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[fic] [ffxii] Colosseum
Title: Colosseum
Series: Final Fantasy XII
Character(s): Those damn Imperials!
Word Count: 2,225
Summary: Pre-game, Larsa is schooled in a particular aspect of the Archadian judicial system...
It was a hot summer; the sort which beat down over the white and bronze stones of the arena. It was hardly the sort of climate to compete in, even less the sort of climate in which to require full regalia, but the trial dates had been set a week in advance, and not even an efficient judiciary body could apply law and better scheduling to the sun. It didn’t prevent the place from being fully seated, however. There was nothing the Empire loved more than a good fight, what’s more one that was completely free of cost, save for if one had the chops to afford the prime viewing spots, and these the Gentry filled with a gusto. There was no logic in having them wasted on Ardents. They filed in, rich and less rich alike. Some cooled themselves with fans made of cockatrice plume, sold to them as the feathers of a garuda, while others cooled themselves with papers picked up free off of the curb of the street. Men and children, scholar and shopkeeper, eager for a glimpse at House colors or just a good show, once they had been arranged the judges filed in through the doors. After them, a hush fell over the crowd, for next came the Judges Magister. They were a startling appearance. There was nothing rarer than the sight all six in matching stride. Their names were not called, but any knowledgeable man knew them, and Archades was filled with a knowledgeable sort: Zargabaath, Bergan, Ghis, Drace, Zecht, Gabranth.
They appeared in the most superior tier, lining up along the sides, to welcome House Solidor: Emperor Gramis, Lord Vayne, and the young Lord Larsa, who was an unusual addition to these proceedings. Yet who could say the child didn’t conduct himself with composure? At such fragile years, his face was impassive and he held his head steady and high.
What the people weren't aware of was that in this muggy air, the Emperor’s arthritis flared, Vayne’s hair had to be bound back for fear of rebellion, and that the Judge Magisters were all on the verge of vicious heat stroke. Such was the nature of Empire though, that they should bear these things with grace. Save Bergan, who just seemed to be enjoying himself.
“Ah,” he said, with relish. “What better justice is there than this?”
“You always did enjoy a good slaughter,” murmured Judge Ghis. “One hopes this ‘better justice’ will be done swift. I should think we have better things to do than loiter about in the sun with this rabble.”
Judge Drace’s voice cut through with that sharp whip crack quality that must have made her very well-heard in her Akademic years. “Spare us your complaints, Ghis.” She was no more comfortable, feeling the beginnings of a cramp in the back of her neck, but it was general fact that Judge Drace would never agree with anything that Judge Ghis said, and this tradition was one too old not to be exacerbated by the heat.
Judge Ghis, for his part, waved an absent hand. “Spare us yours, Drace. You would not even be here had our young lord not expressed his interest in our more…creative court practices.”
“And you would not be here had you not been relieved of your last little project--”
“Drace,” muttered Judge Zargabaath. “We are in the presence of His Excellency…”
Chastised, Drace turned her attention back down to where they were smoothing the sand over the field of engagement. “Hn.”
Bergan had a way of looking at the bright side. “You have no cause for complaint. This is our privilege! We are fortunate to live in an era where such disputes may be dealt with so cleanly.”
“Clean!” snorted Judge Ghis and Drace at the same time, and one had the impression their faces must have twisted in distaste an equal second afterwards. Drace chose to go back to her study of the sweepers. Ghis merely shook his head and continued: “… privilege or not. It would be more the honor were we allowed to sit through this ‘privilege’--”
“You will stand as long as the Empire requires it of you,” interrupted Judge Zecht in rumbling disapproval, wrought down from a few steps above.
This ended all dispute. Once the field had been groomed, there was the necessary procession, with the necessary menagerie of strange and vicious looking beasts being prodded through one door and prodded out the other. They growled, snarled, and shrieked. The crowd was delighted. The Emperor watched in the silence of one who had seen it many times before, and afterwards he lifted two fingers in approval, signaling that the business of afternoon should proceed.
“Who are they?” asked Lord Larsa. The participants were brought out of their opposite doors. They were led to their sides, their arms bound firmly behind their backs. One was a solid man, with a wide face and numerous scars over his broad arms. The second was a taller, but thinner man, well into his years with white hair and a wild look in his eyes. His father offered no answer. It fell upon Vayne to lean over and whisper:
“They are criminals. Tried and convicted under the eyes of Archadia.”
