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fandomweekly2025-08-07 10:29 am
the_paradigm) wrote in fandomweekly2025-08-07 10:29 am
Entry tags:
[#270] Mo Ghile Mear (FFXII)
Theme Prompt: 270 - Pride
Title: Mo Ghile Mear (My Gallant Hero)
Fandom: Final Fantasy XII
Rating/Warnings: T/PG-13 (Language, Character Death, Mourning and Loss)
Bonus: No
Word Count: 735
Summary: Basch stands vigil with his Princess, and mourns the loss of his Prince. Set in-game during the Prelude.
His vision was a blur, and the only sounds that filled his ears were the priest’s prayers to a god he didn’t believe in, and the sobs of his freshly-widowed princess. Captain Basch fon Ronsenburg stood behind her and next to his King, as they both held vigil for the Princess Ashelia—daughter, friend, charge, symbol of everything that was good in Basch’s life—now broken and hopeless. All it took was one arrow, and a proud, stubborn Prince that refused to take council.
He felt shame for his anger, tried to stifle it with long, steady breaths as his eyes came in and out of focus, flitting over the pristine marble tile of the temple. It had not been that long ago since they had anointed Prince Rasler a champion of Dalmasca; only a month since the entire country sang out in joy over the Prince and Princess’s blessed union. Only a month since all of Dalmasca had been filled with hope and happiness, eager for a brighter future. Even as the Archadian Empire loomed over them, they had had hope.
Even Basch had dared to hope. But all of that was gone now. One arrow, and a split second too late.
The bow had been his first weapon; he’d hunted with it as a boy, and defended the turrets of Ronsenburg as a young man of seventeen, but even then he had known when to run, when to fall back. When to live to fight another fucking day.
Proud, stubborn, stupid Prince.
Basch’s throat tightened, his fists clenched—in rage, in regret, in grief. Rasler had been his charge, but also his friend. He had met him as a boy and watched him grow awkwardly—shyly—into a man that loved both his country and his family, including his wife. There was no doubt in Basch’s mind that Rasler loved Ashelia, and she in turn had blossomed under that affection. They’d barely had a month, and from the princess’s sobs, he could tell that she was not only mourning her lost love, but the life—the family, the nation—they would have built together. All of it, gone.
He had not needed to go, and Basch had told him so. They had stood together and donned their armor in tandem while Vossler coached, and argued, and near pleaded for them to be reasonable and keep their heads—don’t fuck this up, he had said, and for Vossler that was as good as begging. The prince had laughed, but Basch understood the seriousness of the situation. Even then, His Highness would not be swayed.
When the battle was thick, the young man dove into the fray with bravery and with skill, and Basch supported him from his mount with swift shots. He replayed every one of them in the back of his mind, over and over, to find where he could have better placed an arrow to have prevented the one retaliating shot that had actually mattered. If they had just retreated, but with his Prince as commanding officer, there had been no choice but to stay and support. He had almost been relieved when the paling had fallen; surely then Prince Rasler would have seen the need to fall back.
That was it. That was where Basch had lost; in that moment of utter disbelief, when Rasler had raised his sword and called a rallying charge instead of for withdrawal, Basch saw the dead and the dying all around them crying out in vain, instead of the Imperial Soldier knocking his arrow.
The ride with the prince back through the desert had been breakneck and bloody, full of yelling and screaming and slapping to keep to boy conscious until they could reach the palace.
But he was dead before they could even get past the gate to the city, let alone get word to the royal family.
The King was pressed to leave the vigil in order to attend to the dire situation Prince Rasler’s death created politically, and Basch knew that soon he would get word of the planned counter-attack to retrieve the fortress of Nalbina from the Empire’s clutches. But for now, he stayed with his princess—who was beautiful and bright, a beacon even in her darkest hour—and hummed softly along with the priests as they sang their gallant prince Home.
Title: Mo Ghile Mear (My Gallant Hero)
Fandom: Final Fantasy XII
Rating/Warnings: T/PG-13 (Language, Character Death, Mourning and Loss)
Bonus: No
Word Count: 735
Summary: Basch stands vigil with his Princess, and mourns the loss of his Prince. Set in-game during the Prelude.
His vision was a blur, and the only sounds that filled his ears were the priest’s prayers to a god he didn’t believe in, and the sobs of his freshly-widowed princess. Captain Basch fon Ronsenburg stood behind her and next to his King, as they both held vigil for the Princess Ashelia—daughter, friend, charge, symbol of everything that was good in Basch’s life—now broken and hopeless. All it took was one arrow, and a proud, stubborn Prince that refused to take council.
He felt shame for his anger, tried to stifle it with long, steady breaths as his eyes came in and out of focus, flitting over the pristine marble tile of the temple. It had not been that long ago since they had anointed Prince Rasler a champion of Dalmasca; only a month since the entire country sang out in joy over the Prince and Princess’s blessed union. Only a month since all of Dalmasca had been filled with hope and happiness, eager for a brighter future. Even as the Archadian Empire loomed over them, they had had hope.
Even Basch had dared to hope. But all of that was gone now. One arrow, and a split second too late.
The bow had been his first weapon; he’d hunted with it as a boy, and defended the turrets of Ronsenburg as a young man of seventeen, but even then he had known when to run, when to fall back. When to live to fight another fucking day.
Proud, stubborn, stupid Prince.
Basch’s throat tightened, his fists clenched—in rage, in regret, in grief. Rasler had been his charge, but also his friend. He had met him as a boy and watched him grow awkwardly—shyly—into a man that loved both his country and his family, including his wife. There was no doubt in Basch’s mind that Rasler loved Ashelia, and she in turn had blossomed under that affection. They’d barely had a month, and from the princess’s sobs, he could tell that she was not only mourning her lost love, but the life—the family, the nation—they would have built together. All of it, gone.
He had not needed to go, and Basch had told him so. They had stood together and donned their armor in tandem while Vossler coached, and argued, and near pleaded for them to be reasonable and keep their heads—don’t fuck this up, he had said, and for Vossler that was as good as begging. The prince had laughed, but Basch understood the seriousness of the situation. Even then, His Highness would not be swayed.
When the battle was thick, the young man dove into the fray with bravery and with skill, and Basch supported him from his mount with swift shots. He replayed every one of them in the back of his mind, over and over, to find where he could have better placed an arrow to have prevented the one retaliating shot that had actually mattered. If they had just retreated, but with his Prince as commanding officer, there had been no choice but to stay and support. He had almost been relieved when the paling had fallen; surely then Prince Rasler would have seen the need to fall back.
That was it. That was where Basch had lost; in that moment of utter disbelief, when Rasler had raised his sword and called a rallying charge instead of for withdrawal, Basch saw the dead and the dying all around them crying out in vain, instead of the Imperial Soldier knocking his arrow.
The ride with the prince back through the desert had been breakneck and bloody, full of yelling and screaming and slapping to keep to boy conscious until they could reach the palace.
But he was dead before they could even get past the gate to the city, let alone get word to the royal family.
The King was pressed to leave the vigil in order to attend to the dire situation Prince Rasler’s death created politically, and Basch knew that soon he would get word of the planned counter-attack to retrieve the fortress of Nalbina from the Empire’s clutches. But for now, he stayed with his princess—who was beautiful and bright, a beacon even in her darkest hour—and hummed softly along with the priests as they sang their gallant prince Home.
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