Archive of Our Own ^beta

Penelo is a Rabanastre street brat; although she is not Vaan, with his delusions of noble thievery, no one could ever consider her helpless. She can more or less wield a dagger without cutting herself by the time she is eight, and by the time she is eleven she can even hurt someone else with it, though these skills are generally used on unsuspecting sewer rats and hungry hyenas when running errands for Migelo through the sewers and the Giza Plains.

She doesn’t really consider whether or not she is capable until she is trussed up like a feastday cockatrice by Ba’Gamnan and his band of horrible thugs, being dragged through Lhusu like so much excess weight. She is bait.

And she hates it.

***

She can carry a shield, more or less; her left arm has become accustomed to the weight of it now, and with clumsy determination she has taught herself to block and parry. These things come so much easier to Vaan, she thinks with a grimace as she watches him heft his sword and swing it through an alraune with ease. The tomato-like creature falls with a squeak while she struggles with her weapon. In a moment of frustration, she tosses a spell at an approaching enemy instead; at least she can do that right.

“Is that all you’ve got?” Vaan shouts, his voice confident, taunting.

She really wishes Vaan would shut up.

***

Under the bright white light of the desert moon, she watches the princess and her retainer spar. Their movements are elegant and smooth, sure as a choreographed dance as they approach, retreat, press forward, deflect in near perfect silence.

“Guard!” the captain shouts suddenly; as the princess jerks her arm up, their swords come together with a clatter.

In the shadows, Penelo mimics the movement.

***

“The captain is skilled with uncovering and nurturing martial potential.” The princess’ profile gives away none of her feelings; her temper is mighty, but when it is curbed, her expression is like this, impassive.

“That’s nice?” Penelo says, bewildered. They are sitting watch together, though she suspects that unless something needs curing, the princess will dispatch any threat on her own. Behind them, the others sleep. Vaan is snoring. Penelo is sleepy and hasn’t any idea why her companion is suddenly engaging her in conversation. It has rarely happened outside of situations where it could not be avoided.

“Ask him,” Ashe says simply.

***

Ozmone Plain is vast and treacherous, her dagger woefully insufficient. Her heart hammering in her chest, she picks up Vaan’s recently discarded sword and asks.

Basch looks her over slowly, head to toe and back again, then speaks just as she is wondering if she ought to break the silence. “You are not made for the wielding of a sword and shield.”

She looks down at her hands, defeated. “I’m sorry,” she mutters. “It was a stupid idea. I’ll just – ”

“You misunderstand my meaning,” he tells her. “Pray, stay a moment.” He departs, and when he returns, he is holding two long wooden poles. He hands her one, retains the other, arranges his feet. “Basic guard stance,” he says. “To parry…”

She hurries to stand, to imitate his stance, the slim wooden pole strange and unfamiliar in her hands.

By the end of the hour, sweat is dripping down her face, and she is bruised in every conceivable place. He smiles and tells her, “A good start,” and she feels absurdly accomplished, having learned only half a dozen forms. But later that night, as she dispatches a giant, flying fish with a flick of her wrist and a grunt, she feels really, truly powerful.

***

In Golmore Jungle, he teaches her to shoot a crossbow. “There is no shame in remaining behind the front lines,” he tells her, showing her how to load the bolts, how to aim, how to maintain her balance as the weapon jerks in release against her chest. He explains trajectory, corrects her posture, and stands behind her as she lets fly.

She cheers as she hits the target. He pats her shoulder and tells her, “You’ve a good eye.”

“It’s just a crossbow,” Vaan says with a roll of his eyes.

She turns it on him, watches his eyes widen. “It’s not even loaded,” she tells him. “You big baby.” She returns it to its rightful place on her back.

“You’re kind of scary lately,” he tells her, but his expression is more amused than anything else.

***

“I thought you said I wasn’t made for swords,” she tells him as he holds the scabbard out to her.

He chuckles, soft but amused. “For swords and shields,” he tells her. “This is something different.”

As they traverse the Paramina Rift, he teaches her how to handle a ninja sword, how to attack from a crouch and combine quick slashes and jabs in an order optimal for decimating her enemies. She does not feel the cold as they spar in the snow, and she learns to avoid patches of ice while exploiting the openings she has learned to spot. They once fought to the steady stream of his instructions – first form, second form, guard above, left, right, third form – but now she reads his movements in silence, responding to his blows with her own.

She still can’t hit him, no matter how hard she tries, but when she turns her sword on the enemies that litter the Rift, they fall.

Vaan is fighting alongside her, still wielding sword and shield, but she is faster than he is, and she may not be stronger, but where he’s still hacking and slashing, she’s smarter about it. He doesn’t need to protect her anymore.

***

She learns about bows in Mosphoran Highwaste and hand bombs in the Salikawood. She tries her hand at an axe as they traverse the Phon Coast, then returns to her daggers in Sochen. In the Feywood, she upgrades ninja sword to katana, and as they ascend Pharos, learns to handle a spear.

He positions her, instructs her, and occasionally raps her across the knuckles when she is not paying attention.

Ashe – no longer just the nebulous princess – watches them with what may very well be one of her few smiles. Vaan keeps right on hacking and slashing, which appears to suit him, but she has learned her lesson well; she is small, and not particularly strong, so she must be exact instead. Admitting her weaknesses stung at first; now, with Basch’s instruction, she uses them to find her strengths hidden underneath.

She is no longer helpless, and she will never again be bait.

***

The night before they stage their assault on the Bahamut, she cannot sleep. Instead, she leans against the windowsill, listens to the sea, and frets. He finds her, leans against the railing at her side, tilts his face up to meet the salty, cool breeze. He says nothing.

“Do you think… we’ll win?” she asks at last, her voice small, uncertain.

“One cannot know,” he tells her, his tone somber. “It is a mad task we have set ourselves, against insurmountable odds. Yet still we must march, and I can tell you this: we shall acquit ourselves well. You, perhaps, most of all.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” she protests.

“I would.” He reaches out, puts a hand on her shoulder, squeezes. When she looks up, he is smiling at her, and she cannot help smiling back. “You are my best student; better than you know, and stronger than you realize. What we do tomorrow, we do with honor.”

And though the words are not really comforting, she still finds herself comforted.

Tomorrow, they will fly to meet their destiny. And tomorrow, they will win.

He may have to be pragmatic, but she cannot see this story ending any other way.