UnShaekable (FFXII)

XXVIII) Realization Dawning

~2 years before (Larsa visit cont.)~

I leave quickly, feeling tears of frustration prick at my eyes, and hurry for the cockpit. The Castean's whirring purr starts up easily. I trust that Dern's shut the door upon hearing heavy footsteps in the open doorframe of the control center.

"Are you alright?"

"Just dandy," I breathe, feeling my ship's power build up in her powerful engine. Slowly, we rise from the ground, gaining height before rushing forward smoothly, surging into the unknown. Even though it's soon smooth sailing, I don't switch the controls to autopilot, keeping my exhausted eyes locked on the glass of the windshield. Dern hums, finally catching on and entering the cockpit. He picks up my sketchbook, settling in the seat beside me.

"Button blends in, huh? Maybe you just need your eyes checked, Sweetheart," he teases, his tone light. I make no response, watching his reflection sigh and sit in the seat beside me, his eyes locked on the book. "You have a good eye for detail." Nothing. I can't bring myself to speak, merely shutting my eyes. Silence fills the pit, save for the hum of the engine, and Dern keeps studying, thinking. Suddenly, I hear a chuckle as the page turns. "Well, this isn't an airship."

Frowning, I turn to see what he's talking about only to feel the blood rush to my face. It's a rough drawing of Dern's face, broken out in that infamous laugh that leaves crinkles at his eyes, dimples in his cheeks, and laugh lines creased around his pointed nose. I started solidifying the light lines days ago before giving up when I couldn't quite capture the swoop of his constantly lightening hair. The best part, however, is the perfect gleam in his eyes, those glittering green eyes that retain their life no matter what happens. Dern will smile on his death bed, cracking jokes about tomorrows that won't ever come. The drawing fades at the end of the broad muscles stretched across his shoulders, fading into a sharp collarbone.

"Give that back," I grumble, reaching for the leather sketchbook. He holds it just out of my reach. "Dern—"

"I didn't know you drew outside layouts." He eyes the rough portrait curiously. "This is excellent, Shae. Why didn't you ever share it?" He chuckles, shaking his head. "What was the inspiration for this? Some ridiculous action on your part, no doubt."

"Dern."

"Honestly, Shae," he sighs, raising a single finger to silence me before he turns the page again. Another rough sketch, this time of Dern diving through the air, spear poised as his body twists to drive the lance into its target. His legs are drawn toward his chest, ready to absorb the impact of the approaching ground. Dern loves to fly, inside and outside of the airship. "What are you so ashamed about? These are good. Not much else for you to draw anyway."

"Dern, please just give it back," I plead.

He raises an eyebrow and I can see it in his eyes—he's considering. Then the cheeky idiot grins and turns the page. The next is a self-portrait of sorts. Half of the picture, to the left, is my face now. Lightly freckled, darkened brows, long, loose hair hanging all out of the extraordinarily long braid that I sport currently. Something in my brown eyes is different—left me knows. My face is far more angular now. The comparison is stark; the right side is innocent. Wide eyes, ready to absorb all the world has to offer. My hair brushes over my shoulders, dark. Smooth skin pulls over round cheeks and beneath half-grown eyebrows. There's fresh pain in that face, but also youthful resilience.

"Gods..." he breathes.

My heart skips a beat and I hold my breath without realizing it as his finger traces over the edge of the drawing. Gray lead smudges the slightest bit beneath his touch, tracing a shadow across the cheekbone of the left side. Something changes in his demeanor. His lips part, his visible muscles tense, his eyes search the page for something he can't find.