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Chapter Text

He ran as fast as he could for her, feet sinking as they struck the ground.

His childhood was a series of brightly lit windows, well kept from the dust thanks to the attentive staff of his household. The bedroom he shared with Noah was positioned towards the sun, so that when the boys slept too late their eyelids turned red from it's rays.

The creases of his mother's forehead became evermore apparent with the absence of his father.

She stood before her little boys kindly exasperated, her hands working at her apron.

Basch didn't realize how hard it must've been for her until years later, to have two rambunctious boys to raise on the diminishing inheritance of their father. Raised in nobility herself, she'd been forced to relieve household staff of their duties and take them on as her own.

“Miss Adalard tells me one of you stole a cake from her display.” Almond-shaped hazel eyes passed from one twin to the other sternly, “Which one of you plays a thief today?”

“It was him.” Noah accused, promptly pointing a finger in Basch's direction, though he refused to look him in the eye and Basch blinked back tears from shock.

“'Twas not me, momma! I swear it!” The older twin cried, throwing his arms around his mother in desperation for her trust.

He was granted it, by the smooth touch of her long fingers through his hair.

“I believe you, sweet child.” His mother's lips caressed his ear and Noah looked to the ground sheepishly, “Noah,” She reached an arm to the other boy, pulling them both in against her chest as she knelt towards the floor to hold them, “You must tell me why you did it.”

“I-I don't know. I was so hungry! I didn't mean to!” Noah lamented, failing to conjure tears as Basch had.

“You must tell me why you blame your brother, I mean.”

“Because I was scared.”

Their mother held them both for a moment before sitting back, eyes gentler than they had been, though still stern and sad, like they always were in Basch's memory.

“You share the same sweet face, my boy, but not the same soul. You cannot blame your actions on others.”

There were certain times of day in Dalmasca when Basch would feel the pleasant warmth of nostalgia for Landis, when the dry desert sky would cast a gentle glow on the land in the evening, inviting a pleasant evening warmth during the day.

Archades however, bore little memory to his homeland and to Dalmasca. The humidity in the air was damp, making winters feel cooler and summers hotter, and the greenery that grew from the trees and came from the ground was more brilliant and colorful than that of Dalmasca and Landis combined.

There were moments, however, when the sun began to sink behind the hills beyond the capital city that the air felt dry for the sheen of sweat upon his skin with the wooden training blade in his hand. These training sessions gave him the opportunity to shed Gabranth's armor and shy away from the world of politics for the time being, a world he'd been all too intimate with for the past two decades.

Lord Larsa was a quick study but he tired too quickly still, and when that happened his technique was clumsy.

Larsa cast his sword to the ground in surrender and leaned forward with his hands on his knees, breathing heavily to catch his breath. A proper blade would've sank it's tip into the dirt with such force, but a wooden blade merely met it's tip to the ground with a thud and bounced from point of impact.

Basch retrieved the sword with his own and tossed them to the bucket with the rest. He turned to find the boy upon the bottom steps of the courtyard with a drinking gourd in his hand.

Basch walked to him and accepted it with a nod of thanks.

Larsa was hardly a boy for much longer, as he'd grown so tall that the top of his head was level with Basch's chin when he stood straight, yet still Basch went much easier on him than he would one of his own men; Larsa's focus would primarily be in audience chambers and the seat of his desk, not the battlefield.

He looked identical to Vayne at some angles, yet hardly at all when one approached him straight on. His features had lengthened and became more angular, and his body was so thin and lanky the way young men grew before they developed any sort of muscle mass. And most prominently, his voice had dropped an octave or two, causing various officials to look twice when they first heard him speak, even now.

“You tire early, milord.” Basch told him in a teasing tone, passing the gourd back to the young emperor who drank from it gratefully.

“I lack your endurance just yet.”

Basch sank on the step beside him. It would be dusk before long. And from their perch so high above the lower levels of the city they would surely be hearing the nightbugs soon, a sound that was still so foreign to him, but he'd grown to find the sound rather soothing, because it was at night that the trauma of the past crept through his mind so that he'd take any distraction that he could.

“You do have potential.” Basch reassured him, squinting in the light of the setting sun, “My ability was much like yours at your age.”

Larsa looked at him skeptically. “At sixteen?”

A breeze wrapped around his limbs. “I hadn't quite left Landis yet. Noah- Gabranth and I would spar daily. We planned on joining the miltary forces of Landis like our father.”

Larsa's brow furrowed. “But you fled to Dalmasca?”

Basch nodded. “I did. Gabranth joined as planned until they were absorbed by the Archadian Empire.”

Larsa sat in silence for a moment. “I suppose I understand that. My brother and I were hardly twins, but we both had to choose our own path.”

Basch smiled. It was an approriate observation. The young lord was always astute in his perspectives of people, especially for his age. For Basch, that sort of thing came with experience.

“Any word from our friends in Dalmasca?” Basch interrupted the reverie.

“Queen Ashe? Her last visit was months ago.”

Basch raised an eyebrow. “Surely you have other sources in Dalmasca.”

“You mean to say Penelo.” A visible blush scattered across his face at a mere utter of the girl's name, “Yes, I hear from her quite frequently as of late. What of it?”

Penelo and Vaan were inseparable from their youth and while Vaan ventured into the world of pirating and womanizing, Penelo stood by his side to anchor him. It was a wonder, Basch thought, because with Vaan's enthusiasm and penchant for danger he should've died a thousand times over by now.

“I was merely making assumptions, milord,” Basch smiled at the boy. And with a tone of mockery in his voice, as dry as he ever had been he added, “I've had occasional correspondance with her myself, though not at all recent. She'd likely grown tired of the ramblings of an old knight.”

Larsa chuckled, nudging him playfully with an elbow. “You are hardly old, good Judge.”

In the hours and days that followed Basch's arrest, he endured torture. It was curious to him, though the thought was only fleeting, that his punishment lacked... lethal measures. He was chained and scourged and cut, always enough to draw blood and induce pain but never quite enough to mortally him, instead imbedding his flesh with a crude patterns of scars that rippled and stained him.

He initially suspected it was to preserve him for a humiliating and public execution. But someone had more insidious plans than that.

He was kept alive in the dungeons beneath Nalbina, suspended in an obelisk and relieved only for a few hours at night to relieve himself and eat what scraps were brought for him. He was purposefully isolated from other prisoners, and donned with a mask of black velvet when the situation called for any sort of interaction with someone other than than Imperial troops.

He was supposed to be dead.

The first week he hovered over a morsel of bread in the chamber, tearing into it by his teeth as his stomach cramped in response.

“Never have I seen such a hungry dead man before. Surely you must be pathetic to crawl from the grave for a crumb of last evening's dinner.”

Basch froze in the midst of licking his fingers, pulling his thumb from his tongue and eyes wide in recognition.

He'd known that voice.

“Noah.”

The armored figure opened the door of the cell and stepped into the light before him. He looked like more of a demon than a man in dark armor and a horned helmet set upon his shoulders.

“No one knows me by that name anymore, traitor.”

Basch squinted in the darkness as the figure removed the helmet and propped it gracefully upon his hip, crouching down to meet Basch on his knees before him, eye-to-eye.

It was him. In the warm light of the cavern's torches a face once identical to his glowered over him.

It made sense then. He'd been framed by a brother wearing his face at the death of a King- his King.

The man who welcomed him in his service with open arms, made him a knight, then a Captain, and he'd died believing Basch's face to be that of a traitor.

His voice was grim. “What do they call you, then?”

“I am Gabranth.”

“Gabranth,” Basch repeated, trying the name on his tongue aloud, the missing pieces of the circumstances surrounding his framing and capture now becoming clear. “You took our mother's name and murdered a king with it to frame your own brother?”

The strike to his temple came hard and swift, splitting the wound from Noah's sword that already marred his face.

“We are not brothers.” Gabranth spat, “And my father was a coward, like you. I'd sooner die than inherit his name.”

The weeks turned to months, months to years, and the soldiers soon grew bored of him and had their own ideas for entertainment, pitting him against other prisoners, then giving him lashings for showing them mercy, taunt him with water and force him to drink his own piss.

“You have grown very thin, Basch. Less than a shadow. Less than a man.”

Basch groaned, the chains about his wrists wearing true to his taunter's words.

Noah.

“Sentenced to death and yet you live. Why?”

“To silence Ondore,” Basch seethed through his teeth, “How many times must I say it?”

“Is that all?” Gobranth sneered before him, and the thinning muscle across his chest spasmed from the tension and malnutrition.

“Why not ask Vayne himself? Is he not one of your masters?” Basch spat incredulously. Although Basch's identity was kept hidden from his fellow prisoners by a velvet hood, and he was forbidden from speaking to anyone didn't mean that he never heard them whisper in his presence, slowly piecing together the politcal machine that kept him here- a pawn cast aside, kept alive merely as a bargaining chip should a particular Marquis step out of line.

Gabranth ignored his retorts, as if single mindedly focused in glee on the news her had come to disclose. “We've caught a leader of the insurgence. She is being brought from Rabanastre. The woman Amalia. Who could that be?”

Princess Ashe was alive.

And within minutes when several Dalmascans and a Viera approached his cage, he desperately spilled whatever information he could to gain their trust.

Ashe resented him, in the still hours of court in her newly resurrected kingdom where the escapades of pirates where droned before her in a matter of minutes. She thought of quick hands and the burn of cheap whiskey in the back of her throat and she felt nothing else.

Balthier was not sloppy enough, or obvious enough, so she dismissed the news with the wave of a hand and resented him instead.

He'd returned the ring to her, on the promised condition that he find something more valuable in turn for her place on his ship.

What was more valuable than the engagement ring of a dead Prince to his bride, who rose from her own speculated grave to claim the throne of her forefathers?

There was no such thing, that was the truth of it. But with every cornerstone that resurrected her home palace, there were echoes of a little girl raised by traitors and knights alike, and she had long tired of being puppeteered.

Surely the pirate Balthier had not found anything more valuable. She knew him by the tired and exasperated glance that he'd given her over his shoulder time and time again that he cared enough that she would know he was alive.

He was not a pile of ashes scattered over Rabanastre. But nor was he hot flesh under her fingertips in a hushed embrace.

Not anymore.

So she turned the ring in her fingers, feeling a pang of guilt that she no longer associated it with her deceased husband, but with the calloused hands that had touched it last before her.

Balthier was alive and well, and he wanted her to know it by a cryptic note and a returned memento.

Or perhaps he found something more valuable.

Basch was eight days from his seventeenth birthday when he rose at dawn and readied his mother's chocobo for the long trek ahead. She was still asleep in her bedchambers and Noah was still asleep in his. Still hungover and hazy from the wine they'd drank the night before, his toes recoiled from the cool stonework upon the floor as he walked upon it barefoot, so as to not raise any alarm.

As twins they had a funny habit of knowing one another's state of mind, so it was under the guise of drunkenness that Basch was able to deceive Noah about his intentions for the following morning.

He hated lying.

But in the morning, when the crows scattered on the freshly frosted ground, Basch walked to his mother's chocobo with a saddle to perform the unforgivable. He stood in his childhood bedroom door way, watching the face identical to his own snore in the grey morning light.

One more time.

“You're no brother of mine.”

The seabreeze in Balfonheim shifted abruptly with the tide, and in the night air the water was especially choppy from the impending storm. Storms were indeed as damning now as in the age before airships flew in the sky, causing a rather loud crew to stir in the tavern by the sea; pirates kept in one place for too long meant complications.

“Three days here, three days there.” Balthier thumbed the grooves of the table drunkenly. He was giddy, rhythmically drumming his fingers against the surface.

“Balthier!”

His companion showed no sign of alarm for the man calling him out from by the entrance, for she was a Viera, and had seen stranger things in the visions portrayed in the Wood and the mists of Ivalice than a dead man walking.

She'd supposedly been dead herself along with Balthier, after all. Her cool visage unwavering as she replied flatly to her drunken partner, “A day too long here.”

He lifted a hand, pointing his finger toward her in a mocking trigger pull. “The alternate route to Rabanastre doesn't suit at the moment.”

“Balthier!”

The voice was closer now, and Balthier turned his head toward the crowd of pirates around him. Could do with a proper bath and a wardrobe change, the whole lot of them.

“Rabanastre doesn't suit? Perhaps the eye of the Queen is too keen?” Fran teased dryly.

Balthier snorted, “The eye of the queen hardly needs to see for herself anym-”

“Balthier!”

Fran wrinkled her nose at the intruder now at their table gripping Balthier by the shoulder, not out of disgust, but out of recognition- sun darkened skin and a jovial, deep voice to boot, a third dead man joined them at their table. Balthier's fist raised ready in a retaliatory strike, then lowered.

Her breaths came quick and shallow, skin pale as her flaxen hair lay fanned about her.

Alma.

Basch ran to her, sandals slick on the wet ground of the chamber.

She turned to him, her skin a sickly pale contrasting deeply with the dark red surroundings. Her features were tightened with concern, but relaxed in recognition as soft brown eyes settled on his.

“Basch,” She smiled weakly as he knelt beside her assessing her for wounds and lifting her head from the floor, “It's all right now.”

“You did this?”

“Don't worry. The blood isn't mine, I did this on my own.”

She coughed, and he felt his own blood rush to his chest and tears to his eyes when she recognized the far off look one gave when they were seeing worlds beyond him. He'd seen is in Noah several years before, and in countless men before that.

“On your own?” He questioned her sadly, “You shouldn't have done that.”

“I didn't want to be so much trouble...” Her hand reached for him, perhaps to touch his chin, the way she did, then gave way mid-movement and dropped to the ground.

He didn't want to remember her this way. He wanted to recall the glow of the campfire upon her face, the ring of her laughter somewhere behind him, and the coolness of her fingertips upon his bare chest.

No, not like this.

He slid another arm under her thighs and lifted her slowly from the ground, taking reassurance in the continuing rise and fall of her chest. A whisper escaped her lips and he tilted his ear to them.

“What was that?”

She twitched, repeating the whisper in familiar syllables in the damp air. “You should have left me.”

His brow furrowed as he recalled how Noah had taunted him before about the consistent demise of those he longed to protect the most.

“I would never.”

There would always be chaos in this world, it seemed. There would always be an excuse for war.

Chapter Text

Her breath heaved from her chest, harsh and painful in the late autumn dawn, visible from her lips as she ran while kicking a trail out of the dead leaves at her feet.

She ran as hard as she could, and the genuinely concerned cries of the man behind her only bid her feet to move faster.

There was water ahead. A river perhaps.

She climbed a wall of rocks with distorting and inhuman speed, hesitating only when a boot was caught and her foot slid from a layer of slate- her cramping foot covered in a woolen sock with the small hole in the big toe from excessive wear.

Her tracks stopped abruptly and her arms waved frantically before her to steady her trembling form.

Because she was at the ledge of a waterfall. When had the leaves turned to stones? It didn't matter. Ramza was dead now and she was alone. Horribly alone.

She closed her eyes, desperately recalling a voice from the Holy Book from her early childhood studies:

But if I go to the east, he is not there; if I go to the west, I do not find him. When he is at work in the north, I do not see him; when he turns to the south, I catch no glimpse of him. But he knows the way that I take; when he has tested me, I will come forth as gold.

Ajora was there, long white hair in the image of her own complexion.

Cold, wet spray stung her face in one moment, and she cried out as her limp body collided with a boulder at the the basin of the falls, her last gasp escaped her with eyes wide at the sky as the last of her breath escaped her, seeking relief from the pain and quickness of her shallow breaths, and the youngest child and only daughter of Barbaneth Beoulve bled out upon the rocks at the base of a waterfall. Her skirts were torn and ragged about her thighs, her right leg bent in abnormal abduction at her hip, and she could only cough her agony.

Balthier's eyes widened. Beside him Fran appeared indifferent, but he knew she was in a state of surprise herself.

It was undoubtedly Reddas, his face lightened from healed burn scars on the right side, perhaps the side he had turned towards the cryst when he intended to sacrifice himself with it. And his voice was beyond recognition due to obvious vocal cord damage, though just as deep and masculine, he sounded scratchy and soft; a membrane somewhere had been torn just enough to make him sound as foreign and strange as he did now.

Reddas sounded older, but hadn't they all at this point.

“I thought you were dead.” Balthier told him dumbly, far more dumbly than he was accustomed to sounding.

“I heard you were, as well.” Reddas nodded to Fran, sliding beside her to sit between the companions.

“Imagine my surprise when I find two dead heroes here, in my old city.” The older man joked, waving a barmaid over for a drink.

Fran said nothing. Her eyes flickered to Balthier's for a moment, indicating she was piecing together a timeline of some sort; it was a process Balthier would prefer to hear aloud but given their current surroundings she was on her own, configuring dates in her head of who contacted who and with what information: to whom else was the infamous Reddas alive? Even in his own declared city, where the common bargoer barely acknowledged his presence?

The sun was blindingly bright. Alma squinted when she stepped out of Migelo's and walked the streets with her new purchases in tow save within a satchel.

She'd first arrived in the city first from the plains to the south in the peak of the rainy season. Rabanastre was in a state of rebirth with a Princess prepping for coronation and city officials changing hands almost daily. It was in the midst of the confusion she was able to slip through the gates easily without proper documentation without more than a inquisitive stare and a head nod from the guard.

She was in a millennia of the past, she knew that for a while now. But still, the legends of old were life now, and she could hardly believe the thought of what she would do today.

She stopped before the aerodrome.

She would go inside and purchase a ticket for Archades. She would fly on a ship through the sky and land the following day in a foreign country as if she were simply traveling to the next town over.

Alma had studied airships, or at least references in the deep archives of history that the Church allowed her access to. Ships that sailed in the sky like the did in the sea- it was unnerving and thrilling to her all the same. How often did she press her father for details of the mercenaries' finds of the ruins of the sky city Bhujerba?

“How did they get there, to the ruins in the sky? What did they find?”

He chuckled at her enthusiasm, pressing pallored palms to the surface of his desk as he smiled at her kindly, “I sought that knowledge at my own expense, my girl,” He'd told her with a heavy sigh, “Nothing more than the ore we require, and gold that will assure this House to provide for your children long after they're born.”

The Archadian clerk smiled politely, accepting the bag of gil she slid over the counter.

“How did you secure a job here?” Alma blurted out, a tendency she'd chastised Ramza for until the date that he died, though she shared the tendency with him.

The clerk stared back at her, a single hand still over the gil yet to be counted.

She was a younger woman, Alma could see by the lack of dark circles and fine lines under her eyes, a typical Dalmascan with light grey eyes and fair hair who had spent a considerable amount of time outside of her own capital city.

“I-I don't know what you mean madam.” The girl answered politely, resuming her count of Alma's gil.

“I'm looking for a job.”

The girl eyed her with a specific sense of judgement that Alma could recognize as familiar after years of living on the road with her brother, offering payment just short of the debt and cryptic explanations and false names.

But if she was to survive in this old Ivalice, she needed other means than hunting rabbit pelts on the plains eventually.

They looked at one another for a moment, and then the girl's expression lightened.

“We aren't hiring as of right now, but if you return from Archades... Miss...”

“My name is Alma. Alma Beoulve.”

It was enlightening, speaking the words aloud that she'd kept secret for years. House Beoulve held no meaning here. Not yet. There was no need and no sense to muddle her identity as she had for all the years before.

“Miss Alma, we have vacancies every mid summer due to the high volume of travel season. You'd best check back then.”

Ice clinked in a crystal glass, sluggishly shrinking under the film of the liquor that remained there. Ashe exhaled slowly, watching her chambermaids move about to gather her things for the journey to Mt Bur-Omisace. A rich perfume filled the air as someone had lit incense, but not close enough to the balcony so that it filled the room with a smoky, velvet haze.

The conclave to determine the new Gran Kiltias was long overdue, delayed and drawn out in the midst of war and the following instability between Dalmasca, Rozarria, and Archadia. It was Larsa who first called for an appearance by leaders of Ivalice at the ceremony of consecration, and though Ashe bore little religious zeal, she acknowledged that it was a significant appearance for her in her still- new role as a Queen by coronation, and as the first daughter in generations to be ordained Queen by right other than spouse or motherhood, she felt it was imperative for her to meet Larsa there.

She strode to a sitting area, dizzy from the haze of alcohol that often bid her goodnight in the evening. A single letter laid upon the table was for her to see, folded in third and promising secrecy with a black wax seal.

She lifted it, recognizing the immaculate leftward slanted penmanship in thick black lettering as that of Al-Cid's. He was one of her many contacts as of late, though recently his correspondence had fallen silent under her insistant rejection of his flirtation. She was a desirable monarch of childbearing age, after all. And though Al-Cid had some sway with her, having had such a vocal role in rallying support for the restructuring of Dalmasca and the reconstruction of the palace- her own childhood home, she couldn't bring herself to take him as any member of her court or consort or any sort.

She opened the parchment and skimmed the clean, neat lines, failing to suppress a slight smile upon her face. He would join her for the ceremonial conclusion on the conclave in his brother-king's stead alongside Larsa.

“A nightcap for the travel, your grace?” A handmaiden curtseyed with two bottles of wine in hand, a smirk upon her lips, for Ashe always carried a tender sort of casual manner with the women who served her in such a personal manner.

“Yes.” She smiled, nodding in approval, “I think several nightcaps will be in order this trip.

It was true. Fondness for Larsa aside, she was brimming with glee at the thought of seeing Basch again, be him a soldier in foreign armor. Correspondence with him was difficult under such scrutiny, but it was often in the middle of the day (or night) when she felt the most alone and when she longed for his counsel the most.

The new girl was quiet and unnaturally immaculate in appearance, with plaits adorning her head in interwoven arrangements at all times. Alma smiled politely at her when their eyes met in passing, because it was what a proper noble lady did and more loosely associated, what her now best friend Tietra had confessed as an only gesture of kindness in the cruel halls of the upper nobility, so she tried to ease that cruelty with every opportunity that she could.

It wasn't until they had breakfast one morning together, when the colored beams of sunlight scattered across the long dining table of the monastery's single dining chamber through stained glass. Alma had received her own share of pampering in fifteen years of life: Extensive education, long golden hair that she mastered tying into a single braid for modesty and practicality and silk dresses with moderate yet distinguished embroidery.

Her eldest half-brother Dycedarg Beoulve had wished to send her away, as she was the only remaining remainder of their father's palate for a woman more young and desirable than his own mother since Ramza was sent to squire in the uprisings occuring in Ivalice.

Alma and Ramza's mother was a proper noblewoman, though being young and desirable was the greatest sin she could commit against heirs of House Beoulve.

“What's your name?” Alma asked the new girl before her now sweetly, she was aware that her voice drifted upward an octave when she was consciously attempting to be polite, though now he cringed at her own obvious patronism.

The girl's eyes drifted downward, to her small delicate hand buttering a slice of bread with a silver knife. Surely the name would be familiar. Other than Tietra, all the girls who walked through this monastery were from strong houses like her own.

The girl was smaller than her, with pale blonde hair and brown eyes like Alma's that contrasted light eyelashes and fair skin.

“I am Ovelia Atkascha.” The girl told her.

Alma swallowed the ale from her goblet in a near choke, gaping inwardly at the revelation of the identity of her new acquaintance. The Princess never made it relevant that she was a Princess, and from that moment on the two girls shared meals more frequently over the next month; with the light of the sun shining through the prisms of colored glass above their table. They shared stories, laughter, and one time, Alma walked to her chambers in the night to leave the box of candy Ramza sent her for her birthday.

“A drink?” A docent offered Alma from a tray when the ship was high above the clouds and she accepted, still dizzy from the affect from the altitude that caused her ears to pop and the swallow of a drink might restore her sense of hearing and soothe her nerves from the rise and falls of winds below her feet.

“It's nice to see another lady around, one that's not attached to the hip of Archadian gentry, I mean.”

The bartender was speaking to her now as she slid onto a stool. Other patrons were seemingly more accustomed to air travel, but Alma felt more comfortable by not having to stand. Laying down in her cabin only made her sick.

“Where're you from, anyway?” The bartender pressed.

The accent and demeanor Alma recognized as Dalmascan, and the light blue eyes that scanned her form from head to toe signalled that she must've come off as peculiar in some way. True, she did her best to fit in when arriving to Rabanastre those months ago, but she hadn't quite been able to shake the inner conservative nature of her upbringing, concealing her midriff under a loose white blouse and thighs under brown slacks. The heat of a desert summer forced her to hide her complexion under the brim of a brightly colored headscarf, which she understood what also odd to these people even when it rested along the length of her collarbone and midback now, but alas, her consistent influx of furs kept traders from asking too many questions when she told them she hailed from Archades, as she understood her charm to work well in her favor. Her accent came across as Archadian to many, but despite that fact, things could be more complicated in Archades.

“Archades.” Alma replied, keeping her answer short in an attempt to close opportunity for conversation.

“I see that.” The bartender filled a glass of water and slid it over to her, “But what part?”

She opened her mouth for a moment, and closed it again, silently cursing herself for being underprepped for this sort of conversation, especially when the capital itself was her destination.

Penelo's fingers moved rapidly, her eyes like gold.

“Where to next?” Her companion relaxed in a reclining chair, his back toward her with his fingers interwoven behind his head.

Perhaps another woman would be annoyed by this, this expectation of his for her to dictate every step of their endeavors with a simple stroke of of hand, but Penelo prided herself by it.

They'd been like siblings since Reks and Vaan moved in with her family, after all. She'd been forced to forfeit her bedroom so that the boys would have a proper room to sleep in, and instead slept on a cot at the foot of her parents' bed. It was far from ideal, but she had a crush on Reks then, and if anything the thought of him living so close was thrilling as it was a nuisance.

Since Balthier was supposedly back from the dead (yet nowhere to be seen, by her letters from Ashe), he'd taken his Strahl back. It disappeared as quickly as he had himself one day when they had it routinely service while in Archades.

While the realization made her smile with the thought of Balthier reuniting with his ship like an old girlfriend, preferably with Fran at his side, only to find it the way Vaan had left it with his notes if horrid handwriting scribble hear and there, where Penelo hadn't gotten to cleaning up lately, or how he had the control panel intercom updated with the voice and accent up and upperclass Archadian woman, because he claimed that it “made him want to follow her more”. The was still a spare pair of boots that Vaan had insisted on keeping, even though they'd clearly ben ruined by his passage through a bog in the midst of a hunt propped by the captain's cabin door in irreverent fashion- so Balthier would clearly had to follow the stench of stale bog to his very own former cabin door.

The same door where Penelo had witness Ashe disappear behind on an evening all that time ago, now vandalized by the presence of Vaan's wretched feet.

Yes, she imagined Balthier's reunion with his long separated ship was not at all smooth.

Their current ship, while not as technologically advanced or fast as the Strahl, was hers and Vaan's in every means of documentation, which made it special all the same.

“I'm looking.” Penelo replied patiently, pausing for a moment before glancing upward at him to declare, “Next month is Ondore's birthday.”

“Yeah, so?” Vaan replied casually, “Are we invited or something?”

“Well we aren't,” Penelo replied carefully, “But Larsa invited me. A while ago.”

Vaan spun around to look at her now, one brow arched in skepticism.

“Don't give me that look, Vaan.” Penelo chastised him, chuckling a little.

“What am I supposed to do during that time, then?” He sounded a little irritated.

“I dunno, I'll find something.”

“Like what?”

Penelo rolled her eyes, “Honestly, Vaan. Don't worry about it. I said I'll find something.”

“Who says I'm worried?” He spun around so that he wasn't facing her anymore.

Vaan was being silly, she knew. It was his way. To be fair, Larsa had invited her to Archades plenty of times and she declined, being busy for one reason or another. But Bhujerba was special between then, it being the city where she met him all that time ago, when she was at her lowest point- believing Vaan to be imprisoned for life and having been abducted and held for ransom.

Larsa had stepped in to vouch for her upon her escape through the mines by herself, fighting off perils of undead foes and bats that made her blood curdle when they lunged at her from above.

So, Bhujerba was special. And Vaan would just have to deal with it. Had he a better reputation, he might have earned himself such an invite to such an event.

It was a night like many others, when Tietra would steal to her bedroom for a while. A fire that was lit hours before had long since diminished to embers after Alma dismissed her chambermaid to bed, and the two girls sat before it in their nightgowns.

“She was not the Princess.” Tietra responded to her story in disbelief.

If Alma resembled her brother Ramza then Tietra resembled her own brother Delita, with olive skin that Alma envied exposed through bare shoulders and arms, with her knees drawn to her chest before the dying fire.

Dark brown hair hung to Tietra's mid back, brushed meticulously straight by Alma before she prepped a curling tool of iron, a rounded-edge cylinder no bigger than her forearm with a cork handle to save her palms from the scald, heating it carefully over the embers as one of the girls at the monastery taught her after hours as she told Tietra about the Princess Ovelia. She was unable to speak to anyone about it up until this point, and she was giddy with the information.

“She was.” Alma countered, turning the tool over the embers so that it would heat evenly.

“How did you know for certain? Did she try and make you curtsy?”

Alma's brow furrowed at the oddity of a question- of course Tietra would have that vision of royalty, because as a commoner Tietra was constantly bullied by the other girls they went to the Academy with.

“You needn't curtsy or bow in a holy place unless it is ceremonial.” Alma reminded her friend gently. Knowledge like this wasn't at all natural to Tietra as it was to her, she had to remind herself.

“How, then?”

Alma lifted the tool from the embers, hovering her fingers from the opposite hand over it to confirm the ripeness of the heat before taking several paces on her knees to position herself behind her friend with it.

“She told me.” Alma said simply, running her fingers through Tietra's dark locks once more before taking a section to wrap around the tool, “She was quite like you, actually.”

Alma spoke truthfully, but though she couldn't see she knew Tietra's dark eyes were widened, “Like me? And you swear she was the Princess??”

Alma held her friend's hair around the tool, releasing it immediately as she wrinkled her nose from the slight burning scent.

“You seem dumbfounded.” Alma noted amusingly.

Tietra turned her head slightly towards her friend, her profile revealing tips of dark eyelashes in the firelight.

The same eyes as Delita. Alma had feelings for him once, when they were little. Dycedarg caught onto it and ensured that her brother's friend had additional duties around the castle and Ramza was enraged at her for it. She associated such feelings as negative, as childish and naive as they were and quietly put her fantasies of marrying the handsome dark eyed servant boy to rest.

“Dumbfounded that you compare me to a Princess, you mean?” Tietra questioned her, half amused.

Alma wrapped another section of hair around the tool, this time holding it there longer. “She was humble and kind, like you. I suspect we'd have been good friends had she not be sent away so soon. She had such a bold laugh, but she didn't allow her self to do much of it.”

Alma understood the reason for Tietra's doubt. Being taken in and raised by the Beoulve family in infancy she'd been constantly reminded of her peasant status despite receiving a noble lady's education. Other families were not so kind to their servitude, it seemed. It was silly, because Tietra was more intelligent and mature than most girls in their class. And she was beautiful- having developed earlier than most girls their age Tietra had fuller breasts and wider hips at an abnormally young age, capturing the attention of young men (and older men) at every social gathering, which the other girls despised her for even further.

Alma took it upon herself to strut about with her nose upward, not because she truly felt comfortable walking that way, but because it made the other girls disperse when they saw the Beoulve daughter coming their way with status that could put the last several generations of their own families to shame.

“You swear this is how it's done?” Tietra questioned, her own nose wrinkled at the increased scent of burning.

Alma nodded, reassuring herself more than anything. “All the noble ladies style their hair like this for parties now, the girl who gave me this did it.”

“Did Princess Ovelia have curls?”

“She only had plaits, it was hard to tell.”

Alma pulled Tietra's dark hair, frowning instantly when it stuck, melted like hard wax to the tool.

“And see...” She murmured.

Somewhere outside the Eagrose castle walls, someone was yelling.

Tietra grabbed the lock of hair from her and gasped in horror as a chunk of hair fell to the floor.

“You heated it too long!” Tietra shrieked, “I'm bald!”

Alma sputtered in reply as Tietra jumped up before her with the singed lock in a hand, not minding the perfectly groomed waves Alma had constructed prior to her error.

“You are not!” Alma cried, raising to her feet and and lifting her hands with the tool in one as if in surrender, “I-I made a mistake, but you can do the same to me if you like!”

Tietra eyed her in bewilderment, full lips parting to tell her something that she would never hear, because in that moment the belltower rang outside, and a guard burst into Alma's chamber without any sort of warning- an occurrence that had never happened before in her life.

It would've been funny, had the memory played out the way it had with nothing to follow in the years to come.

“Lady Alma,” He was young, barely older than they, “Lady Tietra,” He nodded in her friend's direction, “You must come with me. We are under attack.”

He was leading them through the castle in nothing but their white nightgowns. “Let us get decent!” Alma fired back at him incredulously as Tietra's arms crossed her chest to cover her full bosom instinctively.

“My lady, there's no time!” The guard grabbed her by the wrist and pulled harshly. She looked at him in horror, having never been handled in such a way.

“Eagrose had already been infiltrated. Please. Come with me.”

Alma eyed him viciously for a moment, looked to Tietra who confirmed her decision wordlessly while gripping the iron tool by the cork handle that Alma had dropped amid the outburst.

“Know what I don't understand about you Archadians?” The Dalmascan bartender questioned, slowly refilling her wine glass for the third time, “What is your obsession with the Judges?”

“The Judges?” Alma repeated, drunkenly hitting a gradual decline in her ability to hold her facade. Be it her nerves mixed with the intoxication of her initial drink and lapse of judgement to follow which caused her to have several more, she was going to require this airship to land very soon, where at this rate she'd stumble off and into the closest establishiment that resembled what she was looking for.

“Yeah, you know, the guys that go around going beserk on everyone.”

Alma's brow furrowed, and she just sipped the wine from the glass unsure of what else to do or say. She'd heard of Judges from her short time in this age but not nearly enough to hold a convincing conversation with someone who knew more than she.

“They uphold the law and... do whatever the Emperor wants.” She slurred.

The bartender and patron beside her exchanged glances and chuckled at the intoxicated simplicity of her statement.

“I just ask because your Lord Larsa made such a big deal about finding replacements.” The bartender shrugged, “ But he has that big one following him around all the time. Judge Gabranth?” The bartender pointed to his brow, drawing a line from there to his cheek in a back and forth motion. “At least he removes his helmet from time to time. Makes him seem like a normal Hume.”

Alma nodded absentmindedly in agreement now, only partially listening to the bartender's words even though they gave her no recognition. Her mind was getting hazy, but she knew it wasn't from her drink as her heart was accelerating as if it meant to flutter right out of her chest-

-just like....

'Oh.' Alma's eyes opened wide and she scanned the room in a panic. 'Not now.'

Alma allowed herself to be led by the arm from her chamber into the hall with Tietra close behind. The belltower was now ringing vigorously outside, sounding muffled through the closed glass paned window of the castle halls. It was just fitting that Ramza was off running errands for Dycedarg and her two eldest brothers were nowhere to be found.

She was no soldier, but when they turned a corridor, a man in dark clothing intercepted them, gripping the guard and stabbing him swiftly in the side where the gap in his armor was most obvious, and the girls screamed in terror. The man laughed, calling over his shoulder, “Oi, boys! Got two fine noble ladies here!-”

Before he could finish his thought Tietra lunged at him, and truthfully Alma hadn't been sure she had much of a plan, taking the curling iron to stab him bluntly in the neck by the element of surprise, an attack that caused him to cry out in pain from the hot metal and Alma to press her back against the wall in terror, until the man expertly knocked the iron from her hand with the swing of his knife.

Tietra dove for it, or she would've, had an accomplice not arrive just in time to grab Tietra roughly by the waist, punching her in the stomach so hard that she gasped and gagged, coughing up bile as she hunched forward and her head spun.

What happened after that was unclear, because their original abductor gripped Alma by the hair and yanked her forward and forced her to walk swiftly alongside his waist with her head angled for the floor, tears brimming her eyes as her bare feet stepped into the guard's warm pooling blood on the floor.

Somewhere in front of her, Tietra was being led along in similar fashion, sobbing and crying out in alarm as she was led this way and that in the dark.

No one came for them despite their cries. Not a single one until Ramza arrived in the darkness and narrowly freed her as she was dragged down the steps of the fortress.

It was in the months and years that followed that Alma was haunted by that guilt of having had Tietra in her chamber that evening- for if she had been in her own it would've been clear that Tietra was indeed not Beoulve, not fair game to be kidnapped for ransom, not to be thrown upon a chocobo and kept bound and starving in her own filth in a windmill for days like a war criminal, before being dragged out by the singed ends of her hair in nothing but a dirty night gown at the break of dawn before her brother.

From Ramza's recollection, Tietra died as angelic and humble as she had lived: her bare footsteps leaving distinct impressions in the snow as she was led out onto the bridge donned in nothing but the same nightgown Alma had last seen her in, with tears streaming down her face until an arrow pieced right through her, and she fell silent and limp, her body making no noise, seeming weightless as it collided with the snow drift below, thus starting a new war.

Alma cried when she heard, knowing Tietra's greatest crime was simply being a friend of a Beoulve.

It had been years since Alma had encountered Ultima, not counting the day at the waterfall.

“We must land this ship at once!” She announced loudly, ignoring the bartender's now annoyed voice telling her to pay her tab and lay down in her cabin for a while. She ignored him, a familiar ringing in her ears sounds and she clutched both her hands to cover then, further inhibited by her drunken stumbling.

She could only hear her heartbeat now, and it was incredibly fast.

She had meant to find the captain's control center- to slam her fists on the door and demand that he land his ship as Ultima intended to use her for a disaster.

She instead found herself on the deck, tripping and stumbling over her feet. People were pulling her backward, deterring her from what every instinct was telling her to, she pushed them from her, biting, crawling, until she got to the rails and no one dared to come into contact with her anymore.

She jumped, eyes closed, feeling the rush of wind in her ears and nothing else, until at one point, she opened her eyes, shivering, gasping while encased in snow and ice.

Chapter Text

The casket was encased in blue roses- the symbol of regality in Archadia. Larsa didn't know why he felt the tears stinging his eyes, he'd never been particularly close with Jeane, or with any of his brothers for that matter. But Jeane was the second brother he'd lost in the past year. The once seemingly vast (however distant) brotherhood of House Solidor was now reduced to himself and Vayne and Father, and somehow everything was starting to feel final; like a proper punctuation, his childhood's end was marked by the occurrence of this second funeral.

Mourners gathered from the greatest houses from across the land, lining in single file to pay their respects to the latest Solidor son to pass. The casket was opened at the entrance to the crypt where Larsa's mother and the ancestors before her. They rested in the halls of the crypt in perfectly cut marble tombs, one mirroring the other from across the hall. The very thought that one day he'd inevitably lie to rest in a vacancy beside a brother or a wife until he was reduced to bones and long after made him uneasy.

It was there he med Dr. Cidolfus formally for the first time. A peculiar man that bowed for Larsa in jarringly bright colors compared to the other guests, muttering under his breath as if in conversation with a friend who wasn't there.

It seemed like a bitter end to him- to live all that only a Solidor could only to evaporate from the world so suddenly. It was soon, too soon after the first one, Larsa thought. He wept because he felt he should as a brother. After all, it was the end of a potential era and his father also did so in private, he could tell.

Larsa was entirely ignorant that this was the way of his House for generations. It was no secret among the whispers of chambermaids and childhood nurses that his own father had inherited the title of Emperor only because of the unfortunate and sudden demise of his own older brother.

He felt a hand on his shoulder when the light wind from the east came like it always did and swept across his bedchamber in a summer crossbreeze that was only granted by open windows.

Vayne squeezed his shoulder gently, the single quiet reassurance that perhaps the swelling of emotion about his eyes was not abnormal, and he snifled only a little, blinking back more tears that burdened him.

“Weep for the dead, little brother. For he surely would have wept the same for you.”

Gold jewelry hung heavy against her mid chest. Ashe fastened it behind her neck in a long mirror by the bed where she sat, adjusting it so that it was perfectly centered on her bosom on the plunging neckline of the sapphire dyed gown.

She was settled in a white tent on the level below the temple on Mt. Bur-Omisace the evening before the first ceremony tomorrow at dawn. Her sitting area was partitioned from the bedroom with a paper and wooden folding screen, and had now been converted into a dining area with a rectangular table draped with a while cloth, set for three diners with gold place settings and bottles of wine that a handmaiden had selected.

A ceremony at dawn to initiate the conclave of the new Gran Kiltias would mean that all invited parties would need to retire early, yet she was so anxious for her scheduled visitors that she paced the space between the bed and the mirror impatiently, her sandals clicking against the floor in an impatient rhythm testifying of her eagerness for her guests to arrive.

A knock against the wood frame and a guard emerging from the flap of the front of the tent to greet her when her head poked from behind the screen.

“You grace, Emperor Larsa and Judge Gabranth, as you requested.”

She nodded, emerging from behind the screen entirely as the guard disappeared again and Larsa emerged in his pace.

He'd already grown quite a bit since she saw him last, his features longer and thinner, drawing reminiscence of his late elder brother Vayne. There would be a slight difference in how he would look as an adult, Ashe could already tell: the bridge of his nose was a bit more broad and more noticeable, and his eyes were kinder, gentler, but ridden with premature telltale dark circles around them that screamed of a lack of sleep.

Not that Ashe found that very odd, she knew that she must've appeared similar in health to him.

Basch entered next, and to her surprise he lacked the Judge's armor, wearing only a simple dark tunic bearing the Imperial crest and slacks that were immaculately tucked into black boots.

She bowed gracefully, dipping her head downward as Larsa paid her the same respect, and when her eyes lifted from the floor enough to be level with him she could only smile genuinely; it was hard to believe that he was the same boy who partook of a freshly hunted rabbit with her from across the campfire on the plains.

She was rarely outwardly affectionate, but suppressed the urge to throw herself around the young lad and did so only with Basch instead, eliciting a chuckle and small pat on her back in response. When she breathed him in a calloused hand on her shoulder blades in the most gentle of manners. She missed Basch more than anything, and his presence now only brought all her loneliness and grief closer to the surface.

After all she was a child when she'd first met him, and he later taught her how to properly wield a sword. Basch was a much better fit in Dalmascan armor, in her opinion. Ashe thought to ask what the purpose of his casual attire was but then recalled how it wasn't so long ago that a Judge had slaughtered a number of Kiltia like cattle including the late Anastasis himself, and thus having a similarly attired Judge in the vicinity so soon present for such a sacred ceremony may easily be perceived poorly despite their invitation to the event.

“Lady Ashe.” Larsa greeted her to her side with a smile in his voice and she broke her embrace with Basch only to turn to reach and squeeze the younger man's hands. It was hard to imagine him as the precocious youth named Lamont who joined them into the mines of Bhujerba nearly two years ago.

“Come and sit. Both of you.” Ashe gestured to the table that had been arranged for them earlier. There was a flank of a wild boar in the center bordered by bowls of fruit and stacks of bread and cheeses that was beyond her capability to consume on her own.

“You look well, as always.” Basch complemented her.

“It's always good to meet on such casual circumstances.” Larsa noted, settling into his seat across from her at the table.

It was true, their encounters were rare these days. Rarer than Ashe liked, but as Larsa assumed his role as emperor and she was coronated as queen they can little to do with one another outside of formal engagements. There were letters exchanged, but not without threat of interception at every connection point. Casual exchanges were safest with Penelo, who corresponded with everyone individually about one another.

Ashe smiled. “Larsa, I must admit I would hardly recognize you now from when I saw you last. You've grown. Has Penelo seen you lately?”

In the flickering candlelight she could note a blush from her dinner guest, which gave her a cruel sense of pleasure. They ate like that for a while, their laughter occasionally stopping a passerby in the night who wondered what they could possibly be laughing about.

Before his father's death, Larsa met his tutor in Vayne's study one evening, because his own quarters were being reworked with new shelves and his joining bedroom carried a rather nasty draft in the winter time that needed addressing. Vayne rarely used his own quarters anymore, as his duties as consul in Ranbanastre yielded him little time for home.

With exceptions.

There were extensive notes on the mahogany table, with drawings and equations that he could do little to interpret. The manner in which they were cast aside and stacked recklessly meant that they had been there for some time. Vayne was not reckless, so this importance they once held must've not been regarded as important anymore.

Larsa ignored the strangeness of the contents on the table throughout the duration of the tutor's session, out of compliance and respect for the elderly man with crippled fingers who could barely hold a pen properly, as the man had taught him from the earliest age he could remember and the papers on the table should not have been irrelevant.

But they were, and ask, Larsa did. His question elicited little of the outrage that he feared it would, rather, his tutor only chuckled and shrugged.

“Perhaps you should get a better explanation from Lord Vayne, young lord. He spends more time with Dr Cid than anyone.” The tutor stated matter of factly.

Larsa wrinkled his nose. It was a mannerism he carried from toddlerhood when he was particularly perplexed or annoyed.

“Vayne receives notes from Dr Cid personally?”

The tutor slammed his book shut, methodically putting his materials away into a leather satchel, and taking the stack of papers and turning them facedown onto the table so that Larsa could no longer read the scribble, no matter if it didn't make any sense to him at all to begin with.

Larsa was calm. He was accustomed to the gentry about him acting either exceedingly cautious or overtly careless towards him, all simply because he was a child after all.

He'd managed tuck a few pages into his book prior to the tutor's arrival that day, and later skimmed them thoroughly, folded them into thirds, and hid them well into the depths of a newly finished bookshelf.

Ashe arrived to the ceremony just before sunrise escorted by her royal guard and dressed in the white silk robes that had been provided to her. She nodded to the King of Rozarria and to Larsa as they walked to the platform. The ceremony faced the sunrise and all seven of the prospective new Gran Kiltias were presented as rays of light flickered around the dark, cold horizon.

Ashe admired the grey lights churning to amber in increasing warmth as the sun peaked above the mountain range, and the priests chanted about her and she could nothing but be still in silent splendor at the reverence of it all. She'd been chosen to be a saint once, a queen of destruction and vengeance chosen by the gods themselves.

That was over now.

In the distance, a distinct irregular object winked at her in the sky and her eyes narrowed, trying to focus on it's pattern. It fell abruptly from the sky, or crash landed, it was hard to say at such a distance. But the chaos of the wreck sounded as a faint whistle from where they were seated in a circle about the mountain, and at the corner of her eye she noted the Larsa, too was troubled. He nodded to where Basch stood behind her, and in their nonverbal exchange Ashe understood what it was that Larsa was asking of Basch.

Ashe heard a distinct turn on a heel, and the ceremony went on uninterrupted, though she couldn't help but be distracted by the threat of wreckage in the distance.

The first two scholars Larsa had paid had turned up fruitless, but such was reality when tasking men, however educated they were, to decode the language of the madman Cidolfus Demen Bunansa.

It wasn't until he'd discreetly petitioned a hunt posted by his steward on the tavern wall in Old Archades that he received any sort of revelation and crafty mercenary met with him in the sewers beneath Archades.

“The codes are quite peculiar and quite complex, young lord.” The mercenary passed Larsa's stolen pages back to him. “Have you ever heard of sacred geometry?”

“Sacred geometry?” Larsa repeated, the new terminology sounded almost silly on his tongue.

“Many of these are simply formulas for the pattern of creation. Appears someone it attempting to alter it.”

“Someone is attempting to alter creation?” Larsa swallowed, and rephrased his question: “My brother intends to alter creation?”

“That's what my source tell me. He's quite the learned man, young lord. Studied much of what we know of the Stilshrine of Miriam.” The hunter confirmed.

Larsa slowly and reluctantly accepted that the words he was hearing were indeed confirmed by the papers.

“These papers are written for Magicite, specifically. Ever hear of nethicite? Manufactured nethicite?”

“Aye,” Larsa confirmed, “I've heard of it.”

It was only a slightly small embellishment. He'd heard of sacred geometry in passing only. The details weren't well understood by him, other than the concept that there was a god ratio for the entire universe that, if meddled with, could alter creation and create portals from nothing.

And, it seemed, it could alter magicite in rich supply.

Penelo wandered the tunnels under Rabanastre. While it's inhabitants were no longer required to live there according to an Imperial city ordinance, the rent was cheap and the culture of undercover deals and miscreants with little supervision from the light of day above appealed to some, so Lowtown kept it's lively atmosphere intact.

Torches lit the underground shop where a bangaa busied himself in the back, keeping an eye on her from his peripheral. Vaan was several units down, chasing their lead at his own pace.

A coin caught her eye, glimmering gold in the flickering torchlight. It was no average gil coin, that was apparent from the green velvet display. Penelo stepped in front of it, mesmerized by a hint of glimmering green on the smooth surface.

The bangaa turned toward her fully, no longer being discreet about the fact that he was watching her.

Penelo nodded in his direction, smiling sweetly. “May I?”

The bangaa nodded.

Penelo reached for the coin, feeling the cool metal against her fingers and turning it over several times in the light. At first glance, it was a simple gold coin with a tree engraved across the surface on both sides. The rim was lined with irregular lines- almost seeming to be engraved by an amateur had the tree carving not been so elaborate by the details of the veins in the trunk and the individual leaves on the branches.

And perhaps the most bizarre detail was the dazzling green of the tree's leaves- only visible when Penelo held it to the light in just the right after, and under the flickering torch flames it danced at her.

“Like what you see there, girl?” The bangaa pressed her, trying to move the sale along.

Penelo didn't know what came over her, because funds were limited and she and Vaan were supposed to be looking for something else entirely. Normally Vaan was the irresponsible one and she the one to scold him- he would surely savor the fact that she was about to make this purchase.

She put the coin down abruptly. The bangaa cocked his head to the side at her as she moved to step away, then picked it up again.

“How much?”

From the Lowtown street Vaan watched her with arms crossed, his head shaking in sheer disbelief at his partner's unusual lack of sensibility, yet he was also absolutely ecstatic.

At last, he thought, Penelo found a treasure that challenged her.

Something had run afoul for a while now, that much was clear. It had been months since he'd cleared Lhusu Mines and began exchanging correspondence with Penelo, yet over the winter holiday he was feeling particularly sluggish.

Judge Drace had vanished, mysteriously and without so much as a word from Vayne.

Larsa understood the game now. He knew better than to ask. But he couldn't shake the sickening feeling in his gut- it seemed the deeper he delved into the realm of nethicite and sacred geometry the more the plot twisted to sour his brother, and he didn't like it one bit.

With their father in the ground, it was deafeningly lonely. It was only a matter of time, he decided, before he'd have no choice but to find Ashe and her companions again.

His newfound protector was silent, but powerful in presence.

“Judge Gabranth.” Larsa addressed him directly for the first time, leaning back in his chair, pen still in hand under the flickering light of a dim chandelier.

“My Lord.” Gabranth replied, lifting his helmet from his shoulders to reveal a face that appeared somewhat familiar. His eyes were somewhat darker, his cheekbones slightly fuller, there was an absence of a telltale scar upon his brow, but he otherwise appeared identical to the Princess Ashe's own protector, Basch fon Ronsenberg.

So the rumor he'd heard from his most informative hunter was true.

Larsa paused, and the judge took the moment of silence to kneel and cast his eyes downward, bracing his helmet at his waist the entire way.

“If I'm informed correctly, you've committed atrocities for my brother and for House Solidor, in the name of fealty.”

Gabranth only looked up at him for a moment, taken aback by his forwardness: such an attribute was rare in Archadia, after all. He spoke finally, reluctantly and carefully.

“Atrocities of fealty, yes. Though I confess they also served myself personally.”

So, Judge Gabranth was willing to profess the truth to him, as Larsa himself wished to do. It was bold, and rare, and Larsa unsheathed a sword from the holster at his waist and placed it on the Judge's shoulder.

“There can be no secrets between us from this day forth then, Judge Gabranth. And I will forgive you for any transgression as long as you remain true, and in return I promise to serve you as a public servant of House Solidor, and will ensure though who wrong you are served justice accordingly.”

In the procession that followed the ceremony Ashe found herself within earshot of Larsa's whisper in the Great Hall of the sanctuary. He was tall enough now so that they spoke level with one another's ears.

“Did you see that? Earlier? Outside.” He questioned her.

Ashe walked with him step for step, pausing to curtsy back at a passerby who greeted her in the hall.

“I know a ship crash when I see one,” Ashe whispered back, “Odd place for for that, don't you think?”

“Aye,” Larsa agreed. “Basch went to investigate.”

“You sent him on his own?” Ashe frowned disapprovingly. Basch could cut a path through anything it seemed, but he wasn't invincible. She didn't like the thought of him patrolling through drifts of snow unaccompanied.

“Forgive me, milady.” Larsa paused their conversation to shake hands and bow his head to a Kiltias disciple and then, the pair kneeled for the second time that day as the rest of the procession passed by.

“I only wanted to be discreet. If there's a ship crash in a holy site...”

“I understand.” Ashe cut him off, her head still bowed to the ground. He was appropriate in his decision towards discretion, after all. If this was a ship from her country, or his country, or Rozarria, well, it wouldn't fare well for any of the parties involved as political tensions were just getting settled.

Yes, no one but Basch should handle it.

“I'll send for you when he returns.” Larsa assured her.

Whatever assurance it was, it did little to quell the sickening turning of her stomach. Basch was more than capable, but she recalled the desolate conditions of the frigid tundra. She understood Larsa's desire to act quickly, however she felt pang of bitterness that he didn't consult with her first. The holy sites of Mt. Bur-Omisace were a concern of both Archadia and Dalmasca, after all.

She had to follow him. But with what backup? The revelation to her royal guard that she, their queen was tailing an Imperial Judge to identify a potential threat or natural disaster from the skies? Larsa had put her in a bind, however inadvertently, and she couldn't fathom the thought of losing Basch.

Her head still down, she felt the wet smear of oils across her forehead as a prayer was chanted in the air around her. The scent of incense was thick, and the stuffiness of the chamber as the chanting Acolytes shuffled by.

Somewhere across the room, the familiar dark eyes of a son of House Margrace met hers when she lifted them. Al-Cid's brother, or cousin perhaps. Either way, her gaze shifted back towards the ground. In her short experience with Margrace men, they proved far too mischievous with their eyes for her liking, even in the most somber of circumstances.

The sunrise after his father's funeral took the longest. Larsa sat by himself on a stone bench in the training yard simply because he knew no one else would be there. In the midst of traveling with Ashe and her companions he'd learned of his father's death and had been summoned back.

A funeral for an emperor took nearly a week to plan, and three days to execute. All the mourners visited the black marble casket one by one, and Larsa was left only with a single cup of dark coffee from the kitchens, sipping only enough to keep his heart beating at a regular rate until his body decided it was time for bed.

“You're up early, young lord.”

Gabranth's voice sounded behind him. And had it not been for Larsa's travels with Basch he wouldn't have noted the undertones of a Landisian accent in his voice. So long removed from his homeland, so long occupied by an Imperial rule, then employed in Imperial service and yet he unwittingly carried the tone of his homeland with him as much as his homeland had.

“I never slept.”

“You must be exhausted.”

“Aye.” Larsa replied simply, failing to cast his companion so much as a glance over his shoulder as they spoke.

“Allow me to escort you to your bedchamber. You will be safe there, and when you wake I will assure you are able to perform whatever duties are required of you.”

The idea that Gabranth even felt the need to express that he would be safe while he slept- that was Vayne's fault, now Larsa knew for certain.

“Judge Gabranth,” Larsa spoke while tired eyes drunken from lack of sleep eyed the bottom of his now empty cup, “What do you know of sacred geometry?”

A moment passed, and Larsa listened as armor shuffled behind him. It was a shift in contemplation or a purely uncomfortable stance- Larsa wasn't sure which.

“I'm not sure I've heard of the subject.”

“Neither have I, that is until I began to learn of my brother's dealings and those of Dr. Cid who remains in close relationship with House Solidor. My brother has committed unthinkable acts, and he intends to use whatever means necessary to secure his seat as head of this House.”

Gabranth stepped into his view, his helmet removed. He truly was Basch's identical twin as Basch claimed, with cropped hair and slightly darker eyes.

“I'm not ignorant to that fact that my father committed such acts in his time, and his father before him. It is clear to me that I may very well not wake up from this sleep I will succumb to should my brother wish it.”

“I will not allow such a thing.” Gabranth assured him.

Larsa nodded. “I will take that as your word.”

He rose from the bench, leaving the cup on the bench and letting the gentle breeze of dawn whisper against his skin as he walked.

“I intend to end these vulgar acts, Judge Gabranth. Ones that brothers commit against one another, if I am able, House Solidor will condone them no more.”

The frigid landscape bowed downward. This was no crater formed by a devastating blast as it had appeared from afar, but a natural formation created by years, or centuries of freezing temperatures on the Paramina Rift.

The blinding white of the snow reflected shrilly off the sun high in the noon sky. Basch had traversed this terrain in such a rugged fashion before- with Ashe and Larsa in front of him, both clutching their cloaks and heads tucked inward at their chins to ward off the impending chill of the wind.

Basch did his best to keep step with them then, but in reality, it was slightly amusing how the two proved more limber than he. Fran was somewhere in his peripheral, casting him a look over her shoulder every now and then that he initially perceived as weariness, could the Viera feel it as he did. She was the only member of the entourage who declined the donning of a cloak, instead letting her feet tread lightly in fur lined boots through the snow.

Balthier followed in the rear, with Vaan and Penelo at his heels. Penelo initially trudged beside Basch, but after an incident where Vaan had managed to sprint to her and shove a handful of snow in her garments, causing her to scream and give their position to a pair of Yeti that had been tailing them for miles. It was far for trouble when it was worth, and the poor girl had obviously felt awful at their loss of time, energy, and resources when they made camp that night.

Basch crouched next to her before the fire where she sat by herself, her cloak wrapped tightly against her chest, breath visible and heavy from darkly chapped lips. He nudged her with his elbow, and her amber eyes widened as he offered her a drink from his mug.

“I-I don't...”

The whiskey had followed them all the way from Rabanastre, being that Balthier was the primary partaker, and only Basch followed suit in situations such as these- when the chill was so intense that he couldn't fathom the false warmth that would gather in him at like the sip of warmed whiskey. He'd preferred to not have his senses dulled, as the stirring of the wintry climate could possibly mean an elemental was close by, but surely Penelo was well over the age he had been at his first taste of the drink by both physical age and social maturity.

“It'll give you warmth.” Basch assured her.

The young girl hesitated, and accepted the crude cup from him, sipping and cringing slightly as it went down. She shook her head and passed it back to him.

“My first command was a mere seven troops,” He told her, his tongue loosened by the whiskey and the cold and the empathy for the however unwarranted guilt she was coping with that evening, “There was a border skirmish with bandits out of Nabradia.”

Penelo's brow furrowed. “I don't remember that.”

“It was short-lived. And you were likely young.”

Penelo tucked her knees to her chest, and the flickering of the firelight reflected off her hair like gold. Ashe settled across from them silently, mutely taking interest in his story. Penelo reached for his cup again with a timid confidence that only she could have, and passed it to Ashe, who eyed her with the same puzzlement that Penelo had given Basch. Ashe sipped from it and coughed a little before swallowing, the outburst capturing the attention of the others lingering nearby.

“It was a massacre, made only by a miscalculation on my part. The sole survivor was horribly disfigured, and was relieved of his duties upon return to Rabanastre.

Penelo remained silent. It'd been years since Basch had mentioned the incident to anyone. It was the same incident that ultimately relieved him of his role in such duties, alternatively placing him in a seemingly obscure role as a royal guard of Rabanastre. He flourished there in a twist of fate, ultimately being selected for promotion to Captain, the youngest in the history of Dalmasca at the age of 28.

He'd hoped in the midst of Penelo's silence that she was grasping his intent for telling her such a simple and tragic story, that in the bursts of shame that sprung up in their lives, there was something significant to be made of it. At least, that was what he'd told himself in the dungeons below Nalbina.

He stepped in the snow carefully now, so as to not lose his footing in the ever steep downward slope. Noon had yielded to midday, and the glare from the sun only intensified. The hood from his cloak helped some.

His belly twisted in a pang of hunger. He briefly considered stopping to sift through his bag for the jerky he'd secured for provisions when he'd left Mt. Bur-Omisace in such a hurry. But doing so would require him to remove his gloves and lose track of his pace count from the trail, so he pressed on.

Then there were footprints. Basch blinked, losing track of the terrain in snow blindness. Far from alert that the steps taken before him could've been that of an unfriendly walker, his hand instinctively snapped to the hilt of his sword.

The afternoon festivities were far more lively than that of the morning. There was a new Gran Kiltias, a Helgas by the name of Alulas, who strongly resembled his predecessor save for the willowy grey of his hands and glints of dark midnight strands of hair that hung from his head. In robes of silver and grey, they dined in the banquet hall.

The conclave guests were relieved of their ceremonial robes after having the opportunity to retreat to their tents and change into more familiar and comfortable, however formal clothing from their respective homeland.

Larsa walked to the banquet hall beneath the grand hall above. He'd only been there once during his stay there, in the weeks before hearing of his father's assassination. Imperials committed atrocities on the ground above, and by an invitation to such an event he understood a road to redemption in the eyes of the world.

When the great stone doors were opened before him the room looked nothing like how he remembered it, the delicate music of the hall greeted him among long tables laden with silver and gold. The Gran Kiltias ate at a long table by the wall opposite the doors from whence Larsa entered, surrounded by the matching silvery robes of his closest disciples.

Larsa spotted Ashe before him, wearing a lavender airy gown that crossed her chest and exposed her midriff in traditional Dalmascan fashion. Normally she'd be the friendliest face in the room for him, but by the way her eyes only flickered to his and back downwards to the floor again, he knew that if anything should happen to Basch out on that tundra he'd be held responsible in one way or the other.

Ashe had certainly grown wise, but her bitterness still certainly knew little restraint.

Larsa was far too objective to view things so harshly, but he understood it. When the Judge Gabranth who stepped into his own palace with a newly acquired scar over his brow and considerably thinner cheekbones Larsa felt the loss of an unmarked grave, a brother burying brother, and a protector who was conflicted on his duty and calling.

It was a cycle he wasn't sure that he or Ashe could ever break. So when she turned from him in a cold moment of bitterness, he knew she was merely acting out of fear for their shared comrade.

The footprints disappeared on a slick layer of slate, and Basch stopped abruptly. He was close to a drop off. The sun had started it's last prose of daylight, making the snow gently shimmer all around him.

There in the snow before him was a woman curled in a fetal position. She was alive, appearing peaceful and serene despite being dressed so poorly for the climate.

Basch frowned for a moment. Footsteps led him here. The body before him clearly wasn't frozen or injured, just... unconscious. He crouched, eyes skimming the horizon for any sign of foul play. The woman lay before a dropoff with lake, it's surface frozen yet visibly softer in the middle from the day's sun. There was certainly no way he could be ambushed from that direction. The opposite direction spanned from the path he'd taken, trailing her footprints in the snow.

Still, it was surely an odd place to slip into unconsciousness. But she wouldn't last much longer out there without proper garments or shelter.

He leaned forward on his knees to first pull her to him to lift her onto his shoulders like a wounded comrade fallen in battle, groaning as he dreaded the trek back up the mountain. To his surprise her body stiffened and resisted him with sudden spontaneous awareness. Loose clumps of hair fell over her face and her eyes snapped open, fearful and feral.

Basch released her and she fell back downhill into the snow, panicked as she crawled backwards from him on her hands and feet.

“I mean you no harm!”

She fumbled where the waist of her trousers met her blouse for a weapon that wasn't there. Basch offered her a gloved hand, palm upwards. She froze again and shivered. As comfortable as she appeared to be asleep the chill of the evening was starting to set around her.

“I'm Gabranth, a servant of House Solidor.”

The woman squinted back at him mutely, dark eyes studying him, no doubt determining his intent.

She'd need more than his hand if she would make it back with him alive. Leaving a hand outstretched, Basch unfastened his cloak with the other and shrugged it from his shoulders for her. The woman accepted his hand, fingers mottled and red from the cold, and he pulled her upright with him.

Larsa knelt to touch the ground deep in the caverns of Lhusu. Nethicite. His ears rang from it and he thought of the stack of Dr. Cid's papers in Vayne's study.

As it was, his worst suspicions of his brother were true. There would likely be another war brewing, and, more urgently, he'd enlisted the escort of a bizarre group of travelers this far under false pretenses.

Chapter Text

The sun had long since gone down on the conclave festivities, and as Ashe walked down the path to her temporary living quarters she found herself scanning the rift in the darkness from her high vantage point for the lone man who plagued her thoughts that evening.

She knew her coldness towards Larsawas unwarranted. There was a time she'd have slapped Larsa across the face for making such a callous decision, be his decision one that she might have made herself if Basch were still in her charge.

Still, she surely would've better ensured his safety. It was a foolish decision by a foolish child emperor. Light snowflakes fell in the mountain air, telling of a heavier drift down below, and she immediately felt guilt for thinking such things, but her bitterness ensued regardless.

Her guards outside opened the front flap for her and Ashe bowed inside, eyes adjusting to the darkness. She crossed the front room, doffing lavender silks that adorned her body as she went. She walked into her sleeping quarters, pulling a nightgown hanging by the mirror. Her time here on Bur-Omisace was a welcome distraction from her duties, but she had much to attend to back in Rabanastre before departing again to Bhujerba for Ondore's birthday festivities.

And there was little she could do for Basch out in the elements on his own. She reminded herself that he'd survived a war, two years of torture in a secret prison, and her campaign for her throne even when it meant destroying his own brother in the process.

It was when she dwelled on that thought when she heard footsteps from inside the tent.

Ashe froze with her arms held upward as her nightgown fell into place around her knees. Guards were outside, but if she screamed her intruder was closer to her than they were and it would only alert him first that she was aware of his presence.

She'd lived through enough assassination attempts in her father's time to know to sleep with a dagger close by. And when the man's footstep tapped again she tiptoed softly several paces to her bed where her dagger was hidden. She was thankful for the bareness of her feet while wrapping her dominant hand firmly around the jewel-encrusted handle that held the blade.

It was sharp, too. She had made sure of that prior to their departure from Rabanastre.

A fallen object from the sky. And now an assassination attempt all in the same day?

Ashe crept to the doorway of her makeshift bed chamber, her back against the cool fabric of the tent.

Her heart pounded in her chest. Someone was right on the other side. She hadn't felt this way since...

“Basch?” Ashe called to him hopefully, her last ill attempt to determine that this was not a man who meant well to her.

Her attacker stepped through the curtain and she pivoted her body on the heel of her foot and recruited the muscles in her back to swing from her arm like Basch had once taught her.

But he was too quick. He caught her wrist and her eyes widened in surprise and rage and she opened her mouth to reveal a bloodcurdling scream, but...

A finger pressed to her lips and she froze when his face came into focus, her eyes twitched but didn't blink.

Balthier.

“Shhhh” He attempted to soothe her, pressing his finger more firmly to her lips and pushed her backwards away from the doorway.

“It's all right now, you see.” Balthier spoke to her in a hushed tone, but something in Ashe snapped and the reality of the situation failed to catch up with her. Balthier was dead once, like Rasler. Then Balthier was missing, but didn't want to be found. She continued to press her hand with the dagger against his hold on her wrist, shaking with effort now.

“It's me, no need for dramatics.” He smiled at her despite a vein becoming pronounced at the side of his forehead due to great physical effort on his part.

Ashe said nothing, only furrowing her brow in response and pressing as hard with her dagger one handed.

“It was never my intention to scare you like this.” Balthier looked near apologetic now, clearly befuddled by her rage. She had him backed up against a bedpost now, dagger still firmly in her grasp despite his efforts to soothe her.

“I wanted to do a more...” He swallowed, “elaborate production. Fran thought it was silly, the whole thing-”

Ashe dropped her dagger so that she could strike him with the palm of her opposite hand that was out of his grasp, and she did so with all the strength that she could muster. It was a blow that intended to cause the maximum amount of pain.

Ffamran mied Bunansa was a curious child. By the age of eight, he'd been able to fully account for the details of his mother's death, primarily because he pressed his father for details and proceeded to invade the space of Cidolfus's mind by reading journal entries not meant for his eyes while asking bold questions of the servants of House Bunansa.

What Ffamran gathered was this: His mother, Lorrina Bunansa was known for her beauty. As a proper Archadian noblewoman she had little functional merit, especially next to the stature of Dr. Cid, whom she was matched with from the age of 8 while he, five years her senior, waited until his studies were complete at the age of 25 to wed her. She was a slender and small girl with violet eyes and dark hair.

She liked to paint in the courtyard of her husband's ancestral home, but after her death Dr. Cid had most of her paintings stowed away in the basement floors for their home, tucked away amongst forgotten antiques and heirlooms under a dustridden yellow sheet that was stained from age.

She died soon after childbirth. One moment she was holding her firstborn son, smiling down at him as he nursed at her breast, and the next nearly dropping him in shock as she began to hemorrhage into her lap, letting out a cry of shock as handmaids came running.

She passed within the hour, while her child still cried for the rest of his mother's milk.

When Dr. Cid led Ffamran by the hand into his laboratory for the first time, the young boy's inquisitive nature found a new obsession in the whirring of machinery.

The sharp impact on his cheek elicited a grunt from him and he winced from the sting.

“Damn you Balthier!” Ashe hissed through clenched teeth, a conscious effort as to not alert the guards outside.

He'd been damned before, and so be it again. Ashe had grown well into her comfortable life now, it seemed. Her eyes and lips remained painted from whatever the dull affair was brought her there. Her stature was as square and stiff as it ever had been, since the day he'd found her in the midst of clumsy attempt to steal the Strahl that ultimately resulted in her demanding he commit a crime punishable by death for her.

Typically women made much simpler demands of him. And they asked more politely. With the dagger gone from her grasp now, he was feeling more confident that she would not in fact kill him tonight.

He noted her slender fingers clenched in fists at her sides for him.

“Did you not get my gift?” He nudged his chin to her left fist, “I swear, the boy claims up and down to be a pirate and can't nearly make a proper delivery-”

“Your gift? The ring of my deceased husband that you took from me because you could, you mean.” Grey eyes narrowed back at him.

“I kept to my word, didn't I?”

Ashe's expression softened, and he understood it as his queue to reach for her hands in his, and pull them to his lips to press them, knuckle to knuckle against his breath.

He'd had her in his bed once, shortly before the day they boarded the Bahamut. When he mourned his father with a bottle, the Dr. Cid that was unrecognizable from the man who introduced him to Draklor Laboratory in his childhood.

He'd nearly lost her the same way he lost his father- through her obsession with nethicite and the power it could give her over her grief, but she refused it. It was then that he'd realized he'd found something valuable.

Of the highest of valuables, in fact.

But selfishly, he wasn't quite ready to close their transaction, so he maintained his ownership of Rasler's ring. When they lay together all those nights ago she was under him and she moved with him, splayed perfectly, completely unaware that she could ask him for it back at any time and he couldn't refuse her.

“Why come back now?” Ashe pulled her hands from him and stepped back, her expression changing the way if did when she schemed.

“I've never truly left, dear, I'm merely visiting with an old friend,” He smiled for her, sitting down on the chest by the mirror as she paced the room in her nightgown. “And it's far easier to make a proper entrance here, than when you reside in Rabanastre on your fancy throne. That, and I have a favor to ask.”

He never strayed his eyes from her since she entered the tent, even when she exchanged clothing on the other side of the partition.