Larsa shook his head. “I know that. But who are they, Brother?”
“Ah,” Vayne gazed down at them quietly, “The elder is of House Amaranth, from which came the mother of one of our late brothers. He has been convicted of laundering money from his late cousin’s imperial stipend, and placing it into his provincial estates. In essence: he robbed not just his dear cousin, but the Empire itself. He was sentenced to community service in Draklor. For life.”
“For life?”
Two judges brought the older man to the center of the field. “We Imperial princes may be born the property of the state, but no mother to us should die in destitution while her cousin lives in luxury on the borders.”
“…I see.”
“Of course, he has appealed his case. A desperate move in any course. So whether or not this conviction shall be overturned… we shall see. The other is a soldier come up from the old city. An officer of no particular distinction other than that he was generally loyal and upright until the day he murdered his commanding officer on duty, having witnessed what he cites as ‘an excessive use of force’ enacted upon a civilian woman in the territory in which they were stationed. Many witnesses, including the woman in question, attested that this was the way of it. Nevertheless, he has been sentenced to death.”
Larsa sat up in alarm. “But it sounds as though it was involuntary. I cannot condone murder, but neither can I condone death being met by more death! Surely, in those circumstances, a lighter sentence should have been at least considered…”
His brother regarded him flatly. “Judge Drace has been teaching you an interesting set of terms.” Vayne folded his fingers together. “The Empire has a very loose idea of what counts for ‘an excessive use of force.’ It is not so inclined to let an Ardent choose how this should be interpreted.”
“…and so now he appeals,” whispered Larsa.
“And if he is innocent he shall live and the sentence shall be reduced. Which will be tantamount to the others guilt and immediate execution…surely you knew that, Larsa,” said Vayne when the boy went pale at his words. “These are not like the House Engagements. In matters of highest offense, we witness these battles to the death.”
“I…I…”
“Father will most likely let you take an early leave if this is too heavy a fare for you.”
Larsa glanced quickly up to the silent Emperor, and then back again. “No,” he breathed, unsteadily. “No, I will stay…”
The shadow of Judge Zecht fell over them both. The Judge Magister had taken his position on the platform to their right. He drew one of his swords, and held it high above his head and above the heads of all that were present. A second hush fell over the crowd, sounding like a sudden collective ‘shh’ in answer to the singing sound of that blade come loose. It was quiet enough that he needed no other amplification than that afforded by his elaborate helm.
“Where stands the accused?”
Amaranth nearly crumpled at the boom of the judge’s voice. “Here…” he called, in a pale voice. Zecht angled the blade down to single him out.
“Quirilus Avier Amaranth. You stand condemned on counts of fraud, larceny, and sedition against House Solidor and against the empire. How do you plead?”
“Innocent!” this was met by a mixed reaction from the people, some of whom applauded, more of whom booed with the enthusiasm of those who had come solely for blood. The man had gone whiter than his hair. He looked around wildly, frightened and shaking but somehow still standing. “Please, for the love of the Gods,” he gasped. “I am innocent!”
The Judge Magister seemed to care not for these words, coldly moving the point of his sword from aligning with the first man to aligning with the second. The soldier straightened under the attention, his eyes fixed only on the tip of that distance blade, pointed now to his heart. He didn’t blink, though his face shone with sweat.
“Soldier. You stand condemned for insubordination and the murder of your superior officer, Gants Aren Entheros. How do you plead?”
The man’s face was blank. “Not guilty,” he said, simply. The crowd erupted into a sea of jeers.
“Then before the eyes of the Empire, prove your innocence. Strike their bonds. Give them their weapons,” ordered Zecht. He sheathed his sword. The judges obeyed. He said no more, stepping back and out of prominence.
Larsa closed his eyes and took a deep breath, and another, and another. A hand settled on his shoulder. It belonged to Vayne. So rare was it that his brother touched him, Larsa opened them again and looked up at him.
“Look,” said Vayne, as dark-eyed and unfathomable as ever. Even in the unmerciful light of the sun, he seemed wholly distanced from it all: even as the soldier was tossed a sword and Amaranth, a spear. The combatants advanced upon each other, with the voice of the spectators at their backs, hot and miserable with the dust swirling like mist at their feet and in their eyes. Through this, Vayne remained calm. “It begins.”
