Lookout - Final Fantasy IX - PG
Fandom: FF9
Title: Lookout
Rating: PG
Word Count: 871
Note: Genfic. Freya/Steiner. Posted July 6, 2007.
Summary: They watch.
“He watches you, you know,” Zidane whispers to her when Steiner is busy helping Vivi pitch his tent.
“What?” Freya asks distractedly, scouring the ground for branches as she hands Zidane a hefty chunk of wood. He takes it and follows her.
“Steiner,” he persists. “He watches you.”
“Steiner?” Freya gives Zidane a curious, bewildered look before returning to her task. “Why is that?”
Zidane shrugs. “I don’t know. He just does.”
Freya thinks on that. Idly in the pearly moonlight, when the fire is a low simmer and all other thoughts have been exhausted. What is there to look at, really?
A Burmecian for starters, Freya thinks as she twists in her bedroll. Tall, grey, and ancient. Like crumbling stone turned spongy with age. She doesn’t need to be old to know that she looks old, that she carries old like a flag, like an old war uniform, like a special scar. A Burmecian wears her race’s age on her breastplate, in the color of her steel, in the dust of her ancestral coat of arms. In the scarred hands of a life spent in servitude.
Servitude, Freya reflects. Maybe that is something to look at too. Knighthood. A common thread, a binding truth. She can imagine Steiner looking at her red coat and chain mail, her iron armguards, her shoulder pads. Her powerful lance. There is similarity, familiarity, in iron and faith, in the altruistic sacrifice of self to a crown, a shield, a sword-
Freya wakes up. Restless. The tent is skewed, her sheets are sweaty, and she stinks terribly. Light breaks in and claws at her eyes. She sits up, stumbles out, rubbing at her neck where the fleas like to feed. Dandruff falls at the scratch of her claws.
Steiner is at the fire, without armor, cup in hand. Human and different. Smaller, maybe. When she looks up, he is watching her.
“Why d’you do that?” Freya asks, suddenly irritated. Her voice is groggy and scratchy, and her fleas itch like hell.
Steiner straightens, blinks. “…Beg your pardon?” The words rumble out slow and deep, but there is perfect articulation. Detail to pronunciation. Freya feels like an ugly brute.
“Starin’ at me!” The words tumble out over each other until it sounds more a proposition then an accusation. Freya’s face reddens. She feels stupid, for being so blunt and accusing, so petulant, so unskilled in the art of conversation. She was good at it, once. Damn.
Steiner is holding a tea cup of coffee in both hands. He looks at her over the chipped rim.
“You are curious,” he says, and for a moment Freya isn’t sure if he means he thinks she is strange or if she is actually curious. But he can’t read her mind.
“Why?” she asks instead.
Steiner takes his time in answering. “You don’t act like a knight, surely,” he begins at last, and he sounds so thoughtful, so comfortable and settled in, as if the subject has been worn with discussion. “Not anymore, anyway. I met you before, once, when King Alexander the 17th was still alive. A foreign minister was being sent over to negotiate trading rights between Alexandria and Burmecia. Do you remember?”
She shakes her head.
“I thought not.” Steiner sips his coffee. “You were the minister’s escort. There was contention among the soldiers about leaving the minister alone without Alexandrian support, so I was sent along. I wasn’t quite a captain at the time.” Steiner leaned back. He seemed to be warming to the subject. “Anyway, we had a moment to talk. Mainly about politics. The famine in Lindblum at the time. The origin of Cleyra, the Dragoon code of knighthood. The weather.”
He looks up at the sky. Freya looks up too. The clouds are thin, but they are gray. She can smell a thunderstorm on the horizon, that acrid tingle of electricity.
“A storm is approaching,” she says softly. Steiner chuckles.
“You said that then too.”
They lapse into silence. The fire crackles, sending off little sparks, and Steiner shifts in his seat. The crack of an elbow, an idle scratch on the chin. There are heavy creases in his face. But he is not old, Freya admonishes in her head. Hardly over thirty five.
She looks back at him. “It’s been a long time since then,” Freya says carefully, as way of apology or maybe divergence.
“Yes.” Steiner looks at her seriously. “And yet how little I have changed.”
There is something accusatory in that, like an old shame. Any of Freya’s earlier embarrassment evaporates at the sound, and she suddenly feels awkward.
What is she to say to that?
He returns to his coffee. Freya stares at him, her hair tangled and her sleeping shirt ripped. She scratches her neck.
“I’m sure you’ve changed some,” she says at last.
“Where?” he says. “How?” There is something acrid in the air, like bitterness. Expecting no answer, he turns away with a scowl.
Freya frowns. In truth she has none to give, but Freya feels a bit offended none the less. She doesn’t know what to say yet, but she’ll find something to tell him soon. Soon.