Ashe stopped pacing and crossed her arms. “A favor?”

Balthier studied her a a moment. He leaned forward in his seat, pressing the palms of his hands into his knees as he leaned forward.

“You have other plans for me first, I take it.”

The summer of his sixteenth birthday was a momentous one; He'd been appointed as a judge- the youngest in the history of Archadia. The appointment demanded the sacrifice of the companionship of his peers, the noble boys of Archadian gentry that now only eyed him from afar, no longer familiar friends.

Ffamran had been fitted for armor, walking home from the smithery in Tsenoble with his hands in his pockets when he first watched a flock of ships depart from the Palace that loomed overhead.

He was aware of his privilege as the next youth who watched him walk by, but when he looked to the skies his heart fluttered with an unexplainable yearning. He'd find himself watching it at all hours of the day, catching a negative reputation among his superiors as a but of a day dreamer, a highborn boy who could do little to keep his mind out of the sky and it was his father's stature that gave him that position in the first place.

That, and he was undeniably good.

He was as quick witted with the sword as he was with the words from his lips. And, since he was in an environment where it was deemed inappropriate for him to speak freely, he spoke with the sword instead.

Ffamran's father had been in the ancient city of Giruvegan the whole summer long, ceasing to write and send word as was his usual routine after the first week of an expedition. So when his airship landed and the ramp deployed, and the esteemed Dr. Cid stepped off it with dark spectacles shading his eyes and a straight path past his only child who was ready to receive him.

He only continued to the laboratory, and a certain disdain and feeling of rejection swelled from within Ffamran, threatening tears.

But Ffamran didn't cry, he only worked harder. But his once doting father's interest had faded entirely, leaving a still cold preference for an invisible being ever present in the halls of their home.

The wind picked up, bringing thick gusts of snow in a wet haze. Basch rubbed his bare arms, wicking moisture from the friction. He looked over at his shoulder at the girl behind him wrapped in his cloak, her face tilted downward at the ground and brow littered with snowflakes.

A crevice on the side of the mountainside appeared ahead the howl of wolves sounded in the distance. Basch drew his sword. The weather pattern warned of elementals, and the howling did little to ease his nerves; they surely would not make it back up the mountain by sunset, they'd die from exposure.

There were tiny cavern's along this slope on the Paramina Rift if he remembered correctly, some touched with vegetation from cracks in the rocky formations. They weren't large, but most would be suitable to wait out the impending storm.

Basch reached out to touch the woman's arm and she looked up, letting him lead her to the dark opening to such a cavern. She followed him in, side stepping beside him with her back against the wall of the crevice.

The entrance tunnel was narrow and small, and the chamber within was lit only by a small stream of light from above, and by what gray mist was allowed to enter through the crevice where they entered.

He released his hold on her arm as they maneuvered through the entrance, and the girl circled the cavern with apprehension, arms still crossed over her chest for warmth.

She was oddly peaceful, he noted. As if she'd been in this situation before.

Ffamran knocked on the door to his father's study, irritated at the length of time it took for a response, and it being disinterested irked him even further.

The winter months brought great responsibility, and Ffamran had just completed his first campaign as a judge in the furthest reaches of the empire, a rather desolate village called Spurr, where soldiers starved themselves in pits and found pleasure only in the women that offered themselves as comfort.

A fitting post for an underage, underqualified, and overprivileged son of nepotism.

Ffamran had heard the whispers, and he took them in stride and used them to propel himself in training, though after each session he was empty, his sword serving as the only proof that he deserved such a position in the first place.

One evening he walked through Draklor Laboratory for leisure, but the simulations and the tests being run were nothing like he remembered of the decipherable codes he'd learned as a child.

The workers we exhausted, hurrying past him with no more than a glance his way, if that, but hardly out of recognition. They were overworked, and bore little semblance to the familiar faces that he'd associated with his father's work before. The head admins had quit, and the board was unrecognizable save for a few Imperial senators.

Something afoul was happening, and Dr Cid was a mere shadow of the father he'd known up until before the summer.

Ffamran opened the door at the mere husk of his father's voice and entered, bowing formally in the foyer. Cid paid little mind, head bent over his desk and muttering a barely audible “Because the boy thinks he should enter, Venat.”

Ffamran walked to his father but said nothing to him, instead circling the room in smoldering anticipation of some sort of response from Cid, who did little more to acknowledge him, scribbling nonsense equations into a notebook.

“Father, it's me.” He told him, paying extra effort to keep his voice level amidst emotional strain.

Was it only a year prior Ffamran sat in his very study, with the same man who drilled complex mathematics into him?

A ghost of Cid practically stood behind where he sat in the flesh now, inscribing equations on the great chalkboard on the wall there, eyeing his son through the curve of his spectacles, who in every bit of his likeness accepted the chalk from him as it was offered, and finished the problem to the best of his ability, at times unable to finish it at all and simply leaned back and scratched his neck in frustration, to which Cid would clap a hand to his back, lean to his ear and say:

“My son, there's problems in this world that logic alone will not let you solve them.”

But that man was gone now to a reality Ffamran could never comprehend.

Ffamran departed from his House in the weeks that followed. It was unexpected and he was unsure, but as his father in the floors above him conspired with the mysterious 'Venat', Ffamran was in the cellar below, sorting through a dead mother's paintings, and found one he'd never seen before- of ablurry spectacled boy with a kite in bright watercolor. Even years later, it would be hard for him to determine whether the boy was himself or his father, Ffamran found the painting and sobbed, kneeling to the floor in grief, partly because he didn't know his mother well enough to know who the boy was, and partly because he knew what must be done if he were to be true to himself.

He stole an airship out of Draklor and took to the sky.

At her worst, Ashe was a liability to him. She fell from the shelves of the Garamsythe Waterway into Vaan's open arms in a careless and desperate leap of faith. Platinum blonde haired and grey eyed she introduced herself as Amalia he knew right off it was a lie.

And that was only where his troubles with her began.

Though he didn't think her to be the deceased Princess exactly, she was most like the daughter of a noble House loyal to Raminas in his mind, though he wasn't terribly surprised at the eventual revelation of her true identity.

Balthier preferred calculation. Precision. Fran often pointed it to him that their very lifestyle contradicted that in many ways, as sky pirates thrived on being unpredictable. But even then, there was an order to it all. His disdain for chaos stemmed from his father's failure to thrive in such a role, leaving him empty when he should've been overflowing with happiness and privilege.

But Ashe was outright chaos. She longed for revenge so much that it kept her awake at night. He'd often find her when relieved of guard duty wide awake in a dreamless trance, stony eyes threatening to cut down the dying embers of the fire at camp. She even claimed to see the personage of her deceased husband.

It rang all to familiar with him: the obsession, the maddening determination for a vague hint of purpose, and even in her case her destiny was to be dead and buried in a nameless grave for all her people knew.

He took her ring as a test of her character's resiliency against Cid's. She initially failed in his eyes, offering him the last token of her dead lover's affection for a favor he would've given her either way. He knew then that this was no longer a simple vengeful labor of love; a jaded lover looking to repay the debt of another.

This, Balthier now decided, was a matter of bitterness and hatred, and the damage she would do would be insurmountable if he didn't quell it early on.

Still, he'd fallen for her somewhere along the way, the beads of sweat spilling from her brow in the Golmore Jungle when she suffered a nasty bite from a hellhound that rendered her incapacitated, and he dragged her to safety with her arm about his shoulder and her waist to thigh, and when he finally looked down at her to bark at her to move faster her eyes were shut, head slumped backward in limp surrender.

He looked frantically around then. Basch was the last man standing it seemed, other than himself. Penelo had pulled herself into a tree to conjure a healing spell for the knight from above, her own body heaving in the effort she'd spent supporting a fallen Vaan.

So they just may survive this after all.

Balthier lay Ashe down a ways down the path, where it was safe and his head had begun to spin in dehydration.

He helped himself to water from a whiskey flask and soaked a rag with it, wringing it over her lips and her eyes fluttered open from beneath him, lips parting in appreciation for the mointure being released onto them.

“Hold still,” He'd commanded her, reaching to his sack for an antidote, “You might not want to look down.”

But she did anyway when suggested she didn't, and at the bloody sight of jagged teeth marks into her flesh. She groaned and winced before him, crying out in pain when he soaked the exposed tissues in antidote before forcing the remainder of it down her mouth as she tried to thrash from him in her state of feverish delirium.

“Shhh.” He cupped her chin against his thigh forcefully as she coughed on the bitter liquid. He felt awful, but it didn't keep him from adding, “You're no good to us dead, Princess.”

Her thrashing stopped and in time, she lay still and peaceful, and when Basch finally arrived, wiping his sword on the vegetation around them and inspecting it every step of the way. He squinted down at the rugged bandage job Balthier had managed in reluctant approval- scraps of an old blouse she'd saved specifically for this purpose.

Ashe breathed shallow, her pulses thready. In the dead of night when they'd made camp, Balthier patrolled the perimeter of the site before he found her again, breathing slower. He knelt nervously and pressed a finger to her neck to find a proper bounce of vessel. A wave of relief washed over him.

It was then that he knew that he loved her. It was no simple lust for her royal blood and the connections with riches and excitement that it afforded him, it was just a purely maddening obsession like when he'd first learnt about machinery.

A kiss from her was only served when his father died and Reddas had seemingly sacrificed himself at the hands of the Suncryst. It was desperate, needy, and as chaotic as she'd ever demonstrated herself to be. Her fists that clenched his shirt were trembling, but firm. He held one in his own to calm it, and in the midst of his grief he was utterly stunned and incredibly proud of her actions earlier in the day.

He caved to her easily, despite being horribly decimated by the death of a father, though he'd lost him long ago. Ashe was a love and a light and a leader he believed in- that was something he found himself quite literally ready to die for.

Penelo turned the coin over in the firelight, resting on her back with an arm cradling the back of her head for support. Across the room, in small bed identical to her own, Vaan watched her.

She felt his eyes and glanced his way. Blue-gray, and yellow in the dim light. A distant memory danced in her mind-the memory when he first moved in with her family, and her mother lit a fire for dinner. Autumns in Rabanastre were temperamental, and on this uncharacteristically cool evening she could see he was grateful for the warmth and comfort of the indoors.

“What's with the coin?” He asked her bluntly, and Penelo opened her mouth for a moment, wanting to spill words to explain the strange feeling in her gut, but she simply closed it instead.

Basch felt guilty leaving her, but there was some vegetation just outside that was potentially burnable, albeit currently wet, and as he carried it back through the crevice he was pleasantly surprised by a sure, though weak lick of flames reaching through a neatly stacked cube of twigs on the floor.

The girl looked up at him from where she was knelt on her elbows and knees, blowing air through a tunnel created by pale fingers.

“That'll be too wet.” She told him plainly, eyes hardening as he sighed and heaved the armful against the wall.

He couldn't help a smirk, because her gentle roughness with her determination for fire a mere hours after being laid in the snow outside reminded him a bit of Penelo, or Ashe even, but perhaps a bit older.

Basch slid himself down the wall opposite her, bending one leg at the knee while sliding the other across the floor straight, and in retaliation she tossed the next handfull of twigs over the smoky fire and leaned from him so that she was crosslegged.

“I'm sorry.” She spoke slowly, measuring the situation and checking herself of her social indiscretion, “I... haven't... I should've thanked you.”

Her eyes flickered to his and her mouth was parched.

He shifted, fingers finding the gourd at his waist and untying it, he tossed it to her and she caught it smoothly in a single hand.

She wasn't a woman who stayed indoors a whole lot, that much he could tell. A bit 'scrappy', as Vaan would say.

“I'm Gabranth,” He told her, doing his best to smile warmly in mid shiver. The cavern was surely a welcome escape from the chill outside but he was still frigid and wet. “As I've said before, I'm a servant of House Solidor.”

He cleared his throat, watching her drink from the gourd and lean forward pass it back to him. “I was sent here by my Lord, Lord Larsa,” He unknowingly inflected his voice for punctuation at the name, “To investigate a disturbance from above.”

The woman leant to one side of her hip now, legs splayed to the opposite side, sorting through the wood he'd collected from outside and what she'd gathered from within the cavern to burn.

“Nice to meet you...” She picked up a study looking branch and inspected it in the light. “Lord?”

Basch chuckled. She certainly had the air of nobility about her if she was concerned enough to seek the correct title.

“Judge.” He replied reluctantly, fully expecting her to recoil in sordid uneasiness for his revelation, but she did little to display anything of the sort.

“Judge Gabranth, then?” She looked at him fully, dark eyes narrowed as her head cocked sideways.

“Aye. Just Gabranth will do, miss.” He crossed his arms, watching her fiddle with the fire. It was strange, not having to be the one to fuss with such things.

“I'm Alma Beoulve.” She smiled back at him cordially, “And I really am sorry for whatever trouble I've caused you, Judge Gabranth.”

Balthier sighed, irritated about how she'd made him turn around and stand outside the screen as she changed clothes, stepping into his view only when she was fully donned in trousers, brown yeti hide boots and a red cloak- as if she wouldn't stick out enough on her own in the wilderness of the Paramina Rift.

“Stunning, as always Princess.”

Ashe rolled her eyes, countering “I wasn't looking for your summation of my appearance.” She crossed behind the screen again, rummaging through was sounded like metal and wood, only to emerge moments later with a crossbow in hand.

“And I'm no longer a Princess.”

Balthier smirked, “Nay, a Princess wouldn't pack such a savage weapon. Were you packing for a holy conclave or a boar hunt?”

Ashe frowned at him. “The crossbow is my preferred weapon. My arm is not firm enough to swing the sword against the beasts out there.”

“So I remember.”

“Which, is why you will come with me.”

“And what will I receive in return?” Balthier rose, stepping to her slowly and she recoiled in response, holding the crossbow defensive against him when he came close enough.

“Balthier, seriously.” Ashe hissed at him through gritted teeth, “You conceal yourself for so long, only to bother me with this? Do you seek payment? Perhaps I should recover my deceased husband's ring, since that did it for you last time.”

Balthier grimaced. “You take pleasure if holding that against me, do you?” His words were gentle, yet sharp enough to cut.

She was exasperated, he could tell. She crossed the room, pulling at the seams of the tent that was away from the careful eyes and ears of her guards, the seams that he'd stretched carefully to make his own entry earlier in the evening, “Say what you mean, then.”

Balthier swallowed. She would be gone in a matter of seconds, whether he agreed to come with her or not. Fran had warned him that a deal with the Queen of Dalmasca would not be so easily made without see to her side of terms first, though he hadn't said much of his. Ashe would surely owe him some favor when Basch was recovered and she was safe, snug in her bed (as much as he longed to be there with her). Still, the thought of Fran and Reddas stranded until his next word made him restless.

He followed Ashe through the opening of the tent regardless.

“Angel of Blood, in all things you I serve. No wine more deep, no searing coal more hot than this, the crimson blood for you I spill!” Folmarv Tengille cried, and the young virgin's body at his feet convulsed, her eyes widened in pain before rolling to the back of her head.

There were times in his life when he felt especially ill, and others when he was especially sure of his conscious, despite the atrocities he'd be guided to commit as the head of the Knights Templar and the Church of Glabados. The Knights Templar had a plan to resurrect Ajora Glabados and as the girl at his feet thrashed, he knew in time she'd feel the glory of being elected as the vessel of the saint himself an honor.

A poor infant born in squalor, Ajora saved numerous lives by identifying a contaminated well. Now he would become reborn, free to roam the living of the living in the time of his choosing.

It was Alma Beoulve who was chosen, but to Folmarv it was no matter. His sandals clicked against his bare heels as he walked around her, ceremoniously lighting incense as fellow Knights Templar watched.

Tears spilled from her brown eyes, over the hills of her cheeks in trickles to the cold stone floor.

“Alma Beoulve.” Basch repeated back to her, “What brought you out here?”

She shifted- uncomfortable to tell him the entire truth, he could tell.

“I-I'm not sure.” Her eyes looked to the ground. “I was traveling to Archades.”

His eyes widened, he was rubbing his hands together, basking in the warmth of the growing fire. “By airship?”

“Yes.”

“What happened to the remainder of your craft?”

“I, um... I thought they were alright.”

Alma pressed her back against the cavern wall as far is it would go. Cold, hard depth must've given her a chill, as her arms crossed defensively across her chest.

Her body posture told him she had little she wished to reveal to him at that moment, so he relented.

For now.

“I cannot tell you why, because I don't fully understand.”

She eyed him again shyly, suddenly becoming conscious of his cloak fastened about her shoulders. Her hand shot to it's fasten on her chest and she lifted her chin to pull at it.

Basch waved a hand at her dismissively. “No need.”

Alma looked at him incredulously, “You must be freezing. You'll die if you're not careful.”

“As will you,” Basch nodded at her, “If you continue to fall from airships and deny the kindness of strangers.”

She grimaced, not halting at his words as she pulled the cloak from around her shoulders and passed it to him, dark eyes stubborn.

“Where are you from, Alma Beoulve? That name isn't familiar.”
She looked to the ground, defiantly tossing him his cloak as he refused to lift hand to receive it.

“It's not a noble house.” She said softly, her voice wavering with a hint of insecurity. “-It was um, Landisian.”

Basch suppressed a chuckle, as there was no way she was from Landis. He only sighed as he caved to the relief of the cloak's warmth as it spilled over his shoulder. She leaned into the fire, feeding it with another branch and pulled some of the pieces he'd brought closeby to dry.

He'd keep the cloak to humor her, and he'd pass it back to her later.

But she fell from the sky and lied about who she was and where she hailed from.

Basch didn't press her any further, however, he merely took a breath in, wanting to tell her about the time that he'd been stranded before, over a decade ago far in the west by an attack by the Urtan-Yensa clan, it was tale that simmered to the surface of his mind whenever things were difficult, and the last time he uttered it aloud was when he walked shackled aboard the Leviathan with Ashe, Balthier, Fran, Penelo and Vaan.

But he couldn't bring himself to tell his new acquaintance of such a story, because that would reveal to her that he wasn't Judge Gabranth, and he never had been.

“Why'd Balthier leave this to us, anyway?” The old ruins of Galtea were vast among the desert wasteland of that Nam-Yensa Sandsea, only if one had an inkling of where to look. When Reddas made the proposal that he did to Balthier and Fran, he last expected the pirate to take off, leaving his ship behind with himself and Fran.

“You lead one to believe you are well connected.” Fran's eyes flickered upwards to his, glaring ruby reflecting a glow from the fireplace.

“I am.” Reddas assured her, “And I've done my duty in research. The entrance lies in the sands of Nam-Yensa.

They studied a map sprawled across a table in an upstairs room at a Balfonheim brothel. A less than ideal location, really. But a Viera and a scarred pirate gathered too much attention in a more suitable meetingplace, and the head courtesan owed Balthier a favor from years back, so Fran and Reddas now scoured records to the sound of less than savory business being conducted down the hall.

“Entrance lies in the Westersand.” Fran corrected, dragging a long pointed finger across the parchment and tapping it for emphasis.

He'd only met the Viera briefly before, however intense their mission had been at the time she treated him the same that he wagered that she treated most humans: with indifference, the way most Viera did.

However, her manner did little to unsettle him at the time when he pulled a ukelele of all things from his belongings stowed away upon the Strahl, whimsically letting Vaan and Penelo get carried away with song as he strummed the chords. They were traditional to begin with, Basch grimacing- or smiling it was hard to tell at times with his head in his hands across the campfire with Ashe at his side and Balthier sitting crosslegged several feet from the flames to methodically clean his weapons.

Fran was in a world of her own, neither a world of Viera or a world of Humes, he wagered.

She turned to look at him now, a sharp voice muffled just slightly by the wrapping of a white scarf about her head, keeping out desert dust.

“You sought us out to discover ancient ruins by yourself?”

It was a rhetorical question, he knew that, but if he didn't know better he would've been slightly irritated by her dry tone.

“Nay,” He stood over and furrowed his brow to look at the coordinates on the map where her finger lingered, “That's why I sought out my fellow dead men.”

“Dead men have allies also.” Fran spoke earnestly, “Balthier goes to seek out one in particular.”

Ah, he could only suppose which ally that would be. One of the few that Reddas wasn't solidly connected with himself, who walked with newly acquired crown on her head.

“How do you suppose our destination is there?” Reddas nodded to the map. Fran surely had her methods, but her response was underwhelming.

“We passed it many times. I always noted the mist from within. It was an odd place, there in the Westersand. But I'm certain it is the entrance to the site you seek.”

Reddas looked up at her, though she didn't returned his gaze. Viera had an unsettling stillness about them, like they dwelled simultaneously in a different realm.

“And it never occurred to you to bring to you companions' attention the passing entrance to a possible ceremonial site on Dalmascan sand.”

“No.”

It was the night after the time he laughed with the young ones by the fire that he offered himself as a sacrifice at the base of the Suncryst, more than willing to set in motion the chain of events that would stop Vayne and unbeknownst to him, set forth murky and mixed emotions in the Princess Ashe, causing her to stumble drunkenly to the cabin of her companion Balthier.

“I know that sadness.” Ashe told him, the wine she'd drank from earlier slowing her tongue in an uncharacteristic drawl, “I've seen it in myself, in the halls of the ruins that should've been mine, and in the mirror image of every inn we've managed to afford along the way.”

Balthier stiffened from her words when he'd previously been indifferent, fingers methodically managing a trigger of a weapon.

The sadness of a lost father.

Ashe closed the door, cheeks flushed with wine and the boldness that came with it.

He stilled his hands and lifted his gaze to hers in the dim light of the Starhl's artificial lighting,

Somewhere beneath them, the engine hummed.

His bunk was small, just fitting enough for him to stumble into on the lightest of nights, when the doom of nethicite and the destruction that came with it wasn't so heavy in his heart.

He lowered his weapon he'd been cleaning and walked slowly to her anyway, and it was only in his mind that the light of the moon was what made him take in the curve of her thighs and the swell of her breasts. He was a man of moderation, rarely hindering travel for the sake of a woman- for Fran would have his head and his neck to boot, but Ashe consumed him, gripping him by the shortness of his breath at his collar with one of her hands and slid the other under his shirt and he was in his bunk with her, slowly sorting out the undeniable rhythm that ceased only by her exhales, and the collective gathering of clothing that followed, leaving him empty, unsure of what kind of state he'd be in if he were to see her again.

He'd see her again in the hours later when she stirred, her eyes saddened with an apology muttered under her breath.

Ffamran emerged from the Strahl in the dry heat of a Dalmascan summer, when the sun lingered in the sky well after the sun had set in Archades. His stomach growled and he sighed. The world was now his. The skies were his. Yet he could barely afford to feed himself.

“Nice airship, kid.”

He spun around, cursing himself for letting his guard down to let such an unsavory character stroll into his surroundings undetected.

It was a younger man, older than Ffamran but young enough to lack the telltale crows feet of age by his eyes.

Ffamran didn't reply, but he scanned the area. The man was alone, or so it appeared. He watched silently as the man slipped a hand into a vest pocket revealing a sharp dagger that glinted menacingly in the hazy setting sun.

This was a murder and a robbery attempt. Ffamran grasped the handle of his own weapon, holstered out of sight at his waist.

Four swift paces toward the man when he grinned and took his own paces forward to greet Ffamran. The clashes of metal on metal stung his ears shrilly, newly made a judge and yet he still didn't have a taste for battle as he successfully knocked the dagger from his attacker's hand.

It jolted away from the pair in the air and ricocheted against the Strahl, giving the ship it's first battle scar, if only a scratch that only Ffamran would recognize, and landed blade turned downwards in the sand several paces away.

He could've given him a warning. He could've let the man go, now that he was clearly disarmed, but Ffamran still carried a great amount of anger within him, and he swiftly gripped the man by the wrist and pulled him to himself so that they were chest to chest as the knife fell through the air, effectively pinning his arm behind his back with one arm as the other plunged a blade into a soft belly and twisted it, grinding his teeth as the groaning body slid from his and fell to the ground in a bloody mess.

It was after that, that over time he became the sky pirate Balthier.

“This isn't what I had in mind.”

Ashe led him into the snow, the crossbow slung over her back as she turned to him in a downward frown.

“What did you expect then?”

“I believe I mentioned a favor.” He adjusted the cloak she'd offered him, unsatisfied with the way if sat upon his shoulders.

Ashe frowned, obviously disgusted. “Favors later, Balthier. Are you not troubled that Basch is in danger?”

It wasn't that he didn't desire to find Basch himself, the two had developed a very unlikely kinship during their travels, as much as the old bloke had a tendency to mope silently in the presence of fires and make cryptic observations in the very situations that required immediate precision and action.

Balthier wanted his terms to be clear. But when she spun around, eyes reflecting sheer grey light, forehead wrinkled with worry and exasperation, he couldn't refuse her.

He'd give her his terms later, then. Even though he shared her desperation for their friend.

“Alright, then.” He motioned, stepping forward and adjusted the sword and rifle at his back, running a finger over the spare ammo in a pouch at his waist under the cloak. “Let us recover that old mopey bastard first thing.”

He'd follow her for far less, had his pride allowed for it.

Chapter Text

“Look on what my haste has wrought. Did I act too quick? Or was your return too late? I can serve her no more. You must take up my charge.”

It was cold in his gibbet. With no wall to guard from the stale air that drifted throughout the large chamber and little muscle and fat remained to line his body; he could only for heat.

His arms, bound and shackled above his head groaned from the strain and somewhere in the dark someone stepped to him. It was time for him to relieve himself, he assumed, all while marveling at the idea his body still had moisture to spare.

But the weight of his head on his neck was too great, and it bobbed slightly form the effort that it took for him to lift it. He forced his eyes open as his head fell forward and he fully anticipated seeing Noah again, cold-eyed and smug, a complexion once identical to his own now more foreign than he'd ever imagined.

But instead, he opened them to his new aquaintence curled up with her knees to her chest on the floor of a cave before him.

A bright light shimmered through the cracks above; that was a good sign, it was morning, and much of the snow must have passed if the sun was so bright. No elementals. They had a good chance of reaching Mt Bur-Omisace today.

He'd passed her water several more times the evening before, and she divulged very little. It made him uneasy. Alma was objectively suspicious by the circumstances of their meeting alone, even without minding how she was clearly attempting to deceive him about one thing or another.

But she was still a woman lain in the tundra on her own; he could hardly deny her whatever ability he had to give her safe passage to Archades; though he knew better than anyone that danger could disguise itself with a soft face.

Still, nature called. And Basch willed himself upward against the wall, his bones protesting the entire way. He moved slowly, as to not wake her. He stepped lightly over the uneven ground, leaving his sword propped with it's hilt against the wall.

Outside the sun glared against the snow again and he squinted until his eyes were nearly shut.

Basch adjusted his trousers as he had hundreds of times before, away from his men who preferred a more casual, less private approach. He stood away from the cave entrance, welcoming the sunny chill on his bare arms though he was hardly able to take in much of the landscape before his eyes adjusted.

It was the simple comforts of the citadel and palace of Archades that he cursed for making him soft, as if years in prison were erased by such a short period of living pampered as a judge.

He heard a step behind him and froze, snapping his head over his shoulder to see her there, clutching his cloak over her shoulders, hair loose and haphazard around her face and she squinted like he did, recognition slowly creeping over her face. She eyes snapped to the ground and she turned from him.

“I-I'm sorry!” Her voice an octave higher than normal.

He cursed, quickly rearranging himself so that he was decent before spinning around to stutter a clumsy and awkward apology, though it was in vain, as she'd already retreated back inside.

Larsa rose early in the morning before the sunrise. He'd hardly slept the entire night, turning until his body heated with anxiety so that all layers of his blankets wound up twisted under his knees and ankles.

It was when he only faintly heard the echo of possible footsteps outside his tent that he realized it was likely morning time. He sat up in the bed, rubbing his eyes in sluggish dread. If Basch returned in the middle of the night he likely would not be reporting in until this morning at breakfast. But still, Larsa had a biting feeling that the worst could have transpired. His most trustworthy friend and council could be dead, and politics aside, Ashe would surely never forgive him as much as he couldn't forgive himself.

He'd hardened quite a bit since assuming his role at Emperor, but still cursed himself for the occasional sting that empathy gave him. Although Penelo praised him for it, and Basch assured him that empathy was necessary for the best of leaders, years of cold and calculated mishaps in the Solidor House caused insecurity on that matter.

His bare feet sank into the furs that protected them from the ground. Servants had kept a fire burning in the center of the tent throughout the night, so he was protected from the chill outdoors and the embers of which still provided some heat. It was cold in here, so surely it was unbearable outside.

Hours passed, and it long after he'd dressed and washed his face in a basin set out for him, when the pit of his stomach felt like it was caving in on itself from hunger that a maid knocked at the door.

“Has Judge Gabranth returned in the night?” He asked her when she entered, keeping his voice level, though it came out with hard pressure due to his anxiety.

The maid was setting his meal at the small table by the fire.

“Nay,” She shook her head, brown curls falling from the braids that adorned her head, “I haven't seen any signs of his return, milord.”

Larsa's heart sank.

“I see.” He replied neutrally.

Rain beat down hard upon the windows of their aircraft, and Penelo burst open the door to the cockpit forcibly, with both palms out.

To her dismay (but not to her surprise), Vaan laid out on the floor. His legs and hands sprawled out around him, paying her no mind when she entered.

She stopped.

“Have you been sleeping?” The irritation seeping through her voice.

“No.” His reply was short, but she could tell from the tone of his voice alone that he was fighting against a smile.

That was Vaan's way, pure confidence and mischievousness, and as if a trip to the Nalbina dungeon wasn't enough grief for him to give her, he did it time and time again.

Penelo shook her head, looking down at him. “Well, what've you been doing?”

He snorted, throwing a cocky grin up at her. “Research.”

“Research, my butt.” Penelo kicked him sharply in the ribs and he wincedand shoved at her offending shin.

“Hey!”

“Get up, dummy.” Penelo roller her eyes, “Don't you see the rain out there? We're not going anywhere today.”

Vaan sat up, rubbing at his side while scowling at her. “What's with the abuse?”

Penelo ignored his complaint and turned. “I got us a room at Maela's.” She stood on her tip toes, opening the compartments on the wall to feel for her bag there. She didnt dare wander into Balfonheim today with anything other than what was necessary, but since they were staying overnight she opted to keep what little belongings she had with her.

“Looking for something?” Vaan piped from behind her as she found her bag and she cast him a dirty look over her shoulder, but a familiar glint of green and gold made her do a double take.

He rocked himself effortlessly off the ground so that he was upright, flaunting that familiar coin in his thumb and index finger.

She held out her hand. “Give it back Vaan.”

“What's with this coin, anyway?”

“I'm serious.”

“You stare at it all the time. Like you wanna make out with it or something.”

“Vaan.”

He tossed it to her as he passed by to collect his own things and she caught it in her palm with a scowl.

At it's best, the palace of Rabanastre was magnificent: a testament to the bloodline it housed from the days of the Dynast King.

A fete was held annually on the first day of every solar year, where leaders gathered in the great hall to be entertained by musicians and dancers, each collected a small crowd of admirers drunk on wine that was dispersed by the bottle at every table, and flowed from casks for the lower class citizens who were ushered to the balcony overlooking the courtyard strewn with flickering light in the warm darkness.

That was the thing that felt the least like home to Basch- the fact that the temperature of the air in Dalmasca never truly dropped at night the way that it did in Landis.

Basch leaned with his elbows on the railing, hands clasped over the view of fete guests gathering in the courtyard, the upbeat string ensemble below contrasting sharply with the slower, more formal hymns that strung closer to his ears from between the pillars of the great hall.

A hand slapped him on the back and he turned and smiled when he saw Vossler beside him, passing him a mug of ale with an assertive nudge.

Basch knew he had a reputation of being calm, collected, and soft spoken even, though he knew when to flip into aggression when the situation called for it. The younger men under his command looked to him like a child to a father, and the older, more weathered men respected his minimalist approach to brute force, because they'd seen that force in action when the situation demanded it.

Vossler on the other hand commanded respect using other terms. He was harsh and quick to judge, and when he acted he acted with full force.

But together they were two sides of the same token, having bonded in their early years when Basch's Landisian accent gathered him plenty of unwanted attention during a time when Basch fancied a green-eyed girl that Vossler laid with simply because he wanted to prove that he could, in the stables behind the training yard.

Basch confronted him in the squire's mess hall, and struck him with a fist to the face in pure fury so hard that Vossler's nose was dislocated. On that day, Basch learned the value of restraint and Vossler learned to act first and assign consequences later, lest his nose be broken a second time.

The deployment to the Nam-Yensa Sandsea a month later changed how they related to one another, however, though until the day he died Vossler was unable to blow his nose properly without draining it with salt water from a kettle.

Basch accepted the drink now, much grateful because he'd never acquired a taste for Dalmascan wine even after all that time.

“You'd fare better inside,” Vossler brought his cup to his lips while mimicking Basch's posture beside him.

In their peripheral the Princess Ashelia ran full speed with her brother, two years her senior tailing her from behind. Her skirts flew in the wind as nobility parted way for the children, eyes wide in disapproval.

“Shouldn't you be chasing after her?” Basch nodded at the ruckus with his chin, “Strike her wrist, settle her to bed?”

He only shared humor with Vossler this way, who frowned when he himself was unable to stifle a chuckle. “I've been appointed to her royal charge, not her handmaiden. At least, not yet.”

It seemed that events like this, with music and ale that they now sipped in silence while each unknowingly copying posture from the other.

The evening was ripe with laughter and conversations that flowed around them. As as Dalmascan native, Vossler was unusual for his dark eyes and hair that hung over his brow in an attempt to look the formal part even in armor, but both knew their armor and their bodies underneath were better suited for the battlefield.

Tradition spoke little to Vossler, a trait that Basch always appreciated. In fact, it was one of the first things that earned him Basch's genuine friendship. It was because of that fact that they were there that evening both spouseless and childless, unsure of proper etiquette when off duty.

Life in the palace was mundane, but it was where they truly learned politics.

“I never cared for these sorts of things.” Vossler spoke at last, when their ale had been reduced to thin films in their respective cups.

Basch looked to his companion from the corner of his eyes, offering a silent question.

“These women, these nobles-”

“--You're a noble.” Basch interjected gently.

Vossler grimaced, clearly unwilling to engage in cultural disputes the way they occasionally did, if only when drinking.

“They always want a good war story,” Vossler continued, brushing off Basch's remark. “They want a patriotic testimony, a story of sacrifice. They don't understand what their asking, and for that we can't give it to them without embellishing.”

“Most men never see such things, Vossler. It's only instinct that they are curious.”

Vossler squinted at the bottom of his cup, tilting it here and there before tipping his head back to receive the remainder of his drink on the bottom.

Beside them on the balcony, a group of women in airy silks broke into laughter. Basch raised his eyes in sharp reaction to the noise, making eye contact with grey eyes contrasting black lining of charcoal around them, the way Dalmascan women painted their faces for a fete. Feeling awkward when she didn't look away, he broke contact to redirect his attention to the conversation at hand.

“I suppose I prefer to live with more integrity than that. Our lives are not dull, Basch. There is no sense to war, and no such thing as a war story with moral purpose. If they hear a war story and assume a sense of pride and enrichment, then what they are hearing are lies. It is the brutality of men attempting to gain the upper hand, and we are the orchestrators.”

Basch weighed his words, undecided if he agreed. It wasn't until several years later while at a fete in Archades, that he decided that he did.

It hadn't occurred to her until it was well past midnight how foolish this all was. The hastening of snow falling from the sky, the complete silence as their feet sank into fresh powder sobered her.

In the early hours of dawn, her feelings during her reunion with Balthier that were once stifled by the urgent circumstances came to the surface and her pace slowed and her pulse quickened. In all reality she'd known in the back of mind he'd make a sudden appearance since the day she learned he was alive. She'd search for him in her peripheral at nearly every turn, eyes flickering to a man in a crowd with gold earrings even if they bore little of the glimmer of Balthier's, hating him that much more when the man she spotted wasn't him

She'd never admit that, however.

They traversed a steep incline where Basch would've certainly headed, but as the sky become pitch dark and the falling snow was carried sideways by the wind, it was hard to tell if they were off track.

“If I may,” Balthier spoke at last, when the ground finally leveled out again, “Most creatures are in shelter now, this might be a good spot to put yourself to some good use.”

Ashe paused, gathering his meaning for a moment. Her fingers and toes were long since numb under her gloves and boots, and his were unlikely to be faring any better.

They were in a deep plateau that would warrant less snow fall, as a majoritiy of it settled higher up the snowdrift. Ashe lifted the bowgun by it's strap over her shoulder, taking quiet delight in the ease of pressure on her back muscles there. Living in the palace had deconditioned her a bit, and her body was no longer used to these treks.

Although Balthier clearly was, as his breath remained even as it visibly escaped his mouth when he breathed. He removed a pack from his shoulders and tossed it to the ground, crouching by it and patting it in a gesture for her to sit.

Just as she had the last time they ventured this wilderness in each other's company numerous times. Ashe followed his invitation, concentrating and lifting her palms upward to conjure a flame, putting her affinity for fire to good use.

It had been several months since she'd last used black magicks, so it took a bit for a ripe flame to flicker in the darkness, seeming to breathe in time with her as it grew into a crackling flame that floated before the both of them

They huddled there for a moment, the heat granting a pleasant tingle of warmth through her fingers and she could tell Balthier was experiencing a similar relief by the doffing of his gloves.

He rubbed his bare hands together, knuckles swollen and sore from the cold.

“What was your condition?” Ashe broke the silence of their relief with the sudden question the moment it burst into her mind.

Balthier looked back at her with a brow raised. “Sorry?”

“Your condition,” Ashe pressed, “You said you had a favor to ask of me.”

It had occurred to her that she ought to have greeted him better, but in all fairness he wasn't entirely flawless in his entrance, and his timing was terrible. Or perhaps, it was perfect. She needed an excuse for a queen to be whisked away into the wilderness and he provided it in an instant without alarming her guard.

“Ah.” Blathier replied, he eyes shifting to the ground before looking at hers again. They were hazel by definition; brown in the sunlight, green when he looked at her directly, and reflected gold in the firelight. “There's some ruins Fran and I have been looking for in Dalmasca, and you have a tendency of-” He sighed, sensing her obvious disdain, “activating them.”

Ashe squinted at him, her flame wavering a little as she broke concentration to lean towards him. “What ruins?”

Balthier shrugged. “Not sure yet.”

“Balthier.”

“I can't go into details, I'm afraid.” He sighed before flashing her a sheepish grin, “Unless you agree to come with me.”

Ashe shook her head. “You know I can't.”

“Not for the entire expedition.” He waved a hand at her, clearly prepared for her protests. “You have a nasty habit of granting my entrance to certain places, sites of future ceremonial grounds perhaps.”

Ashe frowned. “You have a nasty habit of taking things that never belonged to you and stealing wedding rings.

Balthier raised a brow at her, feigning insult. “I believe I returned your ring to you.”

“If these grounds exist in my land you would have me grant you access, assuming I can? And risk such potential havoc on my own people?”

“I would pose no such risk on your people,” Balthier rebutted.

His eyes again. She looked at them cautiously, half minded to strike him should his fingertips find their way to the front of her jaw like they had before, sometime before her coronation or the crash of the Bahamut outside of Rabanastre.

“What do you call this place?” Alma asked at last. After an awkward breakfast of near silence of jerk meat from Gabranth's waist pouch and rationed water, when both of them tried to cope with a previous awkward encounter by ignoring it, they'd been trudging slowly up a steep incline up the side of the mountain for what felt like hours.

There was purpose in the way that he moved. She was tired and her knees were especially weary, but Ultima was kept at bay at least.

Gabranth stopped, several paces ahead of her and turned around. “Paramina Rift,” He gestured to the mountains that were beginning to close all around them, “The ravine of the Jagd Romooda.”

Alma looked toward the sky, a single double-winged beast called overhead at some distant prey, and she watched it pass over them in indifference since Gabranth hardly seemed bothered by it.

The mountain range of Jagd Romooda. She was partly familiar with their geography now, as she distantly remembered being prompted to label them in a class in her childhood. They were then regarded as an unforgiving and undesirable location with little to offer in the manner of resources, and as far as the Church was concerned, bore little to offer to humanity. The latter truth applied even eons in the past, it appeared.

“But I departed from Rabanastre.” Alma reasoned aloud, she was doing her best to place her foot in the impressions made by his in the snow. “This is just so far from the flight route.”

“Aye, it is.”

His reply was dry and flat, and from it she gathered that he was skeptical of her story and didn't wager much on getting the truth from her.

Her summation was that that was fitting skepticism, from one called a judge.

Several minutes passed that way. “You must find me to be awfully dimwitted, to be out here with a story that does little to match my circumstances.” Alma spoke at last, using the time to carefully phrase her words that came next.

The Viera in the wood where she first entered this age warned her that Humes could be fickle.

“Nay, ma'am, I do not find you dimwitted.”

His tone was level, and screamed of halfheartedness.

“So you surely think I'm suspicious, then? A threat, even?” She silently cursed herself for being so forward in the instant that the words slipped from her mouth. He wasn't Ramza, and she feared in her years of traveling with her brother alone with whom she was so familiar, she'd lost touch in determining how much boldness was appropriate.

He halted. Alma initially stiffened, taking the sudden cease of movement as the detection of a threat, until her eyes strayed downwards and spotted a sharp narrowing in the ravine, steep enough for him to slip downward on the rocky slope had he not been diligent enough.

He stepped downward, testing his footing by shifting his weight to and fro his front leg to ensure it's steadiness on the slick rocks. He then turned to her to bring her down with him. She sat on the ledge instead as he eased himself down further, taking her queue to do so without her. She'd learned long ago in Isilud's captivity that a moment of helplessness in the eyes of a man could make one a victim forever.

He did, however, wait for her at the base of the dropoff, the distance from the ledge over it nearly made him lose his footing, if only for a fraction of a second, and he was taller, so she accepted the offer he made beneath her there. Light blue eyes with a puckered scar above one greeting her in silent pleading to not be so stubborn. She instead reached out to grip his arms as he pulled and steadied hers by the elbows under she felt the grouns beneath her again.

“Suspicious, but no threat. Not as of now.”

His words startled her, as she'd entirely forgotten about their conversation amist her efforts. “Sorry?”

The ground shook, causing snow to spill from dropoffs overhead.

Basch's fingers reflexively found their way to the hilt of his sword in time from the low rumbling that followed. His steps slowed and he signaled to the girl behind him to slow also, five fingers spread open with his palm to the ground, raising and lowering it in a gesture known to military men. Being that she didn't have the tactical background as he, he never had the opportunity to confirm that she understood his meaning fully because a grunt from ahead on the trail made him stiffen with recognition.

The darkness of Golmore. An echo in the mines beneath Bhujerba. The sound that made his heart falter in the halls of the Leviathan, where he was struck across the cheek and cursed with a blurted:

“You're supposed to be dead.”

Her highness.

Surely Ashe didn't have the density to roam about in these parts unprotected, for his sake?

He shook his head. Of course she did.

And if it wasn't her, and it was another woman instead then he'd have found himself two broads within a day of one another who lacked a care for the insanity of the situation they'd found themselves in, and he quickly swore to himself that he'd quit his post right then and there.

But instead he turned to Alma, “You'd best find cover. I'll come back for you here.”

She frowned at him in response, brown eyes wide in pure speechlessness as she appeared feeble in his cloak while bracing herself with both hands on either wall of the ravine. Never one to leave someone defenseless, he had no choice if the one in danger was indeed Ashe, as brazen as she could be. He took off down the ravine toward the bellows of a beast ahead.

A gunshot sounded as he rounded the corner to a clearing and his suspicions were confirmed. Ashe lay huddled before him, her back hunched over on her knees and a palm while an arm hung strangely with blood spilling from her arm under her cloak.

Her grey eyes widened with shock and obvious disbelief.

“Basch!” She exclaimed, her relief seeping through the edges of her eyes he slid the last several feet of their distance over ice and rock to got to her quickly.

“You're wounded.” He noted in disapproval. He pulled back her cloak in a furrowed brow, reaching for a potion that he noted in despair was no longer at his belt since he left his supply with Alma.

Tears brimmed at the corners of her eyes. Somewhere in the distance, a figure cast a weak spell the sent the horned beast reeling through the sky in a circular formation, if only momentarily.

With any luck, it wouldn't be calling for reinforcements the way the horde animals sometimes did.

“I-I shouldn't have come.” Ashe sputtered, noting how he fidgeted for a cure for her ailment. She looked over her shoulder at the cloaked figure in the snow yards ahead of them now, limping with a rifle out, readying aim for the beast's return.

He narrowed his eyes. He knew that posture.

“He'll die.” Ashe shook her head again, shaking Basch's grasp on her bleeding arm to grip it in her own. “I can conjure heal in time. But he'll die out there on his own.”

Basch scanned her wordlessly. Be it beyond him to refuse her, but she looked to him in critical state if he left her, yet he owed the obvious mysterious figure Balthier a death more worthy than a nameless death in a ravine.

Ashe squinted through wet eyelashes, her hair stuck to her face and neck with sweat. After an extended time of seeing her in gowns and fine silks at public appearences from afar under the guise of Judge's armor he selfishly admitted to himself the the sight of her this way reminded him of their days before she took the throne, and through all the perils and uncertainty, he missed seeing her and their other companions this way.

“I can help.” A voice came from where he had appeared only a moment before, and to his dismay Alma appeared from beyond the rocks, carefully hopping over the ice to them. “I'm a trained cleric. I can heal her.”

'A what?' He didn't see the time to ask, but she seemed to know what she was doing as far as Basch could tell, taking Ashe from Basch's grasp and nodding to him. “Not much of a fighter, I'm afraid.”

Another gunshot. Balthier's figure rolled over in the snow, cloak bent over his weapon for cover as he reloaded.

“Go.” Ashe urged Basch, and that time he obeyed. Whatever possible threat Alma could pose Ashe could surely handle, she was a woman who held more ferosity than that visible to the eye.

He sprinted out into the snow, leaving her there though his every instinct screamed not to. The beast halted in midair as it charged Balthier, wings pulling it backward as it wailed at him and he provoked it, sword drawn, chest as square as possible to give the greatest image he could of a threat worth charging.

It came down on him and tore at his flesh with great talons once, twice, and on the third strike he managed to roll underneath it more quickly than he was accostomed to without any Judge's armor. Laying on his back, he blocked it with his sword as flecks of his blood spat out onto the snow around him.

Another gunshot fired in the creature's back and it screamed in agony, directing the beast's attention back to Balthier.

“Good judges stay at their post!” The younger man taunted, voice feeble from exertion.

Alma pulled the woman further behind the rocky cover as Gabranth reluctantly ran from them. The blood was dark: lucky. Spurts of bright red meant more trouble that magicks alone wouldn't save her, they'd only prolong the agony. She pulled Gabranth's gloves to leave her hands bare, and yanked hard on the woman's cloak keeping the wound from her view. It was twisted about her and ensnared about the tools at her waist.

She wore silks in her intimate layers. A belt of rich dyes and gold loops wrapped about her waist. She was Dalmascan nobility.

The Viera in the wood warned her of such humes with greedy desires.

“On your side. Quickly.” Alma commanded through gritted teeth, and her companion obliged, or attempted to.There was a stiffness in her posture that was obvious now, but Alma now had the leverage she needed to pull back the cloak to find the upper layers of her clothing torn.

A wounded wail sounded behind them and the woman tossed her head to the side, groaning with dread. She moved upright as Alma attempted to tear at the clothing by wrenching it apparent with her hands, but it was no use. Fine clothing was expensive for a reason, and a sleeve of leather wouldn't budge with Alma's shaky assistance.

The woman looked down at Alma's hands now sticky with blood. “You must be quicker than this.” And before Alma could open her mouth to retort that she wasn't the one in a predicament, the woman bent a knee to her chest between them and with her unaffected hand, slid an ornately jeweled knife from her boot and offered it to Alma silently.

She was Dalmascan nobility, confirmed twice.

Alma accepted it, feeling the rough texture of the handle against her calloused hands as she pulled the leathers taut from the woman's flesh and drove the knife down it in an incision that snapped her sleeves, exposing suntanned flesh the entire way.

Alma frowned at her handiwork and her dark eyes moved to the woman's grey as she rolled back onto her ankles.

She avoided using magicks at all costs, because there was always the risk of Ultima's remnant being awakened within her, but having such a close encounter the day before when she jumped from the airship, she was confident such a thing wouldn't happen now.

Alma closed her eyes for a moment, recalling vanilla and sandalwood upon the windows of Orbonne Monestary, where her clerical schooling taught her such skills. To this day, spells conjured the scents of whatever memory she'd obtained them from.

Alma lifted her bare hand to the woman's bare arm and felt cool skin there. Downright cold, even, but then she'd done this enough times to know that her hand probably felt overly warm to the touch in comparison.

“I didn't catch your name.”

The woman was still now. The bleeding was already considerably slower, but she'd already lost so much. With heavy bags and sweat slicked blonde brows she was beautiful.

“Ashe.” Her lips twitched after she spoke, as if there was more to disclose but her muddled mind wouldn't let her.

“Ashe,” Alma repeated, maintaining eye contact, “My magicks can stop your bleeding and revive your energy for a short time. But I need to manually reset your shoulder.”

Ashe blinked dumbly. “Re.. set?”

The grounds of Landis were lush, unlike the sands of the westersand that sunk beneath his feet.

Basch often had dreams of the terrain of the Urutan-Yensa. Not nightmares of trauma as one would expect, but simple dreams of where he marched with his platoon under the hot sun that seared from the sky above, unrelenting until it set and the desert released a bone chilling cold overnight.

The truth of being a twin was the consistent theme of identity; from birth they were interchangeable to acquaintances and strangers, and if Basch or Noah desired individuality they had to fight to assert it. It didn't help that they both equally gravitated toward swordplay, or that their laughter sounded the same to everyone, even their mother. One yearned for the same things as the other, and if Basch rose in the summer mornings wanted to jump in the creek on his family's property, it was likely that Noah was already there to greet him.

The first time he crossed this land he thought always of Noah, and the sharpness in his eye that Basch knew was there whenever he crossed his brother's thoughts. A frown and an irritated twitch of a brow that had matched his own when he was angered.

Noah forever marked the difference between them, however, when he arranged for his twin brother to waste in a cage, fat shriveling to nothing so that muscle had to waste against bone.

Even after Ashe reclaimed her throne, when Basch was well fed and gained his mass back he found he tired quicker than he felt he should. Scars marring his back and shoulders from torture and a single cut just above his eye so deep that his expression was no longer quite symmetrical. Joints creaked and popped. He'd take it lightly with a chuckle when Balthier or Vaan made smart remarks about his age. Although he was hardly ancient, his body had lived several lifetimes already, whether it was in cages or in battles.

Vossler had looked back at him when they first marched together as critically as he did now, years later. A foreigner from Landis wasn't unwelcome, but Basch was unfamiliar with the subtle quirks of Dalmascan humor, and when soldiers bantered he was often silent among them.

When they escorted Ashe to the tomb of her ancestor Basch was just as quiet, aware of Vossler's eyes on him. An accused kingslayer was accused for a reason, whether he was actually guilty of such or not. Basch supposed Vossler's battle was weighing which scenario was likely, and which had the most threatening potential.

That was it. She'd nearly snuck in a swing so that had Captain Basch been less of a soldier, he'd have been caught off guard and struck full on by the Princess half his age and a sliver of his experience with a training blade.

Vossler laughed somewhere from behind him and Basch grinned back at the satisfied look in her eye, lifting a shoulder to wipe the sweat trickling to the corner of his mouth while Ashelia stepped before him, circumnavigating his steps, her posture and stance mimicking his own.

Had she been born a male like her brothers, perhaps she'd have fared better than them in battle.

Pity.

He gestured to her with a hand. “Come on, then. Again.”

Ashelia laughed, jumping at the balls of her ankles while playfully mocking a swing.

“I just came at you, Captain!”

Her free spirited laughter triggered something in him and he spun to strike her on her nondominant side- which she attempted to block unsuccessfully and the blunt edge of his wooden blade smacked her with a rather loud and painful thwack and she grunted and screamed aloud, knees buckling as she felt to the stone floor of the training yard.

“Argh!”

He felt Vossler's approving gaze on him, but still couldn't help himself from dropping his sword and kneeling before her.

“Go away! Go away!” She smacked at him with the arm that wasn't bracing her side that would undoubtedly bruise horribly by the following morning.

“Princess,” He reasoned calmly, “Let this be a lesson to you.”

She glared at him, platinum blonde hair sticking to her cheeks from sweat and now, fresh tears.

“Ooh don't talk to me that way!” Ashelia snarled, “Go away, I said!”

When staying in Balfonheim, there were few places Penelo approved of. But when they first claimed their own airship and officially became skypirates, Penelo had a chance encounter with a contractor on a bill posted in the saloon by the bay.

Maela was an ideal information because she was blind, elderly, and inevitably sweet on Penelo.

But then again, Vaan reasoned logically, everyone was sweet on Penelo.

Maela was a seamstress who fashioned all her own fabrics through traded goods and countless nights operating a loom. Which, Vaan thought was ironic, because she was old and blind. But the upstairs of her shop served as a boarding house of sort from transient merchants in the area, but far cleaner and quieter quarters than most pirates enjoyed, and the only price she charged Penelo was ten gil to cover the trouble of cleaning their room after occupancy.

On the late morning when Vaan and Penelo stepped out of the rain and into the foyer of the seamstress shop, stopping their feet on the door mat before entering. Maela greeted Penelo from the back as usual (which, again, Vaan was impressed by) and Penelo strolled to the back as she always did.

Vaan skipped on the pleasantries, frustrated at the rain for delaying his plans. He was irritated for another reason also, but he couldn't figure what it was. Or rather, he didn't want to figure what it was. So he went up the carpeted stone staircase as Penelo's muffled voice chattered with Maela in the back room and walked the hall to their usual room on the left.

Thanks to the torrents of rain outside that pooled on the cobblestone streets and upset the choppy waves out the window, his clothes were soaking wet and he cursed when he swung his bag from over his shoulder, suddenly realising that his change of clothes would be soaked through.

This was no good, as he wanted to remove his wet clothes immediately and dry them all. But when sharing a room with Penelo, that wouldn't go over well.

He sighed, wishing she wasn't weird about things like that. He turned the wrought iron handle of the door and pushed, eyes taking a moment to adjust the the dim light of the dismal day that the room afford, ready to drop his bag on the carved oak chair that was always positioned at the door when he he froze and cried out in shock, his dominant hand reflexively feeling for the knife at his waist.

“Fran?!?”

Ashe groaned in fleeting dread, looking anxiously over her shoulder at the commotion surrounding them.

The bleeding had eased from where a talon had tried and failed to take her, and Alma calmly eased the the arm out in front of her so that it was fully extended, and before Ashe could urge her with a “Get on with it!” through gritted teeth, Alma brisky lifted the appendage outward and upward in a single, smooth motion until a sickening audible pop! sounded and they both sighed simultaneously with relief.

The first rule of first aid in battle was improvisation and an open mind, so when Alma held the knife to what remained of Ashe's sleeve at the shoulder while silently asking permission, Ashe granted it to her with a nod, and numbly asked her for her name.

“Alma.”

“Did you come to Mt. Bur-Omisace seeking refuge?” Ashe spoke in an unusually stiff tone with a hint of curiosity, but Alma summed it up to shock and insecurity.

“Of sorts.” Alma tied the ends of the sleeves together to form a single sling and lifted it over her shoulders to drape one end under her elbow, not fully understanding her meaning.

“From where, may I ask?”

Ashe was pushy and blunt, unlike Gabranth. Alma hesitated. The two were obviously acquainted, it'd be best to keep to a single story for a while; she was no longer in the wood where she was free to repeat her story for the Viera, and no longer in Rabanastre where she could easily blend in as a foreigner and nothing more.

“Landis.”

Ashe blinked. “Ba-... Gabranth is from Landis.”

Alma stiffened, doing her best to hide her apprehension at that revelation. She'd told Gabranth she was from Landis on a whim, because she knew it was a fallen country and she was unlikely to find anyone who'd be so familiar with the common names hailing from there. He surely knew she was lying.

Why let her lie? What did he plan on doing with her when they reached his Lord Larsa?

Alma finished securing Ashe's arm across her chest in a passive bend at the elbow.

“My gratitude for your service, Alma. It won't go forgotten.”

Alma's eye widened as Ashe moved to stand, leveraging the rock at her back in absence of an arm. Alma pushed her downwards by the shoulders.

“You cannot help them now! You'll lose your arm entirely.”

Ashe stared back at her incredelously for a moment, before her complexion settled into a neutral expression and she replied suspiciously calmly. “At least check on them for me, then.”

Alma nodded, rising to her feet that tingled from the back of circulation in her posture, wiping strands of stray hairs from her braid off the sides of her face and replacing Gabranth's gloves over her hands.

She stepped to the rocks, skirting the border that protected them from the collision of the beast. Gabranth and the other were further away now and the beast was no longer airborne with a single wing stripped from it's back and hanging awkwardly, deformed from a limb dismantled.

From her peripheral, a figure darted. Alma jumped, startled, before realizing in horror that it was Ashe, defying her and running into the brutality before her. Alma screamed for her to stop but her cry was cut short- though loud enough for the men from afar to turn toward them and the beast followed, charging lamely for a moment until Ashe stepped into the light of the sun and a burst of light consumed her.

Ashe...

Alma turned and slid with her back down against the rocks in helplessness, her hands forming fists against the high collar of Gabranth's cloak.

That was Ashelia B'nargin Dalmasca, the queen from Rabanastre.

The steady hum of the engines was now an unsettling screech, and by the rocking of the floor against him and the churning in his stomach he knew the ship would be plummeting toward the ground within seconds.

Vossler kneeled before him in defeat, wounded and breathing heavily.

How many times had they sparred? And could he recall their first conflict? He almost smiled when he remembered it- the girl from their youth than Basch fancied anf Vossler made into a conquest.

“All I've ever done- I've ever thought of Dalmasca first.”

Basch was breathing heavily too, his heart surging in stifled emotion at the man he'd considered a brother. Vossler had his own philosophy just as much as Basch had his.

Basch recalled the fete from years past, when Princess Ashe dashed by them as a child. Now they stood face to face- one man on his knees and the other with a sword drawn as they both desired to help her regain what they failed to protect.

“I know you do. I would ne-er gainsay your loyalty.” Basch's words spilled from his mouth in earnesty.

The ground was shaking more violently, and Basch had to take a step backward to steady himself and maintain composure. By rights he should kill Vossler- but it wasn't that long ago Basch was a convicted kingslayer and a potential threat the the resistance and the Princess' survival. And yet Vossler didn't kill him then.

It was in this way that Vossler was more like his own blood than his own blood had been to him.

Down the hall, Vaan called his name in desperation.

“Look on what my haste has wrought.” Vossler, lamented, “Did I act too quick? Or was your return too late? I can serve her no more. You must take up my charge.”

A fete commemorated the end of the conflict with Dalmasca and Rozarria, where wine flowed from faucets and crystal chandeliers hung above his head, arranged to look like glimmering garden, one of the handmaidens had informed him and he bowed his head in acknowledgement.

Red velvet lined the wallpaper and men ate with appetites of swine and Basch shifted uncomfortably in his new armor that he'd inherited from Noah.

A senator nudged him with an elbow to his side, jolly and drunken.

“Let's hear us a war story, good judge!”

Chapter Text

How are you? Vaan says 'Hi', but you know he'd have more to say if he saw you in person. I'm trying to improve my handwriting, and I miss you, so I figured it can't hurt for me to send you letters from home, right? Assuming you think of home as being with us, I mean.

When the sun set in Rabanastre, the heat mellowed on the clay structures like a gust from a hot oven. At first the air was dry and robust, and then it mellowed to a stale heat that only lingered in rocks and carpet; surprisingly metal was the last thing to cool but when it finally did, it was the coldest thing that Penelo had ever touched.

Penelo's father told her of the desert wastelands outside the city and how when the sands cooled they appeared to threaten to compress to smooth glass under dissipating heat that glittered under full moons like diamonds and new moons like coal; it was only the sandstorms or the presence of the wyrms that his view of this was skewed.

He promised her she could go with him once, when she was old enough to wield a knife. But much to her dismay, that predetermined age was much lower for Vaan and Reks when they joined the household than it was for her.

The brothers were perfect proper roomates in the beginning (though Penelo knew better all along), but it wasn't long before she'd lay in her bunk and hear commotion in the room beneath hers: décor crashing from a nail on the wall or a burst of abrasive wood scraping across the floor while one of them cursed and the other laughed. Fight vs. flight inevitably kicked in, and it was only a matter of time before the ruckus was unhinged and more furniture made noise here and there as they fought one another, causing her mother's footsteps to pad from her parents' bedroom across the hall and down the stairs so that she could scold them through a barrage of apologies.

It made Penelo smile, though at the time she felt sorry for Reks. Vaan was an instigator by every meaning, and as the eldest Reks was often been the one to receive most of the blame.

Sometimes Penelo would venture to the rooftop in the evening and lay on the hammock to read. It was a tradition that started in the earliest of her memories, when her father would sit with her head in his lap, his fingers combing through her thick flaxen waves with one hand and a book in the other.

He traveled so much more than usual the season that Reks and Vaan came into their home. Trade in Rabanastre was booming that year, and her mother was constantly busy negotiating with tradesmen who could add to the modest grandeur of their home and then turned and retreated to the wine cabinet in the evenings when Penelo retreated upstairs with a book.

Reks would join her on the roof sometimes, when she lay on a hammock with a bare foot soothed by the gentle warmth of the stone floor. The night breeze caressed her midriff where the binding her book was supported, propped up so that she could read and flip the pages freely. When Reks joined her she'd set it with the pages down onto her stomach, and his grey eyes looking at her would be warmed by the flickering torchlight and admittedly, it made her giddy.

That was a memory hardest for her to part from, a firm marker of her childhood.

Mom always said that the kindest thing you can do for others is to not only keep them in our thoughts, but to let them know that they reside there from time to time. So consider this a letter from home, if you want it to be, and a reminder that I'm thinking about you.

“We cannot delay return to the encampment any longer.” Ashe announced, rising from where she sat cross legged before the fire, unable to suppress the wince that came from the strain of the effort of doing so with an injured arm tied and disabled across her chest.

She wasn't wrong. After her little stunt in battle she'd nearly passed out from exhaustion. Balthier scoffed at her from where he lay on his back propped up by an elbow as he impatiently tapped his foot.

Basch, on the other hand, had his attention solely focused on a cloth running down the length of his weapon, sitting away from them facing the ravine. To most, it would seem a cool and aloof sort of behavior, but Balthier knew it was because Basch couldn't sit with his back towards a potential opening, whether he was aware of it or not; it was Fran who originally brought this trait to his attention.

Then there was Alma, the strange woman emerging while shyly avoiding eye contact his way. She was quiet in a cautious sense, which Balthier suspected was for good reason because when she spoke the accent that drawled from her lips was so strange that he couldn't place it.

“Return to your people injured, in the company of a dead sky pirate, and an Imperial Judge who by all accounts should be equally as dead?” Balthier critiqued Ashe's impatient order aloud.

Alma turned her face from him, as if in realization that he was assessing her for the fun of it, looking instead to Ashe before settling her dark eyed gaze back on the fire. This would be a peculiar conversation for even the brightest of minds, so she said nothing.

Smart girl.

“We're a rather strange group of acquaintances, aren't we?” He pressed her, amused by her calculated silence. She still said nothing.

“That's enough.” Ashe snapped, standing over him now, her good arm crossed over her injured one, adding a murmur under her breath, “But your skepticism raises valid points.”

She paused for a moment, then turned then to Basch. “...Then Gabranth and I will return to the encampment alone. He was no doubt dispatched by his Lord Larsa to investigate a disturbance in the holy lands. I awoke in the night to such a disturbance outside my quarters and went to investigate-”

“Unvetted and unprotected-” Balthier interjected critically.

She ignored him, “-And the Judge Gabranth was able to prevent me from further injury. A sky pirate's craft malfunctioned. Unless the good judge has determined the proper cause for the disturbance?”

Her story still had holes, but he had to credit her for her new tact-- sticking to the truth as closely as possible was the key to making the most convincing stories when one couldn't tell the truth itself.

“Aye.” Basch agreed.

“I'll be willing to take the fall in this story, you've concocted, your majesty.” Balthier found himself emphasizing her title out of smart bitterness. “For a proper pirate won't be received well in your company, particularly if he'll have been the suspected cause of disturbances.”

“Where is your ship, anyhow? Or whatever it is you came here by?” Ashe asked him directly.

“That's no matter of yours.” Balthier countered.

Ashe opened her mouth to offer a sharp retort, no doubt, until Basch's cool voice interfered.

“Alma is a person of interest; a subject to the empire. But the eyes in Bur-Omisace cannot know of this until she is investigated properly.”

Alma stiffened, an air of betrayal in her hitched breath. “A person of interest?” She sputtered, speaking aloud for the first time since she emerged from the cover of stone and Ashe's flames.

Balthier clicked his tongue. Alma was holding her quiet facade of calm together so nicely, until now.

“You were discovered in the snow in the state of sleep.” Basch explained levelly, in what only Balthier measured was a tone composed of a mixture of duty and sympathy. But to the unknowing ear, it no doubt sounded cold and accusing. “You say you were en route to Archades from Rabanastre, and you hail from the Republic of Landis, but your name that you give wasn't from the Republic at all.”

Alma rose from her seat before the fire, angrily kicking snow by the toe of her boot in his direction, spraying it over him with her fists clenched. Basch flinched at her assault, halting his efforts of cleaning his sword to turn toward her more squarely.

“You must know all the houses of Landis, then.” Alma challenged, “Every single one?”

“Prominent ones.” Basch's eyes squinted, showing the light presence of amusement under cool indifference. “My mother was a prudent Landisian noblewoman who wanted scholars for children.”

“Then you'd have me deliver her to Archades then, I take it.” Balthier surmised. Alma remained glaring at Basch. But even then, Balthier gathered her no sympathy. He'd been accosted by far worse than Basch.

“If you could,” Basch nodded. “I'll send for you when Larsa and I have returned.”

“-And I expect the custody of a high value prisoner will fetch a proper compensation.” Balthier added, and felt the heat of Alma's glare being cast his way. He looked up toward Ashe again adding, “-And don't think you're free from your end of our bargain.”

Ashe rolled her eyes. “Yes, I presume you have your methods of contacting me in Rabanastre, now that you've chosen to reveal yourself at your convenience. You will be rewarded handsomely for your efforts, Balthier. Not to worry.” Ashe waved him off in a disgruntled tone.

Balthier raised a brow at her, taunting her to engage in an inadvertent innuendo.

But Basch was keen to Balthier's wit and was having none of it, intervening with the tuck of a cloth into a pocket and slow roll to his feet.

“Your highness, we'd best return to Bur-Omisace sooner than later before a search party finds us here in this company.”

Ashe nodded. She turned to Alma, head bowed slightly. “Best of luck to you, Alma. Whatever your terms may be, I'll not forget your actions here this day.”

Alma blinked, expression looking as though she wished to spit a thousand curses. In another setting her long neck and doe-eyes over high cheekbones would give her all the markings of a noblewoman with little else to reveal. But under the harsh light of the tundra she appeared feral when turning to stomp angrily further in Basch's direction until Balthier leaned and grasped her wrist tightly, feeling the anger pulse through her there.

She spun on her heels, Basch's cloak swinging about her on the ground.

“So you intend to leave me at the disposal of one you deem a sky pirate?” Alma snarled at the judge, her voice carrying a new vicious assertiveness for one so small. “How much gil will be your price for a girl delivered to your Lord Larsa? Double if he finds me pretty? Half, if I'm too advanced for his ideal of childbearing age?” Her voice cracked, obvious fury seeping through.

Someone struck a nerve, as some would say.

Basch was steady mannered, as was always his way. He calmly sheathed his sword and walked the Ashe, who cast her a stern look over her shoulder.

“Easy, girl.” Balthier's hold on her tightend, which only seemed to energize her. Her arms jerked to be free from his grasp as she yanked herself toward Basch.

Perhaps she wished to lunge, perhaps she wished to feebly kick more snow his way. Balthier had half an amused thought to loosen his grasp on her arm and find out.

Basch stopped again, with Ashe several paces in front of him. Turning “I assure you, that's not the manner of it. If you are innocent, delivering you in this way will be for your protection.”

“So I've been told before.” She snarled.

Ashe eyed the girl neutrally, and then she lingered on Balthier for a moment, and he back at her as if in a silent agreement, as he still had much to settle with the queen of Dalmasca when they parted that day.

I'll bet with everything going on you don't have much time to think about us. People in the streets of Rabanastre talk of war every day, they say it's long overdue. What do you think?

Penelo shook at the sound of Vaan's cry, her voice faltering as she stood in mid-sentence with Maela, the elderly woman's hands clasped in hers.

Sure, Maela was a useful contact by circumstance, but it certainly helped things that Penelo genuinely adored her- as she was also a veteran of two Imperial invasions in different locations, a historic trade embargo, multiple waves of refugees, the once peak crime market of Balfonheim (of which Penelo suspected Maela was once a victim to, as her story offered suspicious discretions that reeked of hume trafficking), and lastly, a marriage of forty years with no children to look after her.

Maela's face fell and Penelo backed to the doorway “I-I should...” She stammered. There was no further commotion from upstairs; no sign of struggle. “I'll go see what Vaan wants.”

She first walked briskly, then breaking into a full sprint up the stairs until she reached the hallway where the door was ajar and she gripped it and swung her body inside the room with the momentum of her speed around her hand on the door.

Vaan stood stiff, his bag dropped at his feet. Before him, on a bed by the window, sat Fran.

“It's just Fran, Vaan. Honestly...” Penelo stooped to pick up the bag and passed it back to him, who accepted with one hand while rubbing the back of his neck with the other.

“Yeah, I can see that.” Vaan snapped at her, embarrassed.

There was a time when Penelo found herself intimidated by the viera. Thier demeanor was quiet and strange, and they were so tall even compared to the tallest hume and bangaa men that even growing up in a place as diverse as Rabanastre did not ease her into Fran's company so much as prolonged periods of time spent with Fran did itself.

It wasn't until they came to Eryut and Fran lingered back in Golmore than Penelo finally understood her; because though elusive and mysterious, Fran wasn't so different from her, Vaan, Ashe, Balthier, or Basch. She was a victim of circumstance, an orphan of sorts even if the terms weren't like Penelo's.

So it wasn't odd to her when Fran appeared there in their room at Maela's, not really. Both she and Vaan had had correspondence with Balthier for months, albeit remotely and it was Penelo's understanding that Fran or Balthier (or both) would appear like this, out of the blue.

And most likely with an exciting proposition.

“Hi, Fran.” Penelo smiled, offering an amicable wave. Normally she'd offer a hug, but Fran was hardly much of a hugger.

“Is everything alright?” Maela's voice called from the bottom of the stairs.

Penelo stepped backward and stuck her head in the hallway. “Everything's fine, Maela! Vaan wasn't used to it being so dark in here from the rain and he tripped!”

Vaan smacked her arm, and in all the disturbance their neighbor across the hall peeked his dishelved head out his own door to eye them curiously, causing Penelo to frown and wave him away before shutting their door in front of him.

