seconds, Larsa jumps eagerly out of the car to investigate, hopping onto the walkway next to the airlane. Gabranth makes a noise of protest, but follows.
In front of him, Larsa sees the driver on the side-platform arguing with a kid on an airscooter hovering next to it. His skin is dark as a nut, with white blonde hair, a fierce frown, and he argues energetically.
“I had the right away! What the heck are you thinking?” the boy asks crossly, rubbing his elbow. Larsa notes with some surprise his accent isn’t Bhujerban. It sounds more like… Larsa frowns as he tries to place it.
“The Marquis is expecting – “ the driver begins, but the blonde boy cuts him off irritably.
“To hell with the Marquis, if he can’t even expect his citizens to follow the damn traffic laws!” The boy huffs, revving his scooter’s engine. Gabranth has turned his attention to the boy, hand discreetly on his gun holster. Larsa glances casually around himself, heart quickening as he wonders if this is his chance. A few feet away, Larsa can see an alleyway with stairs leading down to the ground lanes, mostly designated for pedestrians. Slyly, he peeps back at Gabranth, who takes a step towards the still arguing boy.
“I think it’d be in your best interest to forget this and continue on your way,” Gabranth starts. Slowly, Larsa steps back, towards the mouth of the alley. It’s almost too good to be true when Gabranth doesn’t turn around. Fortunately, the foreign boy is either stupid enough or courageous enough to turn smartly towards Gabranth, continuing to argue. Larsa thanks the boy silently, and then slips away from Gabranth, the driver, the stranger, and his responsibilities.
Off he goes, quietly fleeing down the stairs. Once on the ground floor, he’s a bit out of breath, but he spots a public restroom for him to change into more suitable clothes. He takes out his earring with the tracking device in it, discarding it in the toilet to flush it away. He wishes he didn’t have to do that, and could instead dispel any tracking charms on it, but the damn thing had been warded in case he had been kidnapped. Well, Larsa thinks, amused. I suppose I have been. Except, I am my own kidnapper.
He goes out the bathroom window, just to make the trail harder for Gabranth to follow. He doesn’t wish for his adventure to be curtailed any sooner than it needs to be. Larsa stifles any guilt he feels, reasoning that he’s been deserving a break for a while now; even Gabranth had cautiously suggested so previously. Perhaps this isn’t really the break the taciturn guard had in mind, though. Oh, Larsa hopes he won’t get into too much trouble. Vayne would find it funny, actually, and would probably tease Gabranth for weeks.
Larsa glances over his shoulder, making sure no one pursued him. Seeing no agitated judge brandishing a gun and sunglasses behind him, Larsa feels his face break into a grin. Whistling, he sets about exploring the large city of Bhujerba.
The city is so alive. Larsa’s restriction to the upper grounds of Archades never prepared him for the intensity of a city market. The Bhujerbans haggle, laugh, elbow, argue, and barter everywhere he turns. He stops at one shop to observe Magicks, at another for weapons. All sorts of equipment line the walls of the dim shop, from tiny knives magicked to cut through any material like butter to impressive guns glimmering dangerously, their bullets charmed to cause silence. He stares in awe at the assortment displayed before him, an almost boyish sense of glee overwhelming him. As long as he doesn't have to use it, he reasons. They just look cool. He buys himself a dagger, just for safety’s sake, of course. When he hands the merchant a gold gil, he earns himself a strange look.
“I apologize most sincerely, is this not the correct amount?” Larsa asks politely. Maybe a little too politely.
“No, no,” the merchant reassures him. “Perfect amount. Er, how will you be wanting your change, sir?”
Larsa frowns; has his demeanor already given his status away? Well, better to be a wealthy noble than a prince of the Empire, he supposes.
“Any way is fine,” he replies. The merchant smiles weakly, then goes about scraping enough gil together to hand back. He thanks Larsa for his patronage, and mentions that just maybe, he should try breaking his gold gils somewhere else, thank you very much. Larsa’s not too affronted by the man’s ire, and wanders back out into the stifling air, his hip now supporting the weight of his new dagger.
As he stops to peer at each of the stalls, he begins to notice someone following him. But when he turns to look, he sees no one. It can’t possibly be Gabranth. The man would simply charge through the crowd, terrifying the living daylights out of each citizen with his looming figure and pristine uniform, his stoic face all the more scary because Larsa understands the quiet simmering anger lingering beneath his sunglasses.
If not Gabranth, then who? And why?
