She knows he has not forgotten his schoolboy crush on her over the intervening years, when his letters to her begin to involve poetry.
At first they are quotes, but then she discerns a certain stiltedness of rhyme and meter, and understands that he is writing his own words.
He is emperor of the land that conquered her, and yet he still dares to bare his heart to her and his ineptitude, all in one--- even as she can see, sky pirate the she is, the sheer scope of his competence, in the growth of trade--- trade and not conquest--- that Archadia enjoys.
And so, when his proper majority is celebrated by all the Archadian Empire, she uses the cover of the crowds to slip her private skiff to the Emperor's private launch pad.
He is waiting for her there, and she might curse herself and him that she is so predictable to his wits--- but there he stands, grown tall and strong and so purely a specimen of masculine beauty that she has to remind herself to breathe.
And he is emeperor of all Archadia, yet he has left his own birthday celebration to wait for her arrival.
She comes down the ramp to him, and wordlessly tilts up her face to his, in silent demand.
"Penelo," he murmurs, like a wanderer in the desert would say, water, and she thinks, as his lips find hers, that he is better at this form of poetry than any other.
Re: FFXII (OGC): Larsa/Penelo
At first they are quotes, but then she discerns a certain stiltedness of rhyme and meter, and understands that he is writing his own words.
He is emperor of the land that conquered her, and yet he still dares to bare his heart to her and his ineptitude, all in one--- even as she can see, sky pirate the she is, the sheer scope of his competence, in the growth of trade--- trade and not conquest--- that Archadia enjoys.
And so, when his proper majority is celebrated by all the Archadian Empire, she uses the cover of the crowds to slip her private skiff to the Emperor's private launch pad.
He is waiting for her there, and she might curse herself and him that she is so predictable to his wits--- but there he stands, grown tall and strong and so purely a specimen of masculine beauty that she has to remind herself to breathe.
And he is emeperor of all Archadia, yet he has left his own birthday celebration to wait for her arrival.
She comes down the ramp to him, and wordlessly tilts up her face to his, in silent demand.
"Penelo," he murmurs, like a wanderer in the desert would say, water, and she thinks, as his lips find hers, that he is better at this form of poetry than any other.