Fran sat still on the bed, her dark skin almost appearing to glow mahogany in the grey lights from the rainy day out the window.

“So... Balthier come with you?” Vaan prodded hopefully, not to either Fran or Penelo's surprise. Even after all this time, Vaan referred to Balthier often, and since Balthier had reclaimed the Strahl, Vaan had searched for him hopefully in every town, paying careful attention to Wanted ads and bill postings.

Fran moved her head slightly toward her shoulder in a single motion- the closest that Viera came to shaking their heads like Humes. “We separated here.”

Silence fell into the room and Vaan's mouth dropped open. He sank onto the bed across from her, dropping his bag over the pillow and sat back, running a hand through his hair with the other pressed into his knee.

“You're kidding.”

Penelo frowned, pulling up the chair that sat by the door.

Fran blinked. “He'll return when he obtains the access we seek.”

The two younger pirates exhaled a sigh of relief.

Penelo looked to Vaan and back to Fran. “I think... with the way you said that, we thought you meant that you and Balthier separated for good.”

Fran looked back her blankly, clearly not comprehending the summation of their accusation.

“How did you find us here?” Vaan's brow furrowed.

“Probably the same way they located our position when the took back the Strahl.” Penelo reminded him.

“So, what are you seeking access to?” Penelo addressed the viera now, cocking her head to the side. She felt Vaan's eyes on her confirming that he too was thinking the same thing.

“Lucrative artifacts.” Fran's accent punctuated the words peculiarly, causing them to ring in Penelo's mind like a bad omen. Fran tilted her own head sideways, mimicking Penelo's posture. “I cannot show you from here. You must join my companion and I at our accomodations 3 blocks west from here.”

“So you just came here to invite us to your place?”

“Temporary place.”

“You came here to invite us to your temporary place?”

“Yes.”

“And you guys want us to go in on a treasure haul?”

“-Artifacts, Vaan.” Penelo corrected, “And we're not sure we even want the job, but it'd be nice to catch up with Fran and to see Balthier again when he comes back.” She spoke aware of her voice giving the slightest inflection of longing. It'd been too long since she'd last seen any of their friends, and it felt like they all parted without a proper goodbye.

“Should Balthier get access, yes.”

“Access?” Penelo leaned back in her chair with her arms crossed, staring hard at the ceiling. “He isn't getting Ashe involved, is he?”

Vaan let out a yell in excitement in lept from his seat again.

Sometime later, long after Fran left with rather specific instructions on how to reach her room at the vaguely given address, the daylight dulled to evening and the rains lulled, though that didn't stop Vaan and Penelo from jogging through the streets with hoods up on their cloaks, their sandals spraying mud against cobblestone as they went.

They stood before the building lined in the front yard with manly callers for a moment, both casting one another a look before Penelo finally spoke, her brow furrowed.

“Are you sure this is the right place.?”

In her peripheral, Vaan's hooded head nodded. “The whore house, yup.”

“You don't think Fran...” Penelo was frowning, “Why would she stay here?”

Vaan grabbed her by the arm, beckoning her to follow him in. “Looks like she's got some info she doesn't want eavesdroppers to care about.”

Penelo followed his lead wordlessly, both impressed and irritated than Van had any familiarity with whore houses in that way at all.

“Faster.” Penelo urged him, erupting in giggles as she clung to his back from behind, unaware of how her arms squeezed his neck and Reks protested in a strangled grunt, shaking his head to free himself for more air.

“Sorry!” She laughed and bucked against him, willing him to break into a steady jog with his elbows hooked under her knees through the market. Vaan was around somewhere, and the suspense of his hiding place made her genuinely scared as she clung to Reks.

They dipped up an archway leading toward the main square where merchants convened, and Vaan hopped out of the shadows, causing Penelo to scream directly into Reks' ear. Reks countered with a yell back with a gutteral sound of surprise and he took off in a full sprint now, Vaan gaining from behind them due to the lack of Penelo's weight on his own back.

The scene brought the attention of onlookers who turned to see what the cause of the ruckus was. Reks ran toward the fountain in the center of the square and tipped under the weight of Vaan's leverage from above attempting to pull Penelo from him and he relinquished her, happy about the relief around his neck as the girl when plummeting into the fountain mid-scream.

Vaan stood above her, laughing with Reks so hard that his face turned red until she frantically hooked her hands about his ankles and yanked with her whole body weight until Vaan lost his balance, suspending himself dramatically with his arms flailing about into the water next to her.

Vaan talks about you all the time, he loves to brag that he has a brother in the Order. We went to that grove in the oasis on the outskirts of town where were used to play manhunt as kids, do you remember that? I was scared to talk to you back then!

A heavy hearted lie and loaded goodbye to Basch sent her off on the road. Larsa had been the first to receive them, and in the hint of relief in his voice and twitch at his brow, she knew that he understood that he was forgiven. She only had so much spite to offer, and she wouldn't waste any on a boy emperor when she still had such scores to settle with a certain sky pirate.

Chocobos were brought to for her and her entourage, and as she mounted a robed acolyte emerged from the path to the temple above, an indigo wrapped cloth parcel in hand.

“Hail, your majesty. Gran Kiltias has forbid you from parting without a gift.”

What she could see of his eyes were all dark creases, and a part in his hair at the lips revealed toothy canines in a grin.

In the distance, Basch and Larsa were upon their steeds bearing the colors of the empire receiving a similar package from another acolyte.

Ashe nodded to a handmaiden to her left; her one good arm was clutching the reins of the chocobo as the bird shuffled impatiently. The handmaiden dismounted obediently to receive the parcel from the acolyte.

“'Tis a generous thing from a man so holy,” Ashe nodded, watching the handmaiden carefully pack it among Ashe's personal belongings behind her before turning back to the acolyte, “If I'd known we were to exchange gifts I'd have brought offerings myself.”

The acolyte shook his head. “No need. The late Gran Anastasis dreamt of you often. The next age will be no different, I expect.”

Ashe watched him for a moment. In her experience, being favored by otherworldly beings only meant trouble for her and her people.

She was innately apprehensive of such cryptic words and a mysterious gift. But she led the trek to the airship home, her mind so full from the lack of sleep and words for Balthier that amongst the preparations for her uncle's fete in Bhujerba the parcel went forgotten, stored inconspicuously by the kettle of spices in her meeting room where she was sure to not be bothered by it for some time.

When my dad was alive, he used to say that when the sun set in one town it rose in another, so when he traveled I could pass the sun off to him wherever he went. Of course I now realize he wasn't that far away, but it always made me feel like he wasn't that far away.

Alma's head throbbed too much to concern herself with the foreign whirring and hum of machinery under her feet and through the walls; this was much louder than the airship where she could at least pretend she wasn't in fact soaring above the clouds at a sickening pace.

If she was feeling stronger, perhaps she could attempt to overpower Balthier, as he failed to bind her. But she lacked the strength and the skill to manage his ship; he was clearly aware of that.

As a girl reading of airships in books the idea had always seemed thrilling, but now she wanted nothing more than the lay down directly on the ground. She closed her eyes, her stomach flipping at the image of clouds and blue sky beneath her.

Beside her, Balthier worked away at the controls. If she were more mindful, she'd surely be paying closer attention to his patterns in the event she should gain access to his ship. But she knew that was a long shot, and she felt so dizzy and weak that resistance just seemed futile in that moment.

She was so damn tired.

“There's food in the back,” Balthier nodded to her, but even the idea of food made her stomach churn even further.

Alma kept her eyelids shut and rested her head back in the chair, both hands clutching the armrests tightly.

“I'm alright.”

“All right then. As your captor, I'll have you rummage for some for me then.”

Alma said nothing, her mind still focused on not floating above the skies. She had so many questions, like exactly why she was in such a time where Ultima had seemingly less influence than she did in Alma's own time, and what Gabranth, Balthier, and the queen had in common that made them so familiar.

And where was she being taken?

“I don't think I can.” She replied weakly.

A sudden acceleration that she was sure that Balthier wasn't even cognisent of and a hushed predetermined declaration from Balthier to someone who wasn't present that he was now entering Archadian airspace.

“You don't think you can?” Balthier then repeated her sentence skeptically, his voice just as tired as hers, before chuckling in amusement when he seem to note her meloncholy. “Cheer up Lady Alma, there are far worse jailors in Ivalice than Gabranth.”

Alma said nothing, thinking about how when she exhaled the air escaped her chest through her nose. She'd survived being abducted before to terrifying ends. She'd survive being arrested too.

“If I were him I'd at least have the mind to demand my cloak back... And you're in Fran's seat,” Balthier mused and teased her, “Though I must admit usually the women I have on board don't settle for such distance-”

Turbulance ensued, and the floor beneath her feet rocked. Alma couldn't hold it in anymore. She opened her mouth, mustering the smartest reply she could, when bile surged from her stomach and she braced her waist with the arm of the chair and heaved over it. She retched on the floor, hearing more humming of machinery and muted curses from Balthier.

Penelo followed close behind Vaan through the alley in Lowtown. He was breathing heavily, the bare muscles of he back contracting and sliding as he pulled crates from stacks and kicked pottery that upheld makeshift shelves, earning the suspicious gaze of Rabanastreans who passed by on the street.

“Vaan, stop!” She pleaded, tears brimming her eyes as she attempted to pull his shoulder back, to make him face her so that she could look him in the eyes and talk sense into him.

Reks was wounded. And to make matters worse, the King was dead and the Princess was spotted throwing herself from the tower of the palace soon after. Penelo was forced from her parents' home in the dead of night (where she now only resided with Vaan) and they made camp with other orphans in Lowtown.

They'd received word that Reks was wounded, and no one was letting Vaan see him.

She was angry too, half of her tears were out of rage. Unlike Vaan her emotions tended to explode form her eyes rather than her limbs. But he was violent, and that wasn't doing anything but attracting attention from Imperial soldiers who patrolled the streets and destroying was few possesions they'd managed to gather from the scraps of Imperial waste.

Vaan cursed loudly and froze as Penelo did as they spotted an Imperial close by, nodding their way in cold indifference in a full suit of armor.

“It's not worth it!” She spoke in a hushed tone that only Vaan could hear, “If we act out they'll just use it to continue keep us from seeing him.”

Vaan struck a wooden palate with the flat sole of her sandal; one final attempt to exert his anger in defeat at her cautioning.

Penelo sniffed, her cheeks wet. “Look at me, Vaan!”

He turned slowly, stiffly, all muscles clenched in tension.

“No matter what happens, he has us.” She flung her arms wildly for emphasis before bringing her hands to her eyes to push the tears back. “And we have each other, and we have him.”

Blue-gray eyes softened on her. “Penelo...”

“You aren't helping him.” Penelo shook her head as more sobs escaped her throat. “I know you don't want to, but we need to play by their rules at least a little longer!”

Vaan relaxed enough to reluctantly accept her embrace. They stood together under the seedy light of Lowtown surrounded by piles of battered clay pots and half destroyed crates in various states of disarray, the contents of some spilled about the ground. Onlookers still passed by, eyeing them curiously and cautiously, and somewhere in the distance. Strings were plucked in an upbeat melody that was familiar to their memory yet foreign on their ears in that moment.

Vaan held her against his chest, her tears further spilling over his skin.

I'm on the rooftop now, and the sun is setting. I know you're not even far enough for me to pass the sun off to you because we're technically under the same sky, so the sun is setting for you too. So I hope you get a break where we can come and see you, and maybe meet some of your new friends from the Order. If there's a war coming, you might be a decorated hero the next time I see you for all I know!

Penelo

Penelo scrunched her nose as Vaan led her up the spiral staircase at a couple of convenience that stumbled drunkenly by, on their way to a room.

She wasn't dumb. Vaan was a protege of Balthier's and before Balthier met Ashe he had a certain reputation of which Penelo was now aware (though, she hoped that Balthier quit womanizing now), and there were some nights when he'd slip out when she was tucked safely in her bed at Maela's.

“Vaan.” Penelo whispered, glaring at a prostitute that stepped out of a room. “Have you been here before?”

He stopped, a stair ahead of her, eyes wide incredulously. “Are you kidding me?”

She looked up at him for a moment, studying his face and instantly feeling silly for asking. There was a hint of girlish jealousy in her words.

“Why?” Vaan pressed her, and Penelo chose to ignore him, passing him on the stair and furthering their ascent to the top.

The turquoise painted door creaked out when Penelo knocked on it three times as she was instructed, and when a greeted echoed from within she stepped into the room with Vaan closely following.

The ceiling sloped downward, and the rain pelted against the roof directly above them. A modest fireplace sheltered a crackling fire that spit flecks of burning ash to the iron instrument poking it. A table in the center of the room was littered with scrolls in varying states of quality and Fran sitting pouring over one, barely flinching when they entered.

The other person however, was tall man with marred flesh, obviously previously scalded by something as his skin appeared mottled over his face, distorting whatever existed of his hairline and the remaining damage was only visible to his hand holding the iron stick. A pale eye crinkled their way in what might've been a warm smile. He propped the stick against the brick wall next to the fire and clapped his hands together in an attempt to rid them of ashy debris.

Before Penelo could speak and offer a proper greeting (since she could already tell Fran was too preoccupied to offer one) she and Vaan simultaneously recognized the man in the room with them as he turned to face them directly, revealing that only half of his face was disfigured.

“Reddas!” Penelo gasped, walking to him, their comrade whom they'd first met there in Balfonheim in an entirely different stature- he was barely recognizable now as the former Imperial Judge then turned pirate and the unofficial mayor of Balfonheim.

Penelo circled the table and reached to touch his face in disbelief. “But at the Suncryst, you...”

Reddas chuckled in response. “Died, yes. Had been reminded of that quite a bit lately.”

The fingers on his affected hand were stiff, undoubtedly affecting how his fingers plucked at the strings of his instrument the night before he passed. But then again, they once believed Balthier and Fran to be dead, and they were alive. And now Reddas was alive too, perhaps he could still play.

She chose not to ask.

“Imagine my surprise when an airship called the Galbana docked in town today.”

Vaan crossed his arms. “How did you know that was us?”

Reddas flashed him a stern look. “There's much you still need to learn of pirating, m'boy. And running across Ivalice doing the bidding of a displaced Princess won't teach you everything you need to know. You ought to make yourself less conspicuous, you hear?”

“Ah, a lot of that is my fault,” Penelo looked to Vaan and then to Reddas, “I'm usually the one planning our runs.”

Fran turned a page, wrinkling her nose slightly.

“So what's up with Balthier?” Vaan's gaze moved to Fran and back to Reddas. “Why're you here with Fran when he's off...”

“... he means to consort with the 'displaced princess.'” Fran said plainly, turning another page. “We wait for him here while we gather information.”

Penelo jerked her head back in surprise, turning to Reddas for a better explanation. Behind her, Vaan let out a “Ha! I knew it!”

Reddas shook his head, running a hand over his bare scalp. He radiated warmth that way; smiling. Penelo thought it made him look more like his old self.

“Er-well, one shouldn't make assumptions, Vaan. Balthier went to obtain access to our target and our friendly queen would hardly be one to refuse us. In technicality, a queen associating with any sort of pirate is 'consorting', as I'm sure was Fran's meaning.” He cast Fran a cautious glance for confirmation, clearly not wanting Vaan to jump to conclusions.

Fran said nothing, turning another page with a neutral expression.

Penelo laughed at the thought. “Balthier and Ashe? Don't start rumors, Vaan.”

Vaan shrugged at her accusation. He cracked his knuckles, nodding to the haphazard appearance of the table where Fran sat.

“I'm not gonna argue with you guys on that one-- they'd be a messed up couple. But nice to see ya again, Reddas. So what's going on here?”

“Ah,” Reddas walked to the table, squinting slightly before pulling a single spectacle from his trouser pocket and fitting it to the dulled eye on his affected side before tapping parchment before him with his index finger. “How would you kids like to go for a hunt, assuming Balthier and his consort queen can grant us access?”

Fran flinched slightly at his snarky term but continued to be silent, flipping another page.

“Treasure?” Vaan piped in excitement.

“Artifacts, Vaan.” Penelo rolled her eyes, placed a hand on her hip beside him as he turned a chair backwards so that the back was against his front, legs spread to either side.

Reddas smiled wryly. “The clearest difference between you two.”

Penelo shook her head in exasperation. “Yeah, we disagree on semantics sometimes.”

“That's a good thing,” Reddas pointed to her, eyes moving from her to Vaan. “It's good to have a partner who can balance things out.”

In a time when many could hardly believed she'd gravitated toward the path of piracy with Vaan, it was refreshing to hear from someone who understood.

Fran turned another page.

It was all so exciting! Penelo's heart felt the fullest it had in a long time-- since before the Suncryst when she sat by the fire with Reddas, Basch, Fran, Balthier, Vaan and Ashe while Reddas gave them music that made her want to dance or laugh or stare into the flames indefinately. Or maybe before Reddas, when they were traversing the plains with Larsa in tow. Oh, she couldn't wait to share this news with him!

Judging by the stacks of old records and the tedious precautions Reddas and Fran were taking to contact her and Vaan while dispatching Balthier halfway across Ivalice this was bound to be a a big project. She liked projects, and she wanted nothing more than an excuse to travel with her old friends again.

And a project like this would surely keep Vaan occupied and out of trouble (at least in trouble with the right supervision) while she departed to Bhujerba.

Reddas appeared to sense her enthusiasm, because he nodded her way when she rounded the table, sitting next to Fran and across from Vaan, “What do you kids know of Saint Ajora?”

Vaan raised a brow. “Who?”

Chapter Text

Al-Cid lay in the courtyard of Ambervale, the hazy heat of late day upon him. Courtesans were almost always readily available for members of the royal family, but he chose to satisfy other appetites that afternoon with wine and spiced cheeses while listening to the sounds of his nieces and nephews play in the water gardens nearby.

The plates before him half empty, he drunkenly pondered the whereabouts of the near empty bottle that spilled red from the top of the dark stained glass. It took him moments to shrug it off, instead reaching for his pipe and packing it with leaves as had become his daily ritual now.

He was blissfully unaware of the world as it existed, until footsteps walked briskly to his wrought iron table, harshly kicking a leg of it and sending the empty wine and liquor bottles toppling over the edge, breaking some as they collided with the mosaic stone.

Al-Cid paid no attention, instead leaning back in his chair to separate himself from the mess, focusing his attention instead to light his pipe with a long stemmed match that he clumsily struck with the friction on the end of the table. The children stopped splashing for a moment, turning their attention to Al-Cid and his visitor from their view amongst the stone pillars of the gardens.

“Brother! I thought you had business to attend to on the holy mountain.” Al-Cid slurred, slowly inhaling with one hand protecting the leaves from the predatory breeze threatening to extinguish it.

“Yes, I did,” Argos countered, his shadow standing before him in a silent challenge, arms crossed in disapproval. “While you lay out here and drink yourself to death, I, a man with a wife and children must run errands in your stead!”

“Like me, you are no heir.” Al-Cid muttered with the pipe between his teeth.

The children had since resumed their play, splashing and yelling as the youngest attempting to reach the older ones as they dodged from pillar to pillar.

Argos kicked the table again. “You have obligations to this family. I cannot settle both mine and yours alone.”

Al-Cid's eyes rolled lazily to Argos. His elder brother was near identical to him appearance despite a decade's worth of age from him. His hair was thicker and darker, like their father's while Al-Cid inherited the sleek deep brown locks of their mother: a woman who also enjoyed simple and immediate pleasures.

“Ah,” Al-Cid smiled, now knowing this afternoon intrusion was all about, “How fares the Lady Ashe?”

Argos' eyes narrowed. “She bares little reception toward me. How is it I'm tasked to attend all your appointments these days?”

Al-Cid shrugged, dragging from his pipe. “I was not well on the morning I was to leave, brother.”

“You'd had too much to drink the night before, you mean.” Argos accused him.

Al-Cid leaned back, watching the children play thoughtfully, saying nothing. He only stretched out his palm on the arm of the chair to drum his fingers against it rhythmically. It wasn't his way, but years of grooming in House Margrace had taught him stoicism.

Even if it came with a hint of snark.

“If I had too much to drink perhaps if was for the pressure of my family, to seduce an unknowing princess away from her cause during the war to Ambervale under the guise of 'protection', and instead court her into our house while her cities fell to other powers?”

Argos sighed, running a hand through his hair-- always a sign to Al-Cid of his brother's temper dissipating. He sank into a chair next to Al-Cid. Before them, his youngest daughter kicked through the water gardens with chubby toddler's legs, her white dress clinging to the tanned skin. She was clumsy, the way all children that age were, and fell repeatedly in the shallows as her cousins taunted her.

“You do not find her desirable? I'll admit, her countenance is anything but inviting.”

Al-Cid grabbed a glass, wrinkling his nose as he looked down upon its emptiness of contents. “Quite opposite,” He murmured, “I find her more desirable than I can say.”

Argos leaned and took the glass from his younger brother gruffly, slamming it to the table with a hollow echo of crystal against iron.

“Then you must not shirk your responsibilities anymore, little brother. Father demands it. I demand it. Rozarria demands it.”

A sly smirk crept across Al-Cid's features. “Ah, there it is.”

“You know I am not wrong.” Argos exhaled, crossing his arms. “I've done my duty as the rest of our brothers have. And yours? To court a young, beautiful and lonely widow of a desert kingdom? To be crowned it's King? It's hardly a curse.”

Al-Cid couldn't help but think that the reference to Ashe's age may've been a knock to their oldest brother, the heir of Rozarria that was forced to marry a woman ten years his senior in a political deal with the merchant's guild.

“And if she doesn't agree?”

Argos snorted, “If she is in a fact a queen without an heir, she will agree. The warrior queen has quite the reputation of being passionate, she's hardly a fool.”

Al-Cid's fingers relaxed, long fingers fanning out on the arm of the chair. “So I take it you won't be leaving for the Bhujerban fete in my stead, then.”

“No,” Argos frowned, “If you must go make a fool of us all with a belly full of wine and a roaring headache then so be it. I've spent the last several days freezing in the company of elderly priests; I will not enable your behavior anymore.”

Al-Cid brought the pipe to his lips again, watching Argos stand and walk to his children, calling them by name with open arms.

It was unfair of Argos to compare his situation to Al-Cid's-- Argos married a far younger Rozarrian noblewoman with enough standing to grant House Margrace resources, but not enough clout to grant him any sort of political responsibility. Argos covered for Al-Cid out of duty, but the only personal duty he had was to produce children with a young bride: hardly a responsibility.

Lady Ashe was proposed to him as a match on the eve following the death announcement of Prince Rasler, and he was to utilize the war as a means to get to her. It was not a success, but he admitted that he was genuinely smitten by her from their first meeting. He was rarely refused, even by princesses. But she did, and with such grace and ferocity that he felt he'd never be sated until he had her. But he feared having her for himself all the same.

The day the Bahamut fell was a macabre sort of victory. The Strahl landed and the inevitable timeline began where their position would be discovered if they didn't move quickly. Basch had to disappear and Ashe had to walk through the front gates of Rabanastre where befuddled citizens were undoubtedly gathering by the moment.

Ashe was dazed, but she stumbled off the ramp of the Strahl behind Basch and Vaan, who both carried the dead weight of Gabranth's corpse that was wrapped in a wool blanket from the craft. They quickly assembled a pyre upon the a flat surface of stone nearby, littered in sand.

Tears threatened to burn her eyes but she blinked them back. She would not cry. Crying was something little girls did when their emotions could not equivocate with their situations. Crying meant she was out of control. Crying was an act of irrationality and immaturity, and she'd come too far to be childish.

She could not allow herself to let them see her cry while Basch hastily prepared for the expedited burial of his brother, all to take up Gabranth's mantle and facilitate her ascent to the throne.

She fell to her knees, and the sounds of her companions busy all about her were muddled sounds to her ears of drifting, cautious voices and footsteps scattering sand.

“You highness.” Basch knelt before her now, dressed hastily in the black liners that Gabranth wore under his judge's armor. His eyes weren't entirely stoic-- there was the ever so slight lifting of his brow and irrevocable sadness in his eyes.

Rasler. Her father. Vossler. Balthier. Fran. Gabranth. How many more bodies would line the trail on her path to her rightful throne? How much grief would she incite on those around her to follow the death?

Basch's fingers were trembling. Perhaps he was tired, or grieving so fiercely that in all his calmness he was actually weeping for his brother through his fingertips.

No, she wouldn't cry. She wanted instead to scream and kill Vayne all over again.

But she only nodded to Basch: the materials for the pyre were set, and she remained kneeling, closing her eyes to concentrate and raising her hands to conjure flames from within her palms as Vaan, Penelo, Larsa, and Basch stepped back. Gabranth's body was alight within seconds-- her first confirmation being the new wall of heat that outlasted the Dalmascan sun.

Somewhere, nearby, Balthier's body was doing the same.

When she opened her eyes, Gabranth was still engulfed in flames. Larsa's profile stood before her facing the pyre, his back towards her and the darkness of his clothing made him appear like a shadow. Penelo walked to him, grabbing his hand and capturing his gaze up at her for a moment, then they both stood together with joined hands and looked onward.

Basch sank down on the ground, closer than Larsa and Penelo but only just far enough to keep from being engulfed in flames himself, knees bent and elbows resting passively upon them.

Gabranth's coverings eroded first, giving way to the charred form of his face, eyes closed and his visage turned black and melted as she urged the flames brighter to speed up the ugly process, and just like that, her father's murderer dissipated to dust that smoldered in the aftermath. It was a solemn and silent funeral with no eulogy, and no single corpse to bury in a crypt.

When Gabranth was reduced to smoke and ash, Penelo approached Basch with Balthier's shaving blade and shears, and clipped him, the remains of his shoulder-length hair and beard collected like tiny feathers in the sand at her feet.

Ashe and Vaan assisted Basch into his armor, both passing him piece by piece, murmuring as they sorted the fastenings, figuring it out as they went along.

“I'll not stop protecting you.” Basch spoke in Ashe's ear afterward, fully adorned in judge's armor as she wrapped herself into him for a final embrace.

She cracked a rare smile at his words, “You've done enough for me. All that's left is for me to reclaim my home, because of the scars on your body all I've ever needed to do is walk.”

She looked up at him. He looked strange to her with his newly shorn complexion, and would no doubt be even stranger with his voice enclosed in yet another cage. “If ever Arcadia doesn't suit, you have a home in Dalmasca.”

She couldn't see fully, because he was currently fitting the helmet over his head, but she suspected that he was giving her a warm smile by the inflection in his voice.

Like many prominent families in Archades, the Bunansas had multiple properties in the peak of their wealth the decade prior to Balthier's departure. In fallout of the war his father's legacy was scrapped, as the new Emperor and newly elected senate attempted to wash their hands of all things nethicite and the eccentric Dr. Cid.

Balthier purposely avoided Archades for this reason, as though he was generally believed to be dead and no one would surely recognize him through his pseudonym as a pirate. But rumors were excitedly spread of the circumstances of the ill fated Bahamut crash, giving way to conspiracy theories.

Gossip was as rampant in Archades as it had ever been, as now there were a people who were largely ignorant to the events transpiring halfway across Ivalice now receiving trickles of information-- and even now that Balthier had not stepped inside Archades in so long, though he knew of the hushed whispers in taverns and gossips of affluent ladies at lunch.

Archades was a filthy town, he reckoned. Smooth and polished on the outside, littered with betrayal and stiff-necked ignorance on the inside. And despite all that, at its core, it was city that birthed him and raised him. He couldn't truly love Ashe, he didn't want to-- because in all her adornments and regal posture she was once reduced to a beggar princess living in the sewers beneath her palace. The hands of Archadia and the compromises of his own father culminated in Balthier spiraling from the sky in the Bahamut amidst flame and his own sweat while listening to Ashe's protests the entire way on the other end of the transmission.

It'd have been a good and brilliant death, and would've cleansed him of Archades had he not survived.

The manse that survived the raids and seizure of the Bunansa legacy was a summer home to the east of the city. It was owned by relatives of his mother, though when she died it had been passed to his father's custody, and it was safe from seizure by being entrusted to another family name.

“We'll be landing soon.” Balthier called over his shoulder, and a grunt from his new companion sounded in reply. He was still irked by her illness, and irritated that he'd been so willing to complete this errand for Basch. He'd ultimately be compensated, but Alma was a flight risk by every definition and most likely posed little threat to the Empire, and all this fuss was to circumnavigate the callousness of Basch's predecessors

Not to mention she was sick earlier, and the scent of bile was still abrasive to his nostrils.

Basch's feet echoed against the polished stone of the hall to Larsa's study. A hot bath and a change of clothes had done him good, though his eyes were still heavy from lack of sleep. He could see the appeal of judge's armor for most-- weariness was always masked under a slick dark guise of cold indifference.

He opened the door to Larsa's chamber to find the young man bent over parchment, dark hair falling over from where it had been tucked behind his ear on onto his face just above his mouth that was just ever so slightly curved into a frown.

Larsa paused at Basch's entrance, dropping the pen against his parchment to settle into a passive posture with his back against his chair, chin tilted upward to stretch the back of his neck.

“Good to see you've recovered, Gabranth.” Larsa smiled, still relieved at Basch's return from the wilderness. Relief wasn't strong enough of a word. In truth, he was elated.

Basch stopped and stood before him, bowing his head forward. “And you also, your worry was enough to wound me in itself.”

Larsa chuckled. It was rare and unexpected when Basch teased him this way, away from the prying ears of the other judges and his guard.

“What of this girl you've recovered?” Larsa leaned over his parchment again.

“The pirate Balthier will deliver her here.” Basch replied.

With his head steady, Larsa's eyes flickered up at him, eyebrows raised. “Balthier? Apparently there's much you haven't told me about this escapade.”

“Was there any doubt he'd reappear?”

“No,” Larsa decided aloud. “I just suppose his timing is strange.”

Here, in the privacy of Larsa's quarters without the prying ears of servants they spoke in rare familiarity with one another.

“Balthier has always been one of strange timing.”

“What do you hope to recover from the girl, then?” Larsa asked, cocking his head to the side out of curiosity.”

“The world has been rid of nethicite, or so we've believed, milord.” Basch replied dutifully, “But you witnessed the sight in the sky. With all of Dr. Cid's... research you've uncovered, do you not think it prudent to investigate?”

Larsa considered this for a moment, eyes drifting downward at the documents before him and folding his hands on the table before him. “You're investigating a lone girl? I understand her circumstances are strange, but I hope you mind your sensibilities.”

“-- Strange circumstances tend to surround nethicite.” Basch reasoned quickly. “Do you not think it possible another could have come across Dr. Cid's research? His archives of sacred geometry?”

The term struck a chord to Larsa's ears and he softened his posture.

“It is possible.” Larsa agreed, adding, “Let us keep this from the ears of the other judges for now. Investigate her quietly and quickly.”

“And if she is in fact a person of interest?” Basch questioned callously. It wasn't normally his way, but he knew to be blunt when he needed to, though he was far slower to than mannerism than the actual Gabranth.

Larsa thought for a moment. “Then we'll detain her. Only with the amount of force necessary for the security of Archadia, and all of Ivalice.”

There was a day of rain on the Phon coast when clear blue sky receded to a grey overcast, and Penelo and Vaan fussed over the fire under a rocky overpass as Basch ventured into town for supplies. Fran left camp to hunt, gathering her bows in a sack over her shoulder, eyes boring suspiciously into Balthier as if in a silent warning as she went.

Ashe sat on the rocky surface overlooking their camp, where the stone all around her sheltered her from the wet downpour. After the slick heat of a morning in the Salikawood and the burning beach sun that made her complexion warm it was a welcome release.

She looked to her side, where the rocky overpass suspended over their camp like a bridge, reminiscent of the bridge on Ozmone plain at the village of Jahara. Rasler appeared to her in Jahara, urging her on where she felt hesitant, his gentle features echoing the past with a man who offered her so much, yet could only give her so little until he died.

“You see him now, Princess?” Balthier appeared beside her, cooly settling onto the rocky ledge that her feet dangled from, toes catching the slightest fall of rain.

“No.” Ashe replied bluntly, and to her surprise, Balthier reached to the inner pocket of his vest and produced a familiar ring for her.

It was strange to her, Balthier spoke to her only in witticisms and analogies and riddles, hardly being forward about his intentions outside that of being the “leading man”. The man was a riddle in itself; so when he offered her the ring, she near suspected she was getting it back for good and he'd found something more valuable, but when the metal winked at her in the dulled light of the day she knew it was a temporary transaction.

Balthier was no doubt a betting man, and he was trying his luck amidst their more permanent arrangement.

And she was more than willing to let him try his luck. Ashe reached for it, pausing with her hand hovering over the metal in his hand for just a moment. Her grey eyes shot to his hazel ones. She blinked, and he only looked blankly back at her, offering no hint of his intentions.

Rasler was full of stoic passion and raw emotion, like she. But Balthier was a constant gauge between witty phrases and occasional sighs; to her, he had the emotional depth of a cactus alternating between seasons.

“Try it.” Balthier urged his palm upward, guiding Rasler's ring into her hand with a second hand over hers. “See if your prince awaits.”

“He would've been king.” Ashe corrected, but accepted the ring from him anyway. Balthier accepted her correction in silence, instead crossing his arms and leaning to the rock at their backs.

She slid it onto her finger and looked to her side again-- no sign of Rasler. She leaned outward at her waist and stared through the rain harder, willing the presence of the ring on her finger to urge his closer to her.

Several minutes passed. The rain only fell harder. And at last, Ashe was convinced that she saw some sort of indistinct movement further out onto the rocks, but at the blink of her eye it was gone in an instant.

Her left hand adorned with Rasler's ring clenched in a fist so tight that her knuckles blanched. Pushing against her palms on the flat stone that was their seat, Ashe propelled herself out of their dry shelter and into the rain.

She heard Balthier protest behind her but she kept moving, climbing upwards against the rock until she could scramble onto the surface of the rocky 'bridge'. Looking upwards from all fours she scanned for any reminiscence of Rasler's boots.

Nothing.

Rasler was dead. She knew this. She knew by her touch on his cold, hardened corpse cradled in a casket of flowers two dawns after his death.

She gained balance on her two feet and ventured to the middle of the rocky formation, faintly smelling smoke dampened by the campfire lit by Vaan and Penelo below her. Her mind was no more hazy from the sun than it was on any other day, but when she walked this way she felt increasingly anxious. Her heart was hammering beneath her ribcage, threatening to knock her off balance if she allowed it.

She was seeing Rasler in tombs and on trails and bridges, ushering her onward in her yearning for revenge-- but now when she actively looked for him he wasn't there.

Rain spilled over her head to her brows to her eyelashes, cheeks and around her lips to her chin and down her neck. Her travel clothes clung to her as trails of water washed over them.

“Rasler.” She spoke his name aloud firmly, commanding him to appear.

She closed her eyes, recalling awaking the morning of the last day she'd seen him alive, naked, and dry. The dawn was spreading light across her eyelids, inviting her to open her eyes slowly. Rasler's bare chest was pressing pleasantly against her back with every breath, and she naively believed then that this was the way that good, well-behaved princesses ought to start their days.

But when she opened her eyes out here, years later, void of title and lands and proper clothing he was nowhere to be found.

Unless she could will him to be.

“Rasler!” She barked his name out of her parched throat, but her voice was hardly recognizable against the rain, and it did not command action.

She lifted her hand, as if to summon him with the presence of his ring, to show him that she did indeed remember him, and think of their short days together in the courtyard, the dining hall, her bed, and how the streets of Rabanastre were alight with celebration on the day of their marriage when she'd look to him and see her future.

“Rasler! Show yourself!” Her voice was hoarse and cracked from the strain she'd forced up from her throat.

“Rasler!” She cried, calling up at the sky with her hand held upward.

Another hand struck hers downward in a vice like grip.

“That's enough.”

Ashe's eyes opened and she cried out in surprise, reflexively wrenching her arm from the grasp of her assailant, planting her feet firmly on the ground and using the weight of her entire body for leverage.

She recognized him as Balthier, but in her rage she could only struggle against him as he followed her desperate steps for leverage with his own. His grip was slick from the rain, and she used that to her advantage.

“You won't tell me what is enough!” Ashe spat back at him. He stood before her now, in an image that would be hardly recognizable to her as the Balthier that she knew if it weren't for that damned custom vest that clung visibly to the white-turned-translucent sleeves of his shirt. His hair, always well-kept, in even the most unforgiving of climates, was now plastered across his face and down the back of his neck, making him appear wild, and older, though she knew she looked equally as feral.

Balthier relinquished his hold on her, raising his hands as if in surrender.

“He isn't here.” Balthier told her firmly.

“You wouldn't know,” Ashe snarled, “I've seen him every step of the way, he only vanishes when I get close!”

Balthier's hands still in front of her, he took a step forward and she stepped backwards, her right hand clutching her left possessively.

“I'd hoped that lending you that trinket would allow you to see clearer.” Balthier's voice was heavy with regret.

Ashe shook her head, spreading streams of water across her face. “You can't understand.”

“What can't I understand? Love? Loss? Princess, you've lost your mind if you'd believe your prince would appear to you now.” He motioned over the overpass, emphasizing the ground now turned treacherous beneath them. “Why, you look like a drowning rat! Is this what he'd want?”

In a fit of rage she slapped him. He stiffened, looking down at her harshly with a fist reflexively cocked back in defense but he dropped it to his side instead.

“I suppose you want this back then.” Ashe pulled the ring from her finger and tossed it at him, intending to strike him with it violently, only to be further infuriated by the nimble and effortless manner in which his hand moved to capture it within his grasp.

Ashe leaned in close and looked up at him, the tip of her nose only inches from his. “But you cannot claim to know what he'd want, you are not him and you could never understand.

“I understand political marriages between well-connected children well enough.” Balthier countered with a bite of his own.

Her eyes narrowed. She wished to strike him again but refrained, maintaining her deafening gaze and replying coldly, “You could not understand marriage Balthier, because you do not possess the capability of loving anything but yourself. You could never be loved because you are greedy and cruel, and the bounties on your head will haunt you forever.”

She spun around to return to camp, the heat within her veins making her boil in the midst of a rainstorm.

Ashe welcomed the heat on her face when she arrived in Rabanastre. Bur-Omisace had been bitterly cold and as a child of the desert she only felt relief in the warmth. Her shoulder throbbed, and normally she'd long to nurse it in a hot bath with aromatics and a healer's touch, but the events of the day before made her restless.

She stopped in her chamber, allowing a handmaiden a moment to set her things back to where they belonged, placing the parcel from the Gran Kiltias on the marble round table in the center of the room that was used to display colorful succulents.

“You should have that rewrapped, your highness.” The handmaiden spoke with a passive downward glance.

Ashe looked down at her shoulder and frowned. The girl wasn't wrong, but she knew herself well enough to know that in the time it took for her to sit through cleansing and rewrapping she'd be treated to tonic to relax and dull her senses, and the evening would end with her collapsed in her bed for a nap.

--Which sounded lovely, really. And her schedule was clear for the day as it was due to her travels and her duties wouldn't resume until dawn.

But at the moment, she didn't wish to lie down and nap.

“I don't think I will.” Ashe replied flatly, and the handmaiden curtsied obediently and exited the room.

The loud groan of the door at the entrance to her chamber closing behind the maid sealed her solitude, and high above the city of Rabanastre she was alone at last. She exhaled slowly, wincing slightly as she adjusted the makeshift sling that that woman Alma had fashioned for her.

It was strange that Basch had intended to take that haggard looking woman into custody. Surely, she couldn't have had any role in the vision they saw in the skies, and if the landscape was otherwise untouched and no airships were harmed it hardly seemed practical. But then again, she knew that Larsa and Archadia were particularly sensitive about any such anomalies as reconstruction efforts were at work for Archadia's reputation in the aftermath, and Larsa no doubt sought to cut off any potential for foul play.

She'd receive correspondence about it eventually, no doubt. Yet another matter she had to look forward to attending to. Ashe walked to a cart of liquors in glass decanters. She poured a splash of dark liquid into a glass and drank it in a single motion.

She wasn't a frequent consumer, so the warmth that filled her was palpable and pleasant almost immediately. She re-poured her glass and drank from it again.

It happened to be rum from Balfonheim. Pirates resided in Balfonheim. Balthier was a pirate. Balthier had been dead, burned to ashes across her desert, but then, Balthier had never been dead at all, and just the in that last day she stood before him and touted him off on another adventure to rescue Basch and he'd surely have died if Basch hadn't found her.

She took a breath, set the glass down, and crossed the room the heave the door open with one arm. It groaned among her efforts and, she hated herself the amount of effort it took.

Ashe walked quickly through the halls, ignoring puzzled glances from the staff that watched her go by, clearly walking with a purpose. It hadn't been that long since she defeated Vayne and ascended to her throne, and even now, she often heard scattered praises among her people of their powerful warrior queen, but the way she felt in that moment was pitiful, frustrated, and she longed to hit something.

The training yard was empty, thankfully. The long hall of weaponry that led to it was stacked with racks storing various blades, guns and staffs. She ran her hand over various metals as she slowed her pace, each giving a unique sheen in the dim light of the hall.

“Looking for something in particular, highness?”

Ashe cast her glance to the archway that led to the training yard, where Captain Morrid stood with his arms crossed over his armor, leaning against a pillar.

He was several years younger than Basch and a former lieutenant under his command. In the Resistance he was a leader who stepped forward in Vossler's demise from the depths of Lowtown, and then Bhujerba when the opportunity presented itself. Like her, he was the picture of Dalmascan heritage, tanned skin with platinum hair and grey eyes. He was a veteran of Nalbina, and one of the men that had witnessed Basch as his recovery from the dungeons.

Ashe grimaced, her good hand finding it's way to her affected shoulder. “Something sharp, yes.”

His expression mimicked her own. “There's plenty of that here for you then.” He nodded to the open air outside. “Join me when you find a sharp object to your liking?”

Ashe wasted little time, grabbing as many daggers as she could manage in her grasp. She then strolled to the yard, where Morrid was sitting casually on the bench, his elbows propped on his knees.

She cast the excess weapons to the dirt ground, letting the blades strike where they may. She kept one and stood before a dummy, counting twenty five paces as Basch had taught her years ago, touching her soles to the dirt for the final pace before pivoting on the balls of her feet and swung her body around with the dagger in hand, propelling the weapon to the center of the dummy.

Except it didn't even land close. It missed the dummy entirely, instead striking a pillar behind it and falling pathetically to the ground.

Ashe groaned, and Morrid laughed. In her defense, her balance was off from her new injury and her posture was unsteady from her drinks. But she didn't allow that to cease her determination, spinning around again to fetch another dagger from the dirt as Morrid begrudgingly rose to claim her dagger from where it had landed beside the pillar.

“... He was obsessed with nethicite. It was all he cared about. He'd babble nonsense, blind to aught but the stone's power. He'd talk about some 'Eynah', or was it 'Venat'? No matter. Everything he did, he did to get closer to the nethicite, to understand it. He made airships, weapons. He even made me a judge.”

“You were a judge?”

“Part of a past I'd rather forget. It didn't last long. I ran. I left the judges... and him. Cidolfus Demen Bunansa. Draklor Laboratory's very own Doctor Cid... That's when he lost his heart to nethicite, and lost himself. And I suppose that's when I lost my father.”

Ashe recalled his words from earlier in the day with heaviness in her chest.

Waves rolled in rhythmically. The night was dark, and Vaan had secured them lodging at the hunter's camp further up the coast.

The rains from the day before had cleared, and they traveled under the heat of the sun. In the clarity of the day she heard the cruelty of her words echo in her mind. Rasler's ring was safely back in Balthier's keeping and in a way, she felt relief because of that. Still, he was more distant from her than usual since they last spoke.

She was not simply a mourning widow; she was the scorned daughter of a fallen kingdom seeking revenge-- or at least a way out of her exile.

She was so tired of fighting sometimes.

“Ashe, look.” Penelo approached her from behind, lifting a ghost crab so large that it's belly and shell rested perfectly sandwiched between Penelo's palms even as it snapped it's pincers and wriggled it's legs.

Laughter escaped Ashe, catching her by surprise so much that it stuck to her throat in a hitched breath. She still smiled though. How was it that these day by the ocean made Vaan, Larsa, and Penelo seem years younger than they really were, even when they were so close to her in age?

Penelo's hold faltered for a moment, and she gasped as she scrambled with the creature, narrowly dodging it's pincers. “Ohh, where is Vaan when you need him!” She exclaimed, lifting the crab to Ashe again in a narrow wave. “Gotta go put him down somewhere!”

Ashe said nothing, only watching in amusement as the girl took off carrying the crab in from of her until a call from Larsa made her change her path so that she ran in front of the general store to show him her catch, leaving a trail of her bare footprints in the sand.

As Ashe followed Penelo's path, she spotted Balthier sitting on the dock behind the general store, pants rolled about his calves and his shirt loose about his waist.

The sand of the beach was different than the sad of the desert; it was wet and grainier, and clung to her soles in a layer of grit. Her last glimpse in Penelo's pocket mirror showed her hair was several shades lighter, if that were possible, all just from the coastal sun. The salty air parched and cracked her lips, and her lightened hair clumped into stiff waves that stuck to her neck.

Ashe walked across the dock, wordlessly announcing her presence by the creaking of old wood under her feet.

She stopped when she came to the edge where he sat. Waves pushed and pulled underneath them and words swam through her mind like the glassy salt brine all around them that foamed with a hiss.

Fran and Basch were selective with words, speaking them only in moderation when they were necessary, and their words were powerful for it. Vaan and Penelo bubbled whatever came across their thoughts in passing. Larsa was an idealist, and his words were wise and thoughtful, but they reeked of his innocence.

And Balthier? She wondered over the duration of the day.

He looked up at her and she hesitated, unsure of what to say. He lifted a dark flask in his hand, offering it to her silently. She accepted it, slowly bringing the opening just before her mouth, close enough to inhale--

Balthier's words were only what he intended them to be. And that could be a great or a terrible thing.

--Ashe gagged, coughing as her stomach turned just at the scent of the beverage and she abruptly passed it back to him with her wrist covering her mouth.

“I don't disagree,” Balthier took it back from her, “Your captain purchased it.” and she wearily lowered herself to sit beside him, pulling at her boots to lower her feet into the water.

“Yet you drink it.” Ashe couldn't stop herself from observing. She couldn't allow any smart comment on Basch go unanswered, not when he wasn't there to defend himself.

Balthier took a small swig and clicked his tongue against his teeth, “Aye.” His voice was a sharp and startlingly accurate imitation of Basch's, in the term of agreement that Basch frequently used.

She was grateful that she hadn't partaken of the drink, because as it was her features cracked and she struggled at the twitching corners of her mouth to not smile, casting him a sideways glance with pursed lips instead.

They sat in silence for a while, long enough for his feet to swirling slowly in the water and beside him her big toes could barely break the surface.

“The other day with the ring,” Ashe spoke at last, “I... was so angry. I shouldn't have said those things. When I think of those words, I am ashamed to have said them.”

Balthier tilted his chin upward and glanced back at her, hazel eyes appearing so much darker and normal in the night.

“I didn't know that you were a judge,” Ashe continued defensively, “Or that you were forced to do things that you regret. Or about your father.”

Balthier shook his head. “Everyone has stories like that, if you listen close enough.” He nodded to in the direction of where their companions had gathered around a fire where a stringed instrument was being plucked by a villager.

Even Fran was there, no doubt absorbing every moment of their conversation.

“Every single one of us. You aren't the only one lain to suffer at this whole ordeal.”

Ashe frowned, her heart accelerating at the perceived accusation in his words.

“That was never my meaning.” She retorted sharply, brows furrowing. Balthier said nothing, looking her directly in the eye as he gently took her hand from her lap and leaned his head downward towards it, pressing her knuckles to his lips for a short moment before relaxing back into his previous posture.

She softened. Her words cut too deeply. They were reckless and unmeasured; but at least they were forgiven.

Balthier's words where only whatever he wanted them to be, and she envied that about him.

Balthier knew if there was any way to win over a detainee of the fairer sex it would be a hot bath, sweet smelling oils, and a fresh change of clothes.

And, in Alma's case, bland food to settle her stomach.

He'd landed in a town on the outskirts of Archades. It was four blocks in total, surrounded a square with an amphitheater with a modest market. There were hardly any foreigners attracted to this place, and Balthier would not have even known of it's existence if he and Fran hadn't broken down close by soon after they met.

He wished for Fran's companionship because he could see this woman was a tricky little thing. Basch requested her dignity but had he the bones for it he'd tie her enough so that she wouldn't cause trouble beyond what he was being compensated for.

Luckily in this town, there weren't many places to hide if she were to leap from the second story of the inn the way she apparently leapt from airships.

The slatted door was closed, but folded poorly over a slightly crooked doorway and was hardly soundproof, thin enough that he perched himself outside the door of her joining room as he picked at a moogle prepared dinner with black coffee, hearing the distinct rise of a body from the bath, followed by several moments of rustling of clothing that he had the innkeeper fetch for her. There was thick bristles combing lengthy hair.

Light feet padded to the window and paused. Balthier took a sip of coffee and froze, ears tuned to listen for rambunctious behavior, but Alma instead paced by the door behind which he sat, still combing away.

“A letter, ser!” The innkeeper's moogle knocked at the door, and Balthier responded to both grant the creature permission to enter, and to knowingly let his voice carry through the closed blinds of the door folded between he and Alma so that she would be aware of his presence and his ears.

His room's entrance opened and the moogle scampered to the table where he sat, depositing a single folded layer of parchment embossed with the Imperial seal of House Solidor. Balthier wrinkled his nose, not much liking the look of it, even if it was his anticipated correspondence with Basch.

At the padding feet were now adored with sandals and the scraping of a chair across the room, Balthier jumped up, startling the moogle who had now resorted to laying back on Balthier's bed with it's arms outstretched.

“What's the matter with you, ser?”

Balthier pushed open the door joining the two rooms with force, entirely set on chasing the woman out onto the roof if he must. It was a welcome challenge-- it'd been entirely too long since he had a decent chase.

But to his surprise, the room was tidy and Alma sat entirely still by the window, wet locks parted neatly at the top of her head and brushed so that it hung in a straight curtain behind her back. Long eyelashes were damp and clustered in wetness, giving way to the sadness in her expression as she looked on, before becoming visibly startled at his entrance, raising a knee to her chest and an arm in self defense.

He frowned also, when he noticed the state of her gown that he had the innkeeper gather for her. It was a fine quality, two pieced like what all the noble ladies in Archades wore. The royal blue hue was a rich color that he didn't even think this town capable of stocking-- needless to say she would fare well in the fashion department should she be released in Archades.

But something was off, and he was suddenly disinterested at her suspected escape attempt and now frowning down at her gown.

“I beg your pardon?” Alma crossed her arms, not moving away from the window.

Balthier chuckled. She was at least several years on him, he could tell, but every bit a bizarre and spunky little thing.

“We've been summoned, Lady Alma.” He couldn't help but bestow her with a theatrical bow, “I'll give you a moment. Your top is backwards.” He felt the corners of his mouth twitch in amusement as he spun around and closed the door on her again.

Hours after Basch escorted Larsa from them, when the sun had set and dusk littered the horizon with the final burst of colors form the eventful day, Ashe approached the gates to Rabanastre with Vaan and Penelo at either side of her.

A squeak from a worker at the gates was echoed by others and the frantic grinding of gears invited commotion from the inside.

Ashe recalled a hushed silence when she ascended the stairs. Her eyes lifted, and for the first time in all her travels she lacked the sight of Imperial guards upon the steps. She lacked anonymity, she lacked fear and paranoia. She was clean.

It was widespread knowledge that the princess was in fact alive now; vocal members of the resistance were relaying information with unrestrained fervor all throughout the day as structures within the capital burned and ash scattered across the sky. The public was anxious; unsure of what to believe. When the Imperials withdrew from Rabanastre at Lord Larsa's command it only seemed to give validity to the tale; their princess was alive, and she was returning home from the skies above.

Lord Ondore arrived earlier with an escort of security, and he'd gathered the people in the square outside the Citadel. It was a calculated political move, being upfront about the truth always made one more palatable when the truth was confirmed: Lord Vayne was a tyrant who stole the Dalmascan's kingdom from them and swayed every politician in the process, and Halim Ondore had only acted on 'credible evidence and testimonies of witnesses' that watch an unidentified girl (who was now suspected to be a handmaiden) jumped from the top of the citadel and became unrecognizable from the trauma of the fall; a pile of disjointed limbs and blood on the cobblestone streets with shreds of Lady's Ashe's clothing and jewelry, what else would one believe in light of Lady Ashe's recent loss of her husband and father?

Ashe was nonetheless grateful for his presence. As when she reached the top of the steps beyond the gate, a crowd had gathered to see her. She sheathed her sword, and behind her Vaan and Penelo did the same with their weapons. She walked the clearest path to the citadel as the masses gathered around her, whispering at first, in a frequency that sounded as a rustle of tree leaves through her ears, then it became a hum of voices.

She kept walking onward, each step a mild tremor from her feet and somewhere along the way, Vaan and Penelo were dissolved into the crowd around her and it was just her. Her heart thudded so hard inside her chest she felt dizzy, and for the first time in her life she lacked the support of individuals trailing behind her, but that didn't stop her people from stepping back to make way for her, murmuring in bubbling voices growing louder. Several stray hands reached out to touch her and she returned the contact with the stray brush of her fingertips.

Cheers erupted and she pressed onward, looking up at the citadel now looming over her head. She was now spotting Bhujerban soldiers, confirming Ondore's presence to receive her.

Her heart was full, but her knees were weak at the great cost of this moment where none of those that made it possible were present with her. Her name was being chanted and she felt the hands of her people grazing her as she walked by. This was victory Balthier's way-- without nethicite or revenge, but a smooth ascent of the stairs to the citadel to meet Ondore in a amicable greeting as handmaids rushed to light torches and ready the citadel for her.

She'd never felt so alone so suddenly, but she was home.

Chapter Text

“Hear me, Ramza. For generations, we Beoulves have stood foremost of those who serve the Crown. Ours is the soul of a knight. Become a knight worthy of your name. Tolerate no injustice. Stray not from the true path. You will know the path you must walk. A Beoulve can... can walk no other..”

Barbaneth Beoulve

Tears streaked her face when the knight roughly pulled her from the chocobo. She worried for Ramza being left to fend for himself as she was taken from him; struck roughly to incapacite and tossed on the back of the chocobo like a rag doll. He at least allowed her a moment to gain her footing when she dismounted, but her skirts were torn from the chaos of the day.

Her stomach was sick and sore from the bruises of her abductor's brutality, and when her eyelids opened for the first time on the back of the chocobo confusion and emotion surged through her at the realization of her reality.

“Stay put. I won't hurt you unless I must.” He warned her, dark eyes telling hers that he was being sincere. Alma swallowed, letting saliva click against the back of her throat and she slowly sank down onto a rock, easing strained legs that were sensitive with scrapes and chafes of the tumultuous ride. Once sitting, she drew her knees to her chest and hugged them with both arms defensively as she watched the knight in obedient silence.

She wasn't sure what this knight's plan was for her, and as she watched him unfasten various bindings on the chocobo her mind drifted to Tietra. Was this what she felt like? Did she hurt? Was she scared the entire time, and did she know that Delita and Ramza were working tirelessly to find her? Or did she feel worthless, like the way the bullies in their classes wanted her to feel? Did she have an inkling of the war that would be raged in the aftermath of her murder?

Alma's hand trailed to her wrist, as it throbbed relentlessly the entire way. When the knight seized her back at Orbonne Monestary in the hours earlier, he was unsympathetic in her struggle against him and she cursed her small frame-- how was it her brothers were all tall men with such imposing figures and she was unable to slide her wrist from his grasp even with the (albeit minimal) hand combat training Ramza had given her? The limb was twisted and bent awkwardly during the struggle and she cried out between her teeth while desperately screaming for Ramza, and her sudden weakness through the pain gave the knight the leverage he need to force her to comply.

In the light of dusk, people always appeared younger than they really were. But in spite of this, she could now see he wasn't much older than she was, not a day over twenty years at best. It was deceiving in broad daylight, because he carried himself like an older, more experienced man in battle.

“Does it hurt?” The young knight nodded to her wrist now. Alma nodded, wiping a tearing eye on her shoulder. She was through with crying for the day, and she feared if she opened her mouth to reply more would come spilling out.

“I have something my sister swears by.” He told her, and crouched down to search through a bag, pausing to look up at her again. “My name is Isilud, by the way.”

There was a gentleness and sincerity about him now. And unbeknownst to her, if they'd met under different circumstances she'd have found him handsome. But in light of the actions she'd seen him commit that day, he was as ugly as any swamp beast if she'd ever come across one.

“I...” She croaked, and cleared her throat to try again. “I'm Alma.”

He offered a small, sympathetic smile and resumed his rummaging through the bag. She instantly felt a little foolish for introducing herself, for he wouldn't have abducted her if he didn't know who she was.

“Lady Alma,” Isilud rose again with cloth wrappings and a dark glass jar in hand. “Let me have a look at your arm.”

She hesitated, wanting to be stubborn and to tell him off or to demand that he return her to Ramza. But her brothers told her once that compliant prisoners fared better; if she was to escape she'd manage best with Isilud on her side.

Isilud dropped down on the ground beside her swiftly, rolling back on his hips at first from the momentum before leaning forward to plant his boots in the dirt. Alma offered him her wrist passively, choosing the gaze into the trees that surrounded them. It felt like a long time since they broke the woodline of the forest.

Alma flinched when he pushed up her sleeve and touched her, because the sensation of a jarringly cool ointment met her skin through his fingers and she nearly tore her arm from the alarmingly gentle touch.

“I'm sorry,” He spoke cautiously. “I should've warned you. My sister dabbles in botany. Her remedies are potent.”

Alma relaxed her arm for a moment, conflicted by how grateful she was for the instant relief the salve gave her. He worked her wrist gently, and once it felt of nothing but pleasant tingles he proceeded to wrap it in cloth from her forearm to her palm, looping the end around her thumb to secure it.

“You should be sorry that you killed Simon.” Alma felt the bold words tumble from her mouth abruptly, “He was a kind man. You murdered him in cold blood.”

Isilud froze, halting his effort to wipe the salve from his fingers with the excess cloth in his hands, turning to her as she refused to look at him.

“You knew him?” Isilud pondered for a moment and looked downward, shaking his head. “I see. It was never my intention to kill him. But you must understand something of the code of knighthood, Lady Alma. As a templar knight...”

“--Do not lecture me of knighthood!” Alma's voice cracked as she cut him off. “My family has served the code for generations. I may be a girl, but I'm a Beoulve.”

Isilud chuckled. “Indeed, you are. So you ought to understand even better than I.”

“Understand the killing of innocent holy men?” Alma recalled finding her elderly mentor in a pool of blood, breaths shallow from the depth of his wound, eyes wide open with pain and fear.

“He was an obstructor of our righteous cause.” Isilud countered defiantly.

“If that is what you believe,” Alma shook her head, “To make you justify abducting me and facilitating the murder of my brother.”

Isilud's features softened. “I just do not see things that way, Lady Alma Beoulve. My father says great things are in order for us all. If you and your brother Ramza are in fact righteous, you'd have nothing to fear. A saint is going to be reborn soon.”

Alma looked at him incredulously. Whatever the templar knights were during under the Church's command, they truly believed it was for the greater good.

Alma followed Balthier down the ramp with indifference, where two Archadian soldiers in full armor where ready to receive them the moment they emerged from the airship docks of Archades.

She was taken aback by the businesslike manner in which the transaction took place. One guard beckoned her forward, and the other tossed Balthier a bag of gil.

Balthier caught it with a single hand, using the other to rummage and count as the coins splayed out upon his palms in a systematic process. He appeared smug: as if the amount warranted whatever trouble she caused.

“Lady Alma, it appears the Empire received the invoice of your expenses,” He nodded to the guard passively, signaling that he was satisfied. “I'll need to get my ship cleaned now. Give Judge Gabranth my regards, will you?” He offered her yet another mocking, however slight bow before spinning on his heels, testing the weight of the gil by making a show of bouncing it in his hand.

Alma wanted to call out to him, to bitterly demand that he tell her her own price. But she was ushered roughly inside by the elbow, and she kept pace with the soldiers reluctantly. Before the door to the hall sealed shut she heard the hum of Balthier's ship's engine and she wondered what sort of business he was in such a hurry to return to. But at the shutting of the door, the engine hum was gone to her ears, and it was no longer a matter to her.

The docks were apparently on a ground level, because they walked several flights of stairs before she was short of breath, and a few flights more until they finally reached a terrace. Alma lifted her head. The sun would soon set, but the cloudless day had provided a magnificent view. The gas lamps of Archades winked at her, warning of twilight, and she could see that though there they'd cleared much distance during their ascent up the stairs.

Buildings spanned multiple stories like giant lit pillars. She took it in in awe. Rabanastre seemed majestic but this would've seemed inconcievable had she not seen it for herself.

“This way.”

The guard led her through an archway to a hall of marble and stone. She stepped through the door she was led into and the guard nodded to her, urging her forward.

“You will stay here until the investigation is complete. The Judge Magister will send for you in the morning.”

And with that, he shut the door, seeming to seal her inside. She half expected the turning of a lock; there was none, but she didn't doubt there would be someone posted outside her door.

She looked around the room. It didn't scream of the same grandeur that the marble halls that she'd just passed through: alight with scultures and paintings. However it was hardly a pauper's room either. A bed just large enough for her to spread her arms across was in the center, underneath three windows that were stained in light pastel colors, allowing her some privacy but gave her a view of the courtyard outside that she'd just arrived from.

She was so tired. Even in her short respite being carted around by that pirate she felt she'd collapse. But the anxiety of what the morning would bring ate at her. If the Judge Magister was in fact the same as judge Gabranth she would be confronted by a man who knew her to be a liar, his Lord Larsa had unclear intentions, and another judge would be a straight roll of the dice. Judge Gabranth at least lacked the sense of cruelty that others in his position no doubt could possess, at least. She was at a loss of what to say or how to justify her actions without potentially being executed.

She had to find a way out tonight.

She scanned the room. A dresser stood against the wall, across the bed. She walked to a night stand adorned with flowers, lifting one from the vase, long stems had freshly cut ends at steep angles. Her fingers ran along the petals. They were a brilliant blue, like her gown, thick and velvety under her fingers. These were freshly cut and arranged-- this room was tended by a maid not that long ago. Perhaps a woman who knew this palace well enough to help her escape should Alma convince her to have pity?

A robe lined in delicate lace was folded for her on the bed. Alma had to give credit where it was due- these methods of hospitality would surely soften her for interrogation.

If she was to escape in the night, she'd best look the part of someone who didn't wish to escape at all. So she grabbed the robe and changed into it behind the green and red-beaded folded partition by the dresser, wrapping the lace across her chest and tying the belt about her waist securely. She braided her hair in a plait about the crown of her head the way Tietra sometimes did for her before she retired to bed, so that in the morning her hair would fall in perfect waves down her back.

She looked back at her reflection and sighed in discontent. She'd grown so thin over the last several days that her eyes appeared heavy and hollow, the strands loose from head head pale and brittle, and her cheekbones appeared to emerge from her complexion solely to indicate there was some sort of sunken if solid structure there. She resembled an emaciated child from the streets. But then she decided, her circumstances weren't much better than a beggar child.

At the very least, she looked the part of a woman ready to tuck in for the night. If she was caught en route to the base of the tower she could feign getting lost; if she did in fact make it down into the city of Archades she'd look absurd; but she'd worry about that when the situation called for it.

She opened the door, poking her head out to find a guard posted by her door as she suspected. “I assume I may sit in the gardens for a bit.” She smiled at him in his full suit of armor as charmingly as she could.

The guard shuffled a bit, and had he not his helmet on she suspected he would be casting her what she imagined to be a look of perplexion.

“Unless you presume I'm too unruly to contain in a garden?” She added smartly.

The guard shook his head, and she padded out into the hall in sandals, one hand about her waist and the other clutching the collar of her robe to ensure modesty. Behind her, she heard the clinking of the guards armor and she frowned, irritated. All things considered, she was a rather comfortable prisoner, but the idea of being surveilled still irked her.

Twilight had passed already and the night's breeze wrapped around her calves pleasently. She couldn't remember the last time she'd felt so pleasant; but she reminded herself that she was in fact naked under a robe, and that was indecent no matter what year she'd found herself in.

She descended the steps and crossed the gardens to a marble bench, crossing her arms over her chest now and breathed the night air into her lungs as slowly as she could.

The lights of Archades twinkled even brighter in the darkness at her. She exhaled.

“Ashe.”

It was almost an hour past midnight when Ashe awoke to a gentle, ghostly brush on her arm. One eye cracked open, and she shifted, unsure of why her bed had gotten so stiff.

And narrow-- she nearly tumbled out of it. She caught herself just in time at the expense of her right arm that shot out in the dark to stabilize her body. But, instead of bracing a night stand, her hand grazed what felt like warm flesh.

Ashe cried out in sharp pain as her shoulder protested and and she fell backwards against a hard wall.

She wasn't in her bed: she was on the chaise by the fireplace in her quarters. If the light from the dying embers didn't allow her to appraise her company's features in the night, she'd have screamed to alert her guard.

“Balthier.” She hissed at him in the darkness where he knelt before her, “What in hells are you thinking?!”

In truth, while she was startled by him and hated to be, she was relieved to see him there all the same.

So when a smile crept up his features by the corners of his eyes, she fought one back in return, just for a little while longer. She needn't give him the satisfaction just yet. She propped herself upright by pushing her good arm against her seat so that she was sitting properly over where he'd knelt.

“You must stop coming to see me this way,” Ashe scolded him, “You're going to get yourself arrested.”

“It's a good thing I've got an in with the queen.” Balthier raised an eyebrow at her, the way he always did when he was proud of saying something smart.

“This queen won't assist you in being so foolish. It'll just make yet more trouble for Fran.”

Balthier rose and crossed the room, eyes scanning shelves and furniture purposefully.

Ashe frowned. What was he doing? “What are you-”

“I thought you wanted to see me. Here.” Balthier adjusted his cuffs absentmindedly as he slowly paced around her.

Her eyes followed him, the double doors to her balcony where wide open, allowing whatever dim light from a half moon reflect of the gold that adorned his fingers.

“I did,” Ashe agreed, “But your tact needs work.”

He halted in front of the cart of liquors, raising each decanter to his eye level to inspect it's contents.

Ah.

“You've finished the errand for Basch, then?”

“I did,” Balthier selected the dark rum from Balfonheim she'd partaken of several days earlier and splashed it into two separate glasses.
“She was a troublesome bittie, like you.” He murmured, as if observing more to himself than to her.

“That's awfully crude of you to say.” Ashe countered, but in truth she had to bite her lip to keep her lips from curving into yet another smile. Archadians had strange, almost comical expressions they used for insults, and when such things came from Balthier without him realizing it they were that much better.

Balthier approached her with the glasses, offering her one wordlessly and she declined, waving it away. He set it down on the table and kept his own. “Suit yourself.”

“It dulls my senses.” Ashe reasoned as he sipped from his glass before relaxing onto the pillows on the arm of the chaise opposite her.

“That's the point, isn't it?”

Ashe crossed her good arm over her front, nervously fingering the low cut collar of her gown as she leaned back onto her own side to face him.

“Such a thing can bend lines where it shouldn't.” Ashe's eyes flickered from his glass that gently swirled in his hands to his face. “Morals become malleable.”

“Ah, yes. Your 'morals' were quite limber the last time we had a drink together, as I remember.”

Heat rushed to her cheeks at the boldness of his statement. It was true, when she boarded the Strahl that night following Dr Cid's death, they were both intoxicated. He was grieving, and she was tired of grieving. It was a memory that twisted the knife of his supposed passing on the Bahamut that much more. She strode from his bunk clear headed, but her mind full of sober questions; and when she believed he'd passed she adapted to the idea of never having the opportunity to ask them.

But now? She still would maintain her distance. But if he was alive it meant a lifetime of questions she could give him. She was grateful in that moment she'd declined the drink, because she was then reminded of that grief of his death.

“I believe I've already spoken of your crudeness tonight.” Ashe cautioned him. She lifted her leg to the chaise, bending it at the knee in a barrier between then.

Balthier appeared the slightest bit humored, his unoccupied hand skimming the fabric that draped over a bare calf, pinching it gently and running it between his thumb and forefinger. He studied it under an inquisitive eye.

“Princess, now that your captain is safe and you are returned to your proper station, we have business to discuss. But I feel it's necessary to tell you, I never meant to delay my return.” He eyed her with earnestly; a rare look for him, or anyone with Archadian blood for that matter.

He surely picked that up from somewhere else.

Ashe instinctively opened her mouth to correct him on her title, as that was her way, but other words came out instead. “You say your 'return' as if I was to sit and yearn for you.”

He cocked his head, the dying embers of the fires now picking at the stubble on his chin from the angle. “Weren't you?”

“Yearning for men is a sure way to disappoint oneself,” Ashe replied, eyes drifting to the open doors and the stars outside. Rasler's ghost emerged in her mind. “...But I was mourning when I believed that you passed. It was the most-- one of the loneliest moments of my life. Whatever the circumstances if your delay, I assume it was justified?”

Balthier paused for a moment, appraising her. He sipped from his glass again and nodded, his expression notably darkened. “Yes, it was. I'll tell you someday, when I have more time.”

“Then I'm happy to have you here with me now. And I'm sorry for whatever trouble I caused you on Mt. Bur-Omisace.”

Balthier sipped again and set the nearly empty glass down beside hers, his hand leaving the hem of her gown in doing so and she immediately felt the coolness of his absence.

When he settled back against his end of the chaise, his hand found it's way around her ankle to stroke the back of it lightly with the pleasant brush of a finger. She tensed, then slowly enabled herself to relax.

“It was no more trouble than the trouble I've caused myself, I'm afraid.” He spoke softly, still being sincere.

There were no words, no more existing tension and resentment. She thought she'd ought to curse Balthier for that too, but she couldn't bring herself to do so.

Ashe leaned forward then, and reached for the high collar of his shirt to wrench him toward her, sitting upright with her chin angled upwards towards his, daring him to indulge her. He complied after a breath, closing the little distance between them with a passionate kiss. She matched his fervor as best she could. Initially taken aback, he regained the boldness in his touch as his hand trailed under her hem to her knee. Ashe shivered, moving her hand from his collar to the back of his neck. He slid his hand further up her leg, delicately bringing the other across her back to brace her injured shoulder as he laid her down into the pillows.

Balthier tasted of rum. And when she inhaled the sharp scent on breath he exhaled, her senses slowly became dulled.

Alma exhaled and stood, watching the city. This was the place she'd been trying to get to, after all. She leaned her elbows on the parapet, the wind was stronger than it had been earlier in the evening, and she stood over the lights while swatching stray individuals in similarly structured terraces on the levels below her and towers adjacent to her go about their business: family dinners and servant watering plants and taking dried clothing from the clothing line.

There'd been a war waged by this country not so long ago, but by the casual pace of the citizens one would never know; there was undoubtedly forces that kept that reality at bay, if not for the protection of Archadian citizens than at least for the defense of the reputation of the forces involved.