Larsa’s beginning to understand that perhaps flaunting his money like that wasn’t the best idea. He hadn’t realized before that a gold gil was worth so much, and that the people here were unusually conscientious of his money. He saw the way the people in the shop casually slid their eyes towards his coin. Larsa feels his feet pick up a pace, and he turns an uneven corner. Best to stay within the crowd.
Of course, Larsa has been trained in self-defense. He rationalizes that he can take them in a fight. Larsa can feel a low hum in his chest, excitement coursing through his veins. A spar with Gabranth is totally different -- the damn guard overpowers Larsa within seconds, leaving him sore in both body and pride. If his shadow jumps him, Larsa is confident he can protect himself with harming the other party too much. Maybe, if he can prove his worth in battle, Gabranth and his father will allow him more freedoms.
He pushes past some people into an emptier alleyway, making up his mind. His hand is on his newly bought dagger, and he peers towards the light entrance. The entire alley seems to warp, focusing on that single place. He feels the hairs on his arm prick up, the back of his neck tingling with the faintest breeze. He’s so aware.
There’s a soft scrape from above him, and his head snaps back. He needs to shade his face, but all he can discern, when his eyes grow used to the light, is an old piece of rope. Larsa feels his body relax, and he straightens out of the defensive stance Gabranth had taught him. He can’t help but feel vaguely disappointed that he couldn’t test himself, he thinks, heading back to the market street, heart still thumping. I suppose it’s for the better –
A small body crash out of a window, barreling him to the ground. Larsa grunts in surprise, hand immediately going to his waist for his dagger. There’s a feral snarl from his attacker, and a boot slams down on his hand. Larsa gasps, feels the blood drain from his face. He hears cracking, and there’s pain shooting through his arm. But the pain pushes through his muddled surprise and confusion: Larsa suddenly realizes how extremely foolish he was.
These people in Bhujerba haven’t been trained officially, and aren’t learned in the prim, proper fighting of Archadian nobility. These people are hungry and poor and vicious, and they don’t follow the code of chivalry he has grown up with. Larsa realizes he’ll have to fight dirty.
He bites the hand closest to his mouth, eliciting a growl from his perpetrator. They snatch it back, shifting their weight just enough to allow Larsa to reach for his dagger with his good hand. He sends a quick thank you to Gabranth for making him drill exercises with both hands until he was practically ambidextrous, then swings at the other. A boy around his age scuffles back, rags hanging off of his thin, starving body. Larsa’s struck by the image of poverty, and he stills, shocked at the filth this boy his own age lives in.
The boy snarls, hunching his body up, before pulling out his own weapon – a glass bottle that’s been broken. Larsa takes a step back as it’s swung. He retaliates by grabbing the boy’s arm and bringing his knee up into the solar plexus. The boy gasps, the air shunted from his lungs, before collapsing.
Easy, Larsa thinks dully. I guess I’ve proven myself. Proven myself against a starving boy my own age. That could have been me. The realization hits him harder than the pain in his hand, which he has cradled up to himself. He stares at the gasping boy, who’s glaring at him. Larsa takes a coin out of his pocket and kneels beside the boy.
“You could have just asked,” Larsa whispers sadly. The boy’s eyes flick to the coin, and then back to his face, and Larsa’s surprised by the venom in his eyes. The boy, holding his stomach and still gasping, snatches up the coin and scurries away. Larsa looks after him for a few seconds before standing back up to merge back into the marketplace.
“Wow, that was pretty impressive,” a voice says behind him. He swings around suddenly, hand tightening on his dagger. He recognizes the accent but not the person’s voice. They’re definitely not Archadian or Bhujerban. “Calm down!” comes the voice again. He can’t find whoever it is, but they’re close. “Is that anyway to thank the person who was going to help you?”
Larsa flicks his eyes around, searching. She – and it is most definitely a she from the high pitched voice – has to be nearby. But he can’t find her anywhere.
“Depends on how trustworthy my would-be savior is to be,” he responds. “How am I supposed to thank her properly when she is so difficult to find?”
There’s a tinkling of laughter. “Whoops!” he hears. “Sorry, I forgot the magick was still up.” There’s the sizzling of magick, whispering over his skin like feathers. Then beside him there’s the outline of a person coming into view. A girl – a few years older than him, he judges – fades into view. Her skin is dark, made darker from days kissed by the sun, glowing like polished mahogany. Her pale blonde hair contrasts strongly to brown skin and the yellow of her tight t-shirt and blue overalls. She’s smiling broadly at him, gray-blue eyes blinking.
“Heya,” she says by way of greeting, her hand coming up to give a little wave. “I’m Penelo.”