It didn’t last very long. No one seemed have expected it to. It was no matter for concern of course, there were still a host of animals and convicts that were willing to put on a longer show once the bodies were cleared from the stage, but House Solidor’s business was done. Gramis bid his sons to leave with him.
“The hour has already been overlong,” he may have muttered, but anyone who may have been in the proximity to hear it was certainly not going to repeat it. The youngest prince stood unsteadily, but he managed himself with appropriate dignity for a Solidor, even with the suspiciously glassy look in his eyes which he sought to blink away. The Judge Magisters soon followed, obediently, although Bergan lingered out of eagerness. Judge Gabranth lingered for a different reason. As Judge Drace passed by, he fell into step beside her; they entered halls together, into the shadows and out of the damnable Archadian summer.
She took note of this. “You have something to discuss with me, Your Honor? You flatter me. You have said less than His Excellency today.”
“My opinion is not asked for in the course of desperate men,” said Gabranth. “I have one question.”
“Oh? I am curious what that question may be. Ask it, then.”
“Why did you advise Lord Larsa to attend?”
There was silence. It was masked only by the steady clank of their steps and the steps of their colleagues before them. Drace stood the accused. A sigh issued from the depths of her metal confinement.
“Were it within our power to spare him sights such as this we would do so within a moment. But Judge Magister and Prince…. we stand before the Empire. Every one of us. Every moment of our lives. It would do him no service to keep him blind the ugliness that is done in the so-called pursuit of justice. Two men died for our sport today.” The last words came with such venom it sounded as though she would’ve liked to spit them at the wall, were such an action not restricted by her armor. As though in answer, the thunder applause echoed down through the stones. She paused and made a noise of disgust at their fine timing.
“And better he know this now?” he asked. “Better we school him in these cruelties?”
“No,” corrected Drace, firmly. “Better he sees, and understands, and makes of it what he will. We have no higher hope than that. Do you disagree, Gabranth?”
When no reply came, that was answer enough. She bowed her head, as close to respect as she would come, and in such a mode she strode forward to outpace him, making down the hall, towards their masters, having nothing more to say to him.
Series: Final Fantasy XII
Character(s): Those damn Imperials!
Word Count: 2,225
Summary: Pre-game, Larsa is schooled in a particular aspect of the Archadian judicial system...
It was a hot summer; the sort which beat down over the white and bronze stones of the arena. It was hardly the sort of climate to compete in, even less the sort of climate in which to require full regalia, but the trial dates had been set a week in advance, and not even an efficient judiciary body could apply law and better scheduling to the sun. It didn’t prevent the place from being fully seated, however. There was nothing the Empire loved more than a good fight, what’s more one that was completely free of cost, save for if one had the chops to afford the prime viewing spots, and these the Gentry filled with a gusto. There was no logic in having them wasted on Ardents. They filed in, rich and less rich alike. Some cooled themselves with fans made of cockatrice plume, sold to them as the feathers of a garuda, while others cooled themselves with papers picked up free off of the curb of the street. Men and children, scholar and shopkeeper, eager for a glimpse at House colors or just a good show, once they had been arranged the judges filed in through the doors. After them, a hush fell over the crowd, for next came the Judges Magister. They were a startling appearance. There was nothing rarer than the sight all six in matching stride. Their names were not called, but any knowledgeable man knew them, and Archades was filled with a knowledgeable sort: Zargabaath, Bergan, Ghis, Drace, Zecht, Gabranth.
They appeared in the most superior tier, lining up along the sides, to welcome House Solidor: Emperor Gramis, Lord Vayne, and the young Lord Larsa, who was an unusual addition to these proceedings. Yet who could say the child didn’t conduct himself with composure? At such fragile years, his face was impassive and he held his head steady and high.
What the people weren't aware of was that in this muggy air, the Emperor’s arthritis flared, Vayne’s hair had to be bound back for fear of rebellion, and that the Judge Magisters were all on the verge of vicious heat stroke. Such was the nature of Empire though, that they should bear these things with grace. Save Bergan, who just seemed to be enjoying himself.
“Ah,” he said, with relish. “What better justice is there than this?”