When she jumped from the waterfall, she hadn't intended to take her life, yet she'd felt so hopeless that it seemed to make sense to cause injury at the time. Should she maneuver through the levels of the tower she'd ascended tonight from the airship docks, even with all her cunning, she knew that the Imperials charged with watching her were anticipating that. And even if she made it so far down into the levels of the city, she'd be destitute and suspicious, and a sure target for anyone looking to make favor with the Emperor Larsa.

She could jump; like how in dreams when Ultima visited her could fly. But, those were dreams and in reality, people only lived through such things in outstanding circumstances. She knew if she jumped tonight, she'd only fall to her death.

She didn't want to die, though in all the circumstances of her life she should've died hundreds of times; even from the portal to hell under Orbonne, Ramza carried her out like the creature from the underworld that she'd become.

Her tears struck her as quickly at that thought did, and she held her face in her hands as she began to sob. She couldn't bring herself to run that night, and she couldn't jump either.

It was a clear day, and Alma was grateful for the sensation of the cool water bubbling from the river swirling around her feet as she stepped into it, lifting her skirts to her knees as she relished the feeling of freedom.

She waded to a dock, long abandoned in her observation, judging by the decaying wood that melted into the water. She hoisted her self upon it, neglecting her hold on her skirts to do so with her palms on the wood and they dropped into the water, allowing moisture to creep into the threads up to her waist. She slowly laid herself back, looking straight to the sky without caring for the sun's burst into her eyes.

They would adjust if she kept staring at it. She'd been lectured in school how it was theorized that dark eyes took better to the sunlight, anyhow.

She lay like that for a few moments, gently kicking the water with her feet where they dangled, her back flat against the wooden surface with her arms and dampened skirts spread out over the dock.

Footsteps approached her, and she paid no mind to their owner, just staring blanking at the sky above.

“'Tis not good to stare at the sun directly that way, milady.” Isilud's pleasant-toned tenor warned her.

“I don't care.” Alma replied, licking her lips and observing in passing how parched they were.

“At least eat what I've scrounged for dinner.”

Her stomach folded at his words. She heard him chuckle as her head shot in his direction, and she saw him sitting beside her, holding for her the cooked leg of a bird like a peace offering.

Had she more willpower she would decline, but in her famished state she wrenched it from him, tearing at the meat with her teeth barbarically.

“I've heard word of your brother Ramza,” Isilud declared proudly, “He's alive.”

Alma swallowed the meat prematurely, choking on it slightly as it hit the back of her throat without being chewed.

“You're certain?” She squinted at him against the sunlight, oblivious to how her legs kicked from such news.

“Yes, when I was hunting I encountered a patrol. They're currently searching for his whereabouts.”

Alma took another savage bite, ignoring the grease and the salty smoke it contained at it ran down her hand and her wrist.

“He's tracking me.” Alma told him proudly. “He'll find me.”

To her surprise, Isilud shrugged, leaning back on one palm as he ate his own portion. “Perhaps milady, if the gods will it so.”

And if the gods were such as she'd been taught to think that they were, how could they not? Alma devoured the meat, practically swallowing it all whole as she tossed the picked over bone into the river, and it sank briefly before reemerging with the current.

Her mind darted frivolously, elated by the news.

“If you wait a moment, the picked over bird-bone summons a great sea serpant.”

Isilud looked at her inquisitively, eyes furrowed as if she were a little mad.

“Who tells you this?”

“My brothers,” Alma replied in full confidence, her nose slightly lifting in the air as she did so, “Dycedarg and Zalbag have both hunted one that way.”

Isilud looked from her to the water. “...Did they tell you such or did you see it?”

“I saw it.”

An awkward silence passed, where Isilud was slightly uncomfortable with her claim and turned it over in his mind.

At last, Alma was unable to hold her composure, laughter escaping her as she brought a hand to her mouth to stifle it.

“I... don't understand.” Isilud frowned at her as if she were mad.

“Ramza wouldn't have fallen for that.”

“Neither did I.” Isilud assured her, but she could tell by the relieved laughter that he reciprocated that that claim wasn't entirely true.

Alma had been led to a parlor just down the hall from where she stayed; another simple and straightforward room amongst the extravagance that surrounded it. Tea was prepared in a silver set upon a table between two sofas adjoined by a strange sculpture in the shape of a tree.

“The Judge Magister will meet you here.” A maid motioned for her to sit, and she complied, having an urge to grab the woman by the wrists and plead for her to let her go. '

I'm being kept here against my will!'

But it would've been futile, and in her captivity she'd be labelled as the flight risk as she was and her situation would've been worse.

Instead Alma stood before the table, scoffing at the display. The maid closed her mouth in a flat line disapprovingly, but Alma paid her no mind as she sank into a sofa and crossed her arms and looked out the window in despair.

She had no escape plan. No strategy. All these years living on the run with Ramza, all the warning from the Viera, and she still found herself here in the very land that she desired to travel to for answers, only to be held by men of dubious goals.

Penelo wrinkled her nose at the pages before her. Vaan had grown bored a long time ago, settling instead to entice Reddas to break at the pub down the street. Fran had even seemed a little restless, pacing from the table to the window and back again when she wasn't eating and sleeping.

“These texts are full of contradictions.” Penelo observed. “Some records cite Ajora as male, sometimes female. But I suppose the parables are more or less consistent.”

Fran made a low noise of agreement, currently sitting on the windowsill with her knee bent. Penelo watched her; she was always envious of viera for their reliably long legs.

“What do you think he... or she has to do with the ruins?” Penelo turned to her, resting her head on her arm over the back of the chair.

“Nothing.” Fran said simply, “Since it appears he hasn't been born yet.”

Penelo's brow furrowed. It was just like Fran to drop a bomb like that casually as everyone else was fumbling for a hint of an answer. “What do you mean? All these records are prophecies?”

“No, they are records.” Fran reaffirmed. “Written after the fact.”

Penelo looked at her wordlessly, willing her to provide an elaboration. Mahogany eyes darted around the outside where seagulls scattered irregularly-- and her eyes never missed a beat.

“How?” Penelo prompted her, and Fran sighed, as if tasked to explain something so tedious to explain, yet simple to understand.

“In Eruyt there is a belief that time's events are parallel, not linear.”

Penelo thought for a moment. “You mean, sideways, sort of?”

Fran looked somewhat amused, turning to look back at her, Penelo's words sounds odd being mimicked from her lips. “Sort-of.”

“So if Ajora hasn't been born yet, yet a written record is available of his life, does that mean he time travels?”

“Perhaps,” Fran turned to the outside again. “Perhaps he crosses sideways as he pleases. Or he hasn't done so yet.”

Penelo couldn't quite comprehend, but she was grateful that Vaan wasn't there to distort the conversation with trivial questions.

But then again, her questions were probably just as trivial. “Did you ever... have any experiences with time travel in Eryut?”

“It was so long ago I don't remember, specifically.”

Fran's answer only puzzled her. She'd think that that would be something someone remembered.

“Specifically, what?”

“The wood is a sacred place. It's difficult to explain to a hume. But there would be anomalies from time to time. It is how Espers live among us freely.”

“But Espers don't live freely, they are bound to us if we prove strength.” Penelo watched as Fran's attention darted between birds again. No wonder she got bored in Eryut all those years ago, she was as free spirited as any hume even if she didn't consider herself one.

“Not in all times.” Fran noted cryptically.

“So... the ruins?”

“They are here, but they have yet to serve their purpose.”

Penelo recalled the demon wall in the tomb of the Dynast King, and all the halls that came alive the second they emerged.

“Why bring Ashe? If this has nothing to do with the Dynast King?”

“Perhaps it does, it exists on his land.”

Penelo's mind was muddled with questions, and this was all very little help. The last several days she'd been submerged in details on Ajora and his/her life, but none of it made sense in a straightforward linear way that she preferred. But perhaps, if she was catching Fran's meaning, she ought to be focusing her attention elsewhere, not on the person but the locations.

Basch entered the room, waving for the maid and the guard to leave them be.

Alma didn't look up at him, instead fixated with the view of the city outside. He stopped before his seat to lift his helmet from his head and place it on the table between them as he sat. She glanced his way only slightly, eyes flickering to his helmet, then to his face, and she resumed her preoccupation with the outside.

“Lady Alma,” He cleared his throat as he leaned forward as far as his armor would allow, elbows rested on his knees. “I hope you are feeling better.”

Brown eyes darted toward his now, realization crossing her features as she frowned back at him. “I was only sick from exhaustion. And perhaps,” She scanned the room, obviously avoiding him on purpose, “the stress of being transported about and trailed after like a criminal.”

It was strange see her this way, in an Archadian noblewoman's clothes. He now understood the absurd expenses that Balthier's invoice claimed to incur.

“My apologies,” Basch replied, “That wasn't my intent. I assure you, this is a standard procedure. I'll soon have you on your way.”

Alma leaned back, relaxing into the sofa as she crossed her ankles. “Are you certain?”

“Aye.”

“Then, what of this?” Alma gestured toward the tea tray, before boldly adding, “If I had half the mind I do, judge, than I'd be believing you were trying to court me.”

The corner of his mouth twitched as she'd doubly confirmed what he already knew to be true. “Black tea is tradition after the Landisian breakfast. I only wanted to see you comfortable during your stay here. As... it's where you hail from.”

Her lips parted, obviously unsure of a smart response, and he removed his gauntlets slowly from either hand before reaching for the pot still steaming from the spout. He held it in a silver cup in both hands just under his chin. If he'd been his brother, the real Gabranth, he'd perhaps be more smug at her discomfort. But he never found pleasure in such things.

However, the quickest way to get most to talk was to make them just uncomfortable enough.

“What does it matter to you?” Alma asked weakly.

“Because of the circumstances of your recovery.” He reminded her gently.

Alma's arms remained crossed over her bare midriff. She uncrossed her ankles and leaned forward, suddenly displaying confidence. “You must have a theory of your own, it seems. I've told you what happened, judge, and while I am admittedly in your debt for simply not leaving me there to die, I've spent the last few days in the company of a pirate who seems awfully familiar with you and a Queen that embraced you as if you are an equal.”

Basch sipped from his cup, letting her statement run through his mind as he eyed her carefully. He set it down onto the table.

The only sound in the room was a mechanical clock, ticking in what seemed to be a rather loud manner in that moment. Basch brought his hands to the bridge of his nose, rubbing his fingers backwards towards his temples in thought.

“I want to be fair with you, Alma Beoulve.” He spoke exhaling slowly. “You must cooperate. You must know that this is not a double sided investigation.”

She shifted in her seat again, now folding her hands together in her lap. “And what if I cannot give you the answers you seek?”

He blinked. “I haven't even begun asking for answers. What makes you certain that you don't have them?”

She turned to the window again-- it was her defense mechanism. “Ask, then.” Her voice carried a hint of defeat.

“I only give you two questions,” Basch held up two fingers for her before reaching for his cup again, “Should your answers suffice, you'll be released immediately.”

“And if they don't?”

He frowned. “Then I suppose you'll have to stay here longer than I'd hoped.”

His words sifted in the air in the room like dust. He could feel that sinking feeling she was clearly experiencing by the defeat in her posture: the elbows drawn over her thighs and her head in her hands.

Basch waited a moment. He'd been counting on this being a quick screening process one way or the other. He lacked the quickness to cruelty that his predessors had-- there'd be no chains in Alma's imprisonment if they weren't necessary, only questions.

At what point where questions unnessary and he held an innocent woman against her will?

“Will you answer them?” He pressed sternly.

“I will most likely not.”

He lifted another silver cup from the tray and poured tea from the kettle. It steamed beneath his bare fingers, passing heat and vapors beneath them. Sharp, bitter notes passed through him, and he pushed the cup to her as he stood, redonning his gauntlets and helmet before exiting the room.

“Judge Gabranth.” Her voice was low now, but teeming with words threatening to spill forth.

He halted as he approached the doorway. He wasn't intending to pull a confession from her this way; bluffing wasn't his way.

She turned to him so that the profile of her face was over her shoulder now, just the corner of her eye, a nose, and a chin in his peripheral. “Have you ever been held captive?”

A blunt question that begged an earnest answer. His expression was neutral to her due to his armor, but he knew the hesitation in his voice was apparent.

“I have.”

She turned toward him more fully now, resting an arm on the back of her sofa.

“What would you do, if you were me?”

He thought for a moment, turning his head to her out of passive consideration.

“I would only speak the truth.” He told her, and he knew it to be true. Under how many lines of interrogation had he reiterated his story?

“And if the truth is not relatable to your interrogator?”

He looked at her a moment. It was a rather strange thing to say.

“Then I at least would have gladly accepted food and drink if it was offered to me.” He nodded to the tray before her and promptly made his exit before she could speak again.

She was complicated and conflicted, he needed a different approach.

Alma stepped through the hall, horrified, corpses were strewn all about her with the remainders of the living, groaning and reacting to her presence with a cough or the reach of a hand.

She clutched her shawl to her chest and merely stepped over them, her heart audible through her ears as she strived to find Ramza among the groaning bodies out of dread, but her sights settled on a familiar dark haired knight slumped against the wall, and Alma rushed to kneel before him, catching herself from slipping on blood as she went.

Isilud was nearly unrecognisable, a talon-shaped wound had pierced his armor like paper, and blood spread from it across his chest and to the floor. A single eye was nearly swollen shut and had Alma the mind she would been in awe at the realization that he'd fought so hard that he'd been injured to his face in such a way.

Her skirts spread over his blood, she took his hands in both of her own, her dominant one still encased in the wrappings he'd carefully given her. He was cold. Unbearably cold.

His single eye focused on her, and he grunted in a soft recognition that would haunt her for years to come.

“You're going to be all right.” She told him in vain while trying her best to be reassuring, her wrapped hand leaving his as the other one still clutched him tightly. Tears brimming for him as she reached to push dark, sweat soaked locks back from his eyes.

“M-my sword,” Isilud sputtered, looking at her with a dazed expression, “Where is my sword?”

Her hand trailed from his face down to his wound and she swallowed hard, feeling sick. If it was fresh she could attempt to fix it. But judging from the sounds of the dying all around them she knew he'd been losing blood for too long. She could ease his pain and seal his flesh, but she couldn't replace blood once spilt.

“I must stop him-- stop it.”

Alma stiffened at his correction. As she suspected, it was a Lucavi demon that committed this. Upstairs, something groaned a low gutteral sound. If Ramza was there, she had to rush to help him.

But she couldn't find it in her heart to leave Isilud alone now. Not like this. He gripped her hands back tightly, commanding her attention. His single visible eye focused hard onto both of hers.

“Won't you fetch a taper?”

Alma cocked her head to the side, struggling to understand his meaning.

“... kindle a light?” Isilud elaborated, “It is so dark here.”

He shuddered.

Alma's heart was broken. She lifted the shawl from over her shoulders and draped it over his. Her wrapped hand moved to the angle of his jaw with her thumb straying tenderly over the prominence towards his chin.

The world was cruel for this, she decided. In another life, she'd have met him in passing at a fete in Eagrose. She'd have been infactuated with his charm and formality and she would have approached Dycedarg and demanded he arrange a match, and they'd be married within the season.

Their wedding would take place in Eagrose, in the same hall where her mother first formally met her father as a foreign courtesan. She'd have happily bore him children, telling them stories relayed to her by Ramza of foreign countries, and Isilud? She'd love him entirely with everything she had.

“It's all right.” Alma said tenderly, “You needn't fight any longer. Rest yourself.”

But instead, all they had was a moment in a struggle between good and evil. She leaned forward in the flickering light of the hall knowing that Isilud could no longer see it.

“Your brother...” Isilud continued, “Tell him for me... The auracite is a foul work. My father...” He groaned again, as if the pain of a memory struck him twice, “Nay, that was no longer my father, he was transformed by the auracite.”

The clarity of his words struck her. He'd witnessed his own father turn to a demon-- the very creature that left him to die in a hall of gore.

Several bodies down, another knight was sobbing as his breath rattled in shallow, audible gasps.

“You must tell them all. They must cease their fighting.” Isilud rambled, before clenching her hand tightly as she continued to brush his hair between her fingers soothingly.

“Where is my sword? My arm does not heed me.”

Alma smiled amidst her tears. How could he fixate on such a thing in a time such as this?

Isilud was a knight through and through.

And when she smiled, she did only what made the most sense in the chaos of that moment, leaning forward and cupping his chin upward as she drew a soft kiss from his lips and he responded to her eagerly, his lips were cold and grey, but his hand reached from hers to her elbow-- it was as far as he could reach, and he furrowed his brow and pulled her closer to him.

He smelled of blood and sweat, and when she really strained to remember, the potent salve he'd used to soothe her wrist. The last warmth he'd felt was her own, until in a hall of suffering men he passed away under her touch.

Alma ate alone in her chamber, sitting at a table with two chairs as she broke bread apart with her fingers before eating it. It'd been several days of monotony. She had very little interaction with anyone, save for a few polite words for the guards posted outside her door who would follow her to the courtyard when she desired to roam there.

Archades was an industrial city by day; she watched for hours from a bench as airships came and went, and the engines hummed from overhead and below. Everything was so loud.

Her captivity there was hospitable, even if it was lonely. She could hardly call herself a prisoner, though she felt isolated like one. She understood that to be the point, but it was all still a strange tactic.

A chambermaid had come to deliver her dinner tray earlier in the evening though she chose instead to find a book from the bookcase and skim it, but the language was nonsensical compared to that which she was used to. She closed it in frustration as her stomach growled. Considering the course of the last several days, she'd waste away if she didn't eat. And truthfully, she was starving.

Somewhere in the past, Ramza would be sitting across from her, teasing her for her utter loss of manners in partaking in her food in such a way.

A small smile crept upon her face. She spiked a fork through a slice of roast and popped it into her mouth, the flavor of the meat eliciting and physical response from her belly that only urged her to take in much much as she could after a period of starvation. She complied, shoveling everything as quickly as she could, stopping abruptly only when she heard a knock on her door.

“Judge Magister Gabranth, milady.”

She froze, suddenly aware of her compromised posture and swallowed. His voice was as hollow as his demeanor, and in truth she wanted anything but to invite him inside.

“Come in.” She replied passively, lowering her fork on her plate.

Her door opened and he entered, helmetless and carrying a text under his arm. She eyed it curiously. He looked down at her dinner tray, then back to her.

“I interrupted your dinner.” He observed plainly.

“Yes, you did.” Alma replied pulling a napkin to her mouth as she rose from her chair for him out of formality.

Whatever mind game he could be playing, she could play along.

“Forgive me, I assumed it was a late enough hour, perhaps too late for some.”

Alma slowly set the napkin down upon the table. Was that a dry witted criticism or did he did speak that plainly? She couldn't tell.

“I'll be quick.” He urged her, pulling the text from under his arm, and when he held it that way she could see it was much larger than a typical text that one would find on a standard bookshelf. He scanned the room for a moment, but it was lacking a surface large enough the hold it.

He gestured to the bed with the book, “If I may.”

Alma bowed her head obediantly, “Of course.”

He walked to the bed and from the corner of her vision she could see him casting her a frown. Perhaps her shift in behavior was perplexing to him.

Good.

He opened the book upon the bed, hastily sliding a gauntlet off his right hand to flip through the pages more effectively.

“I didn't intend to keep you waiting here for so long,” He explained, squinting downward at a page before flipping backwards, “Lord Larsa keeps Dr. Cid's texts archived quite securely since the war.”

“... Who is Dr. Cid?” Alma walked to his side, watching his hand with mild interest. His nail at his thumb was crooked, and though it was still functional, the entire digit appeared slightly mangled at the joint, all surrounding perfectly rounded white scar just above the knuckle under the nailbed.

It'd been intentionally broken at some point, and a nail removed before a crooked replacement had grown in-- he'd been tortured. Alma forgot his words for a moment, feeling a chill as she recalled the horrific screams of the men who'd endured such treatment when she was locked in a cell underneath Riovanes.

“Dr. Cid Bunansa. Of Draklor Laboratory.” Gabranth answered, interrupting her reverie.

“Ah,” Alma replied simply, unsure of whether she should bother pretending to know that name, “All right.”

“I wanted to show you something, to see if it means anything to you. If it doesn't, I suppose your time here is done.”

She ran her tongue over her teeth and looked up at him. His expression was as hardened as the creature he resembled with the helmet on: impossible to praise without prying. She looked down to watch him sift through the book intently, but a page with a familiar image and before she could think, her hand snapped impulsively to clutch his wrist.

Gabranth stiffened, letting the page fall loose though his fingers so that she could release his him and turn it back with her own.

The entire image was painted meticulously onto two pages: A bright green tree with wiry brown roots against a sky of gold.

“This was on my window in Orbonne.” She murmured aloud, momentarily not caring how strange it would sound to the man beside her. She recalled waking every morning under streaks of green and gold, her eyes parting slowly as the sun shown through the glass; veins of black framing the image casting shadows across her bed and her face. If it weren't for the repeated memory of waking to this image she might not have thought much of seeing it in a book.

“This is something to you?” Gabranth questioned her gently.

“Yes,” Alma paused for a moment, delicately considering how truthful she could be. Perhaps if she gave him enough information he'd release her; but give him to much and she'd be imprisoned there indefinately. “I spent time in a monastery close to... my childhood home. That was the image over my bed. On a stained glass window.”

Gabranth said nothing, allowing her to bring a knuckle to her chin as she stared down at it. “It's strange however, I don't remember it having much significance. I just used to look at it a lot when I was a young girl.”

“It surely was significant to the constructors of the monastery.” Gabranth reasoned.

“That's true.”

Gabranth turned several more pages, pausing as he scanned several lines.

“Can you read that?” Alma asked, watching him intently.

Gabranth looked to her, his usual stern blue eyes relaxing to something softer, like how she'd seen him sleeping in the cave in the wilderness of the paramina rift.

“I was hoping perhaps you could.”

Alma studied the page, shaking her head at the foreign symbols. “No, I can't. I'm sorry.”

“It's in ancient Galtean,” Gabranth explained, “We have linguists here capable of translating that, but these,” He pressed his armored palm onto the bed to lean over the text as his exposed hand ran a finger down the page “are nonsense. Or so the linguists tell Lord Larsa.”

Alma looked at the symbols, unsure of how he'd presume that she'd know of any such things. She had no words to offer.

“Much of Dr. Cid's research was destroyed in the effort to save face with the rest of Ivalice after the war,” Gabranth told her, using his smallest digit to hold the page as he flipped to the cover page, where leather binding was sewn beneath the paper. It was incredibly thick, like it belonged to the flesh of a large enough animal to have such a thick hide. Several pieces of parchment were folded and tucked beneath the cover, and Gabranth snatched them with his thumb and forefinger before passing it to her and flipping the the page saved by his digit.

She accepted it, her feeling her eyes glaze over and her pulse quicken when she touched it. She looked to Gabranth again; he was still watching her. She felt her hands shake, unsure of why. She shook the feeling, unfolding it to the first page.

“This... looks like nonsense to me also.” She attempted to pass it back to him but he declined it.

“Those are pages of Dr. Cid's writing. You can't see it at a glance, but he's rewritten the equations in this text. Go and look to the next.”

Alma obeyed reluctantly, lifting the page to view the one underneath it-- a progression of irregular lines and shapes. There where three circles, each with geometric patterns at their border that progressed in sophistication. They were almost asymmetrical in appearance because of the level of precision and detail, but upon closer inspection, she noted Dr. Cid's pen strokes mirrored the borders like that of the Germinok Scriptures.

Her heart raced at the revelation. It was a likely coincidence, as the Germinok Scriptures were an ancient text in her time, and it was likely that the the artistry would reuse that from the past. But the paper seemed to pulse beneath her fingertips and she couldn't understand why; it didn't seem to have nearly as much of an effect on Gabranth when he held it.

Then it hit her, the feeling of the dried ink under her fingertips made her taste something like metal on her tongue.

“This Dr Cid,” Alma was shaken and visibly frustrated when Gabranth refused to accept the papers from her, “What did he do, exactly?... To have his works burned?”

Gabranth stared at her blankly. She took that as a sign that this was apparently common knowledge that was perhaps too uncomfortable for people to speak of openly-- thus why she never heard of it in passing from strangers in Rabanastre.

“It is public knowledge that he modelled weapons of warfare and orchestrated events to use them. Nethicite, if you're familiar with it.” Gabranth spoke slowly, as if unsure if she actually didn't know, “Of course, there's other things that he committed that are not public knowledge.”

“I see,” Alma turned to the third page: more circles. More bizarre lines and figures. It all meant nothing from her. “Please take this from me. I don't want to hold it anymore.”

He complied then, still looking at her strangely. “Do you feel all right?”

“Yes, I'm fine.” Alma bit her lip nervously before adding, “His ink was mixed with Hume blood.”

Gabranth stared down at the pages he'd collected from her, looking to her in a moment that she knew was a silent question as to how she would know that as the ink was as black as that of any other pen. He folded the papers and tucked them into the open page, slowly closing it.

“So these symbols, and those equations mean nothing to you.” He reiterated.

“Just the tree.” Alma replied earnestly.

“I see,” Gabranth sighed crossing his arms as he leaned against a bedpost, expression hardening at her again.

“Is something the matter?”

He looked like he meant to answer her, but he only shook his head.

“I'll release you,” He said suddenly, and to her shock. He pushed his back from the bedpost and shut the book closed in a single motion. “I apologize for any inconvienice, you said you were bound for Archades as it was when you... jumped, correct?”

“Yes, but--”

“Is there someone you'd like to contact to come for you? Or one of my men can escort you to your destination, perhaps. 'Tis after nightfall.”

Alma shook her head, feeling tears of desperation hopping up from where she sat on the bed. “No!”

He raised his eyebrows, forehead wrinkling against the taut skin of the scar above his brow.

“I-I mean,” Alma stammered, fighting the urge to wrestle the book from his hands. “My circumstances are strange, as you know.”

“Aye, they clearly are. But they're of no interest to Archadia.” Gabranth replied flatly, fastening the gauntlet he'd removed back to his hand.

Alma brought her hands to her chest, clutching the fabric there. “I'm not from Archadia. And as you've likely figured, I'm not from Landis.”

A small ghost of a chuckle escaped him.

“-But the whole reason I wanted to come to this city was to study a text such as that.”

“This text,” Gabranth lifted it from the bed, “Is property of the Empire. You'll not find anything of the sort in Archades.”

“I know, I've heard there are archives here on the information I seek.”

“Archives that are property of the Empire.” Gabranth repeated firmly as he moved to the door, “I've taken enough of your time, Lady Alma and I sincerely apologize for that. Please notify the guard when you'd like to make arrangements, and they'll see it through.”

Alma reached for him in desperation, gripping his arm by the metal casing it was enclosed in and pulling him as hard as she could. He was taller than her even without the armor, but with him in it she felt small like a child.

But she figured that was probably the point.

“I see you, Gabranth.” She seethed, speaking quickly and pressured, “I see scar on your face and the deformity that if your right thumb; you carry a great burden in this position and that that is why you brought me here. For whatever reasons that I couldn't understand you've been wronged, so you do try to do right for others.”

He revealed no reaction: neutral. She was unsure of her evaluation, and he gave her no hint to assess.

“But I have a burden too,” Alma continued as she dropped her hold on his arm and stepped from him, hand reaching to clutch her chest. “All I had left was my brother. And he passed away, and it was just me for a time. But even before that, strange circumstances surrounded me my entire life. The incident you witnessed in the Paramina Rift isn't even the worst of it. I'm tired. I may not understand the things in that book, but I may need to. You'd be unlikely to find anyone more willing to understand that 'nonsense.' I'm begging you to do right by me.”

Gabranth turned around, the book tucked back under his arm. “You'd stay and work with us willingly, then?”

Alma blinked, the reality of the entire situation settling on her.

Gabranth was either an absolutely terrible interrogator or he was an unbelievably cunning one.

At the base of the waterfall, her eyes opened slowly.

She wasn't there anymore; no longer a pile of bones and flesh. A blue light seared her eyelids even while they were closed and the rush of a waterfall was harsh on her ears, causing her to wince and turn over in pain.

“Little hume, you've come such a long way.”

Alma's face was soaked with water, her hair plastered to her cheek and her neck-- it'd been just minutes before when she was completely submerged.

She coughed, vomiting water and soot.

A gentle hand stroked the back of her head and she flinched at the touch, disoriented and fearful.

'What do you mean I've come a long way?'

It was a long drop, perhaps.

When her stomach settled and her eyes opened, they were open wide, and she saw the world around her in shade of green and blue.

She recognized the Viera from legend-- long limbed women with dark skin and ears like a rabbit. Short pale hair cropped around a beautiful expression with dark red eyes. Alma's father had given her a doll of one on her fourth birthday and she'd lost it a year later.

“Lay back. I'll keep you.”

She continued to cough, wrapping bringing her knees to her chest. She was in so much pain, and she was soaked in water, but to her relief, the silence and peace in her mind told her that Ultima was no longer with her.

She inhaled as deeply as she could until she coughed; the discomfort only assured her that she was alive.

Chapter Text

“There's been an incident.”

Halim sheathed his sword at the entrance of the mines; old halls of decay and former promises of luxury, and a sound training ground for a young earl in pursuit of a future title.

“Ilana ventured to follow you unaccompanied, your lordship.” The servant receiving him at the entrance said with a low bow.

Halim's blood went cold. His sister was five years younger than he but incredibly strong-willed, but she'd never dared to venture into such danger before.

“She's recovering in her chambers, she suffered a broken leg.”

“With her condition?!” Halim snarled, long arms swinging briskly as his strides doubled, and the servant struggled to keep pace with him. “She will die of her own foolishness.”

“The healer says that she'll recover. Sealants had been applied to the wound and he assures us the blood loss has ceased.”

Halim could hear his heartbeat in his head now, recalling just several years earlier when his sister fell from a tree swing and suffered convulsions when she hit the ground. It was a miracle that she lived.

“She states that she doesn't desire to see you at the moment, lordship.”

“If she doesn't desire to see me, she shouldn't attempt a venture so closely in my footsteps.” Halim snapped, his pace now catching attention from onlookers as he beelined for the manse.

Ilana's room was close to the highest level of the easternmost tower, and as he began to ascend the steps, the servant fell behind as he realized the futility of his protests on Halim's ears the entire way.

Ilana was an adventurer at heart, as fiery as the warm hue of her red-blonde hair. From birth, she'd been cursed with an ailment that was first noted as a tendency to bruise as the slightest of impact, then progressed to copious blood loss from the most mild of injuries as she yearned for mobility and independence.

She followed Halim out of blatant disregard for reality that day, and Halim was furious with her for it.

He swung the door open in her room without warning, hissing her name just loud enough for her to jump while she lay in bed and clutch at the comforter defensively, her leg carefully wrapped and lain upon the bedspread.

Light green eyes spread wide. “Halim!” It sounded more like a dreaded groan than a greeting.

He said nothing, striding to her bed with a hand over the hilt of his sword as if in a threat. He felt the creases at the corners of his nose curl in a disgusted expression, a habit of his when he was scolding her; their parents had passed in a tragic accident several years earlier and he'd taken up the title of earl as the eldest son, but he'd long been fulfilling the duties of the late Marquis Ondore since. Because of the accident, no two members of the first family of Bhujerba were to be on the same route of travel at the same time.

“What was your best case? How many times do you need reminders of your frailties?”

Ilana winced, his words seemingly cutting her far deeper than her wound had.

“Please, Halim.” Ilana begged.

Their bond was far stronger than the rest of the four siblings, her being a consistent victim and Halim, her loyal and fiercest protector.

He looked down at her still clutching her comforter, paler than usual from blood loss. She'd heal with rest, like she already had previously, but it didn't make his anger any less potent.

Balthier lay with her for hours longer than he'd meant to; hours longer than he knew was wise. In a trail of clothing and furniture pushed aside they'd found their way to her bed and Ashe had since nestled into the bare crook of his shoulder, her expression peaceful and relaxed; content even, like a child. Her breaths were even and rhythmic, telling of a deep state of sleep.

His arm had long before gone numb from it's position. It was pinned underneath her by her waist which was slim enough for him to further wrap his arm around her and pull her against him, until he just reach the bony prominence of her hip and run his fingertips over it as they talked of light things until she drifted to sleep while he remained awake, staring at the ceiling of her canopy.

“I shall meet you at the location the day after the Ondore's fete.” Ashe assured him. He knew she'd taken notice at fresh scars by how her warm fingers traced them in the dark as she spoke.

But then Ashe was always a sound sleeper, to put it lightly. In truth he did mean to wake her, as the motions of disentangling himself from her alone should've been more than enough.When his arm slid out from underneath her, her head dropped down onto the pillow and she stirred, muttering something unintelligible before turning away from him.

She stayed asleep, and he decided not to wake her.

As he walked lightly across the room, gathering his clothing and donning them carefully, he passed a table of succulents where an elegantly wrapped package was left in the center.

A gift? Curious. Had this been several years ago he might've taken it for himself, but even more curious was that fact that it was unopened. He picked it up for a moment and put it down, shaking the temptation that surged through his nimble fingers.

He suspected that maybe, he purposely pursued an attachment to a queen because she was unattainable for him to attach himself to; therefore making disentanglement and abandonment in the night while she slept a sensible thing, not a cruel one.

The air felt much colder at night than it truly was in Rabanastre. With the distant flickering of the grey lights at dawn, he left her in peace. Even his reputation as it was, he'd never found satisfaction in being cruel.

Ilana burst into his meeting room, throwing the double doors open with such velocity that they groaned loudly on their hinges and hammered against the wall on both sides, causing the men of the Bhujerban council to jump, startled as they turned to look at the intruder.

Wild green eyes stared them all down with the light red hair of her brows furrowed, standing there before them like an executioner ready to make her kill with her fists clenched.

“Halim. How could you.”

Her words sounded more like an exclamation than a statement. Halim rubbed his temples. “Gentlemen, please excuse us.” He spoke finally after several moments of befuddled silence and uncomfortable glances his way.

They dissembled obediently, murmuring while eyeing Ilana disapprovingly, and left the room one by one until the final man left and shut the doors behind him.

“That was incredibly inappropriate, anuja.” Halim frowned at her.

Ilana glared back. Her fists stayed clenched “So was your arrangement for my betrothal to a widower king more than twice my age.”

Halim crossed his arms and continued to frown down at her in consternation for her intrusion.

“You know.” It came out both as an observation and a question.

“Yes bhadra, all of Bhujerba knows. The parijanah don't keep your secrets well.” Ilana seethed.

In truth, he didn't find pleasure in making the match himself. But when King Raminas of Dalmasca was made a widower by his first wife in her most recent childbirth, Ilana's name was circulated in inner circles for months as an eligible choice.

“You're seventeen, anuja. You're a woman now. You've told me yourself you'd wanted to be a mother someday.”

The way the room was, the table he sat at was arranged on a platform elevated above her with several stone steps. As she stood before him defiantly he exercised little effort in towering over her.

“Yes, I'm seventeen, but he is old.”

“Many would take your position from you,” Halim told her dismissively, “Dalmasca will have a queen born of House Ondore, and Dalmascan heirs will be our blood.”

Ilana snorted. “There's four pure Dalmascan heirs as it is, all sons. Our blood will be considered an alternate resort for the worst case scenario until the day that they are sold off like cattle, like me.”

Her words stung, but he'd learned from a young age to keep his features neutral. Becoming such a young earl, then a marquis after that, he'd grown hardened towards those questioning his decisions. In truth he wished to keep Ilana in Bhujerba forever, safe and untouchable to the outside world. But such a thing wasn't possible, so he dismissed her with one last quip on her interruption of his meeting and left her in the room by herself.

She married Raminas in a sacred exchange of vows in Rabanastre, Ilana a sharp contrast to Raminas with her warmly tinted hair and colorful Bhujerban wedding gown. All the while she never spoke to Halim; she handled her new role dutifully and with grace, but when their eyes met she frowned and looked away.

When the announcement of her pregnancy was made he feared for how she would fare in childbirth with her condition, and debated in agony if he should go to see her through it.

But he decided against it, pragmatically noting it'd be a strange thing for the brother of a queen. He only stayed in tune with the news from afar, and when he heard that she walked into the city several days after the birth to present her firstborn-- another son for Raminas, he was relieved.

Alma bowed her head down to slide out of the transport to the former Bunansa manse. She was now well aware that Dr. Cid was deemed a war criminal and his estate had been seized by Emperor Larsa in the fallout.

Two Imperial infantrymen accompanied her-- much to her dismay, but Gabranth assured her it was necessary for any potential traps Dr. Cid could've prepared in the last days of his power.

He was in-dubiously a madman by all accounts, that obvious to her; but she knew that was not always so obvious when men were in power and surrounded themselves by yet more powerful men. After all, her and Ramza's lives were constant subjects to that system for years after their supposed deaths were announced.

“He was a madman,” Gabranth told her when he'd approached her about this task in the garden outside of her chambers. “Many thought we'd ought to burn his property to the ground.”

“Then why didn't you?” Alma countered him, but the answer was obvious. She'd have a hard time destroying an ancestral home over the deeds of just one member. They crossed a courtyard overgrown with weeds, some the height of the granite statues around which they were ensnared. She trudged through flat stones of an old path, barely providing guidance at all from the foliage that snared at the bottom of her skirts.

An infantryman unlocked the door with a large key through an iron bolt, pushing it open for her to step through the threshold.

“Perhaps you can walk through. See what only you can see, if there's something there that we cannot. As you did for those pages I'd handed you.”

He spoke of the hume blood she'd tasted by touching Dr Cid's ink with her fingers.

Her shoes clicked upon the marble floors as she stepped into the grand foyer. It appeared ominous and empty from the lack of light casting long shadows from pillars that supported two spiraling staircases that joined to one at the center of the room.

“All right,” She'd accepted Gabranth's request with reluctance, “But, ah, may I have a change of clothing?”

And she was grateful for a higher neckline in that room, because the cold and stale chill in the air immediately made her wrap her arms over her chest for warmth or comfort-- she wasn't sure. Her skirt brushed her calves as she walked, looking upwards at a chandelier that hung from the ceiling far above them in the chamber that seemed to sway ever so slightly the longer she stared at it.

In her peripheral she captured the flicker of an image of a gaunt woman in a blood soaked robes from the waist downward, long dark hair hanging over her shoulders, standing on a landing on the staircase above her.

But when Alma snapped her eyes directly to where the woman was, startled and reflexively taking a step back towards the soldiers behind her, the woman was gone.

“Is everything all right, miss?”

So there was no woman there after all, Alma sighed, unnerved by it all. She nodded to him silently before walking under the archways embossed in gold that beckoned her to the remainder of the ground floor. She passed parlors with shelves lined in books-- books she could spend days pouring through but lacked the nerve to admit to Gabranth that she could hardly understand the mannerisms of what were to her, old lettering.

It was clear there had been raids conducted, as books and records were missing from shelves, causing the remainders to be toppled over or still standing erect with gaps in the rows that told of missing contents there.

Alma turned a doorknob and took a step into what appeared to be a kitchen, wrinkling her nose at the stench of decaying food matters. She turned and walked out-- if the notorious Dr. Cid indeed thought to keep his secrets contained within the shelves of his food pantries then she'd forever be in the dark.

The manse was frozen in a moment of time, dead flowers in bouquets that lined the hall, a cart of supplies that was abandoned by staff with a feather duster left on a buffet in the ballroom, as if that last user had dropped and left it there with little care for how it would appear to the ones to follow.

Some things had been properly stored, sheets were draped over some furniture but not all, screaming of conflicting priorities in what she suspected was the Imperial seizure of the property.

She completed the loop that was the ground floor. Everything could take months or years to pour through. The soldiers followed behind her and when she halted at the base of a staircase and looked upward, sunbeams through the windows that lined it offered welcome streams of light all around her in the dusty and grim manse. She heard the footsteps halt behind her.

Ilana's fourth child was born seven years after she last said a word to Halim, early in the year, when he had business in Rabanastre to negotiate and thus happened to arrive the evening after her labor.

He'd grown close with Raminas over the years, what started as cordial cigars after dinner during his visits when Ilana politely excused herself to bed or to tend to the children ultimate grew to constant correspondence and more candid conversations.

The two sat facing one another as a dark haired page had been tasked to pour them liquors.

“Ah-- boy,” Raminas barked, a rare tone for the soft spoken king, “Not so much.”

The page froze, holding the decanter with both hands and halting his pour of the two glasses.

“What is your name, boy?”

Halim stifled a smirk. He took no pleasure in the discomfort of others but the boy's fresh zeal was amusing.

“V-Vossler, your highness.” The page set the decanter down for a bow, “House Azelas.”

“Ah, does Lord Azelas prefer such a heavy glass when you pour his ale?”

Vossler looked down at the glasses that were nearly full and blinked, furiously blushing with embarrassment as the two older man laughed. The boy fumbled with the glasses and scanned the room nervously, as if looking for a proper place to pour some of the contents.

“Give them here, boy. It's all right.” Raminas assured him in between chuckles, and Vossler followed his order obediently, passing a drink to ether of them before Raminas dismissed him from the room out of mercy.

“I could use a heavy drink, anyhow.” Raminas told Halim, lifting his glass in a mock toast, “I've a daughter born today.”

“A daughter?” Halim drank calmly, but he inwardly smiled at the thought. Dalmasca was getting overrun with sons and it was time Ilana met a match of her own ferocity.

“Why don't you see her?”

Halim shook his head. “Ilana and I, we never--”

“She's your sister, is she not? Does that change when she scorns you?”

“It does when she declines the invitation to her own brothers wedding, even as a queen of Dalmasca.”

Raminas' grey eyes softened. “Ah. She truly disapproved of our match didn't she.”

Halim sighed. “Ilana lives in another reality. We were so close as young children that she saw herself as my equal, and it troubled her greatly when she learned that she was not.”

They sat in silent contemplation for several minutes. Conversations over drinks with Raminas were typically lighter in nature, but as the latter caught wind of the depth of the conflict between the siblings, Halim could tell it troubled him.

“I'll go see the new princess. After this drink.”

“He'll come soon. I know it.” Vaan told her assuringly.

Vaan and Penelo sat side by side at the docks, where ships from days of old lay to rot, and the few functional fishing vessels were stationed on the opposite side from where they chose to wait for the Strahl to land in the airship docks nearby.

Penelo leaned back on her palms, leaning her head back to rest the back of her head on her packed bags stacked behind her.

“I have to leave soon.” Penelo lamented, “I don't want to be flying all night.”

“Bhujerba isn't that far.” Vaan countered.

Penelo looked upwards at the settling twilight, she was anxious to see Balthier again too, but she was also anxious to get to her destination if she was to arrive at the fete fresh faced and presentable. That, and she hadn't seen Larsa in a long time.

Then, a familiar shape descended from the sky, and Vaan's hand snapped to her arm, and he looked to her with a hint of recognition and glee.

It was the Strahl. But Balthier was landing higher up on the docks than they'd anticipated, and Vaan yanked her roughly from the ground by her arm and pulled her as he rushed the ramps to greet the pirate. Penelo protested only halfheartedly, glancing behind her shoulder where her belongings were.

They'd be safe there if she just left for several minutes to greet Balthier.

Hopefully.

Vaan was in a full sprint now and she struggled to keep up.

“Vaan!” She called from behind him, out of breath.

But when the ramp of the Strahl lowered and a lone figure stood in the archway, a mere shadow from the street torches, Penelo felt herself surpass Vaan to jump the distance to the ramp from the ground to throw her arms around Balthier.

Halim was led to the nursery by a servant who halted him before the great white painted doors.

He heard the maid walk into the chamber and speak, “Lord Ondore is here to see you, your majesty.”

Silence.

“He may enter.” A tired reply.

Although it was only proper that she accept his presence, and he knew Ilana had years of etiquette and formalities beat into her by this time, he couldn't help but be taken aback by her invitation.

The servant reemerged and beckoned him inside, closing the door behind him.

The room was adorned with pastel colors and the walls lined with gold that contrasted sharply the with the white bassinet he'd gifted her out of courtesy.

Familiar red-blonde tresses arranged in a crown of ornate braids faced him, and he could see the profile of her feminine features-- long eyelashes and a narrow bridged nose, as she looked over the infant in her arms in a rocking chair.

“Come in, bhadra.” She beckoned him, the first words she'd uttered to him in nearly a decade.

He couldn't help but smile, and he obeyed, stepping into the chamber and circling around to the front of her.

His sister was tired and pale, heavy telltale shadows under her eyes giving him a hint that her labor had been a difficult one. Her blue robes were dipped low for the infant suckling at her breast. She offered him a weak smile and gestured for him to sit across from her.

She rocked the child with the leverage of the chair against the slightest bounce of her heel that was bare on the carpet. He reminded himself it was her fifth, so it must've been natural at this point.

Years of silence weighed on them.

“Raminas tells me you've birthed him a daughter.”

“Yes,” Ilana looked to the infant and then back at him, “It is about time, don't you think?”

Halim smiled back at her unknowing mimicking of his same sentiment when Raminas gave him the news, feeling premature grim lines flexing about the corners of his mouth and his eyes.

“Perhaps she will not be pleading her uncle to play swords with her in the courtyard, as her brothers do.”

Ilana was an adoring mother, and she laughed at his statement and brought a thumb to the infant's cheek that puffed as she suckled sporadically before looking to him and asking abruptly, “Would you like to hold her?”

Halim hesitated. His own wife was with child but the idea of holding such a small thing still frightened him.

Ilana cocked her head sideways. “Don't look at me that way,” She said sternly, “As if you don't know how to be gentle. You've been gentler to me than anyone.”

He said nothing as her thumb ran along the surface of her breast and under the infant princess' lip to break the seal of suction. She immediately covered her breast in robes and leaned forward in her seat, wincing as she passed the infant to him.

Halim accepted the bundle, tensing as the infant squirmed and fussed slightly from being pulled from her mother, his eyes wide at Ilana for help.

Ilana giggled. “Just rock her, she'll settle. If you pat her back it'll relieve her belly.”

Halim followed her instructions gingerly, cradling the infant in one arm as the other reached under to gently tap her from the back.

“She's a picture of Dalmasca.” Halim remarked, noting the pale wisps of platinum blonde hair.

“Really? I think her hair makes her look old, like you.” Ilana remarked smartly. He laughed at her witticism. Her children all shared Raminas' features, to include this one, save for her second oldest with the slightest shade of red hair and paler skin than the others.

He leaned back, relaxing in his hold on the infant as a little fist moved to her mouth and she suckled it.

“Are you happy, then? In your life here?” He felt the words come out before he could check them in his usual calculated manner.

Ilana leaned forward to clutch his arm reassuringly with her hand. “Yes, I'm happy. You did what what you were required to do. The years have shown me that.”

She continued, her tone dropping lower with regret, “I'm sorry I spurned you all this time. And that I declined your wedding. It was just... the more time went by, the less I knew of what to say. And the more tempting it became to avoid you.”

Halim sighed, rocking the princess in his own chair now but the slightest push of his toe before him. She'd settled to sleep completely, feathery eyelashes closed and soft smooth lips under the folds of full cheeks.

“I could have given you a say in all this. Or a warning, at least.”

Ilana shook her head. “Tradition doesn't allow for a say on my part, unfortunately. I understand that now. And a warning would have changed nothing in my youthful fury. But perhaps that is a good thing, or I would have been breaking limbs and bleeding out every time you had any sort of duty. I only ever wanted to follow you.”

She released her hold on him, wincing slightly in discomfort as she settled back in her chair, green eyes not leaving his. “I daresay fatherhood looks like it'll suit you, bhadra.”

“Motherhood suits you.”

Her arms folded over her belly as she rocked herself, repeating the same notion she'd said a minute before: “I am happy in it.”

“Perhaps I'll keep this little one then.” The curve of his thumb touched the tips of the child's hair, soft like down feathers.

“You take her, and I'll snatch yours once born.”

The princess had no name until the announcement came of Ilana's death days later, when he'd returned to Bhujerba. Had Halim known that the time they last spoke-- when her hands moved to her belly it was out of increasing discomfort and not simply maternal instinct, he would've intervened as her brother again, denying her the foolishness of slowly bleeding out so that her infant could settle.

She was Ashelia B'nargin Dalmasca, and whenever Halim looked at her he only remembered her as the infant in her mother's arms on the evening that they exchanged words for the first time in so long.

Alma ascended the staircase, each time the toes of her shoes tapped against the marble surface sounding like an inflection on a musical note rebounding in the great room. Her fingers trailed the bannister for support.

She'd only wanted to pour through the book that Gabranth showed her. This place was unsettling and she cared little to dwell with this Dr. Cid any more than was necessary, even if he was dead and she understood the reasoning for Emperor Larsa and Judge Gabranth's interest.

The first landing yielded storage rooms and what she assumed were guest suites; generic in detail and décor, and the storage was impossible to sift through for her purposes.

The next landing provided a hall to servants' quarters, notably simpler than the rest of the house and lacked the same open grandeur that the rest of the home displayed.

She ascended slowly, pouring through rooms and pulling books from the shelves; there were several she found worth keeping, even if they didn't offer anything useful to her purpose there; a book on the history of Ivalice and scrolls of maps rolled up together-- she collected them, saying nothing to the guard that followed her and hoped that they would say nothing of it. If this property was all to sit and stagnate, and not be utilized by anyone she assumed it didn't matter if she kept it for herself.

In the corner of her mind, Ramza shook his head.

She proceeded up the stairs and through halls lined with portraits of what she suspected were late Bunansas and allies, historical figures and fantastical landscapes all with orderly and precise brush strokes.

Several stories up she found what appeared a nursery, and it was oddly seemingly untouched for far longer than the rest of the house. She entered smelling the stagnant air of carpet, wood, and linens. Dust had been set on toys told of neglect that spanned over a decade. Such a thing wasn't typical to a home manned with servants; Dr's Cid's decline was likely slow. Recalling the vision of the dark haired woman with the bloody nightgown Alma froze stiff, turned, and left the door shut as she had found it. There was a reason this room had been left untouched.

Above there, she found what appeared to be the main quarters of the Bunansa family. Dr Cid's main study was connected to his bedroom by a short open corridor. Ornately carved dark wood paneling lined the walls and the furniture and shelves matched as if the room was an entire structure all of it's own. Of course it was likely he didn't use this one primarily as it was outside of the Citadel and Draklor, but it was apparently important enough to have it's shelves stripped of books and looked mostly barren, save for the artwork and odd spheres hanging from the ceiling.

A chalkboard was covered in scribble over a desk. She walked to it and brushed her fingers over the surface, hearing mutterings and distant footsteps that she knew in reality weren't there.

A bottle of black ink sat upon a great desk in the center of the room that was practically long and wide enough to pass for a bed frame She took the ink bottle immediately upon spotting it, casting a nervous glance over her shoulder at the infantrymen behind her now posted in the doorway.

She pulled the cork off the lid and smeared black ink over her finger by sliding it along the rim.

Nothing. No scent of hume blood that she'd become so sensitive to; she touched her finger to her tongue to be sure, ignoring what she was sure were strange and curious glances from the men accompanying her.

It was a strong bitter taste, and she wrinkled her nose at it immediately, pushing the cork back on the bottle and setting it down, folding her tongue over itself in her mouth to keep her teeth from getting stained black.

It appeared that Dr. Cid hadn't written his papers here, but that may not be news to Gabranth as the 'madman' supposedly holed up in his laboratory for a majority of his last days. She didn't doubt a trip to that location in the future, if it was still standing.

She turned and leaned backwards on the desk with both hands pressed upon the ledge behind her to face the guards that looked back her as if awaiting orders. It was then that she noted the portrait over the mantle of the fireplace, displayed in such a prominent manner that she knew it to be someone important.

Two men; one sitting with the other standing behind him with his hands paternal and possessive on the younger's shoulders.

She blinked. Assuming the artist had succeeded in capturing a likeness, the angle of a jaw and the slope of a brow were so familiar and fresh in her memory: hazel eyes portrayed a murky green looking down on her.

Balthier did have a strong accent that she'd since learned wreaked of Archadian gentry.

But, it couldn't be.

“Who is this?” She approached the portrait with her arms crossed save for her hand pointing a finger at it almost accusingly as she turned toward the guards, nearly stunning them with her acknowledgment of their presence.

“Dr. Cid, ma'am.”

She narrowed her eyes back at the soldier, until she remembered the older man that he was likely to be referring to-- whom she'd momentarily forgotten about completely. Her gaze snapped back up to the painting. Dr. Cid was nearly identical to the younger man, only his face broader and more mature in appearance, and his hair cropped short whereas the younger man had grown his out so much that it fell smoothly back over the back of his neckline. Spectacles sat on the bridge of Dr. Cid's nose, but in a way he resembled Balthier closer than the younger man in the portrait.

“Who is this, then?” She jabbed her finger at the younger man's face.

The guards hesitated, but replied, “I assume that would be Ffamran Bunansa.”

“Ffamran?” Or was Balthier was a relative of some kind? A cousin perhaps? But either way, it was an awfully strange coincidence that a pirate she'd just met such a short time ago happened to be even remotely related to this family.

“Yes ma'am. He was presumed to be dead, years before the war.”

She stared at Ffamran's image and he stared back.

“Did he disappear, then?”

The guard shuffled his feet with a hand over the hilt of his sword. “Some say he did, some say he had an accident. People within Draklor have claimed an airship went missing and that he took it to the skies. Or that Dr. Cid killed him--”

“Or that theory that he ran away and maneuvered the collapse of the Bahamut from within!” The other guard interjected.

“Such nonsense! Now why would he do that?”

The other shrugged.

Alma collected the books and scrolls she'd picked for herself and left on a chair by the entrance. In her experience reality was strange enough; such conspiracy theories only distracted from the truth.

“Now that's enough,” She chided the guards, turning to look at the portrait one last time. “I'm done here.”

They walked down the stairs collectively in the same formation they'd climbed up.

It was a waste of a day in such a dreadful place, and all the while she wished to never set foot in the Bunansa estate again-- it was littered with sorrow, pain, and emptiness and her mind was full of questions as it was that would hardly be relevant to her had she not met Balthier.

She sighed and shifted the books to her opposite arm as the one she was carrying them with grew tired. Archades was full of secrets. She'd arrived for a purpose and it seemed that she was being distracted by details that didn't matter. She knew she had to appease Gabranth if she was to study the text he'd lured her with, but she was tired and annoyed.

“Why didn't Judge Gabranth join us today?” She asked one of the soldiers as he held the door open to her transport.

“He had other more important matters, ma'am. Lord Larsa leaves for Bhujerba in the morning.”

She stiffened, unsure of why that annoyed her. “I see. I have important information I must discuss, can you take me to him?”

The two guards looked to each other, as if nervous to give a firm answer. At last one agreed. “I'll take you to him if it is a matter that cannot wait.”

“Oh no,” Alma said innocently as she accepted the assistance into the transport, “It cannot.”

“Uncle!” Ashe squealed when the door to his audience chamber opened and she bolted inside, ignoring protests from Raminas as she ran up the stairs and slid, then crawled on all fours under the table before him.

When he laughed and stood with open arms for her; he knew it only encouraged bad habits that exasperated Raminas, but her laughter sounded identical to Ilana's when she was young; when he held her in his arms she was like a living memory of childhood.

Ashe's ankles hooked about his waist as he embraced her, holding her with both arms as her hands clasped about his neck. She looked at him with adoration he'd never even seen from his own children, blonde hair cropped in a short bob over round cheeks, long eyelashes framing grey eyes. She squeezed his neck slightly to pull her face close to his ear and whisper:

“Don't put me down.”

As the two surviving Judge Magisters (or as it was believed), they stood apart from their newly appointed peers in stature and influence. With so much time spent in Larsa's dealings directly, Basch appreciated Zargabaath's experience the most when adapting to his role; maneuvering Archadian politics was complicated as it was, and on Gabranth's dying wish Basch had little instruction to go by.

In the beginning there were many instances where another in Zargabaath's position would take the opportunity to undermine Basch, even being ignorant of his true identity, in order to elevate his own status. But Zargabaath was a man of country and moderation, and it showed.

Basch leaned over the table where Zargabaath scrawled out his record of the day. They'd been overseeing the preparation of the Alexander for Larsa's visit to Bhujerba, and while he'd be charged with Larsa's security, Zargabaath would be arranging the transport. The supplies were loaded and the manifests were complete, and at this point in the day it'd become a manner of habit to reduce their armor to the their black liners and share supper with Zargabaath's wife when she brought it to them, joined on occasion by Larsa or another colleague

It was a strangely disjointed sort of family; each with their own reservations, but somehow the evenings always stayed pleasant. And though he'd prefer evening hunts on the plains where his former companions would share in the spoils, he was content with the company he currently kept.

A knock sounded at the door and they looked at one another, neither confirming that they were expecting company at such an hour.

“Lady Alma is here to see you, Judge Magister,” The soldier saluted and Basch returned it halfheartedly, “She states it is urgent and it cannot wait.”

He felt Zargabaath look at him with an eyebrow raised.

He'd given Alma a task, in truth mostly to satisfy her tenacity for enough time for them to arrive back from Bhujerba and Larsa to settle his affairs. The young lord had every intention of meeting her sooner but his days in the senate offices had grown long, and their training sessions ever more scarce. Meanwhile the Bunansa estate was left to rot, and he was curious if she could learn something there that he and Larsa couldn't. It was the ideal task to keep her occupied.

“Let her enter.” Basch replied hesitantly. The other Judge Magisters were now aware of Alma's presence in Archades, though they didn't know the details and he'd preferred to keep it that way.

She stepped into the chamber before him, her arms clutching books and a roll of scrolls. Long blonde hair fell over her shoulders as she dipped her head downward in a hasty curtsy.

“Lady Alma,” Basch nodded to her, “Allow me introduce Judge Magister Zargabaath.” He mentioned their company quickly so that she'd perhaps be aware and choose her words carefully. “I trust your walkthrough of the Bunansa estate was informative?”

Alma moved slowly and uncomfortably, brown eyes shifting to Zargabaath, he was eyeing her back, intrigued, and then back to him.

“I, ah...” She shuffled the books between her arms and held them up. “May I? They're awfully heavy.”

Basch nodded as she approached the desk where he and Zargabaath were perched and placed the stack down with a sigh of relief, and with the next breath of air she drew she looked up at him and the words tumbled from her mouth:

“Why didn't you mention that Balthier was a Bunansa? Is that not something you could prompt me with, when you have me scour his childhood home?”

If she'd heeded his cautious display of introducing Zargabaath quickly, it wasn't obvious. Zargabaath said nothing, as was his way. But his silence was often more telling than his words; he was further intrigued.

“Dr. Cid's son was Ffamran.” Basch tried to speak slowly to emphasize his caution. “I'm not sure I have your meaning.”

Alma paused, likely appraising the meaning of his words. “Very well, but it would've been helpful to me if I'd known Dr. Cid had a son.” She smiled sweetly to Zargabaath. “For my research. It's something that one might happen upon when scouring a home; it was quite a shock.”

“It was a shock to you Dr. Cid had a son?” Zargabaath questioned her amusedly, “By the looks of him towards the end I suppose it would've been a shock to us all.” He finished his sentence with a chuckle.

But Basch stayed stiff, not breaking into a smile at the jest. “It didn't occur to me that it would be relevant.” He replied, and that was true. When he gave Alma the task he hadn't considered references to Balthier being in the Bunansa estate at all.

Alma folded her hands over grey skirts tightly. She was just as tense as he. “That's what people do. They decorate homes with things they love, of course his son would be represented there.” She paused, turning her head to the side as she looked up at him, “Did you really not think anything of that?”

“Was there anything more pressing you needed to address?” Basch ignored her jabs sharply, feeling the slightest tinge of irritation at her interruption during what was clearly an inappropriate time and place.

“Well, no.” Alma admitted, “Dr. Cid didn't write his papers there, if that matters to you at all. The ink in his study...” She looked directly up at him again, “It wasn't the same... quality as the ink in his papers you showed me.”

“I see.”

Alma stared up at him a moment, lips parted while having the look of a woman contemplating a thousand questions.

“Your men tell me you and Lord Larsa will leave for Bhujerba soon.”

“Aye, we will.”

“And I presume I will have access to that text you've shown me? And the archives while you're away?”

Basch rubbed his brow. “That's not possible, milady.”

“Only those with clearance from Lord Larsa himself may access the archives. It takes time.” Zargabaath interjected.

“All right,” Alma replied matter of factly. “You vetted me however, Judge Gabranth. You asked me to stay and work with you, am I not vetted enough with your approval?”

He didn't mind pressure, but in front of another Judge Magister her insolence could be risky for them both. Zargabaath was a good natured judge, but if she kept this up she'd be asking for trouble for them both. It was her fortune he wasn't his brother. And with that thought, he wracked his mind for what Noah might say.

“We aren't friends. You forget the company in which you stand.” Basch replied coldly.

Alma's head jerked back in surprise at his abrupt statement, brow furrowed.

“Of course. That wasn't my meaning--”

To his horror and relief, the doors burst open and Larsa strolled into the room. “Gabranth! How fares the preparation?” He walked several paces as Zargabaath's chair slid backwards and he stood beside Basch to salute with a fist over his chest.

Alma turned to Larsa and back to Gabranth for an answer and he prompted her with a greeting:

“Lord Larsa, preparations are complete. We only need to depart.”

She jolted into a hasty curtsy at impressive speed. Larsa eyed her curiously. “And you are?”

“Alma Beoulve, your excellency.” She replied, her head still downward. She was clearly in shock, he knew in part because she clearly had no inkling of Larsa's youth.

“Ah, Lady Alma, I've heard quite a bit about you.” Larsa bowed politely in return as she resumed her upright posture with her hands delicately folded in front of her.

“Forgive me, you are not quite the woman I pictured by Gabranth's account,” Larsa laughed, “I imagined you to be... more undomesticated. Older, maybe. But you're quite lovely.”

Alma mimicked the cadence of his laughter, casting Basch a knowing glance at the corner of her eye.

Basch said nothing. As Larsa's interactions with adults grew ever more sophisticated, it was at times unclear to him when the young Emperor was merely being charming or absolutely sincere.

“Thank you. I've been waiting to meet with you at last, your excellency.”

“I apologize for that, I suppose I could've found it in my schedule to meet you properly after you've agreed to help the Empire, and I didn't.”

“I-It's all right. It's just, um...” Alma tucked loose hairs behind her ear and looked to Basch and Zargabaath, “We were just discussing the possibility of my access to your archives while you are away in Bhujerba.”

She was too bold for her own good.

Larsa shook his head. “That's not possible, you must understand. But I realize I am partly responsible for that for not putting the time into making that so for you.”

“I only want to help.” Alma replied feebly. Her fingers were trembling. Why was it she was so desperate and impatient for such a matter?

“Perhaps I can make it up to you, and can understand you better on my own time, it is only fair. Why don't you join us in Bhujerba for Lord Ondore's fete?” In Larsa's typical fashion he took no offense to her boldness, and instead turned the situation on it's head.

“Y-Your excellency,” Alma stammered, “It isn't my intention to impose...”

Basch's mouth grimaced a thin line. As a young idealist Larsa was always brimming with fresh ideas, but bringing Alma along could lead to unnecessary trouble.

But then, had she opted to take him on his offer to release her into Archades would that have been that different? Perhaps it would be in their best interest to keep her close.

“T'isn't any trouble at all. Of course, it may seem strange to the Marquis.” Larsa looked the judge magisters rubbing the newfound stubble brimming over his chin.

“Zargabaath, your wife is accompanying you, correct?”

“She is, Lord Larsa.”

“Then perhaps Lady Alma could be a guest of Gabranth.”

Basch's blood went cold. “L-Lord Larsa.”

Basch and Alma exchanged looks, her eyes narrowed as if to assure him that nothing being discussed had her backing.

Zargabaath laughed, “She certainly speaks to him as such!”

Larsa grinned and clapped Basch on the back of his shoulder. “Peace Gabranth, she is a guest to all of us, after all. And I must repay her for my rudeness.”

Larsa then turned to Alma, “Unless this trip does not suit you? You're welcome to wait until our return, if you'd like, but I cannot guarantee an appointment with you straightaway.”

“--I'll go.” Alma replied almost immediately.

“My condolences,” Vayne brushed back a lock of raven hair from his face. “I have what remains of her that my men could manage to salvage in the casket, if you'd like...” He gestured to the white 'casket' in tow by two soldiers behind him. As he spoke the soldiers lowered it to the ground slowly onto the floor of Halim's meeting chamber in the exacted spot where Ilana stood furious with clenched fists years before.

Stony faced, Halim ran a hand over his face as he stood to get a better look. It wasn't even a full size casket, certainly not long enough for Ashe. It was short, like a child's or even shorter than that even in all it's finery; more like a chest for treasure. The grave realization that Ashe's body had likely become dismembered by the impact of her fall and that in the carnage what remained of her was so scarce that it would be contained in a space so small.

What would it be? A lock of platinum hair? A severed limb? Even in all his stoicism he wouldn't bear to witness it. Ashe was a broken girl who was finally at peace, and he'd accept that for what it was.

“No,” He told Vayne flatly, “I'll take you at your word, milord. My gratitude for returning my dear niece to me, she will be missed greatly. But she belongs in Dalmasca.”

Vayne nodded. “Understood. I'll arrange for it, it's the least I can do for the great grief my actions have caused.” He nodded to the guards, who proceeded to lift the casket from the ground and carry it from the room.

“I must ask a favor, however.”

Halim froze, only moving his eyes to flicker back at Vayne.

“We obtained custody of the traitor Captain and beheaded him. His body will rot beneath Nalbina without a grave amongst the criminals of the living.”

Halim nodded. He'd received word that Basch was in custody, but reports conflicted on what became of him.

“I need you to tell this to the people of Dalmasca.” Vayne lifted an index finger as if to emphasize his words, “And I need you to announce that the Princess Ashe is dead, fallen from the highest tower in Rabanastre undoubtedly out of terrible grief.”

Halim blinked. He was keen to his senses, and something about Vayne's proposition screamed of an ulterior motive.

But what?

“As Dalmasca is surely Imperial territory now, I have no business in making such an announcement.”

“So Dalmasca is. But it's people will not tolerate such news from Archadia, as it will from you, the Marquis Ondore, a dear friend of the late King Raminas and kin of the last heir, Princess Ashelia.”

Halim pondered this for a moment, slowly walking to the window of the chamber in silence. He hated war and conflict, so much that he'd give his life to protect his family and the people of Bhujerba from it. In just a few short days he lost his best friend and his niece in a miserable and gruesome onslaught.

“Do you doubt my logic?” Vayne questioned in a blatant challenge.

“No.” Halim answered him abruptly, still looking out the window to the stucco walls outside. “I will tell the people of Dalmasca these things. But this is no small matter.”

He turned to Vayne, who was slowly ascending the steps to the platform where Halim stood.

“I do not find pleasure in war, or any of it's spoils, milord. Princess Ashe was my kin, and Captain Basch a dear friend. It is only because of my allegiance to your cause that I will say such things.”

Vayne offered a sympathetic smile, offering a brief respectful bow in acknowledgment

“I assure you, I considered this. It is no light thing to entrust this to you, however it is our best chance at assuring peace in Dalmasca.”

Ashe was the first to arrive, emerging from her ship just after dawn in white silks and bronze jewelry that was reminiscent of Raminas. She was the only guest he greeted personally, standing before her as she walked the ramp to where he stood. She was a small woman but by the squareness of her shoulders she appeared poised and powerful.

“Such a greeting, Uncle.” Ashe offered him her hand and he bowed, bringing it to his lips lightly.

Behind her, the brilliant colors of sunrise were ever more potent in the sky city than it was below. Red and orange were beginning to fade to blue, and when he looked up at her to release his hold on her hand there was a glimpse of Ilana's light red reflected on the Ashe's light blonde.

“The least I can do,” he told her, “Is to greet a Queen of Dalmasca when she arrives from below for my fete.”

He rose, looking down upon her with pride. She smiled up at him softly.

“Surely there's another place you'd rather be at this hour when you're going to be entertaining guests all through tonight.”

He offered her his arm and she accepted it with both hands.

“No,” He told her, “I don't think there is.”

Chapter Text

In one of his earliest memories he and Noah lay flat on their bellies under their parents' bed. It was winter, and the chill from the ground outside crept in through the closed shutters. It was just cold enough so that if Basch exhaled upon a crystal glass from the dining hall he'd brought to the window ledge, it'd fog the glassy surface and he'd press his finger to it to write messages that would instantly fade away.

Sometimes they would share secret messages, giggling side by side as they took turns drawing obscure and increasingly silly pictures after dark when they were supposed to be in bed and sleeping, waiting for their breath to fade from the glass before the other brother took a turn.

But on that night a pounding against the door; a grown man's fist against hard wood. He shot upright in the bed he shared with Noah, looking down as his brother whose eyes were open and he pulled the blankets to his chin.

“What was that?!” Noah whispered.

The pounding sounded again. With his heart hammering in his chest, Basch dove under his covers. His father had told him to be brave because he was the eldest, but he was scared. So he instead nestled under the blankets so that they were pulled all the way over his head, and Noah followed his lead.

Footsteps padded briskly in the hall under creaking floorboards and Basch gained the courage to lift his head from the covers just in time to see the flowing figure of their mother's white robe through a crack in the door as she walked by.

Their manse was large, but at night when all was silent they could hear everything.

Basch grabbed Noah by the arm, who swatted at him in response. “I'll not!”

Downstairs in the foyer, a door opened and a man's voice echoed into the lower level of the house. At Basch's persistence, Noah threw back his covers and followed his brother out to the corridor. They were in the midst of a growth spurt, and the cotton hems of their pajamas rode up to their mid-calves as they tip toed.

Their mother's voice carried up the staircase when they reached it, her words unintelligible but years later when he was suspended in chains under Nalbina he'd recall that her words were indistinct because she was sobbing.

“...My condolences...” The man was speaking again.

“Is mama in trouble?” Noah nudged him, and Basch immediately shhh'd him with a finger to his lips.

“Is it Father?” Noah questioned him again, still not minding the volume of his voice.

Basch instead smacked him, to which Noah shoved him back.

The front door in the foyer closed and they heard the footsteps pick up again.

“Run!”

The wind whipped through the courtyard, blowing through her ears and Alma covered herself with her arms as best she could, carefully retaining the her decency in yet another donated gown all while cursing the Marquis for having such an expansive manse that she had to walk such a long way from her guest quarters to the foyer of the ballroom.

When the Alexander docked at the aerodome the air was completely still; so still she'd forgotten they were on a floating continent entirely until their party passed the ramparts that protected the street from the ledge.

She was likely standing upon the ruins of the floating city where her father's men campaigned for leftover riches in Prince Larg's name. She recalled yearning to go with the men from behind her walls and was doubly disappointed that Ramza was deemed too young to be a part of it-- at least he'd take care to save stories for her.

But this was an experience that make her breath hitch when she saw it, and she hadn't realized that she stopped walking until Zargabaath, Gabranth, and Larsa stopped with their entourage to wait for her to start walking again. She stifled her awe, knowing that she'd drawn enough attention toward herself as it was, and if Gabranth's tact was as he had claimed all along then she'd best behave more like Zargabaath's wife: silent and inconspicuous, moving only when it was proper for her to do so.

Becoming immersed here, she'd occasionally forget that she was so warped through time that civilization should be less relatable than it was. But up there, it truly felt like a different time; a foreign one where she didn't belong.