The next day, she begins. To watch.
Title: Lookout
Rating: PG
Word Count: 871
Note: Genfic. Freya/Steiner. Posted July 6, 2007.
Summary: They watch.
“He watches you, you know,” Zidane whispers to her when Steiner is busy helping Vivi pitch his tent.
“What?” Freya asks distractedly, scouring the ground for branches as she hands Zidane a hefty chunk of wood. He takes it and follows her.
“Steiner,” he persists. “He watches you.”
“Steiner?” Freya gives Zidane a curious, bewildered look before returning to her task. “Why is that?”
Zidane shrugs. “I don’t know. He just does.”
Freya thinks on that. Idly in the pearly moonlight, when the fire is a low simmer and all other thoughts have been exhausted. What is there to look at, really?
A Burmecian for starters, Freya thinks as she twists in her bedroll. Tall, grey, and ancient. Like crumbling stone turned spongy with age. She doesn’t need to be old to know that she looks old, that she carries old like a flag, like an old war uniform, like a special scar. A Burmecian wears her race’s age on her breastplate, in the color of her steel, in the dust of her ancestral coat of arms. In the scarred hands of a life spent in servitude.
Servitude, Freya reflects. Maybe that is something to look at too. Knighthood. A common thread, a binding truth. She can imagine Steiner looking at her red coat and chain mail, her iron armguards, her shoulder pads. Her powerful lance. There is similarity, familiarity, in iron and faith, in the altruistic sacrifice of self to a crown, a shield, a sword-
Freya wakes up. Restless. The tent is skewed, her sheets are sweaty, and she stinks terribly. Light breaks in and claws at her eyes. She sits up, stumbles out, rubbing at her neck where the fleas like to feed. Dandruff falls at the scratch of her claws.
Steiner is at the fire, without armor, cup in hand. Human and different. Smaller, maybe. When she looks up, he is watching her.
“Why d’you do that?” Freya asks, suddenly irritated. Her voice is groggy and scratchy, and her fleas itch like hell.
Steiner straightens, blinks. “…Beg your pardon?” The words rumble out slow and deep, but there is perfect articulation. Detail to pronunciation. Freya feels like an ugly brute.
“Starin’ at me!” The words tumble out over each other until it sounds more a proposition then an accusation. Freya’s face reddens. She feels stupid, for being so blunt and accusing, so petulant, so unskilled in the art of conversation. She was good at it, once. Damn.
Steiner is holding a tea cup of coffee in both hands. He looks at her over the chipped rim.
“You are curious,” he says, and for a moment Freya isn’t sure if he means he thinks she is strange or if she is actually curious. But he can’t read her mind.
“Why?” she asks instead.
Steiner takes his time in answering. “You don’t act like a knight, surely,” he begins at last, and he sounds so thoughtful, so comfortable and settled in, as if the subject has been worn with discussion. “Not anymore, anyway. I met you before, once, when King Alexander the 17th was still alive. A foreign minister was being sent over to negotiate trading rights between Alexandria and Burmecia. Do you remember?”
She shakes her head.
“I thought not.” Steiner sips his coffee. “You were the minister’s escort. There was contention among the soldiers about leaving the minister alone without Alexandrian support, so I was sent along. I wasn’t quite a captain at the time.” Steiner leaned back. He seemed to be warming to the subject. “Anyway, we had a moment to talk. Mainly about politics. The famine in Lindblum at the time. The origin of Cleyra, the Dragoon code of knighthood. The weather.”
He looks up at the sky. Freya looks up too. The clouds are thin, but they are gray. She can smell a thunderstorm on the horizon, that acrid tingle of electricity.
“A storm is approaching,” she says softly. Steiner chuckles.
“You said that then too.”
They lapse into silence. The fire crackles, sending off little sparks, and Steiner shifts in his seat. The crack of an elbow, an idle scratch on the chin. There are heavy creases in his face. But he is not old, Freya admonishes in her head. Hardly over thirty five.
She looks back at him. “It’s been a long time since then,” Freya says carefully, as way of apology or maybe divergence.
“Yes.” Steiner looks at her seriously. “And yet how little I have changed.”
There is something accusatory in that, like an old shame. Any of Freya’s earlier embarrassment evaporates at the sound, and she suddenly feels awkward.
What is she to say to that?
He returns to his coffee. Freya stares at him, her hair tangled and her sleeping shirt ripped. She scratches her neck.
“I’m sure you’ve changed some,” she says at last.
“Where?” he says. “How?” There is something acrid in the air, like bitterness. Expecting no answer, he turns away with a scowl.
Freya frowns. In truth she has none to give, but Freya feels a bit offended none the less. She doesn’t know what to say yet, but she’ll find something to tell him soon. Soon.
The next day, she begins. To watch.