“You always did enjoy a good slaughter,” murmured Judge Ghis. “One hopes this ‘better justice’ will be done swift. I should think we have better things to do than loiter about in the sun with this rabble.”
Judge Drace’s voice cut through with that sharp whip crack quality that must have made her very well-heard in her Akademic years. “Spare us your complaints, Ghis.” She was no more comfortable, feeling the beginnings of a cramp in the back of her neck, but it was general fact that Judge Drace would never agree with anything that Judge Ghis said, and this tradition was one too old not to be exacerbated by the heat.
Judge Ghis, for his part, waved an absent hand. “Spare us yours, Drace. You would not even be here had our young lord not expressed his interest in our more…creative court practices.”
“And you would not be here had you not been relieved of your last little project--”
“Drace,” muttered Judge Zargabaath. “We are in the presence of His Excellency…”
Chastised, Drace turned her attention back down to where they were smoothing the sand over the field of engagement. “Hn.”
Bergan had a way of looking at the bright side. “You have no cause for complaint. This is our privilege! We are fortunate to live in an era where such disputes may be dealt with so cleanly.”
“Clean!” snorted Judge Ghis and Drace at the same time, and one had the impression their faces must have twisted in distaste an equal second afterwards. Drace chose to go back to her study of the sweepers. Ghis merely shook his head and continued: “… privilege or not. It would be more the honor were we allowed to sit through this ‘privilege’--”
“You will stand as long as the Empire requires it of you,” interrupted Judge Zecht in rumbling disapproval, wrought down from a few steps above.
This ended all dispute. Once the field had been groomed, there was the necessary procession, with the necessary menagerie of strange and vicious looking beasts being prodded through one door and prodded out the other. They growled, snarled, and shrieked. The crowd was delighted. The Emperor watched in the silence of one who had seen it many times before, and afterwards he lifted two fingers in approval, signaling that the business of afternoon should proceed.
“Who are they?” asked Lord Larsa. The participants were brought out of their opposite doors. They were led to their sides, their arms bound firmly behind their backs. One was a solid man, with a wide face and numerous scars over his broad arms. The second was a taller, but thinner man, well into his years with white hair and a wild look in his eyes. His father offered no answer. It fell upon Vayne to lean over and whisper:
“They are criminals. Tried and convicted under the eyes of Archadia.”
Larsa shook his head. “I know that. But who are they, Brother?”
“Ah,” Vayne gazed down at them quietly, “The elder is of House Amaranth, from which came the mother of one of our late brothers. He has been convicted of laundering money from his late cousin’s imperial stipend, and placing it into his provincial estates. In essence: he robbed not just his dear cousin, but the Empire itself. He was sentenced to community service in Draklor. For life.”
“For life?”
Two judges brought the older man to the center of the field. “We Imperial princes may be born the property of the state, but no mother to us should die in destitution while her cousin lives in luxury on the borders.”
“…I see.”
“Of course, he has appealed his case. A desperate move in any course. So whether or not this conviction shall be overturned… we shall see. The other is a soldier come up from the old city. An officer of no particular distinction other than that he was generally loyal and upright until the day he murdered his commanding officer on duty, having witnessed what he cites as ‘an excessive use of force’ enacted upon a civilian woman in the territory in which they were stationed. Many witnesses, including the woman in question, attested that this was the way of it. Nevertheless, he has been sentenced to death.”
Larsa sat up in alarm. “But it sounds as though it was involuntary. I cannot condone murder, but neither can I condone death being met by more death! Surely, in those circumstances, a lighter sentence should have been at least considered…”
His brother regarded him flatly. “Judge Drace has been teaching you an interesting set of terms.” Vayne folded his fingers together. “The Empire has a very loose idea of what counts for ‘an excessive use of force.’ It is not so inclined to let an Ardent choose how this should be interpreted.”
“…and so now he appeals,” whispered Larsa.
“And if he is innocent he shall live and the sentence shall be reduced. Which will be tantamount to the others guilt and immediate execution…surely you knew that, Larsa,” said Vayne when the boy went pale at his words. “These are not like the House Engagements. In matters of highest offense, we witness these battles to the death.”
“I…I…”
“Father will most likely let you take an early leave if this is too heavy a fare for you.”