“First time in Bhujerba?”

A young woman a yellow dress stepped gracefully behind Alma as she stood before a mirror in the foyer and fussed to tame the twist in the back of her head that only contained half her mane. Guests filed past, looking irritated with the foreign visitor with the long and windblown hair, but the girl was polite to Alma nonetheless, looking comparatively more composed with her hair in twin buns braided tightly in perfect little knots.

Alma nodded, smiling in such a way it felt more like a grimace on her features. “You can tell?” She watched her reflection in the great mirror in the foyer.

“Allow me.” The girl chirped, and Alma relented as she stood behind her before their reflection and re worked the twist so that her hair would be tidy again. “I learned my first time here. The wind gusts pick up in the afternoon and sometimes go throughout the night. You just can't wear your hair half down like this, even if you plan on going outside at that time. But lucky for you, you've already made the trip outside! You live and you learn, though.” The girl pointed gestured to her own updo.

“You're Dalmascan?” Alma asked her.

The girl nodded. “Born and raised in Rabanastre. I'm Penelo, by the way.”

The twisted locks redone, the girl combed her fingers through Alma's loose strands. Her countenance seemed familiar, and when Alma put her finger on it, she pursed her lips to ward off an even bigger smile at the thought.

“Alma. I'm very fortunate to have encountered you here, Penelo. You're here with the queen, then?”

Penelo's fingers tossed several locks over Alma's shoulder. “Oh, no. I came on my own. Emperor Larsa invited me.”

Alma whirled around to face her. “Emperor Larsa, you say?”

“Yeah, he's a friend of mine.” Penelo walked under the threshold beckoning her to follow. They walked, following guests in a clustered line walking out to a balcony that wrapped around a great ballroom. Similar to custom at Eagrose, it seemed esteemed guests would be introduced in a formal manner by the hosting family as the lesser nobility gathered overhead the catch a glimpse from afar.

Alma had always been on the bottom tier, alongside the court of Prince Larg and his immediate family, her eyes scanning overhead for Tietra's friendly face until her brother Zalbaag would go and fetch her and escort her to sit beside Alma. It was a strange flip of roles: Alma now on the top tier while the hosting family gathered with the most esteemed guest beneath her, but strangely enough it was nice, like she had a glimpse through Tietra's eyes that she otherwise would have never had.

“Shouldn't you be waiting downstairs with all the gentry?” Alma nodded to the ballroom floor below where rows of tables were lined with silver place settings that matched the glint of metal from great chandeliers overhead.

Penelo shook her head. “I'm not gentry.”

Alma smiled and shook her head. “Surely a guest of the emperor can gain a seat this early.”

They found a place on the balcony with a view clear down to where the Ondore family stood behind their table, greeting the nobility who filed by.

Penelo gripped the railing with both hands, straightening her elbows and pushing her body backward in loose contemplation. “Yeah, he offered. I just... don't want to give him the wrong idea. Or anyone else to get the wrong idea. Those Archadians gossip about everything.”

Penelo stiffened in a visible recognition of the potential in her words. “Wait. You're not Archadian, are you?”

Alma bent her elbows on the balcony clasping her hands together delicately, scanning the crowd below. “No.” She opened her mouth to say more, but decided to close it instead. They were the same height, and Alma could see every blink of Penelo's long eyelashes in her peripheral.

Penelo turned to eye her curiously, “You're not Dalmascan. Or Rozarrian.”

“I'm from Landis.” Alma blurted before letting the speculation continue.

Penelo's eyes went wide. “Ooh.” She looked down at the crowd below, then back to Alma.

“So who invited you here? If you're not gentry, if you don't mind me asking?”

“Ah, Judge Magister Gabranth.” Alma assumed that would be the end of Penelo's questioning, but the girl cocked her head to the side.

“Seriously?”

Penelo stared down at Gabranth's distinctive form below them, next to Zargabaath both armor-less, side by side in their black dress uniforms with thin ceremonial blades crossed over their waists.

“Huh. How... interesting. You've spent time in Archades then I'm guessing?”

“Not until recently.”

“How do you know him?”

Music from string instruments flowed from downstairs, and the battering of a harsh wind rustled leaves by the window.

“I'm working with him on something.”Alma replied cryptically, “I'm not supposed to say, but--.”

Below, the tempo of music slowed and the procession of Ondore's highest regarded guests began with Queen Ashelia of Dalmasca and Captain Morrid following close behind in his own ceremonial wear.

“-- admittedly, it was your friend Larsa who invited me in his stead. For appearances sake.”

Penelo and Alma had simultaneously accepted tall flutes of a bubbly beverage being passed by a servant on a tray and Penelo sipped hers and giggled. “Oh. Sounds about right.”

Alma studied her for a moment. The flickering of the chandeliers cast funny shapes across her face but she still appeared youthful in every right. It was refreshing. She hadn't spoken with anyone other than Ramza in this way since...

“You don't mean you know him too.” Alma nodded in Gabranth's direction, now with hims arms across his chest.

“Sort of.” Penelo paused, clearly unsure of what to say. “I guess I met him a few times. I knew his brother.”

Since Tietra.

“Knew?”

Penelo's feet shifted, and the drink in her glass swayed, threatening to spill over the top. “Before he um, died. A few years ago.”

Penelo's body language screamed of discomfort, so Alma decided to drop the questions despite her curiosity.

“Well, Miss Penelo,” Alma proclaimed, beaming at her, “You seem very well connected. I'm impressed.”

Penelo laughed nervously. They watched the procession for several minutes before Penelo finally spoke again.

“So you guys must be working on something pretty important, huh? You and Gabranth.” Penelo shrugged. “You, know. Because of his job.”

“His job?”

“Judge Magister of the 9th Bureau. They gather information or something don't they?”

“I... suppose we are.” Alma frowned down at him from above. In truth, she didn't know much about any sort of organization at all. She answered only to Gabranth thus far, and she understood that he answered to Larsa. It hadn't fully occurred to her that any revelation she may have in her quest to rid herself of Ultima's possession of her-- however loose it was, that Gabranth would make every effort to be privy to that information as well.

On the contrary, it was likely he was withholding information from within his 'bureau' from her as well. The thought was frustrating-- she was tired of this cycle; being used and exploited for an institution that subjected herself, when she was even younger and greener than Penelo to trauma and torture to gain the upper hand.

And for what?

“I can't imagine what it'd be like to know all the secrets in Archadia... They're not investigating you, are they?” Penelo pressed. The room was incredibly loud as it filled slowly with nobility as they were introduced. Lords of Rozarria now strut below, headed by the introduction of Lord Al-Cid Margrace.

Alma shrugged, off handedly wishing Penelo was Tietra, because the fifteen year old girl in her wanted to unburden herself of Archadia's secrets while the adult in her wanted to absorb them all the same.

Penelo's hand shot out to grip her arm. “For what?” But when her eyes met Alma's-- honey-brown and innocent. She was as lovely and intelligent as she was curious and gentle, and she must've mulled her words in her mind because she quickly detracted: “It doesn't matter. C'mon. It looks like we can go downstairs now.” She maintained her hold on Alma's arm, leading her down the staircase, but taking care to turn around and warn her:

“Watch your drink consumption tonight. It hits you harder up here than down below.”

But instead of doubling back to their own room they moved to the master bedroom-- it was closer and felt safer in that moment. Basch reached up with both hands and gripped the heavy iron handles and pulled as hard as he could, and amongst his efforts Noah attempted to leap inside as soon as there was enough of an opening available before Basch was ready, only to be intercepted by Basch and the latter tripped over the former, and the two toppled into a squirming pile onto the wolfskin lain at the entrance to the room.

The footsteps were climbing the stairs then, and in a state of panic he and Noah both slid under the bed in the center of the room in an unusual state of disarray since their mother had hastily pulled the blankets back when she left it.

They lay under the bed side by side with their bellies against the hardwood flood, breathing heavily.

Basch knew the footsteps were that of his mother, but the situation was still unsettling for him. Together they listened as the footsteps came closer. Basch looked to Noah and swallowed, wanting to jump out from under the bed and run to her but for some reason fear kept him still. That, and Noah put his finger to his lips to silence any sort of suggestion.

The hem of their mother's robe brushed her ankles when she entered and froze in the doorway, her feet bare and laden with distended and stressed veins in their view, apparently in contemplation at the bedroom door being ajar. She was still for a minute, and now Basch's fear transitioned to the uneasiness of being caught out of bed at such a late hour, and he knew Noah felt the same so they just lay in quiet, unsure of what to do next.

The bare feet paced to the bed and stopped. Basch's lips parted, yearning to yell or to blurt out apologies, but a moment later their mother brought her knees to the floor, and then her palms, and before he could speak her face appeared just above the braid over her shoulder that touched the floor. Freckles of gold over a thin bridge of nose; hard blue eyes looking brighter under a new layer of redness over the whites of her eyes.

They both stiffened blinking back at her in the darkness. She wasn't a stern woman, but she believed strongly in structure and bedtime was a very strict topic with her since before they could remember. But her cheeks were wet and red, and when her face registered them she appeared visibly relieved.

“What's under here?” She whispered at them in the dark. It was apparent to them that she'd been crying, yet her face slowly formed a soft smile.

“We heard noises. We were scared.” Basch sputtered.

“Are you crying, mama?” Noah whispered back at her. It was the first time he'd minded his tone all night.

Their mother sniffled and wiped an eye before replying with an unconvincing “No.” She waved him over to her. “Come here, love.”

Noah obeyed and she gripped him by the back of his collar like the scruff of the neck of a pup and beckoned Basch to follow. She rose, lifting Noah into one arm and took Basch by the hand to lead them to her bed.

It was all very strange, because she'd never allowed them into that room at night even when they were babes, and now she held them both closely on either side of her.

Basch crawled and snuggled into the blankets and the crook of her shoulder, the soft golden hair than fell over her shoulder brushed his face and when he inhaled it, smelling something comforting and sweet.

When he looked at her more tears spilled over her cheeks, and she lifted her arm from it's place around him ti wipe her cheeks again.

“Who was that man?” Basch asked her, confused and unsettled by her.

She lay on her back, looking directly at the ceiling. “He is your father's friend.”

“Why did he come?” Noah whispered from the opposite side of her.

“He...” Their mother hiccuped and frowned, holding her breath as if the words that she'd ought to say were too much to bear.

A creeping suspicion swelled within him.

“It's okay, mama.”

Penelo had seen him from afar, in distant ceremonial halls in Rabanastre after which Ashe would tease him about how tall he'd gotten, but not this close, as this fete allowed. He practically towered over her now, as she should've suspected, given Vayne and his other brothers' height, but it was still strange; like she was looking at a different version of him that was being portrayed in a painting in the halls of the citadel of Archades or in the ceremonial halls of the tombs underneath.

Larsa bowed when he saw her, and to her horror, her new friend Alma was nowhere to be seen, most likely scattered like dust when she caught a full grasp of the situation at hand.

Penelo laughed uncomfortably at him.

“Stop that.”

Larsa raised his face to hers, an arm still sticking out ceremoniously. His eyes were emerald green-- brighter than she'd remembered them being, and he just looked so old.

But not in a bad way. Everything about him was taller, more masculine, and she could see how he'd begun to become conditioned in Basch's training regimen as his shoulders were ever so slightly broadening as he grew, so that his practically had Vayne's stature even at such a young age, though his features lacked Vayne's cruelty.

His dress clothes were a dark green, complimenting both the darkened colors that Archadia favored and the hue of his eyes.

Penelo mockingly curtsied for him in rebuttal and his hand shot out to grab her in the middle of the movement, when the lining of her gown had just barely been caught between her thumb and middle finger, but her latched her so quickly that she'd been stunned but flashed him an unsteady smile. He countered with a grip on her forearm and a sharp tone she'd never heard him use towards her before:

“Don't.”

“M'lord, I only want to avoid a scandal.” Penelo was grinning now, competing with him in his own game and she playfully completed her curtsy while balancing her drink in one hand.

Larsa groaned while smiling still, running a hand atop his ear though a stubborn dark lock of hair spilled back over his cheekbone.

“Surely, you've been involved in scandals greater than this?”

Penelo giggled, accepting his hand as it was offered. “Surely, with sky pirates nonetheless. But not with an emperor. I need to mind my manners, or my head is at stake.”

Larsa raised an eyebrow at her, pulling her toward him. “Are you sure? 'Tis only yur head.”

“Well, to be honest...” Penelo looked to the floor, distantly watching Ashe skillfully disengage what she assumed to be an aristocratic suitor from Archades with the loud proclamation for a need for another drink and the click of her silvery heels that moved under the hem of her gown, “I was kidnapped in this very town, you see. And it was the son of the emperor who saved me.”

Larsa's mouth twitched. “In this town? I thought it was a safest town around,” He brushed imaginary dust from his shoulder dramatically. “I must speak with Ondore about this filth in this place.”

“No.” Penelo laughed as she corrected him, “I was kidnapped in Rabanastre, then I was brought here.”

“Oh.” Larsa bit his lip before continuing, as if testing her level of humor while suppressing a telltale smile. “Rabanastre, what a dump! 'Tis no wonder.”

Penelo smacked his arm playfully, wrinkling her nose in amusement.

Alma seated herself beside Gabranth. She'd anticipated an evening of silence beside him, which she wasn't opposed to. Although she wasn't a stranger to fetes or the customs they held she knew her presence here was solely based on the whim of the emperor, and she preferred to let the evening pass in peace.

But to her surprise, he spoke to her.

“I see you've met Penelo.”

She looked to him, the white line of the scar the severed his brow appearing completely white under bright chandeliers. There was no eye contact from him as he busied himself with the food on his plate.

“I did. She shares your tendency for a rather unusual collection of friends.”

The corner of his eye sharpened; the slightest hint of a smile. “Aye, she does.”

Across the room, Ashe walked with a glass, determined to find her seat near where Ondore laughed loudly with a group of ambassadors, but a servant stopped her, holding a tray and Ashe frowned and held up the half full glass before the man incredulously, indicating how outrageous he was for even suggesting she partake more so quickly. Her expression glowered as him as he retreated and Alma watched the scene in amusement.

“Penelo says you lost your brother several years back. My condolences.”

“The Marquis announced his death, yes.”

An odd choice of words, Alma thought, but she disregarded them. “It's a grief I've known myself.” She felt her voice tainted with sadness and immediately regretted it; she wasn't searching for pity, unless his pity would sway him into caving to her demands, and she knew by then that it wouldn't.

“So you've mentioned, I'm sorry for that.”

“It's all right.” Alma became suddenly aware of how aggressively she'd pushed her food around on her plate and lowered her fork. A servant passed and topped their glasses and Alma chose to drink from hers instead.

Basch dismounted from his chocobo, irritated from the futility of his arguments when his mother insisted that he run this errand. Up until the year past, there'd been a household servant available to make runs in this neighboring town, and after that it was Noah's task.

But the two had broken into a wrestle in the pig pen that morning just outside the stables when their chore had turned into a competition, and then a playful brawl. They'd grown accustomed to that being a location outside their mother's range of view from her kitchen window, but when she was kneading dough and heard what she knew was Noah's howl of pain from when he slid under Basch's swing and rolled his ankle from the awkward movement on a slick surface and she came running, calling them out in horror by name at their state of filth, taking no pity on Noah no matter how badly he hobbled, so Basch reluctantly helped him to the bath inside the manse with an arm across his shoulders. Noah's task to go into town was now Basch's and Noah moaned in protest at their mother from his bed, and his despair was only met with her scowl and the slam of the bedroom door.

The shopkeeper greeted him from the entrance of the store, a heavyset dark haired man wiping his hands on his apron. He squinted down at Basch through bushy eyebrows as Basch counted the gil his mother had sent him with, and dropped it into the burly shopkeeper's hand.

“There's tea in there this time, son. That'll be two-hundred more.”

Basch fumbled with the coin purse again, dropping the extra change into the man's palm as he pocketed the rest.

“The Ronsenburg order is in the back,” The man motioned with a tilt of his head.

Basch walked to his chocobo and proceeded to lead it by the bridle on the dirt path around the shop to the storage shed that had been indicated to him. He entered, walking past several storage rooms on either side until finding the shelves labeled with his family's name and went to work pulling sacks of flour from the shelf and out to the cart behind his chocobo.

Beside the shop was the house where the shopkeeper and his family lived, and the threshold of the storage where he worked faced directed toward the back porch. A lone figure appeared from a door, cautiously watching him, and he ignored it; he was in a hurry to complete his errand. By the time he was halfway done, he was dragging bushels of wheat to the middle of the shed before he needed to stop and wipe his brow with his forearm.

It was an annoying task, yet it seemed to take Noah far longer, even when the travel time was considered. Basch gloated to himself for a moment until the door to the storage opened and a girl walked through, devilishly holding a finger to her lips as she stepped over stray beans that littered the floor, spilt from his hasty efforts.

Her hair was an unusual shade of burnt auburn, and freckles of an early summer scattered across her face and where the dip in her neckline met her shoulder blades She was pretty in the simplest of ways; like how a young man surmised that a young woman was alluring just enough when she went looking for his attention, but not so much that he'd go out of his way to encounter her. But Basch only looked at her, puzzled, taking her hint to keep quiet but not clear as to why or who she was.

“Noah!”

She stepped lightly toward him, bringing her arms tightly around his neck before he could manage to anything. Basch stood limp and confused, weakly returning the embrace with a single arm above the small of her back where her skirt was tied about her waist, and he felt her slide her hands to the rim of his belt and pull him against her and with a swift upward tilt of her forehead, she brought her lips to his and kissed him.

He froze, unsure of what to do and taken aback as he'd never done such a thing before, but clearly she had. She pulled back, smiling as she lifted her hands from his belt and wrapped her arms around his neck again, kissing him a second time more forceful than the first.

He was conflicted-- not particularly as enthusiastic as she was, but yet unwilling to bid her to stop.

“What's wrong?”

“N-nothing.” Basch stammered, immediately feeling guilt as she tightened her hold on his neck again, pulling him downward to her again arching her back and he was dumbstruck but he finally caved-- momentarily, just enough to attempt to mimic her and bring his hands to her waist, the fabric was light against her skin which was incredibly warm.

It wasn't that he never thought about being this way with girls, but with the strict regimen of studying, training, and chores his mother set for him and Noah there was just never the opportunity. They had little interaction with anyone outside of their estate, let alone girls their age.

Clearly Noah had found ways to bypass the strict shelter of their mother.

And he'd never have guessed kissing to be quite so wet.

It was wrong to deceive someone, he knew. She pulled back again. “Are you ill? You're acting strange.”

Basch shook his head, entirely too aroused to think otherwise but unable the shake the guilt building within him all the same.

He pulled her against him as she had done to him, finally feeling the confidence to do so. She broke the kiss briefly after, smiling sympathetically up at him-- a smile that Basch would later learn was a social cue indicating waning patience.

“Um. Perhaps we should try something else?”

Basch blinked. Something else?

Surely, she didn't mean--

Her arms released him only briefly, small and quick fingers moving downward in the silent stillness of the storage shed. Just as he could feel her unfastening his belt, he roughly shoved her backwards with one hand as the other held his pants up at the belt. It was a knee jerk reaction, it surely could've been carried out better

“Wha-?” Her shoulders slammed against the walls, making the final consonant of her protest falter from his force on her and she stared back him, her face contorted in outrage.

“--I'm not Noah.” He blurted.

“What?”

“He's my brother, we are identical.”

“If you didn't want to be with me you could just say so.”

“I-I swear it,” He gestured to himself with one hand, “My name is Basch. I'm not Noah. You...”

He reached a hand out sympathetically, now feeling remorse for pushing her so roughly. She swatted his hand away, stepping backwards from him.

“Basch.” She laughed incredulously, “I see, at times you are Noah, at times you are Basch. I presume you must be the identical twin brother of convenience who is also especially bad at kissing?”

Basch frowned. “I-I wasn't expecting... you startled me!” He jabbed a finger at her accusedly.

She rolled her eyes, lifting her hands in the air as if in mock surrender. Her ridicule made his cheeks burn, and he knew his face was flushed pink.

“I'll not bother you with my presence any further!” She slammed the door to the storage dramatically, sending clouds of dust scattering from shelves that lined the wall, and a basin of clay toppled from one, shattering into hundreds of pieces across the floor.

Raminas had unwittingly relayed to his only daughter his approach to all manners of international affairs in a casual social context: Ashe accepted cordial gestures with specific praises: favorable statements that proved that she was paying attention to the smallest of events, complimented diplomats' wives on the fine quality of their jewelry and whatever else she knew it was that women such as that took pride in, smiled warmly for children, remembered names, accepted invitations to dance freely, and avoided contact with fellow guests that she was actually the most fond of, as rumor of favoritism and affairs were sure to catch afire and spread like flames over a forest canopy-- her greetings to Larsa and Basch were particularly brief and dry for this reason. And drinking was absolutely a necessity, even when she wasn't particularly feeling up to it, because it loosened her to the point to where she could actually enjoy herself.

She stood before a window as the sun set, feeling impulsive and wanting to take to the skies as a sky pirate would.

Penelo was giddy, because she'd finished her plate at a pace she knew would be a proper speed but yet she was done well before any of the noble ladies seated in the room, and she attempted to mind her own warning to Alma regarding the drinks. Larsa had a way of making her feel not-so-out-of-place, a skill she was aware of and appreciated as he pushed his own plate, half eaten and clearly not as finished as it should've been for him to turn towards her with an elbow on the table.

As it was, she'd never have been able to fathom him behaving so casually as the twelve year old boy she'd met years ago. But whatever unsavory maneuver Larsa pulled he managed to carry it through with charm, whether he was escaping his security detail to investigate mines in Bhujerba or associating with the very people his own brother conspired against.

So comparatively, inviting a Dalmascan war orphan as a guest and leaning an elbow on the table to talk to her wasn't a very far stretch for him after all.

She told him about Vaan-- how his itch for excitement (which she was wise enough to understand was an itch for distraction) had kept them busy, and how the features of the Galbana were nowhere near the caliber of the Strahl, he clearly loved his own ship that much more.

Their ship. And on that thought, she bit her lip with worry for him.

Larsa's face fell, he was clearly noticing her now vacant expression.

“What's the matter?”

Penelo scanned the room to where Ashe stood before a window, balancing on the heels on her shoes with expertise despite the slight sway in her stature.

She didn't know why, but she lied: “She looks sad.”

Larsa turned his head to the direction that she jerked her chin at her target, his lips slightly parted, running his tongue over the inside of his mouth lightly. When he recognized it was Ashe by her fine white silks he smiled and shook his head.

“Don't worry for her. She's done a fine job taking lead of Dalmasca.”

Penelo frowned. “That doesn't mean she's happy.”

“These ballrooms are often filled with unhappy, however otherwise productive people.” Larsa shrugged.

“It's a party, isn't it? Shouldn't everyone be having a good time?” Penelo looked down at her hands now folded in her lap, realizing how naive that rationale was the moment her heard it in her own voice. She prided herself on being more open-minded than most, but as times these realizations of her own limitations slipped through the cracks.

She cocked her head, “Are you happy?”

Larsa nodded. “I am now.”

The uncharacteristic bluntness of his statement and the contents of her beverage made her laugh, momentarily forgetting about Ashe's lone figure at the window.

“This place is way lamer than I remember it being.” Vaan slurred.

Balthier snorted. Fran didn't make eye contact when he glanced her way, but he knew from that fact that she'd indulged in Hume drinking alone that she wished to dull Vaan's enthusiasm. Over the years with her, he's learned that viera were just a susceptible to alcohol as humes were; though they generally disliked the taste and sensation; viera over drinkers simply didn't exist for a reason. The fact that Fran was even open to trying it made her an outlier all by itself.

“The last time we were here I believed you'd only had liquor twice in your life and you weren't expected to hold it so well.” Balthier leaned back in his chair, arms crossed.

Vaan leaned into his elbows on the table, pushing his hair back with both his hands, his face in a heavy (however drunken) pout.

“No,” Vaan frowned at him, “I've been here plenty of times with Penelo, but she's not here.”

Balthier sighed, now fully understanding what the evening's over drinking and muddled words were all about: a youthfuelled ambition to win over a girl who'd from all accounts that Balthier could tell, had already been won over before she attracted the attention of another, more ambitious boy of arguably more suitable character, and though the evening began with Vaan demanding every detail of his and Fran's extrication from the Bahamut, and then even second of every adventure since, and then everything he knew of the ceremonial site they were to explore-- though his knowledge didn't surpass Fran's.

But the fact remained that Penelo had left him for more politically ambitious endeavors, and this had left him reeling.

“Cheer up, will you?” Balthier willed him.

Reddas chuckled under the cover of his hooded cloak. As famous as he was in Balfonheim, his scars made in indecipherable to most at first glance, and that mixed with the widespread belief that he was dead by the Suncryst made him practically incognito.

“'Tis hard to cheer up when your girl is a guest of royalty in a manse high above the clouds while you remain on the ground below, especially as a sky pirate I'd imagine.” Reddas' rich voice rang with mirth and pity.

“Penelo...” Vaan slurred, “Are you happy up there in your comfy chair?”

Balthier sighed slowly. “That does it then.” He nodded to Fran, who rose from her seat with grace, though she was surely touched by her beverage herself.

“I'll settle the tab.”

Balthier rose, pulling Vaan by the scruff of his vest with him. “I've been around my share of drunks, mind you, but when it comes to mourning the whims of women I've no tolerance.”

Reddas braced the younger man with an arm about his waist as he pulled Vaan's arm around his neck and Fran stepped gracefully around them to the bar.

Balthier finished his glass of ale, hoping his senses were 'dulled' enough as Ashe put it to put lingering thoughts of her to rest. He'd see her in the morning if she kept true to her promise, and in truth he knew she'd make every attempt to do so, even if the necessity of her presence was debatable. Basch had put it best on the Bahamut:

“A queen might always 'run away' with the help of a sky pirate looking to raise his bounty.”

Kidnapping royalty was an insurmountable bounty, he knew, even if the royalty in question was willing to be kidnapped temporarily, but he knew better than to believe such terms would last.

“C'mon boy,” Reddas urged Vaan as they passed through the doorway of the tavern, “Let's get you back to the lodging Penelo had secured you, hm?”

Balthier lead them out into the cobblestone street, his steps arguably less steady than he was accustomed to them being; two drinks of ale and several glasses of whiskey in ice had made them that way, but he held composure nevertheless.

“Penelo is so nice.” Vaan said to Reddas, making the older man's nose wrinkle in the corners from the stench of his breath, “She always looks out for me, ya know?”

Balthier rolled his eyes. “If you start crying out here I'll leave you where it starts.” He walked several paces in front of Reddas and Vaan, and the gas lamps from the street lit their way to Maela's from the tavern.

Fran joined them several paces later, having settled their tab for what Balthier knew to be less than what they actually owed-- a typical tactic of theirs since before the war: Ashe was always too frank to negotiate to common folk and Penelo too sweet.

“You'd leave me?” Vaan slurred incredulously, light-blue eyes wide in disbelief, “After all we've been through?!”

“C'mon boy, it's your whining that he's speaking to,” Reddas reassured him, helping steady him along.

Fran cast a casual glance over her shoulder as she walked beside Balthier, “Perhaps you'd be best off if we dropped you at the brothel instead?”

Vaan's head shot up as his brow furrowed at her. “What? How can you-”

“It is only a suggestion.” She shrugged.

It was a suggestion that Balthier had though of himself, though he knew better than to say.

They arrived in front of Maela's house, but the usual torchlight in front was extinguished; not entirely unreasonable, given the late hour and Maela was a practical elderly lady from what Vaan had described of her in his more sober moments.

But something was still off. For a boarding house, it sure have a foreboding appearance in the dark. Reddas eased Vaan up the steps as Balthier reached for the door handle in the dark. He pulled down, obviously anticipating the release and click to grant the access.

But, nothing happened. The handle stalled halfway, and a candle burned near to the bottom in a front window on the top floor only, hinting at vacancy on the bottom floor entirely where Maela was to stay.

“Are you sure you don't have a key?” Balthier inquired, turning around to face the drunken younger man being eased up the stairs by a cloaked former Judge Magister.

Vaan shook his head. “Never. We always just walk right in.” Vaan swung his free arm up for emphasis, clumsily narrowly missing Balthier with it by a sliver of distance by his shoulder.

Balthier frowned and tried again.

“Unless you've got a key or you suggest we break and enter you through your own window--”

“Noo...” Vaan groaned, “None of this would happen if Penelo was here...”

“I think he's lost it.” Reddas observed, and Balthier nodded in agreement.

“If we put him in Reddas' room in the brothel we can stay aboard the Strahl. The house is vacant.” Fran reasoned simply, her ears twitching for some kind of signal.

It was a simple solution in Fran's terms, so Balthier took it. “I'm afraid no one's concerned for you in your girl's absence,” he reasoned to the younger man who hung his head, defeated. “Let's get you to a bed.”

“I'll be sober by the time I find a bed at this rate.” Vaan mourned, causing the two men in his company to laugh amidst the strangeness of the situation.

“Good. If you're hungover at daybreak it'll make for a slow start.” Balthier chastised him as they walked back down the street in the opposite direction from whence they came.

The Marquis was engaged by diplomats, and Ashe was grateful for the time he'd taken to share breakfast with her when she arrived that morning, so that she wouldn't feel quite so strange leaving him be for the night.

Captain Morrid drank as heavily as he worked, and a chronic womanizer to boot. Unsavory for some, but, as Ashe passed him on her way across the room with an amicable nod. She felt guilty for thinking it, but after enduring Vossler's paranoia then Basch's stoicism she welcomed the appeal of having a lighter-hearted commander at her side.

It wasn't to go without saying that she hadn't missed the former two terribly, among others.

Ashe pushed open the twin doors, venturing to a courtyard lined with tall hedges. Crickets sang in the dark and lightning bugs winked at her in the dark. She sat on a stone bench, alone in the darkness, until a servant passed through to light the torches around, for which she nodded her gratitude in the flickering firelight.

She knew of the importance of her presence that evening, but in truth she longed for her toes to be tickled by the trickling sands of the Estersand, and to meet Balthier again at the gates of another adventure; without the sense of desperation for her crown and without the impending doom of the world and nethicite.

“This seat taken?”

Ashe turned, alarmed by the intrusion but softened when she spotted Al-Cid emerge from the path from the manse.

She shook her head, and he forwent his typical introduction of a steep bow and the gentle brush of her knuckles under his lips and and unsettlingly suggestive remark.

“Your majesty remains elusive these days.” Al-Cid brushed whatever non visible dust there was on the seat beside her before settling down with a huff.

Ashe suppressed a smile. “Not as elusive as you, Prince-Rozarrian. I haven't heard a single word from you since my coronation.”

“Ah, that. I remember it well. Your Rabanastrian reds were exceptionally deceptive in their sweetness, and I was in bed for days with a bellyache.”

Ashe leaned back onto the shoulder of the stone seat, setting her chin in a palm. “You blame the wine, but I've taken notice of your brother's presence in lieu of yours at every event. Were you still recovering from reds then?”

Al-Cid's eye narrowed at her. “I haven't been well.”

“Well that is obvious.”

Al-Cid ignored her sharp quip, “Speaking of my brother, he told me a tale. That of a queen vanishing from her tent on Mt. Bur-Omisace from the wee hour of the morning, only to emerge hours later injured, and in the company of the Archadian Judge Magister.”

His words were carried in a light-hearted cadence but loaded with every sense of accusation, and Ashe met his gaze with a glare.

“I do not know why you tell me of such tales, it sounds as if you've presumed enough on your own as it is.”

Al-Cid sighed, leaning forward so that his elbows rested on his knees and folding his hands in one another loosely.

“I do not care of whatever the truth was, your majesty; I only wish to see you happy. And I know you must wish to see your kingdom secure after a few troublesome years.”

He turned back to her, his chin to his shoulder in a direct stare that locked her eyes into his. She knew his meaning, even if the subject matter felt like a heavy rock to the pit of her stomach.

“Al-Cid...” His encounter with her tonight was not scripted, but it was intentional, and she knew the what the next words would be before he could say them:

“Why don't you come to Ambervale?”

The predictability made the edges of her mouth curl.

“Al-Cid, I don't know...” She murmured, having been caught on the spot even with all the predictability. The timing of everything was bad, she'd only just begun to get a grasp on her reign, and she'd only just begun to reunite with Balthier.

Her thoughts were interrupted with his grasp on her bare arm. “Peace, majesty, this is no marriage proposal.”

Ashe blinked. “It certainly feels like one.”

Al-Cid laughed, pulling a small red fruit from an inner pocket of his jacket, offering to to her. Before she could say anything in protest he laid it into her hand. “You're beginning to make me feel as if my ancestral home is unfit for royalty of your status: you must think we eat chocobo dung and engage in illicit activities. Come to Ambervale when you are ready. The sunsets there are unlike any you've ever seen.”

Ashe rejected the round fruit initially, retorting with a frown, “That is a bold declaration, I've seen sunsets from the middle of the skies; a pirate's view.” She set her eyes on his, and she knew he caught her meaning.

His offer of the fruit persisted until she accepted it with an obvious expression on consternation. “A pirate's view will be hard to beat,” Al-Cid considered for a moment, “But it will not bring your people peace. Likely, it would bring the opposite.”

And with that he rose, leaving her there in the flickering torchlight as the chorus of insects had grown louder and more time passed since the dying of the wind . His shadow disappeared into the lights of the manse and Ashe sat on her own, turning the fruit over in her hands, inspecting it silently. It was neither from Bhujerba or Dalmasca, and the only logical explanation was that Al-Cid had carried it all the way from Rozarria for her.

She bit down, delicately, so that her front teeth made contact with eh flesh of the fruit and her red-painted lips spared with an ounce in indulgent spontaneity, and the sweet juices caused a physical reaction within her, an involuntary flex of the muscles around her jawline. It was uncomfortable, but it wasn't nearly as bad as the influx of tears that rushed under her eyes that she blinked back in fury with herself.

Alma excused herself as soon as the dancing began and dessert and additional drinks were served. She was already feeling herself sway in the copious pourings from the servants and wished to spare herself from any further scrutiny under Gabranth's eye. She appraised him to at least be an honor bound man at this point, but his intentions were still unclear Larsa was hardly paying any attention to the goings on of the evening so there was little need to stay close to either of them when she was free to roam.

Some her favorite life moments occurred in quiet nights like this. She stepped out the doors to the evening, donning a scarlet shawl that was graciously bestowed upon her by a servant at the door, and the gardens outdoors loomed tall over her with hedges. The subtle sounds of insects chirping in the darkness signaled that the winds had stopped and it was now safe to roam the grounds.

The air up there was strange: thinner, less satisfying to her lungs, so much that she assumed people must go mad up here from lack of air. It would be over a millennia from now that she'd lay out in the grass barefoot with Ramza, escaping curious eyes and bounty hunters even after the news of her own funeral; the Church's farce while covering their tracks by ensuring she didn't live through the ordeal. There were many night time rides on roads that inquisitors frequented.

Alma wrapped the shawl tightly across her chest and walked alone in the darkness. Inside the manse, the swell of music carried outside through glass panes, and occasionally grew louder momentarily only when a guest chose to enter or leave the courtyard.

She wandered into the hedges, only passing awkwardly by bantering couples and the occasional gentry man who'd stepped out to light a pipe, casting her interested eyes and she averted every glance.

But why did she? Her entire adolescence was monitored by her elder brothers and even all those years she was on the road with Ramza she could hardly get close to anyone else. I truth, Isilud was the closest thing she'd had with intimacy with anyone.

Unless Ultima fed that appetite for her. But though those encounters involved her body, they didn't involve her.

There was a man nearly ten years back, who worked in a tavern they'd frequented and monitored for rumors, and when he came close to saying anything remotely flirtatious she'd felt Ramza's eyes bore into him so harshly that he retreated, and she couldn't even find it in herself to be angry with her brother; what hope could she have of achieving any kind of closeness with anyone?

She'd wandered to a stray corner of the gardens, drunkenly eyeing for the door of the manse again, wishing to distinguish the best pathway back to it to establish that she was going to bed, and that she'd see her party for breakfast the following morning before they departed back to Archades.

And she'd be one step closer to the archives and the book Gabranth had shown her.

An elderly woman sat alone on a bench, short and hunched over in stature, dressed in soft-colored serving robes the way that some of the servant inside were; but her appearance out in the night felt a little out of place, and when Alma approached her while smiling politely as she sank onto the bench beside the woman, the coldness of the stone spread through the thin layers of the fabric in her gown to her flesh and she stiffened.

The temperature had dropped incredibly fast it seemed, and her seat felt like ice.

“I've waited for you.” The woman told her, and Alma could only tightened her shawl about her shoulders for warmth, and ponder what a strange greeting she'd been given.

“I'm sorry?”

A wry smile. Alma's muscles tensed by she chose to remain beside the elderly woman nonetheless.

“A clear night,” The woman spoke again, clearly not caring to offer any explanation for her cryptic words, “Ivalice changes by the moment. By the second. Gateways have been opened, of course you know of that. You stood in the graveyards of airships?”

“What brings you here tonight?” Alma asked her cautiously.

Alma faced Ramza on a decaying airship when she felt her body fail her completely for the first time; prior to that she'd awaken after hours unaccounted for, far from her captors but wearing naught but a thin white nightgown, or a lack of clothing completely. At times there'd be blood caked over her fingertips as if her nails raked raw flesh, or at her mouth and caked into her teeth, making her stomach curl in reflexive disgust.

But in the airship graveyard her body's possession was laid bare for the last of her kin, with the stockings on her shoeless feet caught snagged on rough surfaces of splintering wood as she walked to Ramza as he was frantically calling her by name but her hips groaned in protest and she instead vomited as she walked, stubbornly pushing Ajora to the depths of her subconsciousness, but the words that escaped her lips were still not her own:

“I am come once more.”

But the church wasn't present in this time, or at least the viera in the wood seemed to make no mention of it, and Ajora was likely not even born, so there was no logical reason for this woman to be making the connections that it seemed to Alma that she was making.

The woman rose, swatting away Alma's hands that reached to steady her, and she strolled before her, a modest lavender gown swaying in the night like thousands of straying limbs.

“Have you ever been asked to bear witness?” The woman asked, and Alma mulled the loaded question about in her mind.

“I had a brother branded a heretic,” Alma spoke, letting the truth spill from her lips in what she perceived to be a sacred . “I was his only witness for a time, other than his own men.”

“He must've committed a great crime.”

“A great crime indeed,” Alma repeated, “He spoke for corruption on what it was.”

“And what was the cost?”

“The cost...” Alma struggled to answer her, swallowing saliva when she remembered it all. Tietra's bloody fall in the snow had been the spark that ignited a war. The church she'd been raised in, that cultivated the sensitivity she had for the healing magicks and Father Simon who bore the same robes as the men who tied her to symbols on the floors of the basement of the monastery to ceremoniously offer her body to their resurrected saint, holding virgo's burning auracite before her as she screamed and cried in terror.

They were all liars; greedy men who only wished to use her as a vessel.

But then, she pursed her lips and her whole body went tense. The symbols from Dr. Cid's papers were exactly in the manner of the floors that she was restrained upon; a means of summons for the otherworldly being that haunted her after all the years that had gone by.

“It cost him everything.”Alma whispered in response, and it was true. The elder Beoulve sons were turned to the undead: flesh eaters and blood drinkers and she... was barely above that. Ramza had stayed pure and yet had been denied a funeral.

Her wandering thoughts were interrupted by eh woman's voice, now so low, Alma had to lean into her slightly to hear:

“You're here to fulfill a prophecy.”

“A prophecy?”

“Yes,” The elderly woman extended a finger, pointing it toward Alma almost accusingly, “One that will be recorded in scripture, but not in this era. My whole life...”

Alma swallowed, a deep feeling in her gut warning of her of what was to come, though she refused to believe it. The elderly woman continued.

“My whole life I was made to believe that I was insignificant. I was sold into the sex trade by dock workers out of Balfonheim, and indentured servant of prostitution in the brothel to repay my father's debts.”

Alma fought the urge to rose, or perhaps she knew she wanted to rise to grab this woman but the shoulders and simply lacked the courage to do so.

“I-I can't imagine,” Alma replied, in complete denial of the woman's confession. She shuddered and closed her eyes, recalling Dycedarg's judgmental gaze upon her whenever she appeared more confident than he wished, or more dignified than the daughter of the courtesan who seduced his father should've.

“No you can't!” Maela jabbed her finger at Alma accusingly, “Not in the way that I have! We've been waiting for you, and we've another lined up to take your place should you fail us!”

Alma cocked her head, now recalling Maela's whispers in the dark that drew her to this spot in the first place:

“Saint Ajora.”

“You think...” Alma rose and paced before Maela, shaking her head. “That name means nothing.”

Maela laughed and grinned, clutching her mouth in her hands in a childlike prose. “It was you. All along, since before you were chosen by the auracite, and you're hear for me to witness it!”

Tears appeared to gather in her eyes, and Alma grabbed her, clutching her by both shoulders, shaking her lightly as she spoke.

“Witness what?”

Maela continued to laugh, glee elicited with every syllable: “The Marquis will die by poison tonight by his own glass!”

Alma frowned down at Maela, then upwards towards the manse and back down at Maela, who shook herself from Alma's grasp and stepped backwards towards the hedges in the main garden. Alma slowly and hesitantly followed her as she walked, wanting to reach out and grab her roughly, to take her to the Marquis herself, but it was her experience that at times men with such a dense title had certain retribution coming their way.

So she attempted to pry:

“Poisoned how? Why?”

The woman held a finger to her lips, and in the distance, away from the gardens Alma heard what sounded like a woman in distress.

Alma turned sharply, loosening her clutch of her shawl and gripping her gown roughly by either side of her to lift the hem from the ground, ready to run in either direction. But when she turn back to where the elderly woman stood, and she was gone as mysteriously as she came. Alma whirled in circles, taking in sounds and smells and seeing to trace of her. It was then that Alma narrowed her eyes at the servants circumnavigating the door at the manse. They'd been showing bizarre behavior in the evening, but Alma chalked it up to cultural differences; almost seemingly counting footsteps, casting strange glances her way-- the same way that the woman had looked at her.

The woman's moans sounded again, and Alma inhaled sharply, lips parting as she squinted in the direction from whence they came. If there was a plot to poison the Marquis she had to alert someone: Larsa or Gabranth or whoever would listen, but first, there was also a woman in distress close by.

Alma took off, running in the direction of the grunts and as she approached she realized was coming from a garden shed in the furthest corner of the property. She ran further, lifting her gown from the ground, huffing as she followed the noise to the doors of the shed, cursing herself for not having anything to confront the offender with; the element of surprise alone would have to do.

She found the doors surprisingly unlatched, and pushed her palm down against the polished wood as hard and she could, sending the doors flying open so that they swung hard against the walls they were hinged to that tools went rattling and dropping from where they were neatly racked against the walls.

There was a man inside, dark hair cascading over his shoulder in a blue dress coat, and in front of him upon a shelf, a woman her hair dark like ebony and her legs bare as they wrapped about him, crossed at the ankles up his back. A telltale sheen of sweat layered upon the man's face as she turned and looked at Alma, exhaling sharply and smiling mischievously in realization of her predicament of his intruder.

Alma froze, realizing the situation for what it was; no woman was in distress, and it was her own naivete that misjudged that, assuming the only reason a woman would cry out would be for a reason of endangerment, and that she needed protection and intervention.

“Ah! I-I'm sorry!” Alma exclaimed, and took off running in the opposite direction, leaving the doors of the structure as wide open as she'd made them. There was no moral dilemma now; no choice of one way versus another; she'd run straight for the manse and directly to Gabranth to warn of of the old woman's words. He'd know what to do.

But she was only halfway across the courtyard when she heard footsteps bounding behind her, and she only forced her legs to pump harder, but her pursuer only gained on her, reaching out and grabbing her by the arm, forcing her to spin around to face him.

To her horror, it was the man she'd seen in the shed.

“I said I was sorry!” Alma snapped, ripping her arm from his grasp.

But he grabbed her other arm, seemingly out of breath. “You run... so fast...” He spoke out of breath, wiping his mouth at her, appearing somewhat amused.

Alma shook her head, “And you should be more discreet when you consort on he Marquis' property.”

“Alas, you are right, milady. And that is why I've interrupted my 'consort' to chase you down like the feral cat you clearly are.”

His dark eyes flashed at her playfully in the darkness, but bore no trace of menace.

“I thought she was in trouble! I won't make that mistake again!” Alma attempted to wrench her hand from him again, but he maintained his hold.

“I need to be sure that you won't speak of what you saw.” He said darkly, and Alma pulled against him in vain, studying his face that loomed over her.

He wasn't unpleasant to look at, dark eyes, dark stubble over his chin, and the dark hair they ran down his back that she remembered all too well. His accent was far more exotic of her own, and screamed of everything she'd gathered of a Rozarrian 'gentleman'.

“You're Rozarrian royalty and you're sworn to another.” Alma surmised bluntly, rolling her eyes in dismissiveness “Your escapade is safe with me, so long as your partner consented. Now let me go, please.”

The Rozarrian smiled slowly, failing to relinquish his hold as she bid him to.

“She surely did consent.”

“Then I'm very happy for you.” Alma seethed sharply, hardly offering any interest, “ I need to go now.”

“You seem very desperate.” He cocked his head to the side at her, maintaining his grip that forebode her to run any further.

“Someone indicated that they intend to poison the Marquis!” Alma blurted, finally satisfied that he rid himself of that self satisfied look on his face, when she clearly had other things to concern herself with.

“Who?” He asked her sternly, ”Who told you this?”

“I-I don't know!” Alma glanced nervously around the perimeter for a sign of the elderly woman, but there was none. She was either beyond the hedges where she disappeared or she was inside the manse to carry out the evil deed that she'd indicated would take place. “She was an older woman! She didn't tell me her name but... s-she seemed to think she knew me... l-like she was on the inside of it or something!”

“If this is true,” The man released her and his hand went to the hilt of a ceremonial sword at his waist, “Then we need to alert the Marquis at once.”

No bloodshed. She hoped it wouldn't come to that.

“That's precisely what I was trying to do.” Alma finally successfully pulled her arm from him and stomped toward the manse, lifting her gown so that she could transition to a slow jog.

“You went in the wrong direction though, milady,” The Rozarrian pressed her teasingly, “The manse is this way!”

The snow made everything silent, even more so in a dead forest in the light of day. Basch wasn't sure of why he often dreamed of this place. The sky was a crisp blue in the dead of winter, yet snow drifted from the skies regardless. Even with all the years he'd spent in Dalmascan climate which never allowed for such a thing, he still knew snow never fell from a clear clue sky such as this one.

His mother appeared to him dressed in furs from head to toe, carrying a bow across her back like a hunter. He could never recall seeing her this way-- but even with her unfamiliar youth (she was about his age when he'd seen her last) he recognized her immediately.

She never spoke; he was more an observer in this dream than anything. She'd walk for was seemed to be hours, boots lined in furs and laced with thick leather cords. Her feet sunk knee deep in snow and he'd wonder why she hadn't bothered with snowshoes for a terrain so difficult to maneuver, and the dead trees provided only minimal coverage overhead from the falling snow.

When she did finally speak to him one night it nearly stunned him as she emerged under the blue sky the way she always did. Her long golden ringlets from his memory fell to her elbows, secured only by a series of braids across the back of her head.

She nodded to him at first and he mistook it as an invitation to approach her, but she drew her bow and an arrow from her back, and pointed the head of the arrow his way.

Basch froze, hands lifted high in stunned surrender.

Wordless, she turned from him and directed her aim elsewhere, pulling the arrow back against the string of the bow with raw strength from her upper arm pulling her elbow that he was entirely unaware of his mother being capable of. She released the arrow in an expert manner and it flew from the quiver to an unseen target, humming through the dead foliage as it went.

“You resent me as Noah did,” Basch remarked sadly to her once the arrow was safe and far from her grasp, “No doubt I've caused you great pain.”

His mother said nothing, fluidly grabbing another arrow from her back and drawing it back with the quiver, not acknowledging his observation.

“You did.” She spoke at last, her voice as dark as he remembered, ringing of a sharp clarity that commanded his attention as a boy. “But not without good cause. Landis was lost.”

Another arrow shot with precision but no specific target.

“I wanted to write to you,” Basch shook his head, knowing his reasoning was futile. “But eyes were on me in Dalmasca. Landis was imperial territory and I couldn't gain attention corresponding with imperial subjects, especially in intimate letters.”

His mother gained another arrow. Surely the pack on her pack was empty now, but she seemed to gain it out of nowhere. But then, dreams were places where needs were filled in defiance of limits.

She grimaced in what appeared to be a smile under the sunlight, flecks of snow collecting on long eyelashes and the crown of her head, crow's feet showing themselves at the corners of her eyes.

“When you and Noah were born, you came in the world remarkably fast.” She told him, “But Noah was far more difficult, and you screamed the entire time no matter how the maids tried to comfort you. It took hours. I felt as if I would die.”

Basch frowned, not understanding her meaning.

She pulled back another arrow. In the distance, Basch's eyes squinted for a possible target. Still, he found none.

“I'd have assumed that I'd have been the difficult one.” Basch replied wryly.

“Nay, all this time all you've fended for is your own survival,” His mother glanced at him, a hint of a blue iris brighter than his own. “You were selfish when you needed to be. That's why you left us.”

He tried to swallow, but his throat was so dry that he couldn't do so fully. This dream was so much more vivid than the others when she didn't speak or acknowledge him at all.

“I only wanted to help.” He told her, voice faltering mid- sentence.

She shot another arrow before stopping, passing him the bow and he accepted it, his fingers curling around the smooth, polished wood of the weapon.

She revealed yet another arrow from nothing, passing it to him with her long, thin fingers just above the quiver.

“Who were you protecting when you held this weapon last?”

Basch's eyes moved downward at the bow in his hands. The sounds of the dying at Nalbina Fortress rung in his ears and he shuddered. Rasler's progressively quickening shallow breaths against him on the chocobo as he rode for their lives. But minutes earlier than those breaths he'd been cutting down foes with this bow, his eye finding the trademark gaps and weak spots in Imperial armor, slowing his breath, and at the end of his exhales releasing arrows as his mother had just done into nothing.

“Prince Rasler of Nabradia.” He answered her, “I pushed for a surrender when that paling fell, but he yearned to avenge his father.”

She looked up at him, cocking her head to the side. He was close enough to see that she had aged, even if she was the ever tall and slim figure that he recalled from childhood memory. The roots of her hair were graying and her forehead bore more lines than he was accustomed to.

“Ah, there's always a fucking war, isn't there?” His mother lifted a finger to his cheek.

Basch's eyes widened, shocked by her sharp language, but now that he recalled walking down the staircase of his childhood home in the night for water, he'd hear both her and his father cursing occasionally when they drank glasses of liquor after he and Noah went to bed.

She frowned, and her fingertips moved to run over the scar run above his eye.

“Gods you're covered in scars like this, aren't you.” She observed breathlessly, frowning as her voice faltered just as his had before as she blinked back tears. “Who did this to you?”

Basch gently gripped her wrist in his hand, feeling the pulse below her thumb. He was barely her height when he'd last seen her alive but now he stood a full head's height over her. In all her realism he knew she wasn't real, his mother was dead and buried years past and whatever remained of her manifested in a dream wearing clothes she'd never wear in an activity he knew she'd be too ladylike to perform. But yet her pulse was warm and strong against the callous on his thumb.

“Noah.”

He was in complete immersion when the expression of shock and pain struck her features, a hand rose to her mouth and her eyes widened as she looked back at him in sheer horror.

“He couldn't have.”

Basch nodded, taking her hand in his. “It's all right now. I had to repay my debt to him-- for leaving you.”

She shook her head, still eyeing him in disbelief, moving her hand from her mouth only to grab his collar with it, now clutching him with a hand to his face and his clothing.

“I never thought it would come to this--”

“I know.”

He felt snow melt against his eyelids, an icy trickle from the corner of his eyes that mimicked the heated tears from hers.

“I-I made myself ill with worry, I wanted him to find you, I never thought--”

“I know.”

Her fingers moved from his brow to his cheek bone. “I ignited his hatred, I'm afraid. I was always to scared for you, Basch. Because Noah became so much like me, and you became like your father.”

Basch frowned. “It was never my intention to abandon you. I'd planned on returning all along.”

A weak smile cross her face revealing yellowing teeth. “So had he. So perhaps it isn't abandonment if you intended to return all along.”

Still not at peace with the idea, Basch let the thought settle in his mind.

“Noah, did he pass?” She asked him, hands trailing to the front of his coat, inspecting it.

“Aye, he did. I took up his name to protect his young lord.”

His mother looked at him sternly. “You two with your lords and ladies, kings and queens and princes, did it not occur to you to live for each other? To breath life for yourselves? Or was I such a burden on you all those years that you've only grown to live only for others?”

There was so much to explain, and yet, frustratingly, Basch couldn't in the amount of time he was given. He refrained from opening his mouth and eventually she nodded her chin to the distance and spoke:

“Raise it then, show me how you would've saved your Prince Rasler.”

Basch moved as soon as she said the words, not thinking or second-guessing, feeling to familiar tension on the back of his arms as he focused through one eye.

He inhaled. The battlefield returned to his ears again along with Rasler's breaths slowly changing to short shallow croaks as his eyes shot wide open and the vessels in his neck dilated and distorted. If he'd only gotten a clear shot at the archer upon the wall instead of the man in front of him...

He exhaled.

Flecks of snow flurried about his breath, spinning and swirling in the air as their trails deviated toward the ground. It was nothing like the breath upon his glass back in his childhood home in Landis.

And the third count, like a proper soldier, he fired.

Chapter Text

Halim held his glass delicately by the stem in between his fingers. He wanted to have this moment with those who mattered most. His two oldest daughters bickered over the portions in their glasses and he cast them a single warning glance with such a stern eye that it caused them to give up the controversy, instead clutching their respective glasses and standing quietly side by side as his youngest boy rolled out from under the table to immediately be pulled by his mother in a restraining clutch with both her hands on his shoulders.

Halim looked to his wife of over twenty years, once a shy Bhujerban merchant's daughter who married him out of duty and gradually became his best friend in his sister's absence and subsequent death.

Ashe stood in the center of the crowd with Captain Morrid close behind her, echoing Raminas with her hair pulled back in plaits in the absence of a ceremonial crown. Halim suspected an engagement announcement from her in the near future, though his most likely bet on her match wasn't present in the room at the moment, other Rozarrian diplomats were. However, he'd stand behind her whatever the way.

Emperor Larsa had emerged with his guest, the fair haired Dalmascan girl who looked familiar, and he looked livelier than any other time that Halim had seen him. Larsa was typically stiff and poised as he assumed his late brother's and father's position before him, and Halim suspected whatever remained of his spare time was devoted to sleeping and if he was lucky, eating. A small smile ghosted the creases of his eyes; he remembered the days like that of his youth, when he was tormented by Ilana's turmoil.

Larsa and his guest stood behind his own family, the Dalmascan girl looking upward to him with a full smile, speaking directly into his ear with whatever words could conjure a mutual smile on his face.

Halim licked the dryness of his lips, wishing to offer a toast. He wanted to thank all of his most esteemed guests for their company and arrangement of travel, to invite them to further indulge in festivities or to retire to their quarters for the night. Most of all, he wished to turn into his quarters for the night himself.

Penelo's grip on Larsa's arm clenched when she recognized the face of the woman on the platform with Ondore.

He looked down at her inquisitively. “What's the matter?”

She knew her sudden seriousness would command his attention immediately, and it did.

“That woman...” Penelo pointed with only a flicker of movement from her forefinger at the elderly servant.

“That one?” Larsa nodded his head to a younger serving maid with a pitcher on the corner of the platform to the side of the familiar target.

“No,” Penelo pointed more directly, blinking several times as if in an attempt to clarify her vision, “That one.”

“What about her?”

“I know her.” Penelo said, frowning. “I board at her home in Balfonheim when Vaan and I stop there overnight sometimes.”

“I suppose she looks for work elsewhere. Perhaps we can say hello afterwards.”

“Sure.” Penelo agreed, pausing, then adding, “She's blind though.”

Larsa shrugged, “I suspect she's adjusted to her own condition if she is to run a boarding house?”

“Yeah, she definitely has.” Penelo replied, but seeing Maela up on that platform still felt strange, like a misplaced actor in a fever dream. Vaan was supposed to be in Balfonheim tonight, so she had at least one patron unless Vaan had opted to stay with Fran, Balthier and Reddas in the brothel instead?

The doors to the courtyard burst open, both swinging and causing a slow groan from the hinges to echo in the stiff sudden silence of the ballroom. A small blonde woman ran in, with the skirt of her gown gathered in both her fists. Long blonde hair clung and curled around her face in sweaty tendrils as she breathed heavily through parted lips. Moments later, Al-Cid Margrace of all people appeared behind her, similarly out of breath; his hand upon the hilt of the ancestral sword holstered upon a red belt.

The woman's eyes scanned the room, her fists releasing her gown and she spun around in a desperate search for a specific face no doubt, but the identity of which Halim wasn't sure.

“Lady Alma! What is the meaning of this?” Ashe called from across the room, her face stern in a blatantly disapproving glare.

“Someone intends to poison the Marquis!” Alma blurted, dark eyes wide and wild, and among the crowd Basch emerged from his stationary post in the back, quietly weaving through the crowd in the woman Alma's direction.

The room fell completely silent then if it wasn't already before. She appeared alone now, as the crowd stepped from her in horror at what was surely an ill timed joke from an intoxicated woman.

“Lady Alma--” Larsa called to her from across the room with a puzzled expression, beside him Penelo snatched his arm with her lips parted in shock.

“I can explain, but you must not sip from that glass!” Alma yelled looking directly to Halim now, her eyes boring directly into his, index finger pointing to the glass in his hand.

“Do you threaten the Marquis?” Ashe whirled around to accuse her. At his sides and across the room Halim's guard drew their weapons, causing the guests to scatter about.

And Alma stood with Ashe before her, unarmed but with tight fists clenched.

Basch stood before Alma drew his weapon and Imperial judges present followed suit around the room with their backs to the wall. Captain Morrid drew his sword in one hand and steadied Ashe behind him with a protective arm hovering inches from her elbow. And then, in a moment of tension a servant dressed in formal teal Bhjuerban serving robes stepped forth, unsheathed a dagger, and strolled to Ondore with his robes sweeping at his feet as he walked. Before Ondore could blink, the dagger penetrated his abdomen with sharp steel dividing visceral layers of tissue and blood.

He couldn't even utter a sound.

Ondore froze in shock, dropped his glass that shattered at his feet. His eyes were wide in horror. His wife screamed, and his children followed suit. His stance faltered and his knees buckled to the ground as he pressed fingers to the spreading blood from the wound and glancing up at the servant in horror as the man lowered him to the ground.

“Forgive me, m'lord,” the man uttered to him in a sudden flourish of horror than matched Halim's own: “Certain things must come to pass for--”

The last syllable of his sentence was cut off when a Bhujerban guard speared him from behind, and Halim watched as the man's mouth opened in a gasp, offering one last look of deathly closure-- a look Halim was all too close to having but as the guard withdrew his spear from Halim's attacker and called for help carrying him off he rolled his head over his shoulder in the last breath he could manage he looked his wife in her eyes, her screams only suppressed by her hands over her mouth:

“Run.”

Early autumn meant tinges of orange in the treeline that would soon give way to bursts gold and red. Picking apples from trees ended up being a competition that ultimately ended in Noah climbing the branches nimbly, pulling fruit stem by stem and tossing it to Basch down below.

In a moment of impish aggression, Noah plucked a fruit and when Basch stood ready with the basket below him, purposely dropped it on Basch's face so that it bounced off his cheek with an audible bruising force against bone.

Basch cursed, instantly dropping the apple basket while Noah laughed, further antagonizing the elder twin to leap into the low branches to pursue his assailant above, leaving fruit to tumble out and lay neglected in the grass.

They picked these because their mother asked them to, but the apples they preferred were stored in crates in the cellar of the manse. Accidentally discovered by Basch when they were little: long-forgotten fermented fruit that their mother or perhaps their father's family had stored seasons before.

When the boys bit into them the sweetness bore a strange taste that instantly made them pleasantly euphoric, and on afternoons when the leaves were changing the twins would lay with their backs in the cool grass, looking at a clear fading sky that lacked the ominous thunderstorms of summer and didn't yet hold the dark grey of winter.

Everything in autumn seemed to echo gold, and when they partook of the fermented apples their laughter came all to easy, and their speech was slurred, their minds hazy.

Basch stretched his arms out in the grass and reached behind his head, cradling it comfortably. That season rang of rumors of Imperial presences at border towns across Landis, and their mother was ever on edge. Archadia hardly seemed capable of looming over them; it was like mythical kingdom of towers that extended to the sky, where airships were more common than humes and people spoke so strangely, like they were trying to speak from their nose rather than their mouth.

But Basch felt incredibly pleasant, oblivious to the losses of war outside of his father's long forgotten shadow in their household-- to distant and unfamiliar to mourn, but there regardless. War was but a tale in a child's book or the murmurings of old men. Sparring with swords was for good fun, and was never meant as a life versus death endeavor.

Noah remarked about something he'd heard one of the elderly men in the market say to a lady with a particularly prominent chest: something vulgar and crude and words Noah would never repeat had they been within earshot of their mother. But it made Basch laugh so hard in his drunken state that he turned on his side with arms crossed tightly over his stomach, tears spilling from the corners of his eyes as Noah did the same.

Alma whirled around helplessly, watching in horror as servants unsheathed daggers about the room. As royal guardians clashed with an apparent insurgence, she shoved her way through the cluster of panicked nobles, her heart pounding in her chest as she moved as quickly as she only could when her survival was at stake.

Noblemen burst toward the doors, frantically struggling to wrench the handles downward and to pull them until the reality when a bangaa's voiced boomed:

“They're locked!”

The sound of glass shattering filled the room like shrill explosions. It was moments like that that made her curse being born a woman, having to run and dodge while hoping for the best possible scenario while her skirts and her shoes worked against her.

“Alma!”

Her head rose at the familiar sound of Penelo's voice. She was across the room with Larsa and before Alma could open her mouth to reply, a man snatched her by the arm, nails digging hard into her bicep and she screamed through her teeth in response, leveraging the strength that she had to twist his grip, but he clutched her with bruising force.

He didn't draw a weapon. He was dressed like Archadian gentry in his mid-forties, perhaps a little older, and upon closer inspection a wrinkled forehead told of prolonged contemplation.

“It's you.” He softened his expression down at her, in a revelation that although caused him to loosen his grip on her entirely.

Alma yanked her arm from him, backing slowly against the wall as he hovered her, his expression no longer just softened and now a look of pure awe.

“You... you knew what would happen, didn't you.” He followed her with his foot steps as she squirmed against him.

Alma looked around frantically for an exit in all the hysteria that went off all around them. The Rozarrian who made his entrance with her was now preoccupied with shielding the Ondore children from the onslaught on the platform where Halim's wife had thrown herself over them.

A bloody silver dagger gleamed at her assailant's waist-- a reminder that while this man was not currently threatening, he had the potential of becoming so, and his figure was every imposing against her own.

Alma swallowed, unsure of whether to play into whatever fantasy it was that he was having. She decided against it.

“Someone told me of poison! I didn't just know.”

Alma backed into a staircase, heart sinking when she nearly stumbled over the layers of hard stone under her heels and her gown caught on splinters lining the crude wooden wall.

A sickeningly calm smile crept across his features: “So you are not yet complete?”

Her whole body shook from the tips of her fingers to the breaths of her chest, and a wave of nausea came over her as she recalled being abducted and bound by 'holy men' who offered her body as a vessel-- the repercussions of which still haunted her like a shadow to this day as an armed man backed her into the darkness below.

Zargabaath held his wife in his arms briefly, however mournfully. The woman who lived as his wife for three decades surrendered to the blade of an insurgent she'd been in the process of requesting another round of drinks from for Ondore's toast.

Zargabaath had cut him down immediately, but cursed the fact that the room was only defended by ceremonial swords that were intended to be put on display over hearths and in ballrooms, not for actual function use in war. His blade was duller than he liked and across the room from him he could see Gabranth in a similar struggle, so much more force was required just to drive his sword so that his movements were less fluid and favored brutality.

Her grip weakened on his arm in her two hands as he cradled her faltered, and Zargabaath squeezed her against him. He longed to hold her like that for days, or just hours even, to shed tears and smell her scent. But he saved tears for later, because he was in a battlefield and could mourn her more appropriately outside of battle. He laid her down and rose with her blood splattered across his front, and searched the room for Larsa.

Ashe's blood went hot-- the imagery of Ondore being carried off by his guard soon after Alma's declaration made her cut to her instincts even if her apparel was insufficient and she lacked a proper weapon.

“Go on. Help them evacuate.” She nodded at Morrid to the scrambling stampede that proceeded to break windows and run for every stairwell and every doorway, while her squared posture warned of her intentions being anything but fleeing.

His predecessors would have pushed back, insisting that she not throw her life away due to lack of protection, and indeed Morrid knew to only press against her when he felt it was necessary.

But as soon as the words belted from her mouth he tossed her his sword; a traditional Dalmascan blade with a sickle-like curve brave by a hilt interwoven with leather. Ashe caught it in her good hand and turned it over in the light- glimmering chandelier light bouncing off sharp metal.

She cocked her head at him. “This is your actual battle sword. You came ready to do battle tonight?”

“Well they certainly did.” Morrid nodded to the stray insurgents remaining in the room and proceeded to toss a chair by it's back against a pillar with both hands.

“Go.” He urged her, weakening the wooden joints of the chair just enough so that he could wrench two legs free-- twin clubs to bludgeon whomever he needed to bludgeon with them as Ashe ran to the stairs beyond the platform to where Ondore and his family were led.

Larsa repeatedly reached for a sword by instinct, but every time his fingers grazed his waist he was quickly reminded that he was in formal clothes and he didn't have to foresight to arrive to a fete armed.

He followed close behind Basch, who effortlessly cut down a disguised assailant, and the man fell to the floor, trampled instantly by the frantic stampede. Larsa pulled Penelo close to him, his hand clasped tightly around hers, and she looked around the room, still stunned as she gathered her dress in one hand and kept pace with he and Basch as best she could.

As they approached the nearest exit Basch beckoned them through, lifting to point off to the far side of the outdoor corridor as Larsa opened his mouth to urge her further forward.

“Alma! Someone just pushed her through that door, I think she's trapped!”

Larsa followed her finger, where the backside of a man vanished through through a doorway arched in stone to what appeared to be a stairway. He looked from Basch to the doorway again, feeling conflicted. His ears were ringing from the screams all about them and the slaughter that was growing imminent by the second. It was his first true moral dilemma he'd faced as a ruler that only appealed to him on a basic, Hume level: could he put himself, Penelo, and Basch at risk to save one innocent woman?

“We can't leave her down there.” Penelo's choice was clearly far more easily made.

“We should leave now, m'lord,” Basch told him firmly, “Once you are at a safe distance I will return for her.”

“But she could die in that amount of time!” Penelo looked up at him incredulously, further drawing them still as they attempted to usher her forward.

Larsa bit his lip. He well understood now that his survival was vital to the integrity of Archadia but is was his idea to bring Alma here, most likely against her wishes, all because of a fleeting whim of his and for all that, Penelo was in the right to plead for her.

“Help her.” Larsa directed Basch. “Penelo and I can manage on my own. These insurgents hardly seem like military men. Right Penelo?”

Penelo hesitated, clearly the idea she had in min involved going to save Alma herself. “Hurry, Basch!” She begged, “Larsa and I will be okay!”

It took all but a moment for Basch to nod obediently, and rush the hall to the door where Alma disappeared.

Larsa grabbed Penelo's hand again, and they ran into the courtyard. Compared to the chaos that was resounding inside the night was strangely quiet; crickets were still audible in the darkness.

A burst of sheer flight instinct coursed through her and she turned from the man and sprinted from the bottom of the cellar stairs. Alma pivoted sharply to dodge the man's grasp close behind, the soles of her shoes tapping loudly down a hall lined with wine bottles contained in wooden racks. The man followed her, at first offering a sharp “shhh!” as he attempted to grab her-- perhaps he only meant to soothe and steady her but she reacted wildly, dodging his clutch and toppling her body against the neatly stacked wine bottles so that they came sliding off their designated perches and crashing onto the dark stone floor in bursts of red, sticky liquid and shattered dark green glass.

“Why do you run from me?” He asked her above the series of collisions against the hard floor with his arms wide open, they were both sprayed with the onslaught of liquid that filled the room with the stench of fermentation, making it seem as if the cavernous walls exhaled it.

“Everything we did on this night, everything that went into it, we did it all for you.”

Realizing she was at the end of the tunnel Alma reached upwards for an intact bottle, swinging it by the neck in both her hands hard against the corner of a shelf as he approached her at the dead end of the hallway where torchlights flickered around them.

His words made her blood run cold as a realization came to her: there might've not even been poison in the first place. Had she been the target in an elaborate plot when the elderly woman in the gardens was clearly manipulating her?

The bottle struck the shelf with a dull thud and no other effect. Alma cursed loudly-- it was an utter inconvenience to be in the presences of fine bottles of wine with thick, superior glass craftsmanship that didn't simply crack and cave under pressure the way she'd hoped.

The man gripped her wrists, causing her to drop the bottle, pinning them to the wall on either side of her. Alma watched his foot kick it to the side. She watched it roll away, wistful at the fact that it was finally broken and the amount of force it took to do so was greater than the amount of force that she possessed.

She snapped her face upwards, making tight fists in both her restrained hands out of defiance. “I-I don't think I am who you think I am.”

“Nonsense, I know your face; you've appeared to me a thousand times.”

Alma breathed harshly, turning her head to the side as he leaned his forehead into hers. His breath stunk of wine and she wrinkled her nose.

“You think I'm the high seraph?” She breathed incredulously, spitting as much venom as she could in her words. “My being here in pure happenstance, and my life means nothing whether you take me here in cold blood, or..”

Her eyes widened in surprise as he pressed his nose into her hair and inhaled slowly.

“You haven't any idea of how much I've had to give.”

Somewhere in the distance footsteps were quickly approaching. They were too indistinct for her to pay any notice in that moment however, and as the man breathed sickeningly against her she could only press herself against the wall, yearning to sink down inside crude stonework, when suddenly her assailant's head was pulled back by rough fingers in his hair and a blade to his throat, the edge of it just inches from Alma's nose.

Alma sank to the floor once released, rubbing her wrists. In truth she was relieved when she recognized Gabranth amidst his gruff hold on her attacker, though she was also incredibly confused about why he'd come down there in the first place; but he had a strange way of communicating just as much as he needed to without any words at all.

She looked up at him on her knees, his blue eyes reflecting lavender in the red flickering torchlight that told her of a lust that he carried, when lust was hardly the term that came to mind at a time such as this. He only looked back at her, blank and expressionless as the man in his grasp protested loudly, and Gabranth pulled his head further back with one hand and in a fluid motion made a single clean slice into the man's neck so that his blood spilled from large vessels and gurgled as air hissed from a severed windpipe.

