"As you wish." His tone was just as dry as hers, as she left for the bathchamber. He stood in silence for a time after that, a stillness settling in both body and mind. Then he listened to the water running, heard it quiet as it ran over her skin, through her hair - purging her of the stain of his victory. The sound broke the stillness in him, and his thoughts began to stir again. His eyes closed as if to trap himself in with them.
Go to hell. He likely would. He'd known that since he'd murdered his brothers on Gramis' command (I still do not call him Father, he thought distantly). It was freeing, in a way. The hands of a damned man could do more for the world than a thousand clasped in prayer at Bur-Omisace. That was the point entirely. The point of him. Free them all from the tyranny of the Occuria. Guide Ivalice to a new age of peace. Unite the kingdoms of Man into a single, golden empire. And as he could damn his soul no further, he had his choice of the means. No other after him would ever need to bloody their hands in the pursuit of peace.
A lofty vision...from a man of privilege and power who'd just forced himself upon a commonborn girl. Whose only crime was not knowing the truth. Like the rest. Are those like her not the ones you bloodied your hands for?
The thought came to him in Larsa's voice.
He drained the last of the wine. Then he hurled the glass at that splendid painting at full bore.
The shards and spattered droplets were still there when Tifa returned, but by then Vayne was on the other side of the bed. He was dressing, but not for sleep. Over his shirt and pants, he was donning his mail of state. His eyes swiveled briefly toward her as she sat and began to attend her hair, then returned to his hands as they attired him, adjusting the armor and fastening his belt.
"If you hunger or require anything before dawn, speak to the guards. A maid will attend you in the morning." Despite the strength of the wine and the haste with which he'd imbibed it, his tone was flat and clinical. "I may be some time. I trust you will be here when I return."
no subject
Go to hell. He likely would. He'd known that since he'd murdered his brothers on Gramis' command (I still do not call him Father, he thought distantly). It was freeing, in a way. The hands of a damned man could do more for the world than a thousand clasped in prayer at Bur-Omisace. That was the point entirely. The point of him. Free them all from the tyranny of the Occuria. Guide Ivalice to a new age of peace. Unite the kingdoms of Man into a single, golden empire. And as he could damn his soul no further, he had his choice of the means. No other after him would ever need to bloody their hands in the pursuit of peace.
A lofty vision...from a man of privilege and power who'd just forced himself upon a commonborn girl. Whose only crime was not knowing the truth. Like the rest. Are those like her not the ones you bloodied your hands for?
The thought came to him in Larsa's voice.
He drained the last of the wine. Then he hurled the glass at that splendid painting at full bore.
The shards and spattered droplets were still there when Tifa returned, but by then Vayne was on the other side of the bed. He was dressing, but not for sleep. Over his shirt and pants, he was donning his mail of state. His eyes swiveled briefly toward her as she sat and began to attend her hair, then returned to his hands as they attired him, adjusting the armor and fastening his belt.
"If you hunger or require anything before dawn, speak to the guards. A maid will attend you in the morning." Despite the strength of the wine and the haste with which he'd imbibed it, his tone was flat and clinical. "I may be some time. I trust you will be here when I return."