Larsa glanced quickly up to the silent Emperor, and then back again. “No,” he breathed, unsteadily. “No, I will stay…”
The shadow of Judge Zecht fell over them both. The Judge Magister had taken his position on the platform to their right. He drew one of his swords, and held it high above his head and above the heads of all that were present. A second hush fell over the crowd, sounding like a sudden collective ‘shh’ in answer to the singing sound of that blade come loose. It was quiet enough that he needed no other amplification than that afforded by his elaborate helm.
“Where stands the accused?”
Amaranth nearly crumpled at the boom of the judge’s voice. “Here…” he called, in a pale voice. Zecht angled the blade down to single him out.
“Quirilus Avier Amaranth. You stand condemned on counts of fraud, larceny, and sedition against House Solidor and against the empire. How do you plead?”
“Innocent!” this was met by a mixed reaction from the people, some of whom applauded, more of whom booed with the enthusiasm of those who had come solely for blood. The man had gone whiter than his hair. He looked around wildly, frightened and shaking but somehow still standing. “Please, for the love of the Gods,” he gasped. “I am innocent!”
The Judge Magister seemed to care not for these words, coldly moving the point of his sword from aligning with the first man to aligning with the second. The soldier straightened under the attention, his eyes fixed only on the tip of that distance blade, pointed now to his heart. He didn’t blink, though his face shone with sweat.
“Soldier. You stand condemned for insubordination and the murder of your superior officer, Gants Aren Entheros. How do you plead?”
The man’s face was blank. “Not guilty,” he said, simply. The crowd erupted into a sea of jeers.
“Then before the eyes of the Empire, prove your innocence. Strike their bonds. Give them their weapons,” ordered Zecht. He sheathed his sword. The judges obeyed. He said no more, stepping back and out of prominence.
Larsa closed his eyes and took a deep breath, and another, and another. A hand settled on his shoulder. It belonged to Vayne. So rare was it that his brother touched him, Larsa opened them again and looked up at him.
“Look,” said Vayne, as dark-eyed and unfathomable as ever. Even in the unmerciful light of the sun, he seemed wholly distanced from it all: even as the soldier was tossed a sword and Amaranth, a spear. The combatants advanced upon each other, with the voice of the spectators at their backs, hot and miserable with the dust swirling like mist at their feet and in their eyes. Through this, Vayne remained calm. “It begins.”
It didn’t last very long. No one seemed have expected it to. It was no matter for concern of course, there were still a host of animals and convicts that were willing to put on a longer show once the bodies were cleared from the stage, but House Solidor’s business was done. Gramis bid his sons to leave with him.
“The hour has already been overlong,” he may have muttered, but anyone who may have been in the proximity to hear it was certainly not going to repeat it. The youngest prince stood unsteadily, but he managed himself with appropriate dignity for a Solidor, even with the suspiciously glassy look in his eyes which he sought to blink away. The Judge Magisters soon followed, obediently, although Bergan lingered out of eagerness. Judge Gabranth lingered for a different reason. As Judge Drace passed by, he fell into step beside her; they entered halls together, into the shadows and out of the damnable Archadian summer.
She took note of this. “You have something to discuss with me, Your Honor? You flatter me. You have said less than His Excellency today.”
“My opinion is not asked for in the course of desperate men,” said Gabranth. “I have one question.”
“Oh? I am curious what that question may be. Ask it, then.”
“Why did you advise Lord Larsa to attend?”
There was silence. It was masked only by the steady clank of their steps and the steps of their colleagues before them. Drace stood the accused. A sigh issued from the depths of her metal confinement.
“Were it within our power to spare him sights such as this we would do so within a moment. But Judge Magister and Prince…. we stand before the Empire. Every one of us. Every moment of our lives. It would do him no service to keep him blind the ugliness that is done in the so-called pursuit of justice. Two men died for our sport today.” The last words came with such venom it sounded as though she would’ve liked to spit them at the wall, were such an action not restricted by her armor. As though in answer, the thunder applause echoed down through the stones. She paused and made a noise of disgust at their fine timing.
“And better he know this now?” he asked. “Better we school him in these cruelties?”
“No,” corrected Drace, firmly. “Better he sees, and understands, and makes of it what he will. We have no higher hope than that. Do you disagree, Gabranth?”
When no reply came, that was answer enough. She bowed her head, as close to respect as she would come, and in such a mode she strode forward to outpace him, making down the hall, towards their masters, having nothing more to say to him.