Basch reached out a hand to her and she accepted it as he pulled her from the dirt floor, echoing their first meeting in the Paramina Rift. She rose in the dim light of the cellar and wiped the arm not in his grasp across her forehead, further smearing her attacker's streak of blood across it.

“Are you all right?” He released her as she looked down at the strange man in horror, both hands trembling as they adjusted the neckline of her gown.

“I-I'm fine,” Alma murmured as Basch bent at his knees and crouched down, wiping the blood from his sword on the hem of the man's dress coat as he reached for a dagger the man had dropped.

“I d-don't think he was trying to kill me.”

Basch stiffened for a moment.

She was critiquing his usage of force.

When he saw the scene of bottles broken and the dark red contents leaking across the floor with her huddled against the wall by a man with a blade handy before her he moved to kill and he had many times before, not thinking to analyze him; but based on watch Basch did see, moving for the kill wasn't entirely unwarranted.

Basch reached over dark broken shards of glass and gripped the dagger that had dropped from the man's hand. He rose and by clutching the flat sides of the blade between his fingers he wiped the wine and blood from the polished wooden handle and offered it to her.

“Have you ever used a weapon?” He nodded to the dagger that she then clenched in her dominant hand, turning it over before clenching it again as if trying its weight.

Alma shrugged, her passiveness nonreassuring to him. “A little. My brother used to show me how but it's-it's been a long time.”

Basch nodded. “Just move with me and stay close. I cannot help you if you stray. But if I should fall, or if someone moves in before I can...”

Alma simulated her understanding of his meaning with a downward stabbing motion over her head.

Basch chuckled, nudging her lightly on the shoulder as he passed. “That'll do. But you should make blocking your priority tonight.”

Alma said nothing, matching the steps of his feet over now dead man's body, now with a massive pool of dark red blood that grew around him, mixing in and bleeding with the red wine around it-- then over broken bottles until they approached the staircase.

Down below he'd almost forgotten about the commotion upstairs, but as they ascended the noise carried downward, growing louder with each step. Glass broke, footsteps carried, screams and shouts called to them. Basch gripped Gabranth's sword in both hands at the ready, momentarily holding it steady with just one to reach behind him and stretch his arm out to gently usher the small woman in his trail backwards.

He was contradicting his advice from earlier as he ascended the stairs; they were at a tactical disadvantage and if he were to fall Alma's only chance would be to run back down and hide in the darkness.

The noise gathered in a crescendo and when they were close. The flickering lights of the ballroom would work to their advantage should any hostiles be watching the stairs when they emerged.

He crouched, dragging his lower back against the walls of the stairs and motioned for her to do the same, cursing the fact that he lacked Gabranth's armor-- it slowed him down significantly but made him nearly impervious.

Then he noted it-- the slightest twitch and the high note of metal sliding from a holster. Someone was at the top, no doubt seeing him run down and waited to strike when he emerged through the archway.

Basch slowed his steps. He looked down at Alma, jerking the back of his head to signal for her to flatten her whole back against the wall and make herself as small and narrow as possible-- and she complied with her hand still shaking over the handle of the dagger he'd given her.

One foot moved to side step up a stair. Then the other followed. Alma mimicked him the entire way.

His muscles tensed and he was ready, and when a man dressed as a House Ondore servant revealed himself in the doorway, Alma yelled out in surprise, before she was cut short as Basch was merely a step from the top.

He leptup upwards to gain as much momentum as he could, swinging crosswise and up and the man merely froze, a short sword held at the ready in what he'd clearly anticipated to be a clever ambush, but now he bled through a white dress tunic and Basch then gripped him by the neckline, stepped to the side and pulled him roughly downwards.

In one last fleeting attempt at a revolt the man swung at Basch, but his aim was frantic and ill-placed, and instead his blade just narrowly missed Alma's waist by an inch as he toppled forward and proceeded to tumble down the unforgiving stone steps as she flattened her back and both arms at her side against the wall, his body tossed by gravity like a pebble in a river current until a sickening crack below them when his skull likely collided with the stucco wall that faced the stairs there.

Alma watched in shock, looking up at Basch, her once painted complexion now marred with dried blood droplets and loose strands of her own hair falling loose.

“Do you think he thought we--”

“--Remember. Stay close.” He cut her off with a reminder as he emerged from the staircase.

The ballroom was mostly empty now, save for the corpses of servants, guests, and guards that littered the floor-- foe indiscernible from ally. The struggle had proceeded to the balcony above.

Ashe walked through the stretch of parapet, her sword at the ready. But the only greeting she received was the wailing of Halim's wife; her aunt by marriage.

She broke into a full sprint, ready to cut down any foes that might interrupt her passage to her uncle.

She attempted to push open a door to Ondore's personal tower, and when it resisted, she dropped Morrid's sword at her feet to free her one useful arm and proceeded to pound her fist against the hardwood loudly.

“Who's there?”

“Ashelia B'nargin Dalmasca.”

A moment of hesitation. Murmured words and the fumble of glass and steel under a healer's shaking hands.

“Come in.”

Noah closed the door behind him, not minding the stench of burnt wood and smoking ash from outside; the Imperial military had made their rounds today, and a fresh bruise over his eye and cuts at his elbows and knees were testaments to it.

He climbed the stairs, his palm steady and smooth against the banister, footsteps echoing in the incredibly empty house.

He pulled the handle to his mother's room and found her exactly where he'd left her in the morning: long blonde locks combed neatly over her shoulders as her head turned toward the window. Suddenly deciding he was disgusted with the stench of smoke that filled the room, Noah crossed it as he wrinkled his nose and closed the shutters on the window, blocking both smell and a great deal of light.

His mother furrowed her brow and blinked as she adjusted to the dim light, not bothering to move her head from it's position.

“I found you more salve,” Noah informed her curtly, striding across the room and settling the dark stained glass jar on the nightstand beside her.

Her head was still turned from where he sank down upon the bed beside her.

“And Basch?”

Noah shook his head. “Still gone.”

She turned to him, blue eyes like his own erupted in pain as tears flushed to her eyes and her lower lip trembled the way it always did when he reminded her of this.

Noah sighed, exasperated with her.

He was drained. And tired. He hadn't seen Basch in over a year.

“He'll not be coming back. You'd best get out of bed sooner than later.” He told her plainly, rising from the bed and leaving the room with the door closed behind him.

In another world, Basch breathed heavily, sinking out the steps of the courtyard where he'd been banished for tapping out during hand in hand combat training, shamefully, because his opponent's chokehold was more than he could bare.

Disoriented and dizzy, he looked the the desert horizon and wondered where the scent of burning was coming from.

Ashe stepped into the room under a bangaa-guard's watchful eye with a sword at the ready when he was still unsure of her identity.

But when she entered, her breath heavy and her sword at the ready, sweat glistening on her skin as she lowered it, casting a wide eyed exchange with a wife hovered over her husband being treated with the utmost urgency.

The two women met in the center of the room for an embrace, the first ever shared between then, before a fire crackling before a hearth. Well meaning guard passed tonics and supplies at the healer's demands, but Ashe could only see Ondore's weathered eyes look upwards at her as she grabbed for his hand and knelt beside him.

“Ilana...” The murmur came from his lips and she laughed dryly.

“You'll not meet her so soon, uncle.” Ashe replied sharply.

Halim's head rolled to the side, studying her. He reached upwards, catching the freshly trimmed ends of her platinum locks turned golden by the firelight, teasing them in between his thumb and forefinger as she knelt beside him

She lowered the sword to the floor, and cursed aloud as her eyes met his, all four burdened with tears. Al-Cid emerged from the darkness to take Morrid sword from the floor for her, offering a hand upon her shoulder in comfort.

Nearly everyone had scattered as suddenly as the chaos begun when Basch led Alma outside. They hugged the wall for cover, and then with the gesture-- a slight nudge of his shoulder in the direction of the garden shed and the stone wall the stood about the property, Alma ran close behind him when he took off.

Voices carried from behind the wall when they were close to the gate.

“Who goes there?!?” A raspy bangaa proclaimed, and Basch then sheathed his weapon; it was far too dull with withstand an armed bangaa on full guard anyhow, and his eyes flitted to Alma's silently urging her to respond in his stead to better their chances of non-conflict.

“L-Lady Alma,” Alma stammered loudly, her frightened and tired eyes not leaving Basch's as she managed the reply, “And the Judge Magister Gabranth.”

Slinking iron clattered against iron as a lever seemed to be pulled and adjusted, granting them leave from the manse and Basch still taking the lead as they revealed themselves to the individuals on the other side.

“A Judge Magister?” The bangaa questioned, but as Alma followed close behind him in the flickering light of the gas lamps of the main street way where the path to the Ondore estate was perched, skeptical eyes softened.

“Glad to see you made it, Captain.” Morrid's baritone sounded to the side of them, and Basch could only cast him a cautious nod in response, and the current Dalmascan captain visibly recoiled as Alma looked up at him in curiosity.

Of the few that knew of his identity, all it would take it the select slip of words from him in front of the right people to ruin the legacy that Noah had died to maintain.

Arms fell around him, and before he could react, he looked down at Penelo, stray hairs ticking upright with stress, charcoal makeup streaking across her cheeks from tears.

“You made it! Both of you.”

Basch returned the embrace with a palm on her shoulder. “Aye.” His eyes scanned the small crowd. “What of the Lord Larsa?”

Penelo relinquished her hold on him, averting her gaze to the ground. “We were separated when we got outside. Zargabaath helped him, I think. I stayed back to see everyone out.”

“The Lord Larsa was led to the aerodome, your honor.” The bangaa rasped.

“Without Penelo?” Basch frowned.

“It's all right, really. I wanted to make sure you got to Alma in time.” She smiled and slight warm smile Alma's way before looking back up at Basch.

“It's a relief to see you alright, as well.” Alma interjected, her hands reaching to clasp Penelo's tightly.

“And the Lady Ashe?” Basch scanned the crowd for the warrior queen.

Morrid nodded to the towers looming over them. “She went to find her uncle, I presume.”

Basch's frown spread to his eyes in disapproval, “You did not keep your queen with you?”

On any other day, imagining Vossler's rage if he fathomed Ashe running free and unguarded particularly in her current station with Dalmasca. Especially under Morrid's watch, as Vossler was particularly hard on Morrid for his carefree temperament that clashed with Vossler's own staunch rigidity and paranoia.

“She has my sword. She is more capable than most.”

Basch ran his tongue over his teeth. "She is recovering from wounds of her last exploits, as you must recall."

“We should head out to the aerodome,” Interjected a small statured gentry from the back.

Penelo turned to Basch. “He's right. The alarm has been raised in the streets and the city could be on lockdown by morning.”

Her eyes settled on Alma in an unspoken additional syllable, her silent commentary suggesting that Alma could potentially be detained in Bhujerban custody if she remained, and while Basch had great affection for the Queen of Dalmasca, he knew her to be ruthless when she seemed it necessary.

And in the moment he thought of that, a bloodied woman stumbled through the gate where they'd emerged minutes before. Red splattered in fine dark pigments over frayed white silks, and grey eyes lined with dark circles occupied an otherwise flawless complexion.

“Your majesty!” Morrid exclaimed, seemingly hesitant when she passed him his sword back, adjusting the strap that secured her incapacitated arm when she was free of the weapon.

“You kept it clean, I see.” Morrid turned the blade over in his hands and back to Ashe.

“I didn't... need it.” Ashe replied, breathless.

“How fares the Marquis? Did you find him?”

Ashe nodded, still not bothering to address the soiled state of her clothing.

“I did.” She took several steps forward, the hard heels of her shoes tapping loudly on the cobblestone road. “We should leave now.”

And to his surprise, Ashe paid Alma no mind and walked the first several paces on her own until Basch followed behind her.

The Ogir-Yensa Sandsea made him feel mad with its heat: the sun threatened to burn him with dry light reflected and intensified by glittering sand and every step he took threatened to take his footing out from under him.

Wounded and alone, Basch stepped into a cavern, grateful for relief from the sun. The absence of direct sunlight alone soothed his mangled arm that he'd tied to his body for support, and the strain of one eye being nearly swollen shut had made him clumsy.

Folklore had warned him from venturing too far into these caverns. He wasn't entirely sure how many paces he'd managed before sinking down against a tall stalagmite.

He'd been rescued by Vossler-- the fellow lone survivor from his squad, but in the midst of the struggle they'd become separated. The last glimpse he'd had of the dark haired Dalmascan page was of a body equally as battered and damned as his own, left to lay waste under a slate surface as the Urutan-Yensa clan strategically separated them both.

It would be a slow, sadistic death. He was being tracked and he knew his body would serve as a prop and warning for any future Dalmascan troops to follow. No aid. No water. Vossler was likely as dead as Basch would be if it weren't for this shelter.

His back against the stalagmite was wet.

Basch's mouth salivated all that it could: a painful click in the back of his throat behind chapped lips.

He wriggled around, weak and delirious, and his one good eye blurry in its focus.

In the peripheral a man in strange armor and sandy blonde hair stood only several paces away, but when Basch turned directly to face him he was gone.

Basch ignored him, he knew he was quite literally dying. Only several days past nineteen years of age and he was already facing penance for abandoning Noah.

In partial madness and desperation, Basch turned and leaned into the stalagmite open mouthed and suckled it for moisture. The smooth glassy surface granted him little, but a cool drop of wetness on the bridge of his nose made him lift his open mouth towards the ceiling, adjusting his posture with what little strength he had left to catch the drops of water on his tongue, grunting silently as a young dying man would.

Another image flickered in his peripheral, a creature on four spindly legs, with great limbs that extended around a narrow head.

A flash of green convinced him of his death sentence. He'd heard tales of the Mallicant population in these caverns, they appeared as suddenly as they disappeared when one wished to strike.

Basch reach for his sword and cursed, as his dominant arm was the one that was wounded and secured to his body. All he could do was yell in protest, his open eye focusing on the blurred creature that walked to him menacingly, strutting as if I had every indication of how futile any breath of effort to live would be on Basch's part.

But the sandy-haired knight in dark armor appeared again, seizing the opportunity to drive a fatal strike through the heart of the creature as it thrashed and wailed, echoing on the walls of the cavern as if a great army of it's kind resided there.

But there was no reinforcements when it's cries died down. Only silence and the echoing drips of water from ceiling of the chamber.

A sword was tossed to Basch's feet, stained in black blood. Basch squinted in recognition-- the sword the stranger used to slay the beast was his.

The strange knight clicked his tongue in his mouth haughtily “It doesn't do you any good to leave your weapon behind, soldier.”

Basch continued to struggle to focus as the stranger crouched in front of him with his forearms on his knees and cocked his head to the side, studying Basch with a critical expression: brown eyes and fair skin, well kept blonde hairs trimmed neatly though they fell over his ears.

His accent was unlike any Basch had ever heard before.

“A-Are you from the Order?” Basch sputtered, gratefully accepting a canteen heavy with water with less grace than he normally liked, but he was hardly minding things like that in the moment.

“The Order?”

Basch wrinkled his brow at the question, gulping down the cool water so quickly it spilled from the corners of his mouth.

Basch pulled the canteen from his lips, pressing them to his shoulders to hide exactly how much he'd spilt on himself. “Please, ser. M-My squad was slaughtered with the villagers. Only one other than me would remain. Vossler Azelas.”

The stranger raised brow.

“Oh. You mean out that way?” The knight nodded towards the upward dirt slope toward the entrance of the cave.

The dim light did little to mask Basch's confusion and the stranger's nonchalance.

“Outside, yes. The clans attacked our patrol.”

“I've never ventured out there, I'm afraid. I've only ever been here.”

Basch shifted more of his weight on the stalagmite for better support. “You're a spirit then?”

“Oh no,” The stranger shook his head, “I just cross over at times. Here, or places just as strange. Only a few times, really. And not for long. I've been looking for my sister. But I'm very much alive.”

He grinned impishly and knocked on Basch's temple with a light fist for emphasis. “See? I'm as alive as you are.”

Basch stomach twisted. He'd drunk the water too quickly, but he willed the nausea away, unwilling to let the kind offering from this stranger go to waste.

“Your sister?”

“Ah, yes, but I doubt you've met her. She's not here, I can tell. Sometimes when I dream, I come here. And that's it. I hope it gives me clarity necessary to find where they've taken her.”

“I've a brother far away as well.” Basch muttered feverishly, fighting the closing of his eyes.

“Have you? I hope you find him then.” He offered Basch a second round of water from yet another canteen from his waist, “Ivalice has a way of guiding families to one another, whether we like it or not. Alma was taken from me, she's been kidnapped for an evil purpose. But in this place, I feel her close.”

Basch swallowed more water, not sure of the knight's meaning. “I will keep an eye out for her for you then, ser.”

“Just sleep.” The knight commanded him with a chuckle and took the canteen from him a second time. “Gather your strength. I'll keep the beasts at bay until it's time for my leave.”

It felt like eons before they made it to the aerodome. To their relief it was tightly guarded with the first signs of life since they dispersed from the manse as the Bhujerban streets went dark and still.

Guards ushered them inside and Basch glanced behind to assure the party was still together. The scene inside was reminiscent of the refugees attacked on Bur-Omisace during the war, cold and bloody, tired and confused. A low murmur hummed all around them, and no one seemed to care of the identity of the group that just entered, and that was just as well.

“We'll find Larsa, and depart at once.” He nodded to Alma, and quietly moved his eyes in Penelo's to offer her a silent invitation to come along.

He skimmed the crowd for a familiar face, but there was none. Gentry and commoners alike gathered throughout the aerodome, alone or in clusters, murmuring rumors that resounded about the room in a steady hum.

There was no sign of Larsa.

“Judge Magister!”

Basch snapped his head in the direction of the voice, recognizing the armor of one of his men, though he couldn't distinguish the face through the man's helmet.

“Judge Magister Zargabaath is with Emperor Larsa aboard the Alexander, sir. They are well, but the young lord, he--”

Basch clenched his jaw.

“He sustained a stab wound, but no vital organs were struck.”

Beside him Penelo gasped, pulling her hands over her mouth. Basch brushed him aside, stern faced and bound for the Alexander.

“S-Sir, he said you are not to board with him, that you must do something for him instead.”

Basch stopped, “What is it?”

“He says that you must accompany the Lady Penelo to her destination in the morning.”

Beside him, Penelo clenched her fists. “Let me see him, then.” She pleaded, “As his guest tonight I demand it.”

“I'm a healer,”Alma interjected, stepping forward and looking from Basch to Penelo and to the young judge. “Perhaps I can help him as well, if you allow us passage.”

The judge shook his head, but it only moved his helmet slightly. “He already has a skilled one working on him, ma'am. He gave strict orders that neither of you are to board this ship and once he is stable within the hour the Alexander will transport all those who are willing to Archades where they will be granted asylum.

“It's worse than just a flesh wound, then.” Penelo walked from them briskly, covering her mouth still, her eyes fresh with tears and Ashe followed her with Morrid close to her side.

“You don't know that,” Alma told her gently, “If he was truly in trouble he'd want to see you, I'm sure. Men...” Alma paused for a moment, eyeing Basch and Morrid briefly as if to alert them to avert their ears, “...Men don't like you seeing them in weakness, because they are told they must never be vulnerable. To anyone. Not even a woman. Especially to a woman.”

Penelo stiffened, undoubtedly suppressing sobs under she managed a steady voice after a long exhale.

“Okay.”

Ashe sank down next to Penelo. In that moment, people bustled by, lending aid, sharing embraces, crying tears or standing stoically still for instruction.

“We should leave soon. Or lay down to rest, at least.”

Ashe looked at Penelo incredulously for the statement. How could she resort to thinking of such a thing? A treasure hunt? At a time like this?

But then, Penelo reminded herself, that was what gave both her and Vaan purpose..

“I won't be going with you.” Ashe felt shame as the words slip from her lips-- shame for being so utterly saddened by the fact she felt such remorse over the statement at a time like this, when her uncle's and Larsa's lives were a question, shame for breaking her word to Balthier.

“What?” Penelo snapped, her face in a scowl, “But, Balthier, he--”

“He asked me to come along, yes. But I cannot witness such atrocities and not be present for Dalmasca in the immediate days to follow.”

“--But you gave your word! And what can you do in the next few days that Captain Morrid can't!”

Ashe closed her eyes, mourning the fleeting nostalgia that slipped out from under her. “I won't be foraging for treasure with pirates while my uncle passes, or is permanently disfigured and my country is jarred by this news. I must return to Rabanastre.” Ashe put her hand on Penelo's arm, “If it is so important to you that you must have me come, why not wait until a better time?”

Penelo frowned, hugging her knees to her chest in a motion that warded Ashe's hand from her. “Balthier didn't tell you? We can't. The ruins only open on the day before a black moon in that hemisphere. The next one won't happen for years.”

Ashe shook her head. “You don't really believe in such things, do you?”

Penelo shrugged. “Several years ago the Occuria would've seemed made up to me.”

“I can handle Dalmasca in your stead,” Morrid chimed in, breaking his silence from Ashe's side as he knelt beside the two women. “Aren't arrangements for an audience in Ambervale in order for when you return home? Perhaps there are good reasons to delay those arrangements?”

Basch spoke up from the pillar across from her, wiping his chin on his dress coat as he knelt beside Alma. “Perhaps you should come with us, highness.”

Ashe recalled the conversation with Al-Cid, knowing that Morrid had most likely been privy to some conversation about the Rozarrian Prince's intention to court her that evening as well.

Al-Cid had offered himself to stay with her uncle so that she may leave, and she complied.

A tinge of guilt settled in her chest and when she breathed, it was heavy.

It was incredibly tempting: Flee the cares of the world; the ailments of her uncle and the duty of her rule and escape to a place so far beneath the depths of the ground that whatever happened above her would be irrelevant

But, no, she couldn't.

Penelo rose at last, feeling the aching tension in her legs throb from the sudden change of position after prolonged fatigue.

“Well I'm going.”

The other members of the party watched in silence as she walked alone to the dock where the Galbana was stationed, lifting her gown at the knees as she pushed past stray people in the crowd. Larsa had given her the push that she needed to know that her procession was right, and if Alma was as wise as she seemed, he would be okay at the end of it all.

The ramp descended and when she crossed the bridge to the ship she heard Basch's voice.

“I believe I received instruction to accompany you.”

Her lips curled into a smile and she whirled around to face the Archadian Judge Magister now tasked by Larsa to protect her. “I was hoping that you would.”

Alma emerged beside him, fumbling with a purse in her pocket, holding forth a gold coin with green accents around a tree, holding it to the light curiously.

Penelo's heart skipped a beat and she instinctively clutched at where her own coin purse should've been. She wanted to demand it back, but something within her told her to keep it to herself.

The Galbana had been airborne for several hours, and Basch emerged from the cockpit only with Penelo's persistent bidding that he try and sleep with the others. He lacked any technical knowledge of such machinery, but he worried for how grueling the hours had been on Penelo and now without a copilot she was left to maneuver through the airspace on her own.

He passed a bunk in the hallway, where Ashe's light snores carrying in the silence through flickering lights. He shed his dress coat, stacking it neatly on his arm as he loosened the collar of his dress shirt. Decades in Dalmasca had made him appreciate less clothing, and the stuffiness of Archadian fashion still felt foreign.

Basch found Alma curled in an alcove with a window above her, her eyes wide open from the lack of sleep and with bare feet being soothed under dry hands rubbing them by her fingertips over her soles.

“You'd ought to sleep.” He told her, settling on an adjacent alcove with a slight groan-- the alleviation of tension from his thighs to his hip as he sat.

Alma's soothing halted as she froze, her gaze turning over her shoulder at him as he passed, “I cannot.”

“Then surely Penelo could use your company.”

Alma cast him a raised eyebrow glance as he sank into his seat, wrist upon his knee and sword at his feet, “I can't ride in the front, I'm afraid.”

Balthier's vague words rang in his head: damages and cleaning came into account and while he considered himself sensitive to an airship's motion it was all to amusing to associate with someone even more so. But the deviousness in his heart ushered him: “Why not?”

“It makes me feel sick,” Alma ceased rubbing her bare feet, resting them instead on the far side of the alcove from her and placed her palms in her lap, the skirts of what remained of her gown sliding to the upper parts of her thighs, though she showed no mind. “And my mind is not clear enough for conversation.”

“Ah, you'd have much to think about, I'd imagine.”

He felt her brown eyes bore angrily into his shoulder that now faced her. “Are you going to enlighten me on why you caused that scene to begin with?”

“I-I didn't know of the insurgency.” Alma shot upright, small fists clenched that demanded his attention and he reciprocated, sitting upright in his alcove next to hers with his elbows resting upon his knees.

“I know.”

“Outside the manse, in the gardens, an elderly woman came to me.”

Basch felt his brow raise to her. “She told you, then?”

Alma crossed her arms and turned away from him, instead averting her gaze to the dark skies on the other side of the window that she lay by, her bare legs now outstretched and crossed, being rocked by a nervous foot. “She did. I think she wanted me to cause a scene.”

“To allow the insurgents to strike amidst the confusion, and you'd take the fall as the catalyst.”

Alma bit her lip, turning to him directly with her arms now tighter across her chest. “Do you think so?”

Basch looked back at her, stoic. Immersing in cultures had given him expertise in analyzing people: the wayward glance of a tired mother in the market, the exasperated sigh of the merchant as she haggled; fed up with her persistence, her child with a penchant for mischief who had his mind elsewhere, reaching for a fruit on the ground to pocket for later simply because he wanted to boast for his friends, but the strained gaze from a guard focused of such antics as a means to get through the remainder of his shift to collect his pay.

Basch had been all of these.

“Aye, perhaps.”

“Then am I to be arrested by Bhujerba when we return from the ruins?”

Basch looked at her keenly, his intention punctuated in every syllable. “You're still a person of interest by the Bureau, and therefore under my protection. And I believe I'm in possession of a text that is of interest to you.”

Alma nodded, a small ghost of a smile of gratitude lightened her features as her lips curled ever so slightly.

“If you ever show it to me again.”

The corners of his mouth twitched, “I wouldn't dare withhold it from you while you burst through doors with the likes of Rozarrian princes and break a century's worth of bottles of mahdu in cellars.”

“That wasn't my intention. I didn't want to come along in the first place.” Alma quipped sharply.

“As I recall. But know this,” Basch lengthened his back and leaned toward her, his wrists still slack while her remained clenched, “Whatever happened, it likely would've happened in some form whether you were there or not.”

Alma bit her lip and averted her gaze from his again, a nervous habit of hers. He allowed her a moment of hesitation-- a muted sigh and the curling of her toes as she brought them to her chest and rolled forward to where he'd leaned towards her. Thousands of stars in the sky winked from above, and hundreds of miles distanced them from the ground below their feet.

“I'll tell you where my name is from, if you still want to know. When you tell me something useful to me. And when you offer me the text I will tell you why it is important to me.”

Basch cocked his head to the side slightly, “Have I not proven worthy of your trust as it stands?” The slightest hint of playfulness crept into his tone, reflecting his days of travel in the company of Balthier and Vaan.

“No, Judge Magister Gabranth, for if I am a closed book then you are an entire fortress in siege. You reek of secrets. It's only sensible yet ironic that you live to find everyone else's.”

Basch said nothing, the scene of the market and all it's persons still fresh in his mind. If Alma were a part of that imagery she'd be a lone figure devoid of any prior recognition, and hooded woman in the foreground who'd been there all along, spilling some her cargo load just enough to catch attention, but never enough to reveal what exactly it was that she had been carrying in the first place.

For two years, he'd endured an insurmountable amount of pain. It'd come in cycles:

Regret. Worry. Physical torture. Pain. Humiliation. Despair. Anger.

It went on on in that order, so many times that Basch had lost track of how cycles it's been, but he was still surprised by how much time had passed when it was done-- it'd felt like an eternity of darkness, but he was also surprised by how much time had passed all the same.

Though he'd been angry in captivity, he couldn't find it in himself to be angry with Noah in the end: a broken man self sacrificed for his master, for a cause of righteousness, even if his hatred for a brother who left him so suddenly without so much as a warning.

He'd undoubtedly cared for their mother in her last days. Whatever ailment it was that made her fade from the world before her years were done, and the grief of a lost son could've only expedited that. In the years that followed Basch imagined that tracking him would've become something of an obsession, and his renowned position as a Captain in the Dalmascan military would've made it all too simple for a leader with the resources of the 9th Bureau in Archadia.

Basch now understood: Vayne's plot allowed Noah to give him penance and to restore balance-- an aspect that identical twins were all to familiar with. By leaving, Basch severed whatever anchor of stability Noah had, sending him reeling to cling to stability in literally any other form, even in the Imperial military.

No, in Noah's final rattle-like gasps he didn't blame his brother one bit. He'd collected ashes from his brother's funeral pyre at Larsa's suggestion, saving them in a dry gourd for a future, however temporary return to Landis when he had the chance.

Basch was already prepared for the desolation of his home town, for the reformed appearance of the manse of what was once the Ronsenburg estate that was likely changed over to an Archadian duke now; the once white windowpanes now painted over with a more flamboyant color, the gardens his mother cultivated now stripped of greenery and mounted with elaborate stonework and statues; the barn and pigpen emptied of animals and torn down into something that an Archadian lord would find more suitable, the fermented apples in the cellar were likely discovered by another mother and disposed of, or perhaps all mothers were oblivious so such things and there was another generation of children destined to find them.

The orchard would still stand, as Basch had become accustomed to how Archadians so loved foreign fruits in lewd symbolism of fertility and as an example of the multicultural understanding they were so proud of claiming; he'd take Noah's ashes to the orchard, a place he'd loved to escape to with Basch, back when the biggest betrayal he could accuse his brother of was of almost luring a girl that was his to lay with him.

For when he himself passed, he supposed he ought to request it in writing: to burn to ashes the way Noah did, and to be scattered upon the same ground as he was. As long as it was reasonable, of course.

When the sun rose, the Galbana landed slowly, and to Balthier it was even slower than he thought was necessary. Fran stood at his side and Vaan on the other with Reddas close by, and he found himself nervously adjusting his cuffs-- a mannerism that her knew displayed confidence but yet he'd always done it whenever he was unsure.

Fran cast a knowing glance his way.

The ramp lowered, and to his surprise the group that descended wasn't what he was expecting at all. Ashe's white silks were hanging tattered around her calves. Basch appeared next, along with the prisoner Alma that he'd delivered, both appearing equally as haggard. Basch's dress coat was obviously shed and he'd unbuttoned the top several buttons of his shirt to adjust to the heat, and he looked every bit the role that Balthier had summed him up to be: the former captain-turned-judge who was present for every conflict even when it was clear that he never intended to be. Alma's hair clung together with sweat at her elbows, the single telltale sign of an evening to remember gone awry.

Penelo came last with her own equally worn ball gown to match the others'. Her eyes told of little sleep and a weary night.

They were a motley crew, a disengaged and otherwise unsuitable group. Ashe averted his gaze and he longed to be in her chambers again, to slide his fingers down the spanse of her back while she told him of her torments, but on this day they had a mission to fulfill, and the very fact that she'd shown up for him was a statement enough in itself.

Vaan strolled to Penelo and embraced her nonetheless.

Chapter Text

All the world’s a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts,

William Shakespeare

Penelo sat cross-legged across from Vaan as he grinned cheekily up at her from where he lay upon his elbows.

Silence.

Her eyes met his, and the tension from her fingers bent the cards in her hand. Vaan had most of the deck piled in clumsy stacks around him, and when the simultaneously lay their respective cards down Penelo threw her head back and groaned and Vaan released an ill-stifled laugh that escaped his nose in a snort of glee.

Larsa looked down from where he sat perched upon the bench behind Penelo.

“I don't understand,” The young lord pondered aloud in a polished cadence, “This game doesn't have much obvious appeal. 'Tis not one of skill, only luck.”

Vaan glowered up at Larsa as he and Penelo lay down another card.

“There is skill.”

Penelo slapped his hand away as he instinctively reached to claim yet another one of her remaining cards, not paying any attention that she'd won the round.

“There is no skill in that.” Balthier spoke conclusively, stepping over Vaan's outstretched legs that anxiously fidgeted in the dirt.

Lightning lit up the sky of the Ozmone Plains, and the entire party fell to silence amidst the static in the summer air.

A minute passed, Vaan and Penelo laid down more cards. Thunder rolled in the distance.

Vaan rolled to his back to lightly kick the stool upon which Basch sat behind them, elbows upon his knees, leaning into the pot on a grate over the fire-- the Garif tradition that he'd mastered all in the day they'd spent in the village.

“Hey Basch, you think it's gonna rain?”

Ashe sat across from her bodyguard silently, measuring the fragrance of meat that simmered in the pot in a broth of roots and spice. Her nose wrinkled as the stream of smoke from the fire shifted in her direction, and she hopped up to step away from the fire, coughing and waving her hand in front of her face.

Basch looked skyward in an appraising glance for a moment, pondering Vaan's question. He didn't mind a little rain, the cool trickle of a sky opening up above him would've been great comfort when he was imprisoned in the stagnant chamber under Nalbina.

“Not tonight. Not here.” A Garif War-Chief emerged from the hut beside them before Basch could speak and Vaan jumped at the sudden interjection of a gruff voice.

The War-Chief pointed to the sky, “No clouds overhead.”

Basch closed his mouth and nodded in agreement at the summation and resumed his work over the pot.

“I'm done with this game.” Penelo announced, and before Vaan could protest to convince her to stick around for his inevitable victory she tossed him her cards and took the seat that Ashe had relinquished across from Basch.

Balthier squatted over his cloth that he'd lain on the ground beside where Fran sat perched on the ledge of the hill where they gathered. Stepping a boot on the cloth to preserve it, he pushed a pin over the trigger well to make his weapon fold in half, revealing it's components for his to disassemble and clean.

“What treasure did you have in mind for that?” Fran spoke at last, nodded to the fine golden band that adorned the hilt of his right pinky-- a little loose, but held in place by a jewel encrusted ring below it as it spun around the digit throughout his days of wear.

He admittedly liked to taunt Ashe with it, but it also served as a reminder-- he held something dear to her and he could easily take it away if he pleased, just as he could easily withdraw from her his assistance, and with it, Fran's and the use of the Strahl.

“I'm not sure of your meaning.” Balthier answered coyly, but he felt Fran's gaze upon him, challenging that statement.

“Something more valuable.” Fran was most direct when she grew tired of his puzzles. She stepped before him, and circled around him, a habit of the viera when they wanted to impose one with their superior understanding of Hume behavior.

“Ah, that.” Balthier shrugged as he dapped a rag in oil and rag it along the inner barrel. “Well something more lucrative than the last treasure our princess promised us, that's for sure.”

“It has nothing to do with your infatuation?” From another it would come off as a question; from Fran it was a statement, even if it were a skeptical one.

Balthier snorted.

“Infatuation with who?” Vaan emerged before the duo from where he'd been playing with Penelo by the fire pit.

Penelo inhaled the aroma of salt and smoke. Her stomach twisted in anticipation.

“How'd you learn to cook?” She asked Basch, leaning forward with her palms upon the bench on either side of her as she cocked her head sideways. Firelight highlighted his skin so that the scar on his face and those on his forearms blended in with the rest of his flesh, light blue eyes appearing as a bright lavender. She felt she had a glimpse of a younger man more her age when she looked at him like that. She realized then that he was quite handsome, maybe even more so than Balthier.

She ran her thumbs over the callouses that knotted under her fingers on her palm-- the telltale sign that Basch had put her to use with a sword earlier that day. He had been stern with her when she grew tired but she didn't mind, she preferred to be useful.

Basch released a small ghost of a smile. “Just by watching others.”

“Did you cook this way in Landis?”

Basch shook his head. “Jahara is the first I've seen it.”

“And you just learned it by watching, just like that?”

“A warrior must adapt. Sometimes, perhaps, just once is the only chance he'll have.” The warrior-chief settled beside Penelo with his arms crossed, the horns that adorned his mask casting a great shadow behind him.

Basch nodded to him in acknowledgment, and offered Penelo the spoon to taste. Leaning forward across the flames to cradle his palm under the spoon to protect her from a spill.

“Aye, you've adapted many a time, I've no doubt,” Basch observed, “Judging from the adornments on your mask.”

Penelo's eyes drifted to the war-chief inquisitively, but she quickly became distracted coordinating the long wooden spoon as her mouth.

She sipped. “Mmmph!” Her eyes went wide at Basch, and her opposite hand moved to her lips, “So good!”

“You know of our custom?” The war-chief's voice inflected curiosity.

Basch accepted the spoon back from Penelo and resumed his former posture.

The sky lit up with lightning again.

“I gathered. We had a similar custom for formal affairs in Dalmasca. And in even in Landis before that.”

“You were a soldier in Landis too?” Penelo wondered aloud. Basch kept more to himself than not, but when he finally did reveal more of himself it was so bizarre that at times she felt he could never shock her anymore.

“Nay, my mother would've rather had me sold as cattle than a soldier.” Basch looked at Penelo warmly before turning his gaze back to the war-chief, “For my father was a knight. He died in battle against Archadians, in the early days of our skirmishes with them. We never received his remains, but his medals and armor returned to us intact. My mother never stopped grieving him.”

“I daresay I am sorrowful for you, Hume, but I suspect a death in battle is an honorable one.”

Penelo frowned. Before Vaan and Reks moved in, she had two older brothers of her own. They were never particularly close, and their lives were cut short in a similar such 'skirmish'.

“My brothers died fighting the empire also, they were in a Rozarrian detachment,” Penelo shared, her eyes flickering to war-chief before adding, “We did receive their bodies though.”

Several feet away, Larsa stiffened. He didn't want Penelo to know he'd been eavesdropping so he didn't turn his head entirely, only straining his eyes to look towards her,attempting to capture her sad expression that was facing in the direction of his right shoulder from where she sat across from Basch.

How many times had Penelo encountered Imperial rudeness in Rabanastre? Or outside of it? He winced as he recalled humbly brushing her off when she expressed concerns towards his family in Bhujerba; an expression she was more than justified to make and his only instinct was to neutralize it with his own biases.

And Basch? Basch had even more of a right to rebuke him; to at least attempt to make him uncomfortable. But he never did, he was consistent to give up his seat when Larsa was left standing, to offer a spot at the fire as he hunted or stood watch in the cold darkness. But on the same token Basch was formidable, deadly, violent even-- hardly what one could call weak and yet by Vayne's definition that was all kindness could be.

These people didn't just offer kindness as a commodity: they seemed to thrive on it.

“Princess! I feared you abandoned us!” Balthier called to Ashe as she stood silently by herself, on a grassy landing overlooking where Garif women were gathered in a circle, passing a pipe as they chanted, long pale braids tied in ornate tangles upon their heads over their masks.

Ashe cast her intruder a warning glance, eyes averting his and moving back to the women below in a plea for silence.

“If you've come to offer more more liquor I refuse it.” Ashe spoke coldly, irritation seeping in her voice for his constant intrusion in her most reverent moments.

“I would do no such thing,” Balthier shook is head in mock outrage, following her gaze to the women below. “Now that Vaan has my flask of a rather cheap Rabanastrian beverage it ought to be him you scold.”

Ashe looked at him inquisitively, her eyes wandering to where Vaan stood beside an undoubtedly frustrated Fran where she was perched with her bow and arrow. Sure enough, Balthier's silver flask was in one hand as the other one moved animatedly as he talked.

She raised an eyebrow and looked back to Balthier. “You're a negative influence on him.”

“No worse than a Princess who seeks mass destruction as a means to revenge.” He held his weapon by long fingers around the trigger well, his index finger wrapped around the trigger and making it click reflexively as he walked to her.

“--Revenge for my home. My father. My husband.”

“Ah, forgive me, I didn't know you mourned such things.”

His voice was flat, emotionless, and screamed of halfhearted sarcasm. Ashe took a breath and her heart accelerated the way it did when she was impassioned. How dare he come to her with such nonsense out of nowhere? If she had it her way she would've gladly left Bhujerba with only Basch for support, no children, no scandalous pirates with bold and sharp tongues.

But she needed his ship.

So, she consciously decided to ignore his sharpness, look to the women and soften. She changed the subject.

“What do you think they're chanting for?”

Lightning flashed, and a gasp escaped her lips. Somewhere in the distance she could hear the hiss of rain, but where they stood the air was still, although humid.

Balthier cocked his head and narrowed his eyes as he took a step to stand directly at her side. And for that moment, she had to give him credit for conjuring an honest thought.

“We've troubled them with our news of Hume conflict, no doubt.” Balthier observed, “If they are anything like Humes perhaps they're simply yearning for peace, that their children and husbands don't fall as prey.”

He looked directly at her, hazel eyes darkened by the lack of light. “But it's hard to tell with their masks, of course.”

Ashe crossed her arms. His observation seemed strikingly accurate, though she was unsure. “How can you possibly tell what anyone would think if they wear a mask?”

“With or without I can guess, no different from Archades.”

“You're from there?” Ashe questioned, unable to stifle the accusatory tone in her voice.

“You can't tell?”

Ashe shrugged, unable to stifle the disgusted undertone in her voice, “I shouldn't say I'm surprised. You reek of the gentry there.”

Balthier wrinkled his nose. “Ah, I admit that is a stench I've been unable to rid myself of, I'm afraid.”

Footsteps approached them from behind, and Penelo approached with two wooden bowls in hand.

“You guys are missing out!” She nodded her chin in the direction of the campfire, where Vaan sat in between Basch and Larsa, and the War-chief's wife had joined him, straying from the circle of women below Ashe and Balthier. Fran was just barely sitting down and spooned a generous helping into her bowl.

Penelo's light brown eyes flashed at them with warmth. “You might want to start now. Looks like Fran is getting seconds.”

Balthier frowned. He'd never witnessed Fran desire a second helping of anything. The Viera utilized energy more efficiently than Humes, and she rarely felt the need to eat a full Hume portion of anything.

“Basch, I found our stragglers!” Penelo piped happily, as she approached with Balthier and Ashe trailing behind her.

“All this time spent on the training yard, since I was old enough to remember.” Ashe slid down onto the bench across from the one where Basch sat, “Clearly, we should've put you in the kitchens instead.”

Basch chuckled, a hint of humor creasing at the corners of his eyes.

Penelo sank down beside Larsa. She looked to him, asking kindly, “Want more?”

Larsa nodded, reluctant only because he cursed his own greed, but no one seemed to mind when she took his bowl from him and spooned more contents of the pot into his bowl.

“So where do we go tomorrow?” Vaan asked bluntly, and everyone slowly looked to Ashe.

Ashe stiffened. She chewed and swallowed the stew in her mouth, pressing her knuckles to her lips as all the attention made her suddenly self conscious of her chewing.

“We need to seek out the Henne Mines.” Ashe said at last, running her tongue over her teeth to clean them. “But tomorrow we will go for a hunt.”

If there was a sigh of relief to be had, it would've been, but for now Vaan's enthusiastic fist in the air and a “Yes!”

Truth be told she only wanted to move forward, but they were once again short on funds, they;d have been short of shelter overhead if it hadn't been for the hospitality of the Garif. And most of all, Rasler's ghost earlier that evening unsettled her.

Lightning flashed. No thunder followed.

She needed distraction. And less so, she needed funds. She needed support-- her remaining allies in Rabanastre were watching her every move in wake of Vossler's sudden death with skepticism. She needed power that she already knew she possessed, yet was unable to wield.

She just wanted to go home.

The War-Chief looked to Vaan, his expression non visible but the sudden change in his tone told everyone present that there was a smile upon his features:

“This pleases you?”

“Aw yeah,” Vaan reached over Larsa to punch Penelo lightly on his arm. “Penelo here is my future partner, like Fran and Balthier. We live for this stuff.”

Ashe scratched her brow in exasperation for a moment, “It's not that big of a bill...”

Penelo frowned, “How did you rope me into this? I have no interest in being a pirate.”

Balthier looked to Fran, who returned his eye contact with a very uncharacteristic and Hume-like roll of her eyes.

The war-chief's wife was unfazed by the absurdity of Hume conversation, and her attention was directed at Basch: “The root you used is not native to this land. You must tell me where you found it.”

Basch lowered his bowl to the space in between his feet and rand a hand through his hair, brows furrowed as he tried to recall what the root in question was that she was referring to. “I'm not sure...”

“Stop looking at me like that.” Ashe snapped, and again, everyone paused for a moment, voices faltering, as they turned to the Princess who glared at Vaan.

Vaan raised his eyebrows. “Like what?”

Ashe opened her mouth to speak again, but Balthier cut her off.

“She's touchy tonight, Vaan. Seeing dead husbands and such.”

Ashe shot her gaze to Balthier, “You have little room to talk, pirate from Archades.”

Larsa looked to Balthier, brow raised. “You're from Archades?” His voice was puzzled, but in reality, it was confirmation of something he already suspected.

Lightning flashed again. Basch leaned forward, scraping what remained in the pot and spooning it into the war-chief wife's bowl without a single word of protest from her.

“Does it matter?” Vaan interjected on Ashe irritably, “He let you use his ship.”

“'Let me' is loose translation of demanding my deceased husband's engagement ring as tribute.” Ashe snapped.

Penelo shook her head, “Let it go Vaan. Leave her alone.”

Fran and Balthier exchanged a look, and in the midst of controversy, Penelo couldn't help but think they looked slightly amused.

“Demand such a great price of you, I might, Princess.” Balthier pressed her smugly, thumb spinning the ring in question around in circles around his digit unceremoniously, “But you have my unwavering devotion to your cause. Is that not enough?”

“Apparently not when you look at her the wrong way.” Vaan frowned at Ashe who frowned back in return.

The War-chief chuckled, leaning toward Basch in a low voice. “You have very spirited friends.”

Basch's smiling eyes persisted. “Aye.”

The War-Chief cocked his head to the side. “Are you certain that you will accomplish what you set out to do? After everything you've lost?”

Basch shrugged. “I suppose we feel the need to accomplish what we must because we've lost so much.”

“And your fiery Hume,” The war-chief nodded to Ashe, who was currently resorting to finishing her bowl in between exchanges with Vaan. “You're certain she will choose wisely?”

“Aye.” Basch replied almost immediately. But if he were more honest, he'd have said he wasn't sure.

Larsa sighed. Penelo looked to him sympathetically. “I'm sorry you have to be here for this. It's embarrassing.”

“It's probably the most realistic conversation the boy has ever been privy to.” Balthier reassured her.

Larsa smiled slowly, raising his head to Balthier as he kicked his legs absentmindedly. “It's true. It is.”

“That's a matter of growing up I suppose,” Fran declared suddenly, “We've all heard that conversation, the first one.”

“Indeed, for me it was the 'birds and the bees' discussion with my nursemaid.”

“With your nursemaid?” Vaan repeated Balthier's statement mockingly and he exchanged looks with Penelo who then snorted through her nose with laughter.

“What is a nursemaid?” Penelo managed in between giggles. In truth, she wouldn't be laughing quite so hard if it weren't for the expression on Vaan's face. She knew Vaan was perplexed because he was thinking of a wet nurse, and therefore amused by Balthier speaking with one in such a way.

The root in question came into Basch's mind, what had emerged as a dry reed in the rivers of Giza plains during the rainy season, he'd let it dry in the pouch at his waist for quite some time.

“I don't understand why that is funny either.” Larsa shrugged at Balthier.

-Basch opened his mouth to tell the War-Chief's wife of this but she appeared distracted by her husband's laughter. Basch closed his mouth as quickly as he opened it, instead smiling at the mirth erupting around him.

“My mother passed young,” Balthier muttered lowly, nodding in Ashe's direction, “But I suppose that is amusing to us all tonight.”

Ashe blinked back at his, thoroughly relishing his annoyance at Vaan's laughter.

“My mother did too. I had one as well.” Ashe spoke, unsure of why she felt the need to say this to Balthier, but Vaan and Penelo were speaking their own language to one another now, the way that only orphaned siblings could, and Larsa was doing his best to follow along.

Her eyes followed Basch as his rose, stretching visibly stiff muscles in his legs, and walked to the side of the hut with a woodpile and gathered logs in one arm while he stacked them with the other. He returned in time for Penelo's protests as Vaan had now taken her bowl from her, and was indulging himself in the spoils.

Basch kneeled over the fire on his knees, lifting the pot and the grate from it, and fed it the kindling he had stacked in one arm. The fire danced over his features: red flicking skin, lavender eyes, blonde hair reflecting auburn in the light.

Balthier was unaccustomed to be laughed at in his own expense, but it was short-lived.

“Why was that so funny?” Larsa could be heard questioning Penelo as Vaan stretched out in the darkness.

Ashe saw Penelo shrug. “It's just that concepts like that are to foreign to Vaan and me you know? Him, Reks and I only had ourselves. No maids, and definitely no nursemaids.”

Larsa said nothing and looked to the ground.

“When I was their age I pitied myself for losing my mother.” Ashe observed aloud. Balthier, Fran, and Basch turned to her along with the War-Chief and his wife, “But sometimes when I'm around them, I feel foolish.”

“You cannot compare your losses to another.” The War-Chief told her, and Basch nodded in agreement, “Aye, we've all had great losses.”

Fran said nothing, but her expression telling of a loss, mahogany eyes looking to the east where thundering was rolling.

Ashe leaned back on her palms and closed her eyes for a moment. She saw her father's face and her brothers'. She saw Rasler and Vossler and every prospective man who'd lain down to die for her. Would her ancestors know of her efforts? Would they know she was here? Should she fail, her line would be wiped out forever and should she win, she'd be entrusted with the burden of birthing an heir with a man who wasn't Rasler.

But through it all, a millennia from now, would she exist to her ancestors as the Dynast King existed to her?

“Oh, my feet hurt.” Alma lamented. She slid down from her saddle upon her chocobo and lay dramatically with her back in the grass. It was cool and comforting, and the plains east of Limberry spread out before them.

“That's especially odd, considering that you haven't walked all day.” Ramza told her teasingly, gently slapping her chocobo by the neck as he passed by it.

Alma ignored him and kicked off her shoes, rolling back the hems of her stockings at her thighs by pulling them off with her big toes in all unladylike and crude splendor for all the rolling green hills around them to see, her blonde hair spread out in the grass.

They rested upon ruins, she knew. Ivalice was full of them.

Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

William Shakespeare

Chapter Text

Noah threw his back against the wall of the barn when he heard the Imperials approach, clutching a sword he'd used to spar. His shoulder length hair spilled loose in the scuffle with the nearly deceased soldier on the floor before him. The Imperial was still alive, croaking in an effort to vocalize despite the pool of blood gathering around him.

Noah's breathing was heavy, and he glanced across the doorway of the barn to where Basch stood in a manner identical to his own, back against the wall, also breathing deeply, hair pushed back and slick with the sweat of his scalp.

No words were exchanged in the fear of alerting the men outside to their presence. But by the way Basch confidently gripped their father's sword Noah knew he'd hidden their mother away as Noah had bid him to when a townsfolk gave pounding on the front door to warn them of an Imperial invasion-- and his brother clearly had the time to take the heirloom from it's former retirement position over the fireplace in the front parlor before joining Noah outside.

Footsteps approached. Basch cast his gaze to the ground then back at Noah and nodded. Within seconds, the identical teenagers burst from the barn, harnessing the element of surprise.

They initially opted for nonlethal force, despite their damage on the man currently living his last breaths in agony back inside the barn. The soldier was green enough to be easily distracted by Basch as Noah forced the blunt edge of the training sword to a knee cap and Basch swung his fast hard into the man's jaw with a crack that resembled pebbles tumbling against hardwood.

Their methods quickly escalated though, as properly armored troops approached and for the first time, Noah cut a throat and Basch drove the point of their father's sword in between ribs.

The barn was alight with flames within minutes, and Noah and Basch stood ready in the front of it, back-towards-back as they circled the crowd forming around them. A Judge Magister emerged from the smoke like a ghost' a mere dark shadow appearing from nothing.

A low chuckle resounded inside the skull-like helmet, and the pyre was built further on the barn by lesser troops, causing the animals inside to scream and scramble amid smoke and ash.

“Stop it!” Noah bellowed, desperate as the men around them laughed. “Stop it! We surrender!”

He couldn't see it, but he felt Basch's eyes on him. Wide, incredulous. Accusatory. “We do not!”

The Judge chuckled again. He removed his head to reveal darkened curls and a standard Archadian strong jaw that dwarfed thin lips. “Now boys,” The Judge taunted them in a mockingly paternal tone, “Don't bicker.”

The Judge raised a finger to the burning barn. “What happened here is an example of what occurs when you resist.”

Basch and Noah had stopped moving, slacking their defensive stances with flexed knees and relaxed grips on their respective swords. Their faces were flecked of blood and their hearts racing, and Noah worried for their mother in the manse. Had soldiers gone inside? Did they find her? The manse wasn't on fire, as far as he could tell.

“We will return to further negotiate these lands. Tell me, who is the man of this manse?”

Basch cleared his throat. Though they were born on the same day from the same womb, Basch was born first and therefore their mother always teased him, designating him as the 'elder' brother.

“I.. I am.”

The Judge nodded to him, despite a round of laughter from the troops in the circle around them.

“A mere boy? You look barely old enough to be weaned from a teat, let alone govern a household. But I suppose things are done differently in Landis.”

Basch said nothing. Noah wanted to scream, to tell the Judge Magister crudely that he wasn't welcome, that he'd learnt to kill that day and he'd continue killing until it suited him.

The Judge spoke as if he'd read Noah's thoughts.

“You've tasted blood this day for the first time little lads, haven't you? You've been christened blood thirsty carrion birds, hell-bent on revenge!”

The soldiers roared in laughter again as they withdrew. Noah and Basch stood for a moment, watching the troops dissipate from view as suddenly as they'd come. For what? It was unclear. Noah heard rumors of similar encounters in outer towns but this was the first he'd experienced it first hand.

Basch sheathed his sword, and ran in the direction of the house, calling for Noah over his shoulder to move and grab a bucket and head for the well, and to put out the fire.

Ashe ran her fingers along the edge of the archway. Penelo's voice was tired as she poured their story to Vaan, and Ashe felt Balthier's appraising gaze on her as she feigned being too preoccupied with opening the stone to notice.

The Dynast King's tomb and the Stillshrine of Miriam had an energy that buzzed low in her ears and a heat that emanated under her fingertips. Here, there only stone warmed from the rising desert sun and silence.

Balthier crossed his arms and leaned against the stone, fully facing her as she pretended not to notice. The tattered edges of her gown swayed about her calves as she shifted her weight from one foot to the other in the tunnel beneath the sand.

Fran was perfectly still; it was a good sign, as the presence of mist made her restless, and a surge of mist made her violent, then ill.

“Perhaps I'm not needed here after all,” Ashe murmured, shaking her head in submissive frustration, “The entrance will not yield to me.”

She didn't notice, but Balthier's clutch on his biceps tightened ever so slightly and his jaw stiffened.

“Surely you are needed, or you wouldn't have come.”

Her heart accelerated, enraged and fast beneath her lame arm immobilized against her chest.

“I came because you somehow convinced me to it,” Ashe heard herself snap, immediately regretting the sharpness of her words. But they were all ready spoken and her pride denied her the recoil of an apology, “My Uncle is wounded, my people are likely confused and afraid, and I chose to partake on an excursion with a sky pirate to delay a voyage to Ambervale.”

Fran's ears twitched.

Ashe heard Balthier's breath hitch in a fraction of a moment of disarray, but nothing more. His eyes darted to her and lips parted for just a second before he closed them again.

“Ambervale, eh?”

Behind them Alma rose from where she'd been crouched towards the ground. She walked slowly, kicking sand with her feet, revealing grooves in the stone floor that had otherwise been filled with dirt.

Vaan and Penelo rested back to back. And when the newcomer woman rose and walked in circles she swept away dust as Balthier and Ashe bickered in the archway. Vaan nudged Penelo, who immediately lifted her head from her arms to watch her companion rise up and join Alma in her effort of kicking up dust.

Penelo stayed put, only watching in mild interest: “What is it?”

“Yes, Ambervale.” Ashe confirmed coldly, before taking notice of their companions' state of distraction and added, “It was only a matter of time given my circumstances, not all of us have the luxury of coming and going as we please.”

Balthier cocked his head to the side, his nose infuriating straight and given the current lighting he appeared every bit the portrait of a classic gentlemen in rugged attire etched into something dark and rare.

“And why not? No one's forcing you. You're free to leave.”

“With what airship?”

Balthier shrugged, and his voice remained level and calm like it was when he brushed a lock of hair around the curve of her ear.

“I'd reckon your old Captain would still cut a way for you if you demanded it.”

His voice was soothing, as he'd likely intended. She glared back.

“I would not demand that of Basch because his oath to me is fulfilled a hundred times over. I won't have it.”

“Then I suppose we're both stuck, Princess.”

Her jaw clenched as tightly as his did before. In the last day she'd gone from sober yearning to drunken yearning, trauma and near-death that culminated in a pitiful escape across Ivalice. She was tired and frustrated. She wanted violence with Balthier-- and if it weren't for the people present, currently speaking to one another as they moved in her peripheral, she'd have it. She knew his wit enough to understand that he was holding back for the sake of her feelings.

If they were on their own she'd slap him as hard as she could, clutch him by the collar wrinkled in both of her hands and force him against the rough stone and demand he take her there, where the heat from the desert would made their bodies slick with sweat and his hairline would curl the way it did ever so slightly when it was wet, and her fingers running through it would make it feel thicker and grittier.

“Is something the matter?”

Alma felt Gabranth eye her curiously as he drifted from his low volumed words with Reddas. He walked to her, but she didn't lift her head as she transfixed on the centuries old smooth lines that appeared in perfect geometric design and symmetry upon the floor.

“The papers-- this looks like them. Doesn't it?” Alma spoke in a hushed tone almost directly into his armpit as he emerged so closely beside her and she turned her head while speaking.

A pause. She stopped her efforts as Vaan moved around her now, taking care to emphasize the grooves in the floor with the toe of his boot.

Alma recalled the particularly deep recesses in the center, where Dr. Cid's ink spread bolder for emphasis. The bones of her shoulder blades ached upon those grooves as she lay chained to a floor not unlike this one, although it wasn't this same one. She shook the memory of her teenage self in such a state.

Ashe opened her mouth to speak smart words to counter him, but in that moment, the ground beneath them hummed the way it did in the Dynast King's Tomb when she first granted them access, though this time she was touching nothing and she exchanged puzzled looks with Balthier.

The door before them heaved open, revealing stairs encased in a hall of glossy dark stone, and the stale cool air of ancients swelled upon them.

She did what she'd grown accustomed to in strange circumstances, and her eyes found Fran, still calm and unaffected by mist, whose telltale gaze had set upon the woman in the middle of concentric circles upon the floor with Basch to her right and Vaan to her left.

Ashe pursed her lips and looked again to Fran who returned her gaze blankly, though Ashe knew the Viera wouldn't look directly at her in the eye without purpose.

Alma was in the middle of them all, arms upward and slightly outward as if they would impede her view of the ground below and she moved slowly in circles.

Ashe lifted her finger and pointed at the elder woman accusingly: “You. What did you do?”

He could have purchased a coffin in town. But spare lumber was plentiful, and he instead worked through the night assembling it with a hammer to light pine. He rolled back his sleeves and unbuttoned the top buttons of his shirt, and when sweat gathered on his brow he fought back the urge to wipe it away with the back of his hand, for they were littered with paint.

Noah stepped back in the grey light and admired his handiwork. It appeared to be earlier in the morning than it really was. The skies had opened to a wet downpour on their home below, and through the open windows of the newly rebuilt barn he'd hardly noticed his neighbor pass by, a nervous hooded glance saved only for him.

Jude stood tall, taller than he. He'd moved to the neighboring estate out of convenience, when both he and his wife were pushed out from their border town by Archadian advancements with their infant son.

“Is it done?” Jude's low voice rumbled through the air, stirring Noah from whatever trance possessed him.

There was prudence in Jude's pressing-- Noah's mother lay deceased in her bedroom upstairs, dressed in her favorite blue gown and covered by a sheet. He only frowned down at the setting dark red lacquer, sinking to his knees in fatigue as he read the name he'd engraved upon the wood:

RONSENBURG

He clenched a fist. The name looked silly in script. If he'd had an ounce of better insight he would've sought out her maiden name for his engraving, as she'd lived most of her life without the name she died with.

Reddas passed torches that he'd lit outside, lighting them one by one before presenting them to Ashe and Balthier to start, Fran declined hers stating cryptically that the flames would only muddle her senses. Vaan and Penelo accepted theirs hurriedly, before stepping into the darkness behind Fran. Basch and Alma were last save for Reddas himself.

“She's awfully antagonistic towards me.” Alma said in a hushed tone that only Basch would hear. She nodded her chin to Ashe's shape at the forefront.

“Aye. She doesn't trust you. As she shouldn't.” Basch replied, knowing full well his words would only add towards Alma's sensation of hostility, but he only spoke them because they were truthful.

The small woman looked up at him, her torch casting dancing shadows across her features. Alma was consistently introspective, an attribute he suspected to be the cause of much grief in her life.

They were ascending a staircase with Reddas at the rear.

“I've done nothing.” Alma spoke after a pause, before adding solemnly, “I didn't want any of this.”

“I know.” Basch replied, gently touching her shoulder in reassurance as they walked. She glanced at him again, her expression foreign to him. Perhaps it was the darkness of the halls pooling into the darkness in her irises. He imagined he looked eerie also, with all his scars and angular features. “I've led you into this. I'll see you out of it. The Queen would take a bite out of you if she could, but she will not have the opportunity. I will assure it.”

Alma rolled her eyes. “Sounds comforting.”

“You've not many allies in Ivalice, Lady Alma.” Basch found himself countering, “But I'd like to be one if you'd allow it.”

A moment passed. He wouldn't have heard her at all if his ears weren't straining so hard in the darkness amongst Balthier's murmurings from ahead and Reddas' heavy footsteps from behind:

“I've never had many allies in Ivalice to begin with.”

The stairs led to a corridor that intersected three ways. Fran lagged behind, running a long pointed finger down a tablet that adorned the center of the room that was largely ignored by the others eager to venture further. Balthier remained in the lead, his free hand a mere inches from the trigger of his holstered weapon. The corridor was long and dark.

“Uh, just where is the treasure?” Vaan inquired, waving his torch at the walls carelessly until Penelo snapped her hand to his forearm and glared up at him in a silent command to settle down. He obeyed.

“Have you ever found treasure this near to the entrance?” Balthier questioned the younger sky pirate irritably, casting an annoyed look over his shoulder.

Ashe said nothing, her light gown appearing to glow in her companions' torchlight as she looked uncharacteristically at her feet on the ground, a glimpse of a Princess before Dalmasca's fall who cared little for the happenings around her.

“You should stop.” Fran's voice echoed from behind them, and by the light of Reddas' torch they could see that the Viera had not followed them, but stayed in the chamber with the tablet instead.

They halted, as if the tone of her voice carried the command itself.

“What's up?” Vaan called back to her.

Alma held her torch to the wall: sleek stone stacked neatly brick by brick, each separated by a flawless groove. Even with the arguably more advanced technology these ancient people had, it did not account for the remarkably smooth linear edges of the structure.

But then, she'd seen architecture like this before, long ago when her wrists were bound in chains and a noose-like rope fastened around her neck by the templar nights that led her into the labyrinth below.

Her stomach curled. She hoped there was no such labyrinth here.

“We must take all halls at once.” Fran said simply as the party walked closer.

“You're able to read that thing?” Penelo was approaching the Viera from behind. They both stood before the tablet with torches upfront as the others gathered behind.

“No, but I feel and energy source from all three halls.” Fran replied.

Balthier sighed, crossing his arms. “So, you have a hunch.”

Fran's eyes met his from over her shoulder. “Yes.”

Reddas eyed the far right hall curiously. “We shall divide up, then.”

Alma rose her eyebrows, unable to stay silent at the seemingly nonsensical flow of logic being spoken. “We divide up, because of a hunch? It seems more practical to stay together.”

“We trust Fran on her hunches.” Ashe snapped. “I'll take the middle path. Reddas? You seem to be eyeing the right.”

“It is no matter,” Reddas shrugged, “I can take the right, if you like.”

“--Fran and I go with you.” Balthier turned to Ashe, and Fran looked aloofly to the far side of the chamber.

“It is best if we separate, I'm afraid. More eyes on.” Fran rationalized. Balthier nodded, watched her stroll leisurely to the left.

“Penelo and I aren't separating. We'll go with Fran.” Vaan interjected, and Penelo had little to protest. Her feet were killing her by the strain of ligaments in her shoes and she followed her partner over to Fran, and the three vanished under the archway of their chosen path, the sound of Fran's shoes announcing their departure.

Basch looked Balthier and Ashe over, speaking cautious words to Balthier as he passed, guiding Alma toward where Reddas stood.

“I expect a pirate is as capable of protecting a Queen as he is stealing a Princess?” He inquired teasingly.

Alma followed behind him slowly, grateful that he'd opted to advance with Reddas rather than Balthier and Ashe. The strange references they made to one another were curious, however, though she knew there was a different time and place for questions regarding that.

“I'm capable with a sword, as I'm sure you remember.” Ashe countered Basch, motioning with Morrid's sickle blade in her hand, at which his eyes flickered to hers and he spoke with mild-mannered amusement.

“Aye, I remember.”

Vaan was admittedly winded trying to keep up with Fran. Her long strides were equivalent to two of his and when he glanced over his shoulder he could see that Penelo was lagging behind.

“Fran, slow down.” He pleaded, and the Viera spun on her heels, silently appraising Penelo's slouching form.

“I'm sorry,” Penelo breathed heavily, “I had a... long night.”

The hall was long and dark, and Vaan and Penelo's twin torches were only lighting was seemed like miles of black glistening dark mirrors.

“You are exhausted.” Fran observed, mahogany eyes scanning the girl from head to toe. “Perhaps you shouldn't have come.

Vaan winced, casting a look of pity in Penelo's direction as she looked down at the ground, stray wisps of pale blonde hair falling from twin buns, dark makeup pooling with sweat over her eyes. Her yellow dress from the fete was more or less preserved, but it clung to her legs as if she'd just emerged from a bath with it on.

It was all his fault. If Penelo had it her way, she wouldn't have come at all, yet she did it for him.

“Come here. I'll carry you.” Fran offered, gracefully bending a knee to the ground to offer her back.

“I'm okay Fran.” Penelo's pride was obviously hurt.

“But you're slowing us down. Balthier will find the treasure, and we'll never hear the end of it.” Vaan hated saying those words, because he knew that is she had the strength left in her she'd strike him across the face, but she didn't, so he added: “If you won't let Fran do it, then you need to let me do it.”

Penelo glanced at him at first in humility, but then her face cracked into a smile with a small snort, “You can't carry me that long.”

Vaan walked to her, his arms outstretched. “Let's find out.”

“Stop it.” Penelo swatted him away. “Fine! I choose Fran, okay?”

Fran was still, and Penelo begrudgingly lowered herself onto Fran's back, looped her arms around the expanse of Fran's collarbone and crossed her ankles about the Viera's waist. Fran stood effortlessly from the ground with Penelo in tow, making if appear as if she were walking on air rather than towing the additional weight of a Hume.

Vaan resumed Fran's speed, knowing she could move a lot faster if he weren't there, butalso that she'd ventured enough with Balthier to know how to set pace for a Hume. He watched from the back of Penelo's head as she initially rested it upon Fran's shoulder, then as time passed she turned it to the side, resting upon Fran's shoulder like a pillow in a bed, a bun resting in the crook of Fran's neck and Penelo's eyes slowly slipped shut under the pale tresses of Fran's long ponytail.

Vaan smiled. As terrible as he felt that Penelo was there with him after all she'd been through, the view reminded him of how she looked when she was younger, arguably happier, with her parents and her house that gave an unrelenting view of the Rabanastrian sky, when Reks would carry her like that through town for as long as she demanded.

A house. That's what she needed, Vaan decided. With this treasure, he could at least provide her that.

Balthier walked beside her in silence. Tension with Ashe was nothing new, but by her grip on Morrid's blade he wasn't entirely sure if she came with him out of pure happenstance by how the groups divided up, or if she was intending to murder or seduce him in a dark and potentially evil ceremonial place.

His eyes glanced to hers in his peripheral. That was more likely than the former, yet just as likely that she'd prefer to stab him with that blade.

It didn't stop him from opening his mouth.

“Are you going to Ambervale after this, then?” He questioned. In the past, he'd bury his inquiry in riddles and sly prods, but he was through with that with her. He'd learned from her the ability to be direct when it was warranted, when he wanted an instant and equally direct answer, and it wasn't worth hiding desire under pride.

Ashe's torch swayed in the darkness as she rested it upon her shoulder, flames dancing behind her head making her dark platinum hair appear golden blonde.

She looked uncharacteristically shy, eyeing him from below. She stopped and he continued several paces before following suit and turning toward her.

“I must.”

“He'll likely propose, then.” Balthier replied, his tone void of emotion. He didn't readily name a name as Ashe already knew it, and Balthier had little care to bother with the names of the ones he had distaste for.

“Al-Cid, you mean.” As soon as the name slipped through her lips Balthier started walking again, leaving Ashe to match the strides of a man nearly a foot taller than her.

“Al-Cid. Marcus. Cinna. Lamont.” Balthier punctuated the ended syllable a bit harsher than he'd intended. “Whatever the name, I suppose it was only a matter of time.”

“I've no choice, I'm afraid. Dalmasca has no heir and I've no kin.”

“There's always a choice.” Balthier murmured.

Ashe huffed, the exhale of air leaving her nostrils audibly as she kept pace with him through the darkness, the dingy silver of her dress shimmering in it's reflections on the walls all around them.

“You keep saying that, and I'm not sure you understand that concept goes both ways.”

They both stopped again. She took a step towards him, swaying her torch to the side as if in a threat, but he only stepped backward as they inversely mimicked their encounter on the Phon coast from what seemed like a century ago, when she claimed to have seen Rasler and he demanded she compose herself.

She stepped forward again. He stepped back.

Balthier snorted. “The disgraced son-turned-pirate of a war criminal from a country that subjugated Dalmasca courts her Queen? You can't be so naive.”

“I am not. You're still the surviving son of a noble house that served Archadia for decades prior to that. And by my account, the savior of Rabanastre.”

“Ah, there it is.” Balthier chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck in rare prose of humility.

“What do you mean?”

“You mention what could be knowing that it won't. So that when you venture to your fair suitor in Rozarria you can say to yourself that you offered and I declined.”

Ashe frowned. He was spot on, and it tormented her.

“Well?” She shook her head incredulously, “I chose to be here now, did I not?”

“Indeed, you did.” Balthier bowed before her in a mocking fashion as he had numerous times before as she rolled her eyes and moved past him.

“Then I suppose--”

A strange scuttling sound rattled overhead and Ashe's voice faltered. Balthier lifted a rifle from where it was holstered across his back, effectively dropping his torch to the floor and it rolled toward the wall.

He aimed the barrel at the ceiling, trailing the sound of the scuttling until it is ceased as suddenly as it came.

Ashe gripped her free hand on her torch readily, knees bent in a defensive posture. “What was that?” She whispered aloud, but he knew it was a question she didn't intend for him to have an answer.

“I've a mind to figure we've got company.” Balthier murmured. He gathered the torch he'd dropped, his barrel now facing the hall where they walked.

“Perhaps it was a poor idea to split up.” Ashe observed, her cynicism and regret seeping through her voice as the walked cautiously.

