Oneshot
“There's nothing yet has really sunk in
Looks like it always did
This flesh and bone”
-Peter Gabriel, I Grieve
---
You look in the glass and suddenly you realize that you should have never complained about having to pluck out those gray hairs. Should not have lamented the small wrinkles by your eyes and by your mouth. Should not have winced at the way your hands and wrists have grown arthritic. These things happen to everyone, and with what you've only just been told, you wish that you had the time to embrace all these changes, the normal signs of aging.
Had it been this way for your own mother when she found out? Like some cosmic force in the universe had your number all this time and only thought to let you in on the secret today? You shake your head, and you know the signs have been there for some time, but with the burdens of rule, you had no room in your schedule for appointments of this nature. The palace doctor should be more concerned with your daughter, just weeks away from giving you a grandchild, of guaranteeing that your legacy will live on even if you'll never see it with your own eyes.
The signs have been there. It wasn't just exhaustion. Thirty years on the throne have taught you that exhaustion is just a part of life and this fatigue, these dark circles under your eyes…it's not just exhaustion. It wasn't just a cough either, and try as you did to hide them, you knew he would find the handkerchiefs at the bottom of the rubbish pile, their thin white cotton marred with crimson. A tell-tale sign, and he made you cancel that excursion to Archades.
He'd stood there in the chamber you shared for nearly three decades, leaning heavily on his cane. The keen eyes that have always seen through you were hard and angry. You breathed in and out, and you faced him.
"Why did you hide this from me?" His hand was shaking on the cane he's needed since the Bahamut's wreckage crushed his leg but not his spirit. Forced into an early retirement years before his time to save your kingdom. You said nothing then, pulling the handkerchief from his hand and throwing it back in the bin. You breathed in…and out.
He is not here now as you look at yourself and wish for more time. A few months maybe, a few weeks more likely. Just enough time for Amalia to give birth and for you to abdicate officially in her favor. She's ready, and you aren't concerned about passing the throne on. She's had her years of adventure at her father's insistence, so it won't be such a shock to her, and Dalmasca needs someone young to guide her now.
Fran stops in later that day, ageless and like the day you met her. He joins you finally at the news of his best friend's arrival, giving the Viera a tap on the leg with the cane and a muttered complaint about the inevitability of growing old as he has been saying the past few years. She allows it. She always does and you suspect she always will. The conversation is pleasant, and then you ask him to leave you alone with her. You haven't told him what the doctor said that morning, but he knows. He leaves the room to check up on your daughter. His daughter. You breathe in…and out.
The Viera knows why you've called her, as if she can smell death wafting around you. No words need be exchanged, only a nod from you, and she grips your hand. I will take care of him, her ruby eyes tell you. She has done so before, in the years before you met. She will be there for him when you are gone.
You bid Fran farewell and head to your daughter's chamber. You see him seated beside her bed, the cane on the floor, and the way the moonlight enters the room and shines on Amalia's face takes you back. To days of diapers and scraped knees and tantrums, although she is nearly twenty-six. The way the moonlight shines on his face takes you back even farther. To an aerodrome in Bhujerba and a sunny day on the Phon Coast and a day nearly a year later…the night after your coronation when you saw him limp out of a shadow on your balcony, the cocky grin you expected replaced with a more relieved smile that you mirrored back.
You watch the rise and fall of Amalia's even breathing, the bump that rises in her middle beneath the blankets seemingly larger every day. He looks up and you see him at twenty-three, not fifty-three. You walk over silently and gently ease yourself into his lap, his arms clinging tightly to you as you mind his bad leg. You settle your head in the crook of his neck, and you know he is listening to the sound of your breathing. Committing it to memory. His lips are buried in your hair, in the flax with the grays snipped out, and you realize fully that thirty years is not enough.
He's trembling as he whispers that he loves you, and you concentrate on your breathing. Counting each one and wondering how many more will follow. You hold him tighter and feel an odd sense of calm filling your limbs, letting you relax. You breathe in…and out. Your heart beats. Your upper left molar still aches, and you want some way to dull the pain in your wrist. You breathe in again and then out again and you need to cough. You hold it in and you simply breathe. Again, his words reach your ears. I love you, and you finally sleep. Not forever, but for now. You breathe in…and out.
Tags: ff 12 xii dx
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content
Current Music: Alterbridge Metalingus
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