“Fran has a mind for such things, you said so yourself.” Balthier nodded to her, “Or was that only a bluff to discredit Basch's prisoner-date?”

He felt her eyes on his squinting, the way they did when she was fending off laughter from him. “His what?”

“You women are too critical of each other sometimes. I'd think a girl like her and one like you should get along nicely, as when she did a number on your shoulder in the Paramina Drift.”

“She hides something.”

“As do you. As do I. And most of all, Basch. If you fault one according to secrets, it should be him.”

Ashe pursed her lips.

He knew the mention of Basch's name would win his case. Though he took no pleasure in that, as he respected Basch as much as he did Ashe and understood the importance of secrets, and besides, the two had exchanged correspondence as soon as he was recovered enough from the Bahamut's wreckage to write.

Balthier changed the subject.

“Do you know why Fran deduced we split and advance the halls simultaneously?”

Ashe shook her head, still tense from their previous conversations. Balthier walked on, still heading a torch in one head and his rifle ready in the other, a trained eye scanning the linear path.

Balthier cleared his throat. It was a nervous habit of his to portray how unnervous he was-- to tell stories and quips when uncertain to distract his analytical and fast paced mind. He'd prefer not to admit, but it was a habit he'd subconsciously gained from his father from early memories of the late Dr. Cid hunch over an engine whirring in full force, muttering a story to his son in charge of the amplification control box, flipping switches as he was directed.

“No.” Ashe answered him simply. “I assumed she was able to deduce as much from the tablet.”

“She couldn't read the tablet. But in the days prior to this little hunt she and the others have been gathering information on this place. It is of unknown origin and no date of establishment. It is not a tomb nor a shrine but a mere gathering place.”

“A gathering place for whom?”

“A saint supposedly,” Balthier could practically feel Ashe's lips curl ever so slightly, the same way they did against his skin. He knew she was particularly sensitive to the term after having been appointed one by the Occuria.

“But it doesn't matter, so long as there's valuables to raid, does it?”

Ashe shook her head. “I cannot believe you still say such things.”

“Am I troubling you?”

“I'm troubled by the strange noises and the lack of reverence you have for such a sacred place,” Ashe chastised him lightly, “It will be your undoing one day.”

Balthier ignored her warning, continuing: “The saint appears across various timelines, intersecting past with present, bringing past adjacent to the future and even caused, or will cause the downfall of all races but the Humes.”

“That saint sounds like a fine Archadian gentry, then.”

He smirked at her dry wit. “It's only a story, Princess. But the concept of time for the Viera is that it is parallel, not linear. I think Fran deduced each path was representative of that.”

“She thinks that we're all walking in a different time?”

Balthier sighed. “Is this the first puzzle you've ever encountered in an ancient ruin... or...?”

His smug taunt was answered with a sharp shove with a hand baring a torch, and he cursed as he narrowly dodged the flame.

“You've acquired ill favor with the Queen, haven't you.”

The man introduced to her as Reddas looked down at her with his good eye, but she'd seen him front on and knew the other side of his face was deformed from a horrible burn, almost mottled in appearance. But Alma knew from his spritely manner that it wasn't real mottling; it was scar tissue.

“I suppose I have.” Alma replied dryly. She'd shed her shoes long ago as the ground proved even enough for bare feet. She knew the odds were that that could quickly change with the turn of a corridor. “But I feel it is I that should be suspicious of this group, with your casual connections to a Queen.”

Ahead of them, Gabranth reaffixed his grip on his torch, loosening and tightening his knuckles as his fingers rearranged themselves.

“You feel as an outsider.” Reddas accurately surmised

“No, I am an outsider. But that's not fault of anyone's.”

Gabranth halted and turned to face them. “There's a drop off here. You both stay. I'll scout out ahead.” He waved his torch over the edge of the path for emphasis.

Alma approached him and looked downward, swallowing hard as old memories flooded back to her. Intersecting walla interwoven like a web of black brick and dirt. They were stranded upon the labyrinth just like the one she'd been imprisoned in.

“I should go.” Alma told Gabranth defiantly, “The passage looks narrow. I'm the smallest here.”

“Aye, you are.” Gabranth nodded to her and looked to Reddas. “Will you stay with her? It could be dicey with the three of us but I'll look to be sure.”

Alma clenched her teeth, it stung that Gabranth didn't entrust her with such a simple task. But she also knew it was a potentially dangerous one, and she couldn't properly warn him with raising more questions and compromising whatever progress she'd made in gaining his trust.

Gabranth lowered himself down as Reddas held his torch, tossing it to the drop off below one he verbally confirmed footing. Alma watched over him from above on all fours, her heart sinking when the light of Gabranth's torch reflecting off the white of his dress shirt vanished under what Alma could only guess was an underpass.

“Don't fret, girl.” Reddas assured her, “Our good Judge knows his way around the darkness.”

She was tempted to snap at him and remind him she was hardly a girl, as she guessed they were similar enough in age and she held her tongue. She opted instead to sit cross legged over the edge, eyes scanning the darkness for the reemergence of Gabranth. There were no creatures that she could recall in the labyrinth, but she reminded herself that this was a different time.

But even then, the only creature that emerged was her.

She swallowed. Her unease had started at the entrance and only grown exponentially as they traversed the tunnel and strangely Gabranth's presence seemed to be the only thing keeping her grounded here. Yet, she had last felt Ultima's presence on the airship to Archades, and that was naught to be felt here.

“If he dies, the Empire may swallow me whole.” Alma lamented aloud to herself.

“He's died before, depending on the account you take. As have I. He'll come back.”

Alma cocked her head as the dark skinned man settled beside her and slapped her on the shoulder blade. Her gown was in shambles, she knew, but she nervously pushed her hair over a shoulder to give herself the illusion that she was composed.

“A lot of dead men in these parts, it seems.”

“Aye, girl. Us dead men seem to find one another in a world that would rather see us so than alive.”

Alma pondered his words with a furrowed brow, recalling vaguely a quote she'd read in a novel years before:

“A dead man is but a man with the validity to forfeit himself; we all but serve one lifetime in this world yet are reborn from death trial by trial so long as we are not forfeit.” She recited aloud.

Reddas looked to her curiously. “What author?”

He was a well-read man, then. His accent was clearly a derivative of Archadian, and strangely she didn't realize until then how different Gabranth sounded from all the Archadians she'd met thus far.

“I don't remember.” Alma lied, knowing full well it was a play by Lord Avon, who likely hadn't been born yet and passed away three centuries before she was born. “Are you from Archadia?”

“I am. Does the stick up my arse give it away?” Reddas looked at her directly and she met him, keeping her expression as neutral as she could despite how jarringly different one half of his face was from the other. They eyed each other for a moment and laughed briefly, a welcome distraction in the darkness.

There was still no sign of Gabranth.

“It does.” Alma laughed and bit her bottom lip for a moment and stifle it. “I suspect it's hard to return if you've already died.”

“It is.” Reddas replied darkly, a sharp change in his tone “I started a second life elsewhere. And a third one after that.”

Alma pursed her lips. She'd heard news of her own funeral after fleeing the Church's grasp with Ramza; she was on her third life too. It was her instinct to be warm, so she wanted to share that with Reddas in that moment, but she withdrew from the urge, instead settling for a vague agreement.

“I've lived a few myself.”

“Indeed you have, to be lingering in the presence of Imperial command.”

She scanned in the darkness for Gabranth. No footsteps. No flickering torch. Nothing.

“Gabranth is not from Archadia is he?”

Reddas looked at her with what she guessed would be a raised eyebrow were it not for the scarring that marred his face.

“You must be new, alright. 'Tis no secret Gabranth is a foreigner.”

She did know, as Gabranth had smartly thrown back in her face when she attempted to lie to him.

“I hear he had a brother that recently passed?”

“Aye.” The cadence of Reddas' speech was slowed, careful, and he was behaving as oddly as Penelo did when she first mentioned Gabranth's brother. “Captain Basch fon Ronsenburg of Dalmasca's Knighthood Order. He was sentenced to death for treason after he killed the late King Raminas.”

“Gabranth's brother killed Ashe's father?”

Reddas' expression was tellingly grim, as if he'd realized he'd said too much, even if it was information that was clearly public knowledge. “Aye.”

Her simple questions to Reddas only spawned hundreds more in her mind. If Captain Basch assassinated a King of a country Archadia was at war with, was he helping Gabranth? And if so, why was Ashe clearly so fond of him?

And that name, Alma furrowed her brow, making sense of details that were seemingly insignificant until now: When she'd first encountered Ashe in the rift, wounded and taking cover behind a wall of rock, she'd called out 'Basch' as Gabranth approached her. It would make sense that she be fond of a former Captain of her knighthood, and for Vaan and Penelo to know him, but if he killed the King then none of it made sense.

She opened her mouth to press Reddas, because she was exhausted of patience when it came to being lied to. The likeliest story was the strangest one, but the familiar hum in the fingertips and her toes jarred her thoughts elsewhere, and within seconds the heartbeat in her chest felt more like a fluttering hummingbird-- so light and fast she almost felt as though her chest could levitate from the ground.

There was no waterfall, no drop that could jar Ultima from her now. It was foolish to set foot in these ruins from the start when they were so familiar to her and strange for the Queen of Dalmasca.

But she knew she'd never been there.

Reddas rested a hand to her shoulder, his skin puckered and lightened from flames. Alma twitched. Managing to cock her head sideways in a a strange posture with her shoulder blades back, as if threatening to sprout wings she managed strangled words:

“Please. Run.”

Silvia was born in a brothel in Old Archades. She'd once been an auburn-haired girl with freckles and bright blue eyes, skipping about the halls in the ignorance that accompanied childhood, providing refreshment to the prostitutes and their guests and washing the ladies' silks in the alley.

As she grew older she knew other things, too. One of the patrons took a liking to her and taught her to properly hold and bow and quiver, (though she could never get it to release in the smooth manner that she preferred), and how to swing an axe to chop wood. In the quick and chill autumn season that beset Archades she'd savor the soreness in her arms after she was tasked to provide for the fire. The effort made her feel meaningful and important, and more than anything, she was appreciated by the others.

When she was thirteen she had her first bleed, and she was expected to provide for her home in other ways. Her first encounter with a patron was the highest price paid for any virgin according to the other ladies, and when she walked to bed with him she set her shoulders back and her breasts forward the way she'd been coached: confident, but not too much so. Composed, but ready to vocalize, if that was what the patron liked.

But the end of the session left Silvia sore and bleeding. She was ashamed of her pain, and cried silently into a pillow, her makeup running over her eyes and down her cheeks as the patron slapped her lightly on the bare hip, dressed himself the closed the door behind him as he left.

Vayne Solidor walked through the doors on her third season in the queue. It was no secret that his brothers and his father before him him regularly ventured to the alley of muted sighs, but seeing a Solidor in the flesh was surreal nonetheless. Each girl was washed, perfumed and dressed in the best silks on hand before they were lined up and posed before the Emperor's eldest living son like a display window of scantily clad dolls.

Vayne was quiet and mild-mannered, not quite the way Silvia had envisioned such a man from the highest echelons of nobility. He dressed rather plainly in brown slacks and a black tunic encased in a cloak for shelter from the curious eyes of Old Archades.

When he lifted his hood and set it back to his shoulders, light blue-green eyes settled upon her. Raven black hair fell over his shoulders to his face when he pressed his lips briefly to her hand and led her up the stairs to the suite, wordlessly notifying the madam of his choice.

“Do you know why you caught my eye, Silvia?” Vayne spoke to her finally as he poured a red Bhujerban vintage into twin glasses for them both, his back still to her as she sank onto the bed, still in shock.

“No, milord.”

Vayne whirled around to her, holding a glass in each hand. He crossed to room, his boots falling heavily as they made contact with the floor.

“You look incredibly sad. All those other whores reek of fake enthusiasm and false honeyed affection, but not you.” His voice released a small chuckle as he smiled at her kindly, offering her a glass of wine. “I found that relatable.”

A curious observation and confession, she thought as she eyed him cautiously, consciously reminding herself to be confident as she drank. His free hand cupped the curve of her chin, lifting it up so that she was forced to look him in the eye. It was true that she was sad, but she also didn't intend for anyone to notice. In fact, no one had ever seemed to notice that about her at all before him. Vayne was slow with her; gentle, taking care to offer her pleasure were others had not. If she hadn't known any better she'd had called it lovemaking, but the ladies instilled in her that there was no such thing with a patron.

By his second visit a week later she found herself anxious to see him when she woke every day.

A year passed, during which Vayne had paid for exclusivity for Silvia so that she was never to bed another. She was elated by this, as not only did she no longer have to lay with other men, she now collected the highest bid to be standing by solely for Vayne until he bought her completely and moved her into the Citadel in Archades with him.

It was then that her world of bliss and passion began to crumble.

“I cannot keep you where noble eyes will see you, you see.” He'd told her in his eloquent fervor that made it sound as if she were getting a promotion rather than being downgraded into a servant's quarters in the lower level of the Citadel were he'd apparently accumulated other whores.

Vayne's appetites began to vary and he'd come for her whenever he pleased, and she was expected to comply and be at the ready for him, occupying her days in full makeup in the sun by his private gardens or being pampered by lower servants to suit his needs.

When she was twenty and he was twenty-two, she felt a swelling in her belly and the pang of nausea, of which rumors spread like wildfire and a healer came to visit her, only to confirm the invasive suspicions were true: she was with child. It was the greatest joy she'd experienced in her entire life, when she realized the swelling was the result of little limbs extending out to little fingertips and toenails all in a bundle that was the size of a dry grain of rice.

She lifted her hand to her mouth a smiled at the news, though the healer eyed her stoically. If it was a boy who would be the future Emporer's son, a Solidor bastard but a Solidor nonetheless; she couldn't see Vayne not having him legitimized. And if it were a girl, she'd be raised as a Solidor woman, knowing nothing of brothels or the kind of sadness that Silvia had known until she met Vayne.

Her fantasies were short-lived. Vayne was notified within hours and in a swift visit he'd struck his fist repeatedly so hard into her abdomen that she gasped for air from the wind knocked from her lungs and she vomited, and the bleeding of a miscarriage followed in the days after as she sobbed on the floor on all four limbs.

It happened like that twice after, and when she begged him not to he'd respond cooly: “I will have an heir one day, and it will not be compromised by the child of a whore.”

She rarely saw him after he was named consul of Rabanastre, he didn't even bother to visit her before he departed. It was a welcome snub, as she occupied herself in the gardens peacefully until Vayne's death and his younger brother Larsa became Emperor in his place.

She dreaded the succession, as she knew that by custom the property of the deceased elder brother would fall to the younger. Men always found their place following clumsily and by pure happenstance of other men, and women were entirely at the mercy of their desire for pleasure or heirs. Larsa released all of Vayne's pleasure servants to continue to work in the Citadel or exit service to house Solidor altogether. Silvia opted for the former, as she had no where to go and little desire to go back to the brother in Old Archades.

She'd gained a silent respect among the other servants of house Solidor, however, as it was common knowledge that Vayne had forced her numerous pregnancies into termination with such brute force it was unbelievable that she was able to walk the halls carrying trays and pitchers with her shoulders back and breasts full and perky in the forefront-- but then, she'd learned young that above all she should walk this way as a show of confidence. The silent respect had translated to the nobility over time, and she found herself at the center of attention and affection of all the gentry at every fete and formal dinner, and she became a guest adorned in finery from gifts and chops instead of a simple servant. Larsa pitied her enough to allow her the comfort of moving to the upper levels of the citadel where she became more involved in the logistics of running the Solidor household, and became a significant voice for the others in it's servitude.

When Larsa arrived from Bhujerba, the citadel was in a frenzy. Apparently he'd been wounded to the point where a quick intervention would likely be a matter of life or death for him.

“He might die.” A young servant girl told her, eyes dark and full of concern as she poured warm water down Silvia's back in a perfumed bath.

Silvia pushed the water back from her eyes, wringing out the saturation from her length auburn curls.

“A good thing.” Silvia replied coldly. The Solidors had it coming, and with the last son dead, she could potentially gain enough clout within the citadel to climb yet another rung.

“He requires surgery.” The girl continued, “He's lost quite a bit of blood and is unstable from travel.”

“A good thing.” Silvia repeated.

The infant wailed as it was swallowed in flames, and Noah wrestled Jude to the ground as the older man cried out for his son.

“It's useless now.” Noah hissed, using the blunt handle of his knife to Jude's shoulder blade in a pressure point to subdue him. Jude might've been older and taller, but Noah was every ounce more muscular and stronger.

The Imperials had set fire to Jude's manse and hung his wife from a rope before it, and when the flames had grown high enough, the rope's strings snapped and she dropped to the ground in a heap of limbs and hair.

Jude struggled against him, tears flowing down his face. Noah cried too, though he wouldn't allow Jude to see it. The Imperials had returned as the Judge Magister had promised that they would over a year ago, and Basch had fled like a coward.

“It's not useless if I save my son!” Jude bellowed, mustering the momentum to throw Noah off his back and the blonde tumbled to the ground, reaching for Jude with his teeth clenched in frustration, but it was too late. Jude hopped to his feet and sprinted into the burning house though the screams of the child had now ceased.

“You'll die!” Noah called out to him in vain.

In the morning, he recovered the corpse of a woman in a heap and the charred remains of a father and child curled under the ash covered floorboards in splinters of what was once below a nursery.

A heroic effort, Noah had to admit. But such was often the end of heroes when they were from a fictional story. He dug three graves, and turned to his own childhood home for a last look before throwing a bag over his shoulder and walking to the caravan of Imperials that had blocked the road.

“I surrender.” Noah spoke, trying his best to not sound as broken as he had felt.

A Judge lifted his helm so that his dark eyes could closely study Noah's.

“You... I remember you.” The Judge pointed at him accusingly.

Noah blinked back at him, silent and unsure of the meaning of the gesture.

“You're the one who broke my leg last year.” The Judge surmised, and other men gathered, their attention escalating on what appeared to be a standoff of sorts between and Landisian brute and a Judge.

“I was yet to be a Judge,” The Judge gestured to his armor, recently shining in immaculate care as Judge's often were, but layers of ash and grit from his deeds the night before tarnished it, “You and the other one. What happened to him?”

“He's dead.” Noah replied dryly. In truth, he had no idea what happened to Basch, but the thought of him being dead made the truth easier to bear.

“Pity. The Magister wanted to follow up on you two for our ranks. His twin carrion birds.” The Imperial's nasally accent carried a hint of scourn. “Anyhow, you'll do. Do you understand the terms of your surrender? That you will serve us, and no one else? Landis is as dead as your brother, boy.”

Noah nodded, rationalizing the terms as a means of survival, and nothing else.

“And your name? Ronsenburg, wasn't it?” The Judge nodded to the manse that still stood intact.”

“Nay, I am and Gabranth.” Noah declared, the name finished in an exhale between his teeth.

Fran stopped walking first. Vaan looked to her, confused. Penelo had long since fallen into a deep state of sleep, but the abrupt cessation of Fran's strides stirred her awake. Heavy lidded honey-colored eyes opened, and Penelo reached her right arm longer around Fran's collarbone, rubbing at them wearily.

“Everything okay?” She murmured.

Fran silently bent at her knees to lower Penelo to the ground, and the young woman eased her feet onto the soil without any verbal instruction to do so.

The distinct sound of the rattle of flesh and bone over stone scuttled around them, and a dark shape that was distinctly a small female moved like a spider overhead, too quickly for them to catch a proper glimpse with the swing of a torch.

Vaan withdrew a knife from a holster at his waist, holding it at the ready with long fingers clenched about the leather handle. His fingers curled tighter and Fran spun around, lightly brushing her fingertips over his.

“Don't,” Fran commanded him, her voice level and low, “She is not here to harm us.”

It was only a matter of seconds until the figure was gone and the sound had ceased, but the shadowy figure had made such an impression that goosebumps rose on all their flesh, even Fran.

“She?” Vaan said during an exhale.

Penelo frowned, her feet no longer feeling so firm on the ground as she looked upward toward Fran. “If this is a ceremonial ground for the St Ajora we've been reading of, do you think this is a vessel your documents spoke of?”

Fran returned her glance. “Perhaps. Perhaps we missed the ceremony.”

Penelo glanced down the tunnel where Alma had vanished. Her thoughts liquid and the quaking in her joints refused to cease. The shakiness in her voice made her unease apparent to her companions:

“Do you think it happened already? You spoke of 'anomalies' in Eruyt.”

Fran said nothing, only blinking at the darkness before noting, “We'd best continue they way we were headed. And be cautious; she might not return to us in peace.”

Penelo and Fran turned and started to walk again, though their pace was notably cautious with unease.

Vaan paused to depart, half expecting the woman-thing to come crawling into their torch space again.

“Uh, you guys? That was creepy, right?” He was unsettled by how casually Penelo and Fran departed.

“There you are.”

Alma opened her eyes, lashes heavy under the guise of sleep.

But, she wasn't asleep. She lay on a cushioned platform in the center of a room full of mirrors reflecting white light from a bright sunny sky.

A woman looked down upon her. Grey-blue eyes lined ornately in thick lines of black coal that extended out past the outer corners on pale skin. The light irises were constricted around pinpointed pupils, unchanging in the light. Her pale, straw-like hair was impeccably smooth, pushed over one shoulder. A slinky white gown hung loosely from her shoulders, revealing a majority of her bosom; but from the taut expression on such a beautiful face, Alma could hardly gather that she cared for modesty.

Alma recognized this room of mirrors. She had once been chained in the ceremonial ground beneath the soil by the templar knights who abducted her after Isilud's death, and subjected to hours of of procession that was long enough to make the rough stones dig into her back as she felt her body leave her for another.

The robed men did not care for the tears of an adolescent girl. They didn't care that she was Beoulve, or that her brother had gained a murderous reputation in the wake of her capture. She was a vessel for Ultima according to the Virgo stone, and that was more important than the fact that she was a terrified girl.

When she opened her eyes then and gazed upon what she immediately recognized as Ultima's Hume form-- or at least what remained of it, she gasped. The last time she'd seen Ultima this way she was initially relieved, believing that she'd been saved by an angel and that merciful death had finally taken her and she'd be escorted to paradise.

But as she learned soon after, Ultima was no longer an angel for that purpose. Her intentions were dubious at best, and it was then that the dirty ground where she'd been chained were only remnants of the room of white mirrors, and the skylight that gave it it's heavenly glow was nothing more than a hole in the earth now buried in a rockslide.

“I...” Alma cleared her parched throat as she croaked in weakness, “I didn't let you win then, and I won't let you now.”

Ultima smiled down at her sweetly, revealing white pointed canines. She stroked Alma's hair soothingly, pushing it behind her ear until Alma mustered the strength to slap it away.

“The incident you speak of hasn't happened yet. Here in this time, I'm very much well.” The melodic voice told her, “And it was you that came to me here in this place where I am most present outside of the city of Giruvegan. It was where I was born as a Hume, you know.”

“I'd rather not have this history lesson with you.” Alma snapped weakly, pushing herself to her elbows.

“Your efforts from the airship were commendable. I do hope you took notice of my efforts to reward you. No Hume could survive such a fall intact.”

Alma looked down at her gown, smeared in dirt that caked about her calves-- a stark contrast to the rest of the clean, white surroundings.

“If I had it my way I would've been unintact long ago.” Alma declared boldly. She didn't mean it entirely, but it also wasn't completely wrong.

Ultima cocked her head to the side, skeptical. She'd had partial possession of Alma's body for nearly a decade and a half, and she knew Alma well enough to be skeptical.

“We could work together, you and I. I've been trying to show you this whole time.”

“Trying to show me?” Alma wrinkled her nose, her brow furrowed under tremendous effort. “You've only brought me pain and death.”

“Careful.” Ultima tapped her lightly on the forehead and she collapsed under the tremendous force of it with a grunt. “It was I that brought you to the Viera in Eruyt here. And if I hadn't preserved you after the airship you wouldn't have met him.”

“Him?”

Ultima laughed lightly, bringing her hand to her lips the curled in a devious smile. “Oh I forgot you're still a virgin by Hume standards. Don't be coy, girl.”

A vision burned into Alma's mind, forcing her eyes to be squeezed shut by the brightness, but it did little to make it any less painful.

Her fingers were raw as they gripped the smooth brick with ease. She moved like a spider; sickening, possessed. The very sensation of how unnatural her muscles felt moving this way under her skin made her feel sick.

But in the darkness, a man moved on his own ahead. Sword in one hand, torch in the other. He was tangled deep within the labyrinth and he didn't even know it.

Gabranth.

Alma's heart burst with anxiety, and she felt herself feel as if she were seizing, trying desperately to stop whatever she was there to do as she had before Ramza in the airship graveyard all those years ago. She watched him step nimbly in the flickering darkness about him, hopping quickly over ledges and pausing suddenly when he heard the sound of her scuttle echo off the walls.

“Do you still blame me for the lonely merchant and the street artisan?” Ultima's clear voice rang inside her head. Flashes of her nightgown stained with blood after bodily fluids ran down her thigh and Alma screamed, warning Ultima to push them away.

Gabranth heard the shrill sound and stood ready with his sword, eyes wide and hair slick with sweat, he was clearly not seeing her as well as she could see him. She crawled to him on the floor, quickly, her palms, knees, and toes colliding with the ground in little taps.

“Captain Basch fon Ronsenburg? He's far more handsome. Could be fun.”

“Don't!” Alma cried, her voice commanding, nearly animalistic in it's rawness.

Gabranth swung at her, his expression bearing a wildness she'd yet to see, even in Bhujerba. She dodged with ease, and got close enough to just barely tap him with a forefinger so that he immediately dropped his sword and collapsed his back colliding with stone as his knees buckled until he fell, slumped forward as his head hung by the slack in his neck.

Alma cried out again and she hurried away, still having little control of her body.

She neared a skeleton slumped against the wall with a familiar looking sickle sword at it's lap.

She slowed.

“Calm yourself! He is only asleep. I will leave you now, Alma. I see you need more time to see that I will not be your enemy when Ivalice demands your death and a catacolysm will be the only thing to save you.”

Alma opened her eyes, curled in a bloody heap on the floor across from the small skeleton. She sat back and hissed as she looked down at her hands and winced in pain from the friction they'd been exposed to. Her thighs and arms burned from exertion.

She had to get out of here. She leaned forward, looking the empty eye sockets of the skull before her straight on as she leaned to remove the sword from the skeleton's grasp. It relinquished the weapon easily, as Alma half anticipated it would spring to life under her touch.

She stood slowly, gripping the weapon by the handle, and looked back down the corridor from whence she came.

'Captain Basch fon Ronsenburg? He's far more handsome. Could be fun.'

Even in her weariness, Alma had a bone to pick. With whom and over what, she wasn't sure of at the moment. Her first few steps were so painful that her knees buckled and her hips flexed. She breathed deeply for a moment, envisioning a spring of water or a gourd or potion to make herself feel better, and took steady steps until she managed to break into a steady run, and then when she built more tolerance to the pain, a full sprint.

Balthier turned the corner, and the chamber that revealed itself was far more rewarding than that of the Belias that Ashe had dragged him off to so soon after they met.

Gold engravings lined the walls in the shapes of trees, and the gold reflected as green off the light of their torches.

“I believe you've found your treasure, pirate.” Ashe announced behind him. Her voice was firm and commanding, but he knew she was in just as much wonder as he was. “You did it.”

Balthier ascended several steps that led to the ground of the great chamber and spun around with his torch, grinning smugly back at her as she gestured him forward with her torch from above before following him.

“'Tis far too long since I've a good heist. I feared I'd grown soft following Princesses and seducing Queens at their every whim.”

Ashe rolled her eyes. “No one forced you to.”

Her clever twist of his own words humored him, but he only pursed his lips in the slightest hint of a smile in response. He walked forward, opening a chest filled with gold coins. He grabbed a handful and released them to slip through his fingers over his palm, in awe of how the light made them shine like green.

The whole room glittered that way. Ashe sank down on the bottom step, laying her torch beside her and it's light illuminated the fiery form of the sweat of her skin as she leaned forward with her good arm with the bad one with disabled against her chest and removed her shoes one by one, rubbing at her heels and her lips parted ever so slightly in a sigh of relief.

Only she could look absolutely ravishing like that.

“Come here.” He told her, and Ashe frowned up at him.

“I'm exhausted. Can you show me from here?” She lamented.

“No, I cannot.”

Ashe hesitated, clearly debating whether she should tell him off or indulge him. He stood for her readily, walking to a stream of light that filtered through rocks from the surface of the ground above, with sand that trickled down leaving small sand dunes on the chamber floor.

Ashe walked to him, barefoot as she left her torch flickering on the bottom step from where she rose.

“What?” She questioned him in a commanding voice, but the halfhearted defiance in her grey eyes and the slackness of her forehead and her jawline told him that she hardly had an urge to resist.

“Look up.” Balthier pointed. Ashe complied. A foot away from him, she stopped, squinting in the dim light at the steady trickle of dust.

“I see dirt.” She replied simply, then looked him back in the eye while keeping her distance. “Is this what you've dragged me here to show me in a room full of precious gold?”

“It is.” Balthier replied softly, reaching for her hand and when she relinquished it, he pressed it to his lips, not taking his eyes of her and she instinctively inched closer, however reluctantly.

“We're below the Bahamut.” He told her, pointing to the ceiling again.

Ashe's mouth dropped, as she looked to the ceiling in genuine disbelief and back to him again.

“You-- you're certain?”

“I would not say so if I wasn't.”

“We couldn't have traveled so far!”

“You really should have a better concept of geography in your own kingdom, Princess.”

Ashe looked at him strangely. “Then, that's how you knew of this place.”

Balthier nodded. “Fran and I-- we were recovered by a priest who took us to the entrance for cover before we were picked up by caravans. Carted across the desert like foreign grain. I didn't much care for it, but as a dying man I had little choice.”

Ashe swallowed. “All you had to do was say something. I could've helped. You'd have the best healers in Rabanastre.”

“And risk showing up the new Queen with my heroics? Hardly my style.”

Ashe laughed freely, a rarity. “As if you could.”

“Try me.” Balthier goaded her gently, settling his hands on her waist and pulling her against him. “I've a Queen to impress.”

Ashe lifted her arm to the back of Balthier's neck, her fingers tracing the edges of his hairline there.

She should be more cautious, more sensible and prudent. But Balthier suspected that her grief for Rasler had taught her to live for moments such as these when they were offered so readily for her. She smiled into his lips when he pressed them to hers, his hands nimbly moving to her buttocks to gather what remained of her gown in fistfuls there.

Her arm hooked around his neck even tighter when his mouth moved to the pulse at her neck just moments before he pulled her to the floor with him with movement that was so near to being clumsy that it was endearing, and she couldn't help but laugh again.

He was surely insane, laying beneath her this way just within hours of her admitting that she would take the proposal of another. But she knew she made him mad, just by the hint of her touch on his skin he'd willingly put his life on the line for her in a fiery crash again and again. He grabbed at her braids tightly, pulling her forehead to his as she grinded against him.

She was most likely just as insane as he was.

Noah splashed warm water from the basin to his face, slowly opening his eyes in the mirror. Long, thin blonde eyelashes clung together in an uncharacteristically delicate manner. Pale blue irises reflected back at him. His hair was wet from his bath and hung limply to the back of his neck.

He rubbed soap into a thick lather in between his fingers and spread it over his chin and cheeks, and down to the crook of his neck where a thick layer of hair had grown in. If it weren't for Vayne's orders, he'd never have let himself grow so haggard.

The lather soaked into the wetness already on his skin.

Was this how Basch did it?

Noah grabbed the blade. He wanted to drive in through the mirror, to shatter the reflection before into into hundreds of tiny shards to be forgotten and swept off the floor by a nameless servant. That-- or he could slit the throat of the man looking back at him and watch him bleed out into the warm waterbasin before him.

But that'd be too clean a death for Basch.

Noah ran the blade down his cheek, lightly pressing his tongue to it from the side to ensure a smooth a taut surface. He'd seen Basch at Nalbina only two days prior, and was close enough to notice where the lines of Basch's facial hair began and where they ended. Unbeknownst to his twin, Gabranth stood heaving in full beard under the Judge Magister's helm.

With every stroke of the blade to his flesh, he rinsed it in the water basin. Every stroke brought him closer to confronting the complexion in the mirror of the man he hated the most.

It was his own.

He bore Basch's likeness; but he wasn't in fact him. He had no memory of the road to Dalmasca from Landis. No account of how he was promoted to a bloody Captain so quickly. No recollection of Noah standing before him, arguing against his departure and screaming at him to stop when Basch turned his back to him. How did Basch even sound when he spoke? Did he still express the Landisian accent that Noah had so frequently been mocked for or did he sound more like a Dalmascan?

'No matter.' He thought to himself. Noah's task had little to do with speech. And once Basch was gifted to his captivity there would be no amount of lashes from the cat o nine tails, fists to the face, or bones broken in strategic places that would make Noah satisfied at his reflection's suffering.

Still Noah was unclear of who he hated more, he only knew the long haired man blinking back at him with a hardened face made him feel sick.

Her feet were rough and bloody, leaving a trail of sticky footprints as she ran in the darkness. In her desperation a foot caught on the ledge of an upward stair, and Alma's hands shooting forward to brace her fall did little to brake her fall against stone, and her knee-joints and palms collided with her full weight upon them, making her cry out in pain.

It was then that she noticed the blood from raw flesh on her fingers. She rose slowly and flexed them gingerly, leaning forward and reclaiming the sword she'd found.

She found him just around the corner, slumped against the wall of the corridor. His chin tilted backwards, jaw slightly slack. The flickering light of his fallen torch offered her warmth that she knew he didn't currently have, yet she couldn't help but note that she'd never seen him so at peace.

Dirt stuck to her feet, now caking in clumps between her toes as she stepped over the dirt floor to him.

The sleep spell had done him good, even if he was left temporarily incapacitated. In the short time she'd known him he'd never slept so deeply.

Swallowing saliva to the back off her parched throat, Alma leaned and picked up his torch firmly with her left hand as she extended the ancient sickle sword with her right hand, and with one swift motion she pressed the cold edge to the exposed expanse of his neck.

Blue eyes shot wide open as his head shot up and his body visibly tensed. The motion drew her blade tighter against his neck, nicking him lightly as he swallowed. He looked up at her wildly, clearly shocked if a tad frightened, and when his lips parted to protest she only pressed the blade more firmly against his windpipe.

“On your feet, Basch fon Ronsenburg.”

Chapter Text

“Anyone ever hear of nepotism?”

Ffamran had meant the words in jest, yet the faces in the room with him remained stern and unamused. Apparently his comrades in the military shared little of his sense of humor; that was fine with him and to be expected, as it was merely a half-hearted attempt to ease the tension in the room from his entrance.

He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and settled his bags on a bench on the far side of the room by himself. Skeptical and silent eyes watched him. He'd managed sparring sessions within the safety of the halls of his own home, but here in the Academy things were bound to be different. In the streets of Archades eyes were always starving for a feast, particularly when it came to the son of a wealthy and powerful eccentric.

In here, it was no different.

He was to be appointed a Judge; the youngest in Archadian history. And while he did possess skill he was far quicker with his feet than he was with his arms to parry, and a month into the academy his glasses were struck from his face and cracked from the force from where they hit the ground.

He could easily had them replaced, but by the greedy looks of other trainees in the room around him he knew they'd get too much pleasure in watching them get broken again. So he adapted to seeing without them, making connections in the unclear world around him as if it were absolute clarity. Eyes did him no good when determining his footwork, and they did him no good when reacting to the sound of a foe outside his field of vision anyhow. Besides, when the lenses fogged at sudden shifts in temperatures around engines and changes in altitude they were more of a handicap than a help.

Cid never seemed to notice.

And when he met Fran for the first time, mangled and broken, she shook her head as she reset his body. He was positive that a pair of broken glasses would've been the ounce that tilted her scales so much that she would've declared him a lost cause and left him for dead-- keeping the Strahl for herself of course, because in all his life he'd never met someone so justifiably ruthless.

“On your feet, Basch fon Ronsenburg.”

His blood went cold as he opened his eyes. He could only chuckle dryly at the irony of it all. Alma stood before him, her shoulders square to him, a strap of her gown broken and spilling open to the point where half her bosom was nearly exposed.

It wasn't the stance of a women who'd never held a sword before. Or at least proper instruction.

How she learnt his name, he couldn't gather. But he'd suspected it was a possibility being in the presence of Vaan, who had the loosest tongue he'd ever heard, as his other comrades who were not so comfortable with him assuming Gabranth's identity.

“If I do what you ask, will you remove this blade from my throat?” He was unable to disguise the hint of amusement in his voice. Admittedly, her eyes made him feel a chill, and the sensation caused a mild numbness and tremor in his fingertips and toes. He'd looked to certain death, at times even longing for it too many times to count.

Alma shrugged. She inhaled deeply, driving her chin forward in visible introspection. “Perhaps I will.” She maintained her hold, brown eyes boring into his coldly. She had clearly noticed his amusement and wasn't equally humored by it. “Perhaps I won't.”

“What would you gain by killing me here?” Basch questioned her calmly, rising slowly as she allowed him by the point of her blade, primarily using his thighs for support as his back roughly grazed the wall.

“One less liar in the world.” Alma cocked her head, her hair now entirely undone and hanging over her temples. She released her sword on him, and he exhaled slowly in gratitude, brushing off the dirt from his thighs and as she guided him with his torch to find his own sword on the ground where he'd dropped it.

Her voice was odd; strained. He couldn't place the meaning of it. A creature stunned him in the darkness, like a woman on all fours, long knotted hair just like...

He frowned down at her, her long locks falling in clumps to her backside as dirt marred her face. His eyes drifted downwards to a bloodied hand clenching the sword she'd mockingly apprehended him with.

“You're wounded.” Basch observed aloud. Alma lifted her hands to her gaze and dropped them back down, eyes guilty like a child. “I...” Alma stammered. “I fell in the dark.”

“And that name you called me?” He added bluntly. Admittedly, there was a time and a place for this kind of talk but she'd held a sword to his throat with such conviction only moments before, and then retreated it as quickly as he had started speaking to her.

“It is your true name, isn't it.” Her voice was firm, and it sounded more like a statement than a question.

“You're sure of that? Why?” Basch pressed her.

Alma hesitated. “Reddas told me.”

It was then that he recalled leaving them both together on the landing when he ascended into the deep labyrinth below. He now regretted that decision, as what began as a simple short scouting trip was surely ending in catastrophe, although to his credit he'd attempted to rejoin them earlier only to get disoriented by the winding halls and quick drop offs and stairs that seemed to lead to nowhere.

“Reddas? Where is he?”

“Um, we were separated. Something came for us in the darkness.”

Her words were too simple; devoid of emotion. He only knew her a short time yet was aware enough to know when she concealed things with her words.

Until she added. “Gabranth. Basch. It's not matter your name now. I need to leave this place.”

The last of her words carried enough emotion that he was familiar with coming from her, and he knew them to be true.

He nodded. “Aye, Lady Alma. We must quit this pirate's errand and get you back to the ship. You need tending to.” His eyes flickered down to her hand and back to her. “Keep ready. It appears you're more handy with a blade than you had let be known.”

If she had opened her mouth to protest as he suspected, she never made a sound. In truth he was more surprised that Vaan hadn't let his name slip in their presence but it seemed unlikely that Reddas would be the one to give it away.

But still, her explanation was odd.

He was desperate to return to Archades to check in with Larsa so much that the dilemma with Alma hardly seemed significant in that moment. It was as though whatever secrets he held could hardly compare to the ones that she did.

“Why do you suppose they glow green?” Ashe sifted through gold coins in handfuls, scooping them into a sack that Balthier had provided her.

Balthier shrugged. “The tree of life is a prevalent symbol to the cult that gathers here. Representative of the 'Promised Land', or something of the sort I'd imagine.”

Ashe stiffened, lifting her gaze to the man pacing the room, testing the integrity of the golden adornments on the scaffolds that lined the walls of the great room. Above, a stream of light still shone down the reveal the shimmering tiles below where she'd lain with Balthier just before.

“Why the blood moon, then?”

“Who bloody knows.” Balthier replied to her dismissively.

Ashe snorted. “That was a but a vague detail you emphasized to convince me to be here with you, then.”

“You came of your own accord--” Balthier began his most common retort when she called him on his manipulative antics.

“-- No one forced me, no.” Ashe replied simply, mimicking one of his choice mantras toward her and he fell silent.

Minutes later, the familiar taps of Fran's heels striking the ground echoed through a tunnel nearby, and when Ashe looked up she smiled in relief as Vaan's head poked into the room, his jaw slack and lips parted in wonder.

“Awesome!” Vaan athletically leapt down the stairs, skipping the step with her fading torch on it altogether. Fran emerged moments later, followed by Penelo.

Ashe never thought she'd be so happy to see such a sight.

“Don't move.” The Viera knelt beside him, her long legs bent at the knee as she leaned on one side of her hip to tend to him as he lay on the forest floor of the Salikawood.

Not much in the way of Viera in Archades. Balthier had seen maybe one on his travels thus far, looking at him vacantly from across the pub in Balfonheim. He'd immediately grabbed for his drink to bring it over and converse with her, as she was the most stunning thing.

But he couldn't.

Dark, wide eyes looked at him curiously. The skin over her shoulders appeared to glisten under the glow of the tavern's hanging lamps. The uncanny softness translated to seemingly glowing beams of light reflecting from her flesh and the paleness of her brow and long, thick hair made her the most desirable thing he'd ever seen.

Instead he rose with his drink, and struck up a conversation with a Hume barmaid whose wide eyes were blue and something more familiar, and her laughter loud as he boldly propositioned her to lead him to the most discrete area that the immediate outdoors of the tavern had to offer.

But in the present, Balthier only groaned, the bruising on his face settling him, and a sharp pain in his ribs when he exhaled caught him of guard and he threw his head back, miserable.

“Don't move, I said.” The Viera repeated emotionlessly.

Balthier's eyes fluttered all the way open as a cool rag was draped over his forehead.

“The beetles appear harmless, but their toxin is potent.”

His shirt-- where was his shirt?

He strained his neck to ask the Viera this and it took only a fraction of a second for her to smack his head roughly so that the back of it collided to the ground, and in his sickness the movement elicited a strange smell to his senses and a wave of nausea. The ground was spinning.

She was beautiful, like the one he'd seen in Balfonheim. Just a bit shorter, smaller, but muscular and elegant nevertheless. Loose pale hair cascaded over one shoulder as her eyebrows knitted together in concentration as she worked a tonic into the bare skin of his chest-- reddened from intoxication and glaringly redden vessels stretched to the skin throughout his right arm as they made their way to his heart.

“Stay still, I said.”

Beads of sweat dripped down his forehead as his breaths came rapid and shallow.

He was going to die. But oh, gods did it feel right to know that he would die far from Archades, with the Strahl out of his father's command, in the depths of a wood looking for treasure while in the clutches of the most magnificent woman he'd ever seen.

At least, in his delirium she was. He reached for her. She smacked his hand away immediately, dark red eyes looking into his.

“Your disregard for the danger you've wrought on yourself will be your undoing.” The Viera frowned down at him sternly, disapproval evident in her voice. “Be it this day or the next.”

“Let it be this day then,” He wanted to declare back to her, “I'm simply content my role in this story is no longer one of a puppet.”

But he didn't have the strength. When he opened his eyes again, nightfall had struck.

His fever had broken. A gourd full of water rested beside his head and he grabbed for it eagerly, chugging the contents down as he propped himself on one elbow so that water spilled around the corners of his mouth.

He stopped for air, wiping his mouth dry with the back of his forearm as he squeezed his eyes shut several times and rubbed at them, searching in the dark for the Viera.

He'd begun to think that he was absolutely mad from whatever had scampered up the forest floor and bit him that he'd imagined it all, but then his gaze drifted down to his bare chest: free of red irritation and angry vessels through his arm. He flexed his hand several times, swearing that it'd become so penetrated with the poison that he'd been unable to move his fingers, which were turning a light shade of purple the last he remembered them.

His fingers moved to his side, where a dip in his flesh under a rib was prominent under his armpit. The tenderness of the flesh there assured him that the feverish vision in his memory was real, and the Viera that went along with it.

A moistened bandage was affixed to the wound. He touched it, grunting as his sensitivity to the pressure.

Above him, towards the forest canopy, lightning bugs flickered in the darkness. He lowered his head to the ground and watched then a while, debating whether he should will his limbs to move.

“It's only a head wound, I think.” Alma spoke hurriedly as they knelt beside Reddas where they found him, only several feet from the ledge where Basch descended into the labyrinth. She swallowed back the guilt that rushed through her mind. She had no control.

And yet, she did, just a little. If she weren't so distracted my the dread of Ultima's presence she'd could have done more.

“Nothing a potion and time alone can manage I suppose, then.” Basch's gloved hands brushed a strange marking-- five scratch marks sharp enough to tear his clothing, yet too dull to break the skin of his side.

It appeared that he'd been knocked unconscious from the force of his head striking the wall. Alma swallowed as Basch knelt on the opposite side of the man in the dark. They exchanged a look in silence.

“H-he seemed to be faring a little worse than you.” She observed, unable to shake the immense guilt from creeping through her mind.

It could've been worse. But, still.

“He's fared worse, I suspect.” Basch assured her, though the tiniest hint of doubt in his voice told her that he wasn't so sure. He lifted Reddas' dropped blade from the ground, inspecting it by turning it over by the handle in his palm before tossing it to her lightly.

Alma caught it by the handle, now gripping Reddas' weapon with her newly obtained piece. Bash pulled Reddas upon his shoulders, pulling an arm and a leg to his chest as he rose, groaning under the other man's weight.

They started their shuffle back the way they came, and Alma slowed her pace to allow Basch to keep up.

“I'll need you for a sword arm.” Basch broke the silence, making Alma cast him a puzzled look back at him over her shoulder.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I won't be able to react in a timely manner should anything creep out of the darkness, is all I mean.”

Alma shook her head.

“You wouldn't hold a sword to an incapacitated man with such conviction without knowing something of war. Of battle.”

Alma frowned, looking forward so that he wouldn't see her expression. “Perhaps I was angry. What do they say of a woman's scorn?”

Basch walked several paces before answering, sounding genuinely puzzled. “Am I to know what 'they' say?”

Alma looked back at him. “You can't be serious. The expression...? 'Hell hath no fury'?”

Basch's empty expression met hers and she turned back around, keeping it a point to walk several paces in front of him.

“I am serious.”

Alma's mouth formed a flat line. If he were a character in one of the plays she was so fond of growing up and he had to be summed in one line of dialogue, it would be that one. But then it dawned on her that the expression she was referring to like secondhand knowledge wouldn't originate until a literary work published by an author not yet born.

“Hell hath no fury like a woman's scorn” She didn't take Basch for the literary type, not in a leisurely sense, so she felt secure in reciting it to him for clarity.

“Ah... is that meaning that you threatened my life because you are a woman?”

“No.” Alma shot back immediately, running her tongue over her teeth as she realized for the first time that she didn't like the insinuation of that expression at all.

“You.” Balthier gripped her by the wrist abruptly. They'd only been passing one another through the archway of the market in Rabanastre. He'd caught a glimpse of her in her peripheral and she certain had to have noticed him as well, but she made no indication until he swiftly grabbed her.

The sudden seeming act of aggression caught the attention of several onlookers and a Dalmascan guard posted nearby had stiffened, clearly reluctant to do his duty.

“Let go.” She said softly, too softly, as if she knew she could put whatever effort she wanted into her tone of voice to make her point known.

They were both still, shoulder to shoulder, and he clearly had her attention now and knew that she had his.

He obeyed.

“You were there, then.”

The Viera blinked down at him. “I was where, when?” He question seemed much more like a statement than anything else.

“Don't be coy.” Balthier replied sharply and mahogany eyes narrowed.

“You ought to watch yourself, Hume. There are others of my kind who would cut you down for your boldness.” She brushed him off, proceeding to walk to the square and he sighed, looking down at the coin purse in his hand and tossing it lightly, testing the weight and reminding himself that he'd ventured to the market for a specific purpose, but the Viera was rounding the corner of the fountain and he was about to lose sight of her altogether.

What happened in the Salikawood didn't matter. But still, he could never leave 'well enough' alone. She'd haunted him like a ghost, leaving him adequately alive but he found himself staring in the darkness at night, pondering how much of what he remembered could be a dream and what could be real.

When his inquisitive nature took over, it consumed him when he allowed it.

He pocketed his coin purse and followed her briskly. She was real after all-- how did she find him? How long had he been down? What did she use on him? How long did she stay and how did she leave?

Her strides were far longer than his, and carried her to the Sandsea, a tavern in the merchant district that boasted the most exotic of cocktails and rare wines-- though the wines he found to be contested by the cellars of Bhujerba.

By the time his pace carried him to the door, he swung it open and his eyes scanned the room. He spotted her walking the stairs, a glass of something red already on hand.

Good. He was familiar with the layout of the place being a landing with a single staircase overlooking the rest of the bar and seating. She wouldn't be able to leave without him spotting her while he ordered a drink.

“Balthier.” Tomaj nodded to him as he leaned across the counter. The newly appointed heir of the Sandsea establishment was trying his hand behind the counter, it seemed.

“Whiskey.” Balthier told him, sliding gil over the counter as his eyes searched for the Viera overhead.

“Which brand?”

Balthier stalled for a moment. “Whatever is most expensive.”

Tomaj snorted, pushing golden brown locks over his eyes as he accepted the gil. “Most men of your taste don't order such things as 'whatever is most expensive.'

Balthier said nothing, eyes flickering to the stairs so he could caught a glimpse of the Viera if she decided to take off.

“But, alas, my most expensive whiskey for the sky pirate.”

Balthier accepted the glass, lifting his leg up over the stool to glide by other patrons seated at the bar in a motion motion as swiftly as he'd sat down.

He sipped from his glassed as he stepped up the the landing. She couldn't escape him now. But as he crossed the landing to the table where she'd sat with several patrons dealing cards. “Fancy this.”

The Viera looked up at him, her expression still unrelenting to any sort of emotion. “You're in, then?”

A doe eyed Dalmascan woman dealing the cards looked to him from across the table repeated the Viera's words, then asked, “He a friend of yours, Fran?”

Fran opened her mouth with barely the breath of a whisper of an answer when Balthier interrupted her.

“Friends? No,” Balthier waived a hand dismissively as he pulled out a chair next to Fran. “We're second-cousins.”

The Humes present looked to Fran and Balthier incredulously, the dealer halting a card dealt to Balthier, letting it hover on the table before him.

“What?”

“Why would you say that?” A young man Balthier knew as Tomaj's younger brother wrinkled his brow at him from across the table.

“--I encountered this man in the market today--” Fran spoke, her voice carrying the air it did from his memory, one of mystique and authority.

“--And our great-grandfather wanted to fuck a bunny woman.” Balthier finished her sentence for her.

Everyone at the table froze. Even Balthier held his breath, silently cursing whatever it was about him, being the brief dose of liquid courage from his glass or the nonsensical whims he'd inherited from his father that made him so absurdly bold at times. But he couldn't back down now.

“I should've left you to die in the Salikawood, it seems.” Fran told him, her tone flat.

The dealer resumed. “I thought you said you just met him in the market...?”

“Cousin, your dismissiveness pains me.” Balthier told her in mock grief.

“That's enough of that!” A Dalmascan patron slapped his palms to the table and they all turned to him from alarm. “Rabanastre Dutch. 500 gil buys you in. If you're not in then scram.”

Grey eyes moved to Balthier, as if expecting him to rise and retreat at the words. He reached for his coin purse.

He didn't retreat. He could feel Fran's scathing look upon him, further building the tension that he'd wrought on an otherwise friendly game.

“I will bleed you dry.” She said to him softly.

“Bleed me.” Balthier challenged her, and slid 500 gil to the center of the table.

They exited the ruins just as the sun was setting over the horizon, and the sight of a brilliantly eerie red moon was already high in the evening sky. His knees shook from exertion and his breath got heavy but with a small smile he leaned into it, reminding himself of how he'd tell his men that this was the point where progress was made.

He made his way to the Galbana, the most likely means of their departure to Archades once Vaan and Penelo returned. He ascended and ramp and punched in the code on the keypad over the door that he knew Vaan was most likely to use: the numbers 1 through 5 five consecutively. The door slid open, and Basch pulled his spare hand back to steady Reddas' arm slipping down off his shoulder and flexed his knees to re-steady himself, weak and balance waining from strain.

Alma followed close behind him, visibly wincing as she proceeded along the studded edges of the ramp the Galbana. She was barefoot and her feet were bloodier than her hands, but there was little comfort he could offer her at the moment, and she said nothing in protest.

He walked straight to the bunk in the hall, kneeling in relief before the bottom bunk as Alma emerged beside him, carefully laying their weapons against the bunk post and allowing Reddas a smoother transition to being flat on his back on the bunk by crawling onto the bed and pulling him from Basch's shoulders as he pushed the man off of it.

Alma straddled the dark skinned pirate and adjusted his shoulders so that they were straight, and his head in proper alignment on the pillow.

No words were said between them but they moved as though they'd coordinated things this way all along. Basch rolled up his sleeves as she crawled off the bed and slid her feet to the floor, pushing her loose hair toward her back as her feet padded out of the room.

He ran his hand over the scratch marks the marred Reddas' skin just enough to leave a think scab. These were not the doing of any talons of any sort. They were remarkably like hume fingernails. And the hume hand that did this was small.

Like a summoning of the thought, Alma's hand appeared in his peripheral, holding a glass of water. She offered it to him silently and he accepted it, nodding his gratitude wordlessly before drinking.

She walked off again, and he heard the sounds of cabinets opening and closing and crates shifting as she was undoubtedly scavenging for supplies. He supposed he could've been more of a help to her-- the layout of goods in the Galbana was most likely arranged by Penelo and he'd long grown accustomed to her methods of organization.

Alma emerged again, delicately balancing a small basin of water in one hand and a jar of salt in another. She walked past him and to the alcove where she'd rested the night before, and somehow that night after the fete had seems like eons ago.

It'd been an incredibly long time since either of them had any sleep. He watched in her peripheral as she sighed as she sank down-- a sentiment he could empathize with. He walked to join her as she lifted the jar of salt over the water and poured, wincing a little from the sting of the solution as she submerged her feet into it. Her feet had led track marks of dirt made sticky from blood across the cold grey tile. Luckily for her sake, this was not Balthier's ship.

Alma leaned forward, pressing her feet into the basin and gingerly dipped her fingertips, her brow wrinkled from the initial cleansing sting. She worked at all her digits, breaking loose clumps of dirt and fresh scabs that it stuck to, inviting fresh blood to break into the water turning it a rosy shade of pink.

Basch sat in silence, mulling over the situation at hand once they returned to Archades. He needed to make contact with Larsa at once.

And like any thought commanding action, the static of interference sounded from the cockpit. Basch's head shot up, his eyes meeting Alma's for a moment as she looked similarly alarmed.

An indistinct voice carried over the transmission, and though the volume was not loud enough that he could make out the words, the accent was clearly Archadian.

“I'll handle it.” He nodded to Alma and rose, and as he passed Reddas' unconscious form on his left and further maneuvered the narrow corridor of the ship several of the words started to become more clear.

“...I repeat...”

“...not... call.”

He'd heard that voice before, on a regular basis.

Basch entered the cockpit, taking a moment to further listen into the static before deciding to engage. He flipped a switch on the control panel as he'd witnessed Balthier do numerous times on the Strahl and pressed his fingers around either side of the com to activate it.

He hesitated. “This is the Galbana.”

The transmission terminated as the receiver on the other end had apparently released his grip on his own com. Basch's mouth stiffened into a firm line, pondering whether or not to engage this person was a mistake.

“'Tis no merchant I'm speaking with! Judge Magister Gabranth, that is you?!?”

Basch released and reinitiated his hold, eyes drifting absently to the view from the front window. A pair of wolves crept in the darkness side by side in the desert, and a breeze sifted sand gently over the windows. He knew the speaker to be a certain Archadian squire with enough zeal to lift an entire banquet hall, and that often got him into trouble. Others in the upper echelons of the Archadian military wanted as little to do with him as possible aside from associate with his father in the Senate.

“It is me.” Basch answered tiredly, relieved to make contact would weary of such transmissions with Tomas.

“I've known that voice for years! Aha! Meddling with 'merchants' that I suspect are not merchants, are they?”

Basch strained to make out his words with the com to his ear and brought it back to his lips. “We don't speak of these things over this transmission, Tobiah.” He could've been more stern as Noah would be, but he only rubbed at his eyes.

“Ah no, why of course! I've been searching all the ships in you projected destination. Lord Larsa will be happy to hear of you safe!”

Tobiah lacked the skill of deceit, so if Larsa's condition had indeed changed for the worse it would've been obvious. Basch sighed in relief.

He pressed on the com one last time. “I copy. We'll be returning soon. I'll expect discretion at the docks when we arrive. You can halt your search.”

“Roger!”

In the rear of the ship, he found Alma with one hand wrapped in a muslin dressing, clumsily managing the weaving on the other between her exposed fingers with the hindered dexterity of the covered one.

“You made contact with someone?” She asked him nonchalantly, not looking away from her task at hand.

“I did. We'll be expected back in Archades within the next fortnight. There will be discretion.” He frowned down as he increasing frustration with her uncharacteristically messy handiwork. “May I?”

Alma's lips parted, conjuring an inquiry to his meaning, but he crossed the room and slid onto the alcove beside her. He took her hand from the clutches of the other, half expecting her to protest out of pride, but she didn't. She even straightened her fingers at the knuckles for him to quickly undo the work she'd already done, binding his own hand with the cloth to keep it contained. Then slowly, he positioned her hand in front of him by a brief and firm grip to her wrist, and she held it there as he began wrapping at the base of her palm, pulling the cloth smooth as he worked.

“Thank you.”

Basch exhaled a brief “Hm.”

The events from inside the ruins still troubled him. In truth, he felt guilt over retreating with Alma and Reddas before locating the others but a feeling of impending peril was unshakable, and he knew he usually had an accurate sense of such things.

He felt her eyes on him as he folded a sharp crease in the cloth to wrap her smallest finger.

“I suppose when we get back to Archades, I shall forget about your name then.”

He wrapped the cloth around the knuckle of her pinky, his eyes flickered to hers briefly. “It'd be the best for the both of us I would think,” And he was unable to keep himself from adding, “Though I still can't fathom that Reddas would tell you of that, still.”

“Ah... he didn't outright. I pressed him. And later, in the labyrinth I was thinking, and just pieced it on my own.”

“It seemed like it upset you.” He told to her bluntly.

Alma bit her lip and inhaled sharply through her teeth as he'd grown careless in the delicacy of his ministration, and the tip of his thumb grazed a particularly raw spot of her digit.

He froze and looked her in the eye, briefly. “Sorry.” He looked back to her hand.

In his peripheral, she pushed matted hair behind her ear. Perhaps if there were anyone more exhausted than him it would be her.

“It did. I-I wasn't in my right mind. Of course you wouldn't tell me such a thing, when I have my own secrets.”

He said nothing, weaving the cloth to the base of her index finger.

“It's a shame though, you've been kind to me this entire time, but it wasn't in the way I wanted.” Alma paused and exhaled. “'Gabranth' sounds too cold on the tongue for you.”

Basch gingerly wrapped her thumb, it was the worst for wear out of all of them, though he hadn't even bothered to look at her feet.

“It was my mother's birth surname,” He noted plainly.

“Oh.”

“It's no matter. You won't be seeing much of me when we return. No need to worry over names and such.” Her told her, “There will be certain... unrest in the aftermath of Bhujerba. My attention is needed elsewhere.”

Alma released her hand from him, flexing her fingers appreciatively. “You seemed so... urgent with Dr. Cid's writings and that text.”

Her voice was strange, like it carried a hint of disappointment.

“I was. I still am, but now I've you for that. It'd be best for you to spend your days in the library as it was promised to you.”

Her eyes were wide. “You mean, I'll be free to...”

“Aye. And the scholars within the Ninth Bureau would be at your disposal.”

She bit back the smile on her lower lip and looked back down at his handiwork on her hands.

“Thank you.”

Penelo laughed as she dodged Vaan's mock jabs at her side as she carried her sack of artifacts up the ramp to the Galbana. Given the strange and eerie beginning of the heist everything had seemed lighthearted from the moment they'd reunited with Balthier and Ashe.

She practically skipped through the halls, pushing back her distant worry for Alma, Basch, and Reddas from her mind. They easily had two of the strongest fighters in the group. If anyone would make it out unharmed, it would be them.

“Maybe we should've all stayed together.” Vaan had murmured. And Penelo gave him a playful yet forceful shove back. Fran and Balthier had managed their own loads, talking quietly by their ship yet Fran seemed to pay them no notice.

Vaan punched in the code and to Penelo's relief, he entered the ship with a cheer.

“Woo!” He punched an arm in the air and Penelo rounded the corner of the corridor to find him scratching his head over a bunk.

“Hey, what's up with Reddas? He okay?”

Penelo's mouth dropped as she dropped her bag. The marred pirate lay on her bunk in the hall and she paced over to her, sliding her fingers along his forehead as if in reassurance of his warmth there.

“A head wound, most likely.” Basch emerged from the rear alcove where Penelo then spotted Alma sitting with her hands and feet and bandages with a bloody-looking basin nearby.

“Alma, you're hurt!” Penelo walked to her, grabbing Alma by the wrists and looking up towards Basch. “What happened?”

“We were separated and something attacked us.” Basch replied, oblivious to how he leaned forward when the younger woman relinquished Alma from her grasp and crossed the room to him, lightly touching the edges of his jaw to tip is slowly down to her so that she could have a better look at his face.

He looked at haggard as the rest of them, but unharmed. Penelo released him.

If he hadn't an ounce of humility already, a day in the stocks would've taught him one.

It was a compromising position they'd found him: in bed with the mayor's daughter. On one hand-- a pirate ought to be more careful than to fall asleep with a betrothed damsel that would sell him out to her guard at the drop of a hat if it meant the value of her virtue were at stake, and on the other, his ego rang with the sensation on conquest so even as he stood subdued in the damsel's bedchamber, his wrists chained together behind his back and he was led past the fiance in all his naked glory.

A day in the stocks left his joints sore, his body numb and chilled from the night air. Public humiliation was a dreadfully archaic thing to him, but he understood it'd brought the townspeople of this dull village in Archadia much joy, and who was he to deny them that?

Ffamran Bunansa. He knew all he had to do was utter the name to the officials that arrested him, then claim ownership to it. His charges would likely be dropped and he'd enjoy a comfortable voyage back to the capital where he'd be at the mercy of his father for the theft of an airship, and he'd be exempt from responsibility for the countless atrocities he'd wrought on civilized society elsewhere.

A painting in his mother's storage in the cellar beneath his childhood home displayed a kite on dried canvas against an earth shattering lightning storm, and as a child he'd always found it peculiar.

But luckily for him, a very different escape to his circumstances came by the sound of hard heels upon wood in the wee hours of the morning when the villagers tired of him and returned to bed.

Lights flickering in the sky stirred him awake. He rose from the delusion of a vivid dream to the fog of the birth of dawn only to disheartened by the sober haze of reality when the angle of his neck and his wrists were bound by wood secured in metal hinges.

“I heard they detained a sky pirate in this town,” The form of a Viera stopped before him.

Balthier was unable to raise his head high enough to see her face, but he'd know that voice anywhere by then.

“I almost didn't believe it.” She continued. Her heels clicked against the wood and she took another step forward, further removing her face from his field of view.

Balthier gasped his response, then ran his tongue over parched lips before he spoke again: “A pirate without the sky, I'm afraid.”

Fran exhaled sharply. In a Hume, Balthier suspected the sound would've come out like a snort. She stood still before him, her arms crossed, and in his weakened state his eyes rolled to the tops of of his lids so that he could get to best look at her possible with the limited lift of his head.

“You should find more suitable places to lay your head at night.”

Balthier grimaced. If he were to die by the taunting of it woman, it suited him fine to be her.

“I had more... appropriate accommodations,” His neck slumped amidst a sharp sensation from muscle fatigue, “But a woman sold me out.”

“She 'sold you out'?” He could see the weight in Fran's leg's shifted as her arms remained crossed squarely before him. “Or you endangered her opportunity for an ideal match?”

Balthier cleared his throat in discomfort. “Ideal matches are but a convenience to the men who make them.” He spat.

Fran said nothing for a moment, he imagined her expression to be as perplexing and uninformative as the steady and peculiar cadence of her voice.

“You are not one such man?”

Balthier chuckled bitterly. “No, though I suppose if I had more sense I could've been.”

Fran knelt before him, delicately pressing a talon like nail to the surface of the stubble on his chin, forcing him to look to her with a sharp inhale of alarm.

Her eyes appeared to glow red in the dim dawn's light. She said nothing their second lengthy pause of the entire exchange.

“Alright.” Fran nodded at last, “I'll release you under a condition.”

Balthier's eye's narrowed. If he weren't absolutely soiled in the the filth the villages had doused him with, he would've had a mood to laugh.

“Oh?”

“You have a ship.”

Balthier's mouth formed a flat line. “I do, though I suspect it's been confiscated.”

“Then we'll re-confiscate it.”

She hadn't stopped looking him in the eye, but the increasing sharp pressure of her pointed nail against the bony prominence of his chin reminded him of the failing muscles in his neck.

“I need a ship.” Fran pressed him. “A good ship.”

“The Strahl is a good ship. And as I recall, you've had the opportunity to snag it for yourself before.” Balthier countered.

A sudden clash of Fran's heel to a metal buckle yielded a hint of a spark in Balthier's peripheral vision. The sudden relief of the binds upon his wrists and his neck nearly sent him keeling backwards.

“It can take me over the Jagd, then.”

Balthier's brow furrowed. “A trip over the Jagd is a sure way to get shot down.” He rubbed at his wrists and cocked his neck at her, eyes offering silent gratitude. “What are you trying to escape, Viera?”

Fran's eyes flickered down at him across the stocks. Her foot has returned to the ground as gracefully and sudden as it had risen to release him.

“Redundancy.”

Balthier chuckled dryly. “Then we want the same thing.”

“No need for conclusions, Hume.” Fran crossed the platform and stepped down the stairs as if she were sure to leave him there as suddenly as she had come. She turned back over her shoulder. “I only have this one favor,” She held up a finger for emphasis, “No more. One trip across the Jagd. If you ship does not fail, we will be equal.”

Balthier walked to her, taking several quick and stiff strides to catch up with her. “

“Where will you go from Rabanastre?” Ashe asked Fran.

The Viera shifted her weight from one leg to the other as she passed a bag to Balthier on the ramp.

“There are other sites like this one.” Fran told her, “And the Glabados caches. One or the other. It'd be best to avoid whatever turmoil arises in this region soon after the events of Bhujerba.”

Ashe's eyes met Fran's. “Turmoil? My Uncle will be well and clear everything up. I'm sure of it.”

Fran lifted a long nailed hand to her cheek, leaning in and dipping her chin forward so that her expression was level with Ashe's.

“Surely, Queen, you know hume affairs are never settled so simply.”

Ashe frowned, half willing herself to snap a grip on Fran's wrist and wrench the gentle touch from her face.

“Of course not.” She chose to reply as civilly as she could.

Balthier and Basch moved Reddas from the Galbana to the Strahl, as it wouldn't do the former Judge Magister any good to appear in Archades. They said their good-byes: Vaan, Penelo, Basch, and Alma standing toe to toe with Balthier, Fran, and Ashe.

Ashe embraced Basch, yet again in such a short amount of time. She'd missed him terribly after all, and she couldn't help but let her eyes shift to Alma with her chin over Basch's shoulder.

“Give Larsa my well wishes. I'll write him as soon as I am able.” She murmured into her former Captain's ear.

Basch nodded.

Aboard the Strahl, Balthier and Fran took to the controls as Ashe seated herself behind them.

She rolled her head to the side, eyes gazing lazily to the dash and the view of the night sky. Her arms rested on either side of the seat, and soon after they took flight she moved her eyes forward just quickly enough to see the reflection of Balthier looking back at her in the glass.

Ambervale would be a constant tug at the back of her mind. And with that, the skepticism in Fran's voice as they spoke earlier made her uneasy for Halim Ondore.

And these ruins... while she lacked the spiritual connection to them that she had with the Dynast King's tomb and the Stilshrine of Miriam, she couldn't help but feel uneasy as they loaded the Strahl with riches under a red moon.

Something was stirring, and she didn't like it.

“How do you intend to land in Rabanastre?” She questioned to the pilots seated in front of her.

“Without a hitch.” Balthier assured her, “It is a strange hour to land, but I've contacts in the aerodome who can assure that the passengers aboard this flight will not be recognized”

Ashe groaned. “I must speak with Morrid about the security situation there, then.”

She couldn't see him, but she knew Balthier looked smug.

Larsa jolted awake from the rancid sensation of the rag saturated in ammonia held under his nose.

He immediately felt ill. He coughed and choked, and tossed his head to the side to clear the air under his nose as he wrinkled his expression in disgust.

“Milord, your surgery is over with. You are expected to make a full recovery.” An aide stood to his side with the putric smelling rag, red robes billowing about him as his moved to cross the room for a pitcher of water.

Larsa threw his head back, recognizing the chocobo down pillows of his own bed. He was home in Archades. By the memory of blood soaking his dress clothes he'd known he's lost a lot of it, but he was now here in the Citadel where he belonged.

The first name he wanted to roll off his tongue was Basch's. And if not that, than Penelo's. But he knew better than to utter either and held it instead.

“I had surgery...?” He inquired instead as his mind moved to more urgent matters at hand, and his nearest hand skimmed to freshly applied bandages at his side. The effect of whatever sedatives had been given to him dwindled, and he groaned from the sharpness of pain that stung him.

“You did, milord.”

A knock sounded at the door and the aide exchanged an equally puzzled look from Larsa as he rose to answer it. He slipped through the opening for several moments, and Larsa could here the muffled sounds of a woman's voice in contrast to the deepness of the male servant's slip through the cracks under the door.

The aide cleared his throat as he reentered the room. “Milord,” He bowed, “Lady Silvia came to deliver a poultice for your recovery. She would like a word, but I advised her that-”

“Let her in.” Larsa interjected, wincing as he propped himself upon his pillows that that he was upright.

The servant nodded, and walked to the double doors at the entrance to Larsa's bedchamber, pulling one open. The weight of a heavily polished hardwood groaned at the hinges as it gave way.

Auburn hair was tied to the crown of her head in delicate plaits. Her gown a pale yellow, moving about her feet as her shoes clicked against the ornate tile upon the floor, and muted once she stepped to the carpet that circled his bed.

“Your excellency.” Silvia curtsied, never raising her eyes from the floor as she spoke and raised a poultice wrapped in white cloth in a her hand to him. “Curtesy of the servants of the gardens. We all pray for your quick recovery, and for the good of Archadia.”

Larsa sat straight, inhaling sharply and the knife-like sensation to his abdomen and he brought his hand to where the sutures were made under his nightshirt. Her words were stiff and devoid of emotion, as if she were reciting them from the very first time.

Rumors had long flooded the citadel of Vayne's wrongdoings by her, and though Larsa compartmentalized a majority of them, he did yet have to remind himself that there would be some truth tied to any rumor. And like with any situation where he we presented face to face of a reminder of Vayne's cruelty,

“Thank you.” Larsa replied weakly, nodding to the aide to accept the poultice from her.

Her gaze remained toward the floor the entire time. Silvia nodded and curtsied again, and turned to the door.

“Will you escort me to the gardens, once I am able? So that I may thank the servants there for their well wishes?”

Silvia turned slowly, her eyes moving upward towards him. “Of course.” She nodded her head to the poultice in his aide's hand, “And you'll need more than just a single poultice, I suspect?”

Larsa smiled back at her as warmly as he could over a grimace.

Tobiah waited with the guard detail throughout the night, and most of the day that followed. With the return of a wounded Emperor and deceased wife of a Judge Magister, he could feel the entire city of Archades on edge.

He made runs into the city from the guard detail as they ordered him, fetching ales and meals and deliver messages to and from the Citadel. He pushed back light brown hair to hide the sweat that lined the brim of his ears on his scalp. If he wanted to look the part as a future Judge appointee, he had to look the part.

He'd gathered enough correspondence with the staff of the citadel to know that Larsa had awakened as they awaited Gabranth's promised return. The news elated him, and on one of his courier runs he ventured out of his way to stray as close to the Emperor's wing as he could without raising alarm-- when he saw the Lady Silvia emerge in her finery as if she were born into Archadian gentry like the rest of them.

She cast him a strange, lingering gaze as she passed him by, opting for an alternate stairway than the one that he was headed. Curious that she should be coming from a wing of the citadel that even he as a squire wouldn't be invited to, he shook the suspicions that followed.

When he emerged outdoors to the airship docks, the strange vessel known at the Galbana had landed, and it's passengers emerged as a mess of tattered rags and dirty faces. Bhujerba was surely rough.

Despair didn't overtake him, as he rushed to greet the Judge Magister he'd decidedly made his favorite.

The heat of the engine room made his breaths thick and heavy, and he only found mild relief from breathing with his lips parted and rolling up his sleeves.

It was only a little relief. Sweat pooled over his chest under his shirt and trickled down. He turned, noting a lack of activity from Fran's corner to find her slumped over on her side, ad his she'd lain down intentionally for a nap for a moment.

He sighed. “Do I have to do everything around here?” It was rhetorical-- a bit of theatrics for the worrisome voices on the other side.

He knew his assurances were empty. And by the silence settling from his companions and the crack in Ashe's voice as she pleaded with him he knew they were becoming aware of it too.

“Please, Balthier, come back.” Ashe's voice blared at him through the coms, the harshness of her breath distorting her words a little, but he understood them regardless. She always held the mic of her coms too closely when she was nervous.

Every good show must end eventually, but he'd never admit it. Not then. He pocketed a wrench and knelt by Fran to lift her up in his arms.

“You're more of a supporting character.” Fran murmured weakly against his chest.

Balthier suppressed a snort. Fran's wit was unpredictable but when she came through, she came through.

“Fran, please.”

She was heavy-- soft, dark flesh bound around solid muscle and the long platinum tresses of her hair swept over his dominant arm as he walked with her.

The heat never relented. Rabanastre would likely be fine-- if he still had coms with Ashe he'd assure her of that. But he didn't, and as he leaned against the doorframe while he cradled Fran to catch his breath, he cast his head over his shoulder for a look at what might possibly be his final resting place, or at least what remained of it would.

But Fran stirred a mumbled something unintelligible, and he reminded himself that he had to at least make an attempt to reach a pod in the seconds that remained. He turned his head back forward and stepped blindly into the darkness as the flickering sparks of light from severed connections provided only minimal visibility: a crate tucked in a corner here, the turning of a corridor there.

Luckily he remembered every step of their entry to the engine room. His breath was heavy, and his joints were fatigued from persistent combat from the night before. They were likely hurling over Rabanastre as he walked through the corridor, clumsily kicking the helmet of a judge like a tin can as he went.

Then, like a strange change of tone in the storyline of a dream he saw the green lights of an escape pod. He stumbled toward it, squinting through the sweat that now burned his eyes.

It was keypad entry, which meant that he required the code. No matter, he'd cracked more difficult things one hundred times before. He lowered Fran more roughly than he'd liked, and her head rolled to the side with a grunt. He hardly noticed though, as he knew he was working with less than a minute. He glared at the keypad, cracking the knuckles of his right hand, willing it to be nimble.

A leading man never dies.

Fran's long limbs splayed out at his feet. She was his first friend, and she'd saved him more times than he could count.

Surely he could pull this off just once.

Vaan's voice carried the same self assurance he'd only ever heard from himself. Perhaps he was rubbing off on the boy. Penelo, the girl who if it weren't for her existence Vaan would've been locked away in a cell long ago.

The keypad made a shrill sound and flashed red, obnoxiously protesting his efforts to decode it. He persisted regardless, pulling from the depths of his memory of all the combinations that Archadian engineers preferred for military ships.

Then there was Basch, an example of the most unfortunate anomaly in genetics if he'd ever seen one. But then, Balthier never had a brother and perhaps shouldn't consider Basch unfortunate for having a twin for one. By that thought, Basch was the brother he'd never had.

He could feel the sweat of Ashe's forehead as it touched his when she lay beneath him, her hand clenching his that fumbled over the keypad now. A rush of cooler air blew over him, shocking his senses.

The pod was open.

He snapped to the ground, the ghost of Ashe's hand squeezing his so hard he had to force it to move as he recollected Fran into his arms and rose with her.

His escape must've been a moment too late, because flames rose behind him, bursting with a new rush of heat after the steady roast from the engine room. He kept moving, hurling Fran's body unceremoniously as he embraced the searing sensation at his back.

It was almost pleasant at first, like a caress downwind from a campfire. Then it progressed to oppressive suffocation.

He was on the floor of the pod. Archadian escape pods had mechanisms for emergency auto controls, did they not? The heat didn't relent, and the turbulence that followed jostled his body so that he felt as if his limbs were tearing, breaking, and colliding with unknown force.

At least it wasn't nearly so hot anymore.

He opened his eyes in a perceived moment of calm to see Fran across the floor from him, bloody. Her eyes were halfway opened with red irises rolled toward the back of her head. He lifted a hand to her, and another shockwave of turbulence struck the back of his head upon the floor, and the world went dark.

Chapter Text

And I will go if you ask me to
I will stay if you dare
And if I go I'm goin' on fire
Let my anger take me there

Foris Zecht was the youngest Judge Magister at his time of appointment until Noah Gabranth of Landis came along. He was born the bastard son of a Judge who died too soon in one of the various Archadian war efforts demanded by the Emperor Gramis, and a young commoner girl from the isles off the northwest continent. His mother was quicker to pass, nearly only a year after his birth, and his custody was passed to his father by default.

The life he would know was only Archades, as it was the only one he could recall. His father was a hardened man who only saw him as a convenient means to carry on the name of Zecht with a barren wife in his house. And Foris grew to be a boy precociously aware of his household's unsteady dynamic, and would retreat to the servant's quarters in the evenings where he learned to play instruments and to appreciate the vantage points of commoners.

When he approached his teen years, he drank with them and learned to gamble. His darkened skin earned his much attention in the Archadian streets; a bastard exotic from the isles with which they were unfamiliar, but with a noble gentry man's name with which they were more than familiar. He was a breathing contradiction, and

In a way, his appointment as a judge made his first escape possible.

The first time he laid eyes on Elinore was at a Solidor fete, when she was introduced with a proper curtsy that swept her then shoulder length braids over her shoulder, then barely a summer over the age of 22. She was a picture of Archadian gentry: fair brown hair pinned back in jewels, fair skin, blue eyes framed by eyelashes delicately darkened with ink.

“How many dances have you had tonight?” He murmured lowly in her ear, startling her from behind.

She jumped, nearly spilling the wine in her glass over the brim before she caught a glimpse of him over her shoulder and recomposed herself.

“None.” She replied cooly, taking care to pull her shoulders back in a display on confidence.

“And how many drinks?”

He caught her mid-sip and she paused, swallowing the drink with a hint of guilt in her eyes as she pressed her thumb to her lips.

“Two.”

“Have a third with me,” He nodded toward the door behind them that would open to the courtyard outside.

She scoffed at him. “I will not.”

“That's fine then.”

He found himself in the courtyard later, taking a seat in the darkness after his equally drunken companion had retired to bed early.

The door opened, and it was her.

He'd invited her only in liquid courage, and the moment she denied him he dropped the matter.

She raised the glass in her hand. “Third.”

He threw his head back in a hearty laugh. “None for me?”

She stumbled a little across the cobblestones, giggling as he rose to steady her. She brought a hand to her chest. “I'm Elinore.”

Foris widened his eyes in mock outrage. “Does that address my question?”

“Yes, Judge,” She slurred, “I'm Elinore, and this is my third.”

She rose her glass at him when he released her, and for reasons unknown he was absolutely smitten.

Ashe jolted awake when the airship touched the ground, her eyes suddenly open and blinking as she rubbed at the fresh crust of sleep there. For a moment, she'd believed that they were running from place to place on hunters' errands again during the war.

Fran turned to her first. “We have the night for cover, however it would probably best if you approach the palace unescorted by us.”

Ashe nodded in silent agreement. Balthier managed the coms, his voice low and uncharacteristically monotonous as he talked through the standard landing procedure with the disembodied voice of the Rabanastrian aerodome.

She rose slowly from her seat when the ship was still, stretching her arms and bending at the waist to reach for Morrid's weapon where she'd stowed it beside her. The muscles in her arms and legs protested, and she cursed herself for letting her body get so softened as she accommodated her new duties as a monarch.

The dread of reality hit her as the ramp lowered. The hardened nature she'd acquired over the last several years made her aversive to goodbyes-- a trait she specifically attributed to becoming so close with Vossler in her years living in sewers. She would rather step away from a loved one and say nothing at all than make a fuss.

But Balthier's hand gently grazed her waist anyway. She stood still, turning her head to him and touching his cheek for only a second before crossing her arms.

“I suppose it will be some time before you can be stolen again.” Balthier murmured lowly as Fran's footsteps moved about them, gathering their things and positioning Reddas' unconscious body to be hoisted upon her shoulders.

Ashe's eyes followed Fran for a moment before moving back to Balthier. “It will be some time.” She repeated his sentiment back, tilting her chin ever so slightly to meet his gaze.

If it weren't for Al-Cid's invitation she'd have the nerve to throw her arms around him, to invite him to meet her in her chambers later in the early morning and put to hell anyone who advised her otherwise. These short adventures in ancient stone halls with rushed episodes of passion wouldn't do for long. He'd told her himself in the ruins that he couldn't settle for her the way she coyly suggested to him that he could.

She said nothing, opting to leave the terms of their next reunion open and undetermined. She stepped to move past him and his sudden grip on her wrist caused her to halt and inhale sharply. She looked up at him again.

Wordless, he lifted the tips of her fingers to his lips. No kiss, just the light pressure of her dirt caked and broken nail beds against a closed mouth.

She pulled her hand back the moment her released her fingers. She turned to Fran as the viera stood, straightening her knees with Reddas' unconscious form over her shoulders.

“Where will you take him?” Ashe frowned at the way Reddas' limbs hung from Fran limply.

“We know of a place he will be cared for in Lowtown. There will be discretion.”

Ashe nodded to her, then to Balthier. She stepped carefully with broken shoes down the ramp clutching Morrid's sword. She felt fortunate for the lateness of the hour, as the streets of Rabanastre would be mostly empty, and her bizarre form in a tattered and stained ballgown with a knight's weapon would be but a myth to those who lurked during the day.

The guards at the gate of the palace would be ready to receive her per Morrid's orders, and a lady in waiting had been standing by to prepare bath water before the fireplace. She dismissed the young girl, stripping herself of her clothing and cautiously dipping into the lukewarm depths of the water in her bath.

She laid her head back and closed her eyes. Balthier and Fran likely hopefully reached their destination with Reddas by now. The reality of her world hit her; she'd just taken part in a pirate's ravaging of an ancient ceremonial site in her own lands with a woman she suspected at least knew of the plot to assassinate her uncle. Such a senseless frolic wounded Reddas, and nearly cost him his life.

She had to do better than this, and yet, she darkly almost admitted to herself that she liked it.

She liked being careless, of taking Balthier and Fran up on their invitation and of seeing Basch again outside of his brother's identity. She liked listening to Vaan and Penelo's bickering, and she liked having legitimate reason to hold a sword again. She liked the atmosphere of a hunt to earn money not available to her from the depths of a royal treasury. She liked uncertainty, and she liked the roughness of uneven stone under her knees, skinning them raw as she rutted with Balthier underneath her in a room filled with gold.

She splashed water over her face, rubbing at the bridge of her nose and blinking water out of her eyes.

She would send for an update on Ondore's condition first thing in the morning. She would address her court with her account of the events in Bhujerba. Then, when whatever matters arose from that were settled, she would write to Al-Cid.

The day of their return Alma bathed and rewrapped her hands, too tired to make the wrappings as neat and symmetrical as Basch had, waking only when a maid came to bring her dinner. It was oddly comforting, laying in that room with the high stained glass windows that she propped open at night for the breeze and subtle sound of insects from the courtyard. She'd stir and wake at odd hours in the night from vivd dreams, bringing a hand to the dip between her breasts where the slightest collection of sweat pooled. What she'd been dreaming of to wake with such feverish heat, she wasn't sure.

But the noise of summer insects outside soothed her. Her fingers trailed to her collarbone and her eyes slid shut again.

She ate her meals alone, pulling the bread apart when it suddenly dawned on her how much chaos had taken place in such a short amount of time, and her existence here was admittedly hanging in the balance.

“Don't worry about them,” Ramza would've told her, “A bunch of gossips suspect you've plotted the murder of the Marquis? The Church of Glabados had a funeral for you. Sister, you're free to do what you want!”

He'd playfully punch her arm, sometimes too hard and she'd verbally accost him for it, which in a public dining hall would draw attention as they laughed. Aside from Isilud and Tietra, Ramza was the only one who could make her laugh like that.

Gabranth-- or Basch was correct in his assertion that he'd vanish from her the moment they arrived in Archades. She was anxious for information as she roamed about her quarters and into the garden, smiling shyly at the workers there who massaged dirt in clay pots and rounded with watering cans.

She bit her lip as she wondered about Reddas. And the Marquis and the Emperor If she was in fact a person of interest, would there be a trial? If it were anything close to the trials she was familiar with that would be no comfort. The Emperor seemed to wish her nothing but good will but she couldn't help but morbidly think that positivity would die as soon as he did. And Basch surely had sway as a Judge Magister, but that would only carry so far if the entire courts of every world leader had their eyes on her.

She was tempted to make contact with Basch over it all, but decided against it.

Though on the second day it seemed that he made contact with her, even if it was in an insignificant and coy manner. She woke to the pleasant odors of breakfast. She stretched her arms out in the bed and willed herself upright, but the moment her tender feet touched the stone floor she was reminded of her predicament. She squinted at the tray, noting the presence of a silver tea kettle there and the familiar aroma of black tea filled her nostrils. He surely knew she was no Landisian, yet she couldn't think of any other way the tea had made it's way to her bedchamber.

Penelo walked into the bedchamber, nodding gratefully to the servant who unlatched the door for her. Inside Larsa sat at the side of the bed, dressed in a robe with a towel about his neck. He turned his neck and smiled at her.

She smiled back at him, but the strain of the movement visibly pained him by the wince in his eyes, and she opted to not acknowledge it, her heart fluttering with anxiety instead.

“You look... clean.” Penelo observed lightly, crossing the room to hug him lightly where he sat upon the bed.

Larsa laughed, “That would surprise me. I haven't had a proper bath since before the fete.”

“How are you?” His hair was wet, dampening the towel about his shoulder from whatever bed wash he did manage to give himself. She pulled back, her expression failing her when she caught a glimpse of bandages through the plunging neckline of his robe. “Does it hurt?”

“A little.” Larsa was lying, she could tell.

“How went the hunt? Did you find anything?”

She sank down into the chair by the bed, rubbing her knees nervously. “We did. We found a ton of stuff.”

“Ah,” Larsa stifled another laugh with a look of sheer pain across his face, “Balthier must've been happy.”

“Yeah, he was,” Penelo bit her lip, “Reddas... something happened to him, he was knocked unconcious last I saw him. And that woman Alma who embarked to Bhujerba with you? She was wounded too.”

“I heard as much.” Larsa sighed, “I've yet to see Basch yet but we've been exchanging correspondance discreetly.”

“I see.”

“There's something I feel I need to tell you, only because I'm unable to tell anyone else right now?”

“What is it?”

Larsa nodded to a pile of ashes burned upon a silver tray under a candle on the nightstand. “I received a letter from a contact in Bhujerba Marquis Ondore has passed.”

“You're certain?” Penelo gasped, “Ashe said he was stabilized when she last saw him!”

“Apparently such wounds are unpredictable.” Larsa replied sadly.

“That's awful, just awful.” Penelo leaned forward and reached for his hand, looking to him and squeezing it tightly. “I'm just glad you're okay. Oh, but poor Ashe...”

She reemerged from Larsa's bedchamber when it became clear that he was growing more tired by the minute, and despite his protests she laid him back upon the bed and bid him goodbye.

Looking up and down the corridor, she wondered exactly where Vaan had went. He walked her all the way here, proclaiming he'd wait until she was done visiting with Larsa and she hadn't been in the room that long. She took several steps back in the way they came, only to hear one of the most familiar voices to her drift through the hall. She followed it around the corridor, past several posted guards to an elegant archway leading out to a garden.

Vaan stood in the middle, several servants gathered around him as he flippantly tossed a fruit in the air, taking occasional bites from it as he carried on with a story.

She crossed her arms and smiled; the orphan 'boy' hadn't strayed too far from his role in Lowtown during the Imperial occupation after all. She opened her mouth to scold him for leaving her, but closed it.

Basch had to be close by, perhaps she could visit with him if she asked around.

Sweat cooled her forehead from the night's breeze when he rolled off from on top of her, his breath leveling as hers did in the darkness.

“We must stop with this,” Elinore shook her head, “'Tis an affair that started with too much to drink. It should've stopped there.”

Foris turned to look at her and raised an eyebrow. “But you're the only woman I care to see this way.”

Elinore sighed, frustrated. She was equally to blame for Foris' scandalous company since the night they met, she'd admit. But the consequences would be harsh in Archades. “I cannot afford to be caught in such a scandal. No gentry man will be looking for my hand in marriage if have the reputation of... doing exactly what we're doing.”

The guilt in her tone made him laugh, permanently breaking the tension of that moment as he grabbed her roughly and pulled her against him.

“That suits me; I likely outrank them anyhow.”

The cocky bluntness of his words forced her head upright as she squinted down at him. “Just what are you insinuating?”

“That I wish to marry you.”

Basch sat in Larsa's study, eyes mulling over the paperwork the young lord had left for him. They arrived in Archades the day before, and after a wash and a night's rest, he knew interruptions to Larsa's rest were best kept to a minimum and arranged for his first visitor to be Penelo. He knew that beneath Larsa's precocious facade he was just a young boy and that Penelo and he were fond of each other. A visit from the young lady would do well to lift his spirits, and it wasn't as if Basch didn't have his work cut out for him already. He had much to discuss with Larsa beyond scattered written messages delivered by servants, but knew it would have to wait until the young Emperor was in better health.

He sifted through the stack, scanning pages as he sorted what he could properly address himself and what would best left for Larsa. They were still in the process of replacing the vacancies for Judge Magisters, and in Zargabaath's distress there was a possibility that there may be yet another vacancy soon.

The top portion of the stack consisted of formal nominations. Surely Basch could handle that much in Larsa's stead. He squinted down at the pages, idly noting that this was always the part of his role of Captain in Dalmasca that he preferred the least, his limbs did not take to being idle in a chair very well. His eyes strayed to a liquor cart on the far side of the study before a white marble fireplace. It was off-putting, as he furrowed his brow thinking of how young Larsa was to have such a desire to consume such beverages. But then, he reminded himself, he was practically Larsa's age when he discovered the fermented apples in the cellar with Noah.

A tiny knock rapped at the door.

“Enter.” Basch called from the desk, dissatisfied with his lack of progress with the neat stack of papers before him. His hand, prepped with a quill rested with the side of his palm over the surface of the table.

The door opened, and to his surprise Penelo slipped inside, closing the door behind her. She was dressed in a blue gown similar to what he'd seen Alma in during her first few days in captivity on the garden wing of the Citadel.

He felt a small smile cross his features, though from the gloom of wiped tears from her eyes made it more of a compassionate grimace.

He rose, his Judge's armor groaning slightly from the movement. “Is everything all right?”

“Yes,” Penelo replied while walking to him, hesitating in what he knew was her internal controversy over whether she should embrace him or not. “And no, maybe.” There were no staff present, but still, her arms tensed and released, and she opted to wipe at the corners of her eyes and sink into the seat before Larsa's desk instead.

Basch followed suit, sinking into his own chair and leaning forward to Penelo intently, “What is it? Is Larsa all right? I'll admit I've yet to visit with him myself I was thinking it would be more prudent to allow him to-”

“-Larsa is okay.” Penelo interrupted him, her hands clutching the arms of her chair tightly. He'd trained those hands with daggers once, not so long ago. Penelo was as quick to be deadly as she was to spare a smile, which one of the few traits in combat he knew he'd never master so easily.

“Basch, I'm so sorry to barge in like this.” She shook her head, her single braid swaying down her back as light brown eyes opened wide with earnesty. “Are you feeling all right?”

Basch exhaled sharply in a silent sort of snort. “I think it is I who should be asking that of you.” He heard concern seep into his voice at the sight of Penelo's reddened eyes, making them appear like a distant shade of murky green.

“Larsa is doing okay,” Penelo repeated, “Thank goodness. But I'm worried about Ashe.”

Basch stiffened. “What of her?”

Penelo inhaled deeply, steadying herself as she slowly moved her eyes to the window behind him. Sunlight blazed through, heating the armor against his back.

“Ondore died this morning.”

Basch raised an eyebrow. “How do you know this?”

“Larsa was notified directly before I saw him. The first thing this morning.”

Basch leaned back in his seat, his gaze following where Penelo's had strayed but a moment before: out the window to his side. “I see.”

“And the way Lady Alma ran in there before it happened, declaring to know...”

Basch's eyes darted to hers defiantly. “She wasn't a part of it.”

“I believe that,” Penelo reached for his gloved hand reassuringly, “But there's no guarentee that anyone else present in that ballroom does.”

Basch thought for a moment.

“You don't think there could be another war coming, do you?” Penelo asked, breaking the silence. “I... I'm sorry to bring this all up to you, but I couldn't bring myself to say it to Larsa.”

Basch shook his head. “No. With the generation before, perhaps. But our Larsa and Lady Ashe know too well the costs of war.”

Penelo nodded, “I considered that. But Ashe will demand an investigation. She'll want justice.”

Basch's face fell. “I need to draft a declaration of citizenship.”

Penelo cocked her head. “What do you mean?”

Basch rose from his chair, sifting through Larsa's infuriatingly orderly shelves for the forms necessary to complete the urgent task. “If Alma is a citizen of Archadia she cannot be extradited to Dalmasca or Bhujerba. Not while she's a person of interest for our own investigations.”

“But as a former citizen of Landis, she should already be considered an Archadian citizen, right?”

Basch shook his head. “The terms of the treaty leave the survivors of Landis ambiguous.” He sat back down, fresh ink and paper before him. “And she isn't from Landis.”

Penelo frowned. “But she told me she was. Why would she lie?”

“Aye. She does say that,” Basch scratched across the paper in the terminology as he best remembered it in his mind. “What reason would a good person have to lie?”

Penelo looked to the ceiling thoughtfully for a moment as he continued to continue to write. “If they're scared, I guess. Or if they don't trust us.”

“That's right.”

Penelo chewed her lip. “You really think Ashe would try to have her extradited?”

“I'm not sure.”

Penelo cocked her head and leaned forward. “You sure are going out of your way to protect her.”

Basch paused, lifting his gaze to Penelo. “She's valuable to deciphering some troubling documents of Dr. Cid's.”

“Uh-huh.” Penelo replied in a sing-song voice, playfully tapping his shin with the toe of her foot under the desk.

He paused and he felt her studying him that way she always did, for a moment, and Basch paid her no mind. He returned her interest with the smallest hint of a smile as he leaned over the paper again, mulling over in his head how such a document should be addressed. The girl was perceptive; it was a strength he took pleasure in watching her cultivate in combat-- what she lacked in size and brute strength she honed in intuition and speed.

“Do you still train in the mornings, when you're hardly awake and dressed?”

He chuckled. There was a harsh yet playful criticism in her words buried in undertones of innocent teasing.

His eyes flickered to hers as she sat across from him, crossing her arms and leaning onto the desk before him like a challenge.

“Not as often as I'd like. Not anymore.”

Penelo was referring to the nights at camp when she'd relieve him of his shift on keeping watch. He was too restless to sleep, after sitting awake in the darkness and anticipating the assault of something crawling out of it. The heaviness of his eyelids could be all the difference in separating Lady Ashe from the horrific death at the hands of those who wanted her to suffer the most. Balthier, Fran, and Vaan took no issue in sleeping soundly, but Penelo was the only comrade as restless as he, and she'd watch him move about at dawn, sometimes emerging from her perch to join him herself.

Both orphans looked to him for direction in proper combat training and the difference between the two was that Vaan had a strong competitive desire to win every time, and became visibly frustrated when Basch wouldn't grant him victory, even if it would only be for the sake of doing so. Penelo was determined to perfect whatever flaw she spotted, a trait Basch noted within himself.

Ashe awoke her first morning back in Rabanastre utterly exhausted. But she slid from her bed anyway, taking care to cover herself in a sleeveless robe before stepping out onto her balcony via the archway. She passed the table of succulents where her gift from the Gran Kiltias remained tucked into the display as if it were intended to be a part of it all along.

Her stomach growled. She hesitated, but then reminded herself that if she weren't so distracted by the events of the last month that she wouldn't unwrapped the mysterious gift long before.

She undid the silk ties one handed, pulling back the wrappings that shimmered in the morning light. A plain long box revealed itself, like the ones she remembered her father and her uncle storing their pipes in when she went prodding through her father's study.

She slid back the lid of the box, where several slender sticks of incense were stacked in a neat bundle. A lovely gift, and one most appropriate for the occasion in which it was gifted to her. She lifted the box to her nose and inhaled. The aroma was a pleasant surprise as it lacked the medicinal and sharp ceremonial smells of the conclave, and instead carried a light and sweet citrus from a tree with the woodsy scent of it's branches.

She'd arranged for a servant to notify Morrid of her return first thing, and in her fatigue she decided he was the only member of the palace who ought to know of her return just yet.

She released the gifted incense back to the succulent table and walked outside, where breakfast had already been delivered earlier in the morning and left on covered plates of silver. Since her coronation, she was afforded very few quiet meals such as this, and she proceeded to pour juice from a pitcher and eat in silence as she faced her bustling city that was just barely prepping for midday meals. She wondered absentmindedly for Fran and Balthier.

The rest of the day passed slowly. She gradually made her return known, getting dressed and venturing from her chambers to the throne room briefly to address her court on the events of Bhujerba: they were overtaken by insurgents, she escaped alongside fellow Rabanastrians, she'd only just arrived back when she learned that the way back to Dalmasca was safe with her minimal security.

The nobles listened in awe. It was an easy exchange. And it wasn't terribly far from the truth. She sat on her throne, her free hand clenching the arm rest tightly: a lie that was close to the truth was still a lie. When she finished, she rose before the court as they bowed and murmured their good praises of her skillful return.

She left the throne room quickly and retired to bed early. Except she was too anxious to lay in her bed so she walked to the archway, looking out upon her city as it prepared for the end of the day. She paced the room, settling before her desk to send word to Bhujerba of her successful return, but the words failed to leave her quill.

She rose again and approached her succulents, taking a stick of incense from the box and setting it on her nightstand. She made her way to an empty incense burner on her vanity. She took it and brought it to the table before the chaise, taking a spare tinder and striking it briskly to light the end of the incense until it glowed red. The scent of aromatics burning to ash filled her nostrils, and in her remaining fatigue she caved to weakness and laid back upon the chaise.

Vossler knocked at the door, but the images of a green tree in a midsummer's blue sky kept her from moving. She approached it, or rather moved about it, the leaves darkened and turned to a blood red, followed by fiery orange, the golden yellow. In a matter of seconds, the gold shriveled to brown and crumbling to the ground and the tree was barren.

Barren, like her. At least she suspected, as she was raised upon superstition that widows were ineligible to conceive. Still, she noted that she would need to consult with a healer about necessary precautions.

The world was full of bastards of a different sort, it surely did need any more literal ones.

Vossler knocked again.

Her eyes opened heavily. She squinted. The sun had gone down and her room was completely dark. Vossler was dead. He wasn't at her door, Morrid was.

She rose and composed herself, calling for him to enter.

He obeyed, pushed open the door with the brow over his blue-gray eyes furrowed with concern.

“You majesty, I apologize for the late hour. I've been tangled in engagements all day.”

“It's all right.” Ashe waived him off.

He sighed with a relieved smile for a single exhale. Momentarily seemingly forgetting his stress and admitting: “You could not have returned at a better time. You know I prefer to stay out of political affairs unless absolutely necessary.”

“Yes, yes I know. You've done me a great service, Morrid.” Ashe assured him earnestly, “And for that I am grateful.”

Morrid's facial expression hardened as he spoke to her again, his cadence slower than it was before. “Of course, your majesty.”

“What is it that brings you to my chamber so late? It cannot wait until tomorrow?” Ashe crossed her good arm under the immobilized one.

“Nay, I did not think it could,” Morrid met her eyes before casting his own to the floor.

She didn't take well to the suspense. He was holding something back from her and she stepped toward him, causing him to nearly flinch from her advancement.

“Being one of your closest confidants is one of my greatest achievements, your majesty. It will always be my greatest honor. But I'll admit, it comes with a price that I take no pleasure in.”

“What price?” Ashe pressed him, her sudden anxiety seeping into her voice. He came to bring news. She immediately thought of Larsa's rumored wounds, how worried poor Penelo was. Or was it Basch? Or did something occur in Lowtown to Reddas, Balthier, and Fran? Her mind was skipping over nearly one hundred scenarios in a split second.

“The Marquis Ondore passed in the wee hours of the morning this morning, majesty. He could not survive the vulnerability of his wounds.”

She glazed over, half anticipating to wake up on the end of yet another dream in another chamber with Vossler knocking on her door again.

It took her breath away.

Cheers from the streets brought Elinore to the window of her bedchambers as she wiped sleep from her eyes. It was early morning, when the sun was barely peeking through the mountains that bordered the valleys around Archades. Several sharp cracks burst through the air, and in her panic she feared that the worst had happened, that Foris and the others failed in their mission to Nabradia, and that Rozarria had infiltrated the doorstep of her own home.

She slid out of bed, pushing back the light brown curtain of her hair and grabbed a robe of fine silk that had been draped over the armchair by the bed, pulling her arms through the sleeves hurriedly as she stumbled across the room, nearly tripping on a footrest before the fireplace, where Foris had laid his bare feet out for her only days before, fanning his toes out for her as she passed him to taunt her with her distaste for them.

Clutching the plunging neckline that the robe afforded her over a sheer autumn night gown, she carefully lifted back the edges of the heavy velvet curtains, squinting against the sudden burst of light peering in her bedroom.

There were few soldiers, but certainly no invaders; no bombs bursting or chaos erupting from the doom of a city. In fact, it was a peaceful morning like any other, save for several young boys cheering and lighting firecrackers against cobblestone in the streets.

She sighed in relief and released the window curtain so that she reposed to the darkness yet again. By the looks of things they succeeded in Nabradia. Foris would be home for only her to have for a while longer until he was deployed again. Or summoned to the Citadal for pressing government matters.

His prominent station for House Solidor afforded them many privileges-- she loved the finery and the silks, and the comfort of knowing she and her children to follow would always be looked upon favorably in Archadian society. But even comfort came with great cost, and she could only look for moments of peace before he was called to duty yet again by Emperor Gramis.

And just like that, the double doors to her bedchamber swung open, and Foris strut in in his full Judge Magister's armor, practically seeming as a ghost. He unfastened his helmet and tossed it to the armchair before she could process what she was seeing.

“Foris!” She gasped, “I-I thought you wouldn't be back for days! I heard the firecrackers in the streets, they woke me. I feared--”

“I returned early.” Foris said quietly, standing still before her lacking his usual warmth. His eyes appeared dark, lined with purple shadows in uncharacteristic gloom.

“Oh.” Elinore stood before him frozen. She reminded herself that she could relinquish her tight instinctive grip on her neckline, he was her husband after all. “Is everything all right?”

Foris shook his head with a sigh, proceeding to remove his gauntlets, motioning for her to help him disassemble his armor piece by piece with him as she'd done plenty of times before.

“Nalbina was a success,” He told her with an emotionless and flat voice, “The Dalmascan Alliance was no match for Dr. Cid's genius.”

Elinore's brow furrowed as she worked at the leather straps binding his shoulder pieces. “Are you sure?” Her husband was never one to greet her with such consternation, and it made her uneasy.

“What happened?” She pressed him, letting the shoulder pieces fall carelessly to the floor as she circled around to his front, pulling his chin toward her so that he was forced to look at her.

His gaze was unlike anything she'd ever seen from him before, the lightheartedness now gone from the depths of dark brown.

“The midlight shard we'd procured...”

“It was a success, yes?” Elinore prompted him along.

“--It was... far more potent than I'd anticipated.”

Elinore exhaled slowly, reaching for his hand gently. Such was the curse of being married to a man of war.

“You feel guilt?”

Foris' hand recoiled from hers, continuing the process of dismantling his armor without her. “Guilt?” He laughed a brief haughty laugh, allowing the Foris she was familiar with to reemerge, somewhat. “Nay, but that will come with time I suspect.”

“Then, what?”

Foris stepped to their bed and sank onto the chaise in front of it, now only dressed in the blank liners that he wore under his armor. The faint scent of sweat seeped into the air between them, signaling to her that he'd left the battle without so much time to even bathe.

Foris leaned forward, closing his eyes and placing his head into his hands.

“We must leave here. We cannot stay. You cannot stay.”

“What?” Elinore walked the several steps to stand before Foris again, challenging him. “Why? Where would we go?”

Her husband sighed, opening his eyes again and looking back at her. “Nabudis is but a pile of rubble.”

Elinore shook her head. “I-I don't understand why this distresses you so. Nabradia was an ally to our enemy and--”

“The people were not the enemy Elinore.”

“What do you mean?”

“I held the warmth of the midlight shard in my hand,” Foris continued, “And I didn't know what it was until it was too late. Nabradia fell to her feet in an instant by their shadows burned into walls and streets and their tallest structures flattened into dust upon the lake like they never stood to begin with.”

“Truly awful,” Elinore took his hand in her own again, “But not more awful than if you never returned home to me again.”

“I haven't.” Foris replied cryptically. “Or at least, not as the man I once was.”

Firecrackers popped from the street outside their bedchamber again, making them both jump and temporarily loose the manner of their thoughts.

“Lord Vayne and Dr. Cid summoned me to meet with them as soon as I returned to Archades, so I left ahead of the remainder of the fleet to buy us some time.”

“I still don't understand.” Elinore shook her head.

“I've committed genocide, Elinore.”

“I-It's a war.” Elinore justified for him.

“Aye, it is. And I'll have no part in a war that will see me hanged as a disgraced war criminal in the end. And if I live, I will not live with being one. I've already made arrangements for an estate for you in Landis. Paperwork has been drawn up for pseudonyms. The house staff for the 'Ronsenburg' manse depart today, and you must depart as well.”

“You can't be serious!”

“If I desert my station,” Foris reasoned with her, “I'll be branded as a traitor. I'll be hunted and executed, especially with the knowledge I now have. And you will be hunted also.”

The images Foris described hit her; bodies buried in stone and dust, forever immortalized in a moment of confusion and terror when Foris wielded the midlight shard that cost them their lives forever: a mother cradling a child, a pup poised in curious waking from repose, a man wandering to his window to inquire the strange noises from outside just as she had done not long before Foris barged into the room. All were innocent, unaware of the eternal fate that was just moments away from them.

“Just tell Emperor Gramis what you saw.” Elinore protested, “He'll understand. He is wise and just. He won't let you be hunted.”

“Emperor Gramis coordinated with Vayne years ago for the assassination of his own oldest sons because he was paranoid that they plotted against him.” Foris spoke plainly, showing little regard for how his words where making her world crumble about her. “Perhaps they were, but that Vayne is no innocent. He knew what the midlight shard was and yet he let Dr. Cid place it in my hands so that his would be clean.”

“T-There has to be a way, Perhaps another Judge Magister? Gabranth seems progressive and sensible, and surely Drace is challenging the others at every turn.”

“Gabranth is in the palm of Vayne's hand, currently engaged in a conspiracy to imprison his own brother for Dalmasca's impending fall. And Drace is loyal to House Solidor above her comrades. If the time came she will do whatever it costs to stay near the little Lord Larsa. She will not forfeit her station to protect me.”

“There has to be a way.” Elinore repeated defiantly, her eyes filling with tears as the reality of their dire situation sunk into her.

Foris looked up at her from his seat pitifully. He stood slowly, taking both her hands in his. “I've committed a great sin, Elinore. And I'll pay the price one day. But I'll be damned if you pay it too.”

Elinore looked to the ground, ashamed to let him see her cry. He gently lifted her head by the jaw on either side, so that she was forced with engage his pained expression head on.

“What a mess I've caught you in.” He told her, his voice full of regret. Elinore said nothing, only sniffling as more tears fell.

“Will I see you again?” She dared to ask.

“I do not know, I won't lie to you. But it'd fare you the best if I didn't contact you. Landis will accept your pseudonym, but the Empire has eyes even there.”

“What will you do?” She pulled her hand from his to brush the tears from her eyes.

“I'll run somewhere far, I'll find a new life as a hunter. I'll provide for you from afar in Balfonheim.”

The comfort he'd intended with his words failed to reach her. He had everything figured out without her input just like that; this was all definitely happening.

She sobbed.

“You must be brave, Elinore. We've no choice lest you watch me linger here and become entangled as an attack dog for the the Empire, murdering innocents and letting them rot where they die with the entire Solidor family plotting against one another. It will catch up to us.”

She cried for a minute more and he allowed it, gently brushing her tears with his free hand as his other one still clasped hers. He pulled her against him, his heartbeat loudly thrumming into her ear. She closed her eyes to ward off more tears when she heard it.

His kiss came suddenly, when she was so focused on stifling her despair to be strong for him that she wasn't aware enough to anticipate it even though she'd easily shared hundreds of kisses with him before.

Her face was in his hands as she let him lead her from the chaise to around the bedpost and back onto the bed, his warm hands sliding inside her robe as her tears ceased into salty trails that led from the corners of her eyes to the expanse of her cheeks to her jawline, and he stripped himself of his liners quickly as she followed suit with her robe and nearly all over her nightgown. She was all too accustomed to lovemaking with him to be anything but automatic when he showed his cues.

On a careful and slow paced night, he'd take time to close the curtains and the windows, and even the drapes on the canopy of their bed. But time was lacking for all the reasons he'd explained and she gasped and clamped her eyes shut when her entered her with little warning, no longer caring to notice the procession of firecrackers lit under the rising sun outside.

Alma squinted under the sun until she reached the far edge of the courtyard, narrowly dodging a white butterfly that flew out from stalks of fragrant lavender. Basch and Ramza were a lot alike, she noted. If Basch were someone they'd met on their travels Ramza would surely buy him a drink and most likely get more out of him than Alma ever could.

Unless he was with Mustadio, then the trio would be unreachable by anyone else, even her.

They descended several flights of stairs.

“Beyond this door, milady.” The guard opened a heavy wrought iron door to a dimly lit chamber, where a hooded mage stood inside. She stepped in slowly, silently considering if it was all an elaborate plot to end her.

The guard stepped out of the room and closed the door behind him as the mage turned his back to her, drawing circles of light where there should've been none. A hex, a magical key to a magical door that opened before her as the mage beckoned her to enter.

And she would've believed a country like Archadia would've outlawed such things.

She descended a spiraling staircase of dark marble that became visible in the center of a room. The change in air pressure creating a palpable draft that permeated the hem of her skirts as she walked. She arrived on the ground floor, looking upward in awe of the several stories of bookshelves stacked all about her, it was both overwhelming and quiet.

She now stood in the archives, a distant myth first presented to her as a studious child and then again by the Viera after she jumped from the waterfall and again by gossips when she reached Rabanastre. Many debated it's existence, and when Basch presented to her that text in her chamber one night she was gleeful at the confirmation of what she hoped was true. If there was any way to rid herself and the world of Ultima, it would be here. Previously in awe of Dr Cid's collection, she knew it was nothing compared to this.

“Alma Beoulve?” An elderly clerk in crimson robes rose from behind a circular desk across the room from her. His eyes were nearly covered in thick white eyebrows under a balding head of thinning white hair.

Caught in a moment of stupor by hearing her birth name so plainly for the first time in so long, she merely snapped her head in his direction and bowed her head briefly.

“Well, come over dear. You won't be getting much work done by standing there, will you?”

To the point, unlike the reputation of most Archadians from what she'd gathered. She smiled dutifully and crossed the room, the heels of her shoes echoing against the vastness of the marble floor.

“It was my first time down here, as I'm sure you know,” She spoke as she approached him, her freshly redressed hands folded neatly in front of her. “Forgive me, I wasn't sure what to expect.”

“'Tis understandable,” The old man peered at her over the rim of his spectacles, “Many Archadians aren't even aware of this chamber's existence, let alone set foot into it.”

His tone suddenly changed and he bowed deeply from behind the desk. “My name is Dr. Oleide, my life's work has been studying these archives in conjunction with the 9th Bureau.”

He walked slowly, glancing at her with a reassuring smile as he did so, to where a partition allowed him to walk from behind the desk. He vanished behind a great black pillar before reemerging again. “I'll show you to your desk. Follow me, dear.”

Alma's lips parted in bewilderment as she followed him up several steps to the next level of bookshelves. “I have my own desk?”

“Of course. It's only sensible, so you can remain organized as you see fit. I'm told you may be spending quite some time down here.”

The chill of the room was unsettling, but in all it's splendor she couldn't help but feel her heartbeat quicken at the thought. They passed several rows of the shelves, to a bell-shaped partition that connection with the wall through a series of curved columns, leaving the space within open to the rest of the chamber while contained within it's own space.

“Here we are.” Dr. Oleide showed her through the archway. Several candles were lit upon a dark stained wooden desk, and rows of empty shelves were assembled around the desk. Aside from a single inkwell and quill, Alma immediately recognized the massive text laid upon the desk when she approached it.

Dr Oleide seemed to note her excitement, adding “Ah, Gabranth requested that one be left for you to start with. A cryptic, old thing it is. Nonsensical, really. But I suspect you'll get to know it soon.”

Alma ran her fingers down the binding, heaving the heavy cover opening and sifting through the large pages as she had with Basch when he first brought it to her. “Yes, but I suspect he expects me to make sense of it.”

Dr Oleide's exhaled sharply in amused astonishment. “How are you to do that?”

She refused to answer the question directly, mostly because she wasn't sure herself.

“Do you have any texts here on Espers? Ultima, specifically?”

Dr. Oleide looked at her with his blue eyes open wide. “Why yes, but you'd have to narrow it down further than that.”

Alma sighed, letting the sound of her breath carry through the expanse of the chamber, reminding her that they were alone here and that if she were to best take advantage of this opportunity she only happened to stumble upon by sheer luck then she'd have to be more generous with information to Dr. Oleide than she had with Basch or anyone else.

“Uh, well, specifically hume possession? Or a connection to a cataclysm? Or time travel? Sacred geometry?”

Dr. Oleide blinked at her for a moment, astonished. He turned to the side, rubbing his beard by his chin and casting a thoughtful glance Alma's way sideways. “What in Ivalice has Gabranth put you up to?” He murmured.

She fumbled to find an excuse, immediately worrying that she'd spoken too honestly and he's generate talk with other scholars. But before she could speak, he addressed her directly.

“There's a lot here on Ultima, yes. But to address your specifics I'd need to consult the catalogue.”

“Oh. All right.”

“Wait here, get settled.” Dr Oleide flashed her a genuine smile. “It's been quite some time since I've been tasked with researching a true mystery, you know.”

Elinore stepped out into the afternoon sunlight. It was after supper and the insects of the garden she's nurtured from ashes chirped, announcing the initiation of the setting of the sun.

The high walls about them crawled with green ivy. Her daughter, a wee toddler with olive skin and dark ringlets, tumbled clumsily in the back yard as best she could in a diaper. The new pup hopped about her, equally as clumsy.

The manse where she raised her daughter was of old and fallen Landisian nobility, and the windows filled the house with light as she planted flowerbeds beneath them. Her daughter's feet padded against the floorboards, echoing the creaking wood of children from generations before they found refuge there.

Elinore brought her knuckles to the teeth of her wide mouthed smile, laughing aloud with the housemaid at how energetic the little girl was. She fell repeatedly-- and pushed herself upwards by her chubby palms in the dirt once she saw both her mother and the housemaid weren't making a fuss.

She was so much like him. It was then that Elinore looked to the wrought iron gate at the far side of the property. The shadow of a man appeared there, and for a moment, terror arose in Elinore's heart. Her laughter ceased, and the sounds of the shrieking toddler and the high-pitched barking pup were the only noises about her. She walked several paces to the gate, then halted. The shadow was gone.

It couldn't have been him. He was dead, but then the gil arrived monthly from various undisclosed sources out of Balfonheim and by Foris' parting instructions she did not question them.

A mere several feet was all that separated her from where the shadow had stood. It was an imposing shadow, but threatened no violence all the same.

The housemaid called for her, a hint of concern in her voice when she saw the vacant expression upon her face. Her daughter ran to her side, grabbing the hem of her gown and pulling, commanding her to meet those familiar brown eyes in think dark eyelashes. She wasn't a daughter of House Zecht, for Zecht was no longer a name spoken in Archadia and abroad. Foris Zecht was dead, and in his place stood a ghost and a little girl.

She lifted her daughter from the ground and pulled her up and onto her hip. Taking one last look at the gate, she turned and walked the girl to the manse, where sunlight currently shone through every window on the western side, nourishing the plants beneath them.

Basch found Zargabaath alone in the lounge only available to high officers of the Archadian military. On a terrance outside the Judge Magister sat alone with an ale.

“I know your secret, Gabranth. I've known for months.”

Basch furrowed his brow, momentarily deciding his comrade's words were a muddled result of alcohol and grief.

And they were, but they were truer that Basch had hoped.

“May I?” Basch stood before the table, wearing the dark ceremonial dress clothes from the funeral hours before.

Zargabaath nodded to the seat across from him. “Gabranth had that same manner. But he was even more proper than you, if you'd believe it possible. Go ahead.”

Basch pulled out a seat and sank into it slowly, the full weight of Zargabaath's meaning settling over him. Had he been so transparent? Luckily enough Judge Magister seats had been left vacant from the war that those that filled them were not so familiar with Noah on such a personal level.

“Don't look so troubled. Your secret is safe with me.” Zargabaath spoke in an uncharacteristic drawl from his indulgence in his drink, pushing greying hair back over his ears as if in a moment of clarity under the night sky “I owe you that... Captain Basch.”

Basch grabbed for an empty mug left at the table by servants from earlier, apparently hopeful that a companion would come along for the mourning Judge Magister.

“Sorry?” Was all that he could muster.

“I knew of the plot. We all did. Drace, she was closest to Gabranth. I never heard a protest from her personally but I suspect words were exchanged in private.”

Tempted to move his hands to his temples, Basch chose to pour ale into his mug and drink from it instead.

Zargabaath continued. “It was then I knew Archadia was truly lost. My beloved, she urged me to be more vocal, to stand between Vayne and his yes-men. But I couldn't with the circumstances back then, you see.” His light blue eyes scanned the darkness, flitting about the lightening bugs that lit up around them. “The paling that you relied on at Nalbina Fortress, it was I that severed it and enabled the slaughter of your men.”

Basch followed Zargabaath's eyes with his own, looking to the darkness for a moment.

“You did your duty.” Basch shook his head, “And I did mine. There's no shame in that.”

“My beloved's death is only penance.” Zargabaath nodded at the darkness, lit only by a brilliant red moon in the darkness, “The gods weighed their judgement.”

“The 'gods' have more resolute manners to yield their judgment than that of fanatics.” Basch murmured against his mug.

Zargabaath looked to him seriously. “You're certain?”

“I'm certain. Your wife's death was not your doing.”

An unclear hollowness settled into Zargabaath's voice. “Captain Basch, have you loved a woman?”

Basch shook his head, briefly recalling his altercation with Vossler as a squire. “Not in the way you speak of your beloved.”

“Then allow me to enlighten you.” Zargabaath pointed to him from across the table with his elbow upon, looking accusing and in absence of his battle armor, small and inexplicably elderly, “She would be the piece of quiet, the calmness in your bones when you sleep deeply, perhaps a bit too late on a day with little responsibility. ”

He spoke with such conviction that Basch perhaps would've otherwise found him amusing the way he always found drunkness amusing when he was sober, and Vossler would've found him pathetic for speaking of women in such a way. But Zargabaath continued, adding: “She would be freedom from the cage you've enclosed yourself in.”

Basch thought for a moment, still debating whether a sober Zargabaath would be addressing him as Basch the way he currently did.

Or perhaps he'd still be Gabranth.

“Aye, she sounds quite nice.” Basch reached to squeeze Zargabaath's shoulder as he rose again, realizing the man would be better left alone. “I am here, no matter what name you choose for me, Zargabaath.”

Alma reemerged from the archives when the moon was high in the night sky. Her stomach was folding itself in hunger-- she could not make such a habit of staying down there so long.

Her head was buzzing with so much information that she almost failed to recognize that as she moved about the levels of the citadel, she was passing mourners. She kept her eyes averted, unsure of whether it would be appropriate for her to meet gazes with a polite smile. She walked quickly, pausing only for a moment when she recognized the ornate structure of what appeared to be a chapel laid out in an ornate arrangement of gray stone supported by grand pillars.

She passed a group of stray mourners and slipped inside, silently taking in the grandeur of the inside. It was clear that the service was finished, and she walked the chamber slowly, taking in the flickering candles and scattered whispers of the spare mourners who remained.

He was reminded of services in the Orbonne Monastery, and how after dark she'd join Simon and Ovelia in the chapel, extinguishing stray candles so that they didn't burn through the night.

Murals were painted on the walls, and her neck bent backwards to decipher them. The entire day consisted of helping Dr. Oleide bring books to her desk that his catalogue indicated could be helpful, and what little she was able to read of them only filled her head with more questions.

Why her? Why now? Did Ultima have anything to do with it at all, or was her life a series of unfortunate accidents?

The mural dictated twelve monks knelt before a sky of red, with one being offered up, stripped naked but for a great sword before god-like cloaked beings that dwelled in shadows above. The Church of Glabados was monotheistic, and she knew it would be unrecognizable to the people in this ancient past. When had the distinction between multiple gods and a singular one occurred? Her mind strayed for the answer, and she decided it would be yet another question for Dr. Oleide in the archives.

“You shouldn't be straying about out here.”

She jumped, snapping out of her reverie to find Basch standing before her in the flickering darkness.

“It could sour the mourners should someone recognize you.” His voice dripped softly with apology, but dressed in formal and stiff looking mourning clothes with the scar marring his face it did little to settle her.

“I'm sorry.” Was all that she could manage. In light of all their circumstances, she couldn't fathom anything better to say.

“Zargabaath's wife was buried today.” Basch nodded to the last remaining mourners in pews.

“These candles are for her, then.” Alma deduced, turning to face a single white melting pillar of wax along the wall among hundreds of unlit ones.

“Aye.”

She stood with him in silence for a moment, crossing her arms and bringing a hand to her neck, rubbing it nervously. “Maybe I should like to pay my respects too, then. Do you suppose I am to blame?”

“I suppose you were played.” Basch answered quickly.

“I've seen what it is for loved ones to die.” Alma looked up at him tearfully, “I-I'd never...”

“I believe you.” He sighed, “But the hour is late, Lady Alma.”

He offered her his arm and she took it in both of hers as she understood his meaning: it'd be best for her to head back to her chamber. He led her there in silence, nodding to her wordlessly as she approached her door and turned up to look at him for a reason that was unclear. His steps faded in the darkness once she'd closed her door and latched it.

She sighed. The room was nice and quiet, except for the sound of insects.

The day he destroyed the Suncryst marked his third escape. He woke to visions of the Occuria first, hushed voices that whispered about his as if he wasn't even there. The Suncryst was meant to be yielded, not destroyed, and by sacrificing himself to destroy it he upset the ripples of time as the Dynast King's ancestor was enabled to proceed without them.

Something must be done to correct the balance, or at least, that was what the voices whispered about.

He awoke in terrible pain, blinded in a single eye. Sunlight streamed through the filters of white linen curtains.

The smell reached him first, just before the sting of salty ocean air stung his burnt flesh.

He was in agony. He was alive.

In the months that followed he nearly died again, when a terrible infection took him from his lack of intact skin for cover. And when he rose again for the first time with the assistance of the villagers that nursed him, he found himself mutilated in the mirror nearly past recognition.

“I need to move funds to an estate in Landis,” He told a caretaker as soon as he was able.

The woman furrowed her brow at him as she cleansed his wounds.

“You've no funds on you.” She spoke calmly, her accent local to the Phon coast still sounding strange on his ears.

“I've funds set aside in Balfonheim. I can notify contacts there.” He insisted.

The caretaker cocked her head to the side. “Perhaps I can help. What's the name of the estate?”

“Ronsenburg.”

The shingles man they're shaking
Back door's burning through
This old house she's quite the keeper
Quite the keeper of you

--Gregory Alan Isakov

Chapter Text

For humes, birth was often a contrite thing; a form of penance when a woman first walked with a quickening in her womb, and then after the months that followed it contracted so harshly that it took her breath away. There was pain. The women were left to lie with legs splayed to deliver the child in a bath of flesh and blood, at times to the price of their own lives. If she survived, the hume woman's value was increased, having provided yet another branch in the posterity of the man who impregnated her.

The viera were all branches of the same tree, save for the tribes that deviated from the wood throughout the millennia. A birth was a means to further the posterity of all, not just one of their kind. Fran was birthed the decade following Jote, and two decades prior to Mjrn.

An event occurred prior to Fran's birth just when Jote had barely learned to walk. It wreaked such havoc that an entire generation of viera before them were left traumatized, and the wood pulled it's hold of them even tighter, like a noose of benevolence wrung about their necks; never making itself known unless they dared to have desires to rid themselves of it's shelter.

Fran always supposed that when Jote thought of her, her feelings were contrite as the pull of the wood reinforced the elder viera's remorse and anger to the surface. That was how she knew she must wait at the entrance to Eruyt as her companions passed on. No longer was she a child of the wood, sitting upon branches so that her legs swayed in the open air.

The sound of china clattering around a steaming pot forced Al-Cid to waken. He'd considered a rushed return to Rozarria like the rest of the nobility, but the events of Bhujerba on the night of Ondore's birthday had convinced him otherwise. The raucous occurred in the next room over, where another foreign dignitary was housed who dared not to venture outside his chambers until it was fully necessary, and so an Ondore servant was tasked to bring his meals to his quarters.

Al-Cid was far too adventurous for that comfort. So he slept in a chamber provided to him as an esteemed guest of the fete. Ashe had made her escape at his bidding, and for some reason unbeknownst to him he stayed to look after Ondore's recovery. Halim Ondore didn't rise as usual for his morning duties, not to anyone's surprise on two morns following an insurgency with his rumored wounds.

Al-Cid was to breakfast on his own on a dining veranda overlooking the sky city. His boots clicked against the stone halls as he made his way past an open waterway that poured from the pipes within the manse walls where a servant was hunched over, scrubbing what he would only suspect to be blood stains from the stone floor beside it. Al-Cid stepped around others too hard at work sweeping up glass reassembling displays of pottery and wall tapestries to acknowledge his passing. He welcomed the chill of Bhujerba's breezes; Ambervale was much too warm as of late.

He arrived to the veranda to find an unexpected company.

“Hope you don't mind my intrusion, bhadra.” A girl smiled at him crookedly.

Al-Cid cocked an eyebrow. None other than the Lady Brinda Ondore, the eldest girl of her house and Halim's second-born, sat crossed legged on a bench opposite his breakfast spread-- a hastily assembled tray of imported fruits and salted fish from the harbors of the lands below.

No older than fifteen, Brinda sat with long tendrils of strawberry-blonde ringlets that lay about her waist, nearly unrecognizable to him now with a lit cigar mounted on a crimson jeweled pick wrapped in her fingers.

“Your company is quite the surprise, Lady Brinda.” Al-Cid bowed low raising his head before she gave him an uncharacteristically casual nod, her green eyes straying out to the view over the city rather than focusing on him.

“Yes.” Her noble Bhujerban accent mimicking that of her father and brother's, “Imagine the look on my mother's face when she hears I dined with the famed Al-Cid of Rozarria; the man she defined herself at my father's fete as being... um...” Her mouth curled in the smallest hint of a catlike grin before bringing the cigar to her lips to taste the smoke in her mouth, “More a man of pleasure than of politics.” Smoke seeped from her mouth as she talked.

“My Lady, you speak boldly for one so young.” Al-Cid chuckled, feigning ignorance as he pulled out the bench across from her, “Perhaps that is a family trait?”

Brinda rolled her eyes. “Your infatuation with my cousin the Queen is obvious as it is tiring.”

“And you are but a girl.” Al-Cid reminded her cooly, leaning back on a single armrest in his seat. “A lovely one, at that. But you do not know what it is to be tired, you've barely woken from your mother's breast. You do not know pain, or suffering, or what it is to have lost.”

Brinda looked at him directly, her eyes strangely filled with emotion as her thumb and forefingers slid along the length of the jeweled handle, taking in the smooth-cut texture against her finger pads.

“She is not the only one who has lost. I've met her but twice now outside of when I was a child. I'd likely know better than you.”

“You are a child still.” Al-Cid reiterated, unsure of what the source of the sudden tension in her words could be.

“My father died this morning. Halim the younger, my brother, will be Marquis now. I suppose you should address me less as a Marquis' daughter and more like a Marquis' sister, next in line after my brothers inevitably succumb to these 'politics' you lot perform.”

Al-Cid slowly lowered his fork as he stared speechlessly at the girl, suddenly understanding the cause of this nonsensical outburst she was having by retrieving a cigar and sitting in a guest's quarters as the household around her recovered her ancestral home.

The first thing Reddas saw when he opened his eyes was the familiar viera crouched by a fireplace. She was pouring contents of a simmering pot into a bowl, gently kneading something beneath the vapors with a wooden spoon.

“Where are we?” He croaked.

Fran showed no hint of surprise at his sudden awakening. “I suspected you'd rouse soon.” she replied, giving the bottom of the bowl one final push with the back of the spoon before passing it to him.

He reached out to accept it. She pulled it back, rapping his shoulder lightly with the knuckles of her free hand. “Sit up.”

Reddas complied, groaning at the soreness of his arms and chest as he slowly push himself upright with the palms of his hands against a mattress.

Fran relinquished the bowl to him when he was seated properly.

His head hurt. Incredibly.

Fran's eyes scanned him, as if appraising his discomfort. “You suffered a great wound to your head in the ruins. We are in Rabanastre. In Lowtown, for discretion.” She gestured with a single pointed finger. “This will help.”

His good eye was blurry, and though the light of the room was awfully dim the little light that did filter in from cavernous streets outside bothered him. It certainly looked to be a flat in Rabanastre as Fran confirmed for him.

“What became of that woman? Of Alma?” Reddas held the rim of the bowl to his lips for a sip, jarred by the incredible saltiness of the broth. He winced, withdrawing for a moment before bringing the brim of the bowl to his mouth again.

Fran blinked in his direction. “She was wounded, but able to assist Basch in carrying you out, I suppose.”

His memory was befuddled, hazy moments before he violently slipped into unconscious, taken out by Alma in all her features turning ethereal, godly even, up until the second his world turned dark.

He held his tongue, unsure of why he didn't feel ready to reveal this to Fran. He was a man who knew consequences better than any other, and he was curious enough to have the opportunity to speak with Alma again-- for the last time that he saw her he knew her eyes were not her own.

He forced another swallow of the broth. “Where is your partner?”

“The market, or wherever else his fancies take him. He will return by nightfall.” Fran replied flatly, her eyes moving sideways toward his as she leaned into the fire again. “He worries for you.”

Reddas snorted. “He worries for my Archadian bones made brittle by time and debris. You can assure him I'm alright.” He drank again, cringing as more salty broth withered the back of his throat.

“Must I drink this?” He complained, his marred face contorted even further. “Can I not have just plain water-”

“You must,” Fran affirmed. “It will help.”

Reddas declined to resist further, knowing it was futile. He instead downed the broth as quickly and as fluidly as he could, no matter how his tongue or the roof of his mouth protested and his stomach recoiled.

Ashe sat at the desk in her study. The day's events were a series of blurred visions behind weary eyes, though she did her best to be attentive to her court's concerns on matters of security and Rabanastre's reconstruction. The security in the merchant district was no longer lacking, but residential neighborhoods were now vulnerable to looting as evidenced by the testimony of numerous eyewitness accounts.

She was failing, no matter what the angle.

She turned the quill over in her fingers, letting the smooth bristles of feather pleasantly graze in between them while quietly pondering what she should say. Technically she didn't have to say anything; Basch was currently acting in Larsa's stead but her return to Bhujerba likely wouldn't require any coordination with Archadia. She simply wanted to talk to Basch, momentarily yearning for the days when all she had to do was turn her shoulder and he was but an arm's length away. She longed for his council.

She could meet Morrid in the training yard and release her fury in another way. Balthier was in Rabanastre still as far as she knew; it must only take a discreet trip to Lowtown and inquiries with the right individuals down there to find him, but still she subjected herself to the torment of pondering what to write on paper to Basch.

'I'm certain you've heard of the news of my Uncle...'

She started, the familiar lengthy and formal strokes from her childhood penmanship lessons coming back to her.

'My first instinct is to determine and disperse the blame and to put the individuals responsible of trial with sentences to ensure they cannot repeat the tragedy that had befallen Bhujerba anywhere else. I must admit I write you to seek your counsel, but I believe you also maintain custody of the woman you retrieved from the Paramina Rift...'

The creak of an iron hinge groaning under the weight of a stained glass shutter caused her eyes to snap to the front of her desk. She was facing away from the source of the sound, though she could already make a proper bet on the source. She lowered the quill to the inkwell slowly.

Two footfalls echoed on clay tile.

She shook her head, pushing the illusion of Balthier's arrival from her mind. Since he returned to her in a flurry of well-intentioned adventure and episodes of passion she'd returned the favor in the only way her position could afford her: cold pragmatism in the overhanging marital proposition of another.

In the ruins he made his intentions clear and she hers. He'd have been a source of solace and comfort for her, but for her to expect him to settle into the life of a queen's consort with his feet to the ground was selfish.

There was always the possibility of never truly ridding herself of Balthier, even as a married monarch. The warmth of the thought brought a chill to her bones when she shamefully recalled how the Ashelia of just a few years past would be mortified at her giddiness over infidelity. But she understood now that her next husband would be a foreigner as her last one was, and as long as she was loyal to Dalmasca above all else it didn't matter where her loyalties in the bedroom lay.

Even if they didn't reflect what she wanted. She looked down at her words on the paper before her, half-minded to completely scrap the letter and start over again. But she kept them instead, steadily picking up her quill to continue her message.

Basch couldn't possibly be close enough, she thought to herself sadly.

Fran watched Jote meticulously work the colorful silken fibers around the predetermined longitudes of the loom. The holy light of dawn through Eruyt's canopy reflecting off Jote's long fingers through whatever beams that the blinds of the window of the hut allowed.

Eruyt was an ancient and holy ground in itself. Legends of Ivalice made it mysterious and synonymous with the cradle of civilization for all races including humes, though none but the viera were tolerated by the wood in modern times.

Fran had been taught that one of the most sacred and duties of the viera was to facilitate the passage of souls to and from the beyond. It was customary that every elder wove a tapestry of her own from the elder's loom-- before which Jote sat focused on colors of light pink and gold; both colors that Jote preferred to wear herself.

Fran had yet to be alive to witness a soul be summoned by the wood, so she sat across from Jote silently, the only sound that carried in the room at such an early hour was the whisper of the trees.

“What can you see of it?” Fran asked Jote curiously.

“Little yet,” Jote furrowed her eyebrows in concentration as she worked, “It is feminine. It is hume.”

“The wood seeks for you to summon a female hume?” Fran asked, bewildered. Her entire short life thus far she'd been indoctrinated to the fickle and foolish ways of humes in their elaborate schemes in the outside world. Fran admittedly found herself mystified by such drama, then immediately after she felt ashamed of her curiosity.

“It is strange.” Jote commented as she worked, smoothing another great length of a strand in between her thumb and index finger before proceeding to weave it into the loom, “But I suppose I have not seen enough of 'her' yet to determine how I must feel.”

They were both aware of Mjrn poised in the shadows behind the doorway, ears twitching spastically in childlike curiosity as she listened to her sisters talk of something that so few viera had the privilege of witnessing for themselves.

Her sister would summon a hume if her tapestry came to fruition, as the wood demanded it.

“Do you always eat your meals here?” Alma crossed her arms as she leaned against a pillar in the archives before the desk where Dr. Oleide sat, hunched over stacks of parchment.

“I get most work done that way.” Dr Oleide spoke while not bothering to lift his gaze from the parchment.

She watched him for a moment, offering a faint smile though he didn't seem to notice it. With that, she stepped away from the pillar and walked the length of the chamber to her own study area. In truth, she didn't mind her lonesome walks to the dining hall for meals and back, the staff around her speaking in hushed whispers and purposefully avoiding her as they moved.

The Espers' stories spoke often of love, or at least the result of the lack of it. Admittedly, she'd been avoiding tales of Ultima and the puzzling circular geometry that adorned Dr. Cid's written pages.

She first found herself engrossed in the study of Belias, the ram-like demon that Ramza had slain in Riovanes in his effort to rescue her. Deemed unfit for the purpose that the gods had created him for, he rebelled as a result. In current times he was regarded as the guardian to the innermost chamber of the Dynast King's tomb in an apparently noble cause of protecting it.

If he was captivated by the Dynast King and his descendants that he'd devote his existence to guarding the resting place then how had he fallen so far from grace that he became the bloodthirsty, manipulative self proclaimed demon that mauled Isilud and countless other men to death? Or was the grace of an esper different than that of a mortal hume?

While she poured over the pages written in script she was more familiar with, it still took more time to interpret than she was accustomed to. Fortunately she was trained by priests fluent in ancient dialects and from the heavy pages she was only able to interpret as long as she thought critically, suspecting that she appeared so engrossed in her readings that Bureau scholars must've believed her to be mad as they quietly passed in the shadows around the circumference of her flickering candlelight.

After several days she learned that the day was done by the lack of wax left on her desk candle. She snuffed it with a small metal bell-shaped cup and loaded notes into a leather cross-body bag. Dr. Oleide advised her not to take any references to information from the archives out with her person, but it felt wrong leaving her personal notes behind there.

The heels of her shoes clicked against sleek tile, echoing in the chamber now empty of the stray scholars who came and went. She knew that at this time of day her only companion was Dr. Oleide, as the faint glow of candles from his own desk lit her way. She ascended the stairs and crossed through the hexed door with the assistance of a mage on duty, further ascending the levels of courtyards as citadel staff mingled after a day of work.

Wine was poured and shared on stone benches with light string music spilling into the night from a distance. She immediately felt lonely when reminded of how others gathered-- the sounds of Archadian daily life only further reminded her of her predicament. But she knew Basch to be sensible when he warned her to lay low after the events in Bhujerba. It went against her nature, but she gripped the strap of her bag beneath her hands now adorned with cotton gloves and walked on.

The night air of Archades was increasingly humid, warning of brutal summer days ahead. She passed under a smooth stone archway to round the corner to the courtyard that lay out in front of the small chambers that had become her home.

She stopped suddenly, her breath hitching a little as she recognized the girl sitting on a bench in the garden.

“Penelo!” She breathed, and Penelo smiled warmly, waving with a single hand as she hopped up from the bench. She looked stunning, with blonde braids sweeping over sun kissed bare shoulders. If she wasn't a picture of everything Alma had seen during her brief stay in Rabanastre, she didn't know what was.

“Alma, hi!” Penelo's sandals clicked against the stone as she held her arms out for a quick embrace. “You look like you're feeling better!”

“You were... waiting here for me?” Alma stammered, utterly caught off guard by Penelo's presence out in front of what had become her home.

“Vaan was here too... but he got hungry.” Penelo's chin nodded toward the path to the nearest dining hall. “I told him to go ahead. I figured I'd do both of us a favor by not letting you listen to him complain about it.”

“I appreciate that.” Alma laughed, shifting the weight of the leather bag on her shoulder so that she could cross her arms without it slipping. “So uh, what brings you here?”

“Maybe we should go somewhere more private?” Penelo looked cautiously around the garden, “Looks empty here, but you never know in Archades.”

Alma nodded, silently acknowledging her point as they were only footsteps away from her door.

“We stuck around to check up on Larsa,” Penelo explained as Alma fumbled with the key in the lock as she did nearly every evening, maneuvering the iron key into the keyhole in the lack of daylight.

“And I um, was talking to Gabranth about some things.” Penelo continued as Alma pushed open the door to let them both into the room. It was just as Alma had left it: robe and night dress draped over the foot of the bed, the sitting water from the bath tossed and the empty bucket tilted against an open window to dry. Fresh bouquet of flowers. A maidservant had come to freshen her quarters today; she did not mind.

“Oh! This place is really nice!” Penelo exclaimed as Alma closed the door behind her.

“Thank you, I ah, well it's not mine.”

“Oh, you can't say that for long,” Penelo chirped in a sing-song voice, waving a sealed paper before her.

“What is that?” Alma furrowed her brow, draping her bag over the back of a chaise before the fireplace.

“I told you I've been talking to our mutual friend.”

Alma retrieved tinder from beside the fireplace and struck a match and light the candles upon the mantle above it.

“Larsa?”

“Basch.” Penelo replied, nearly sounding irritated as Alma's lacking effort to follow along.

“Ah, right.” Alma blew out the match and tossed it into the fireplace before retrieving another one to light the candelabra upon the dining table by which Penelo now stood.

Flickering candlelight now danced around the room.

“And how is he?” Alma prompted. She'd heard nothing from the faux Judge Magister since he walked her to her door the other night; though silence from him was what she expected. He'd advised her to avoid people and she obeyed, and now Penelo was at her door with an unknown document and nearly mentioning his name within possible earshot of others.

“He's good. Busy, as you know.”

“I can imagine.” Alma nodded to the teapot by the fireplace. “Tea?”

Penelo shook her head, sliding into a dining chair-- the one Alma would imagine Ramza sitting in when she was bored during her late meals.

“He's been concerned about you.”

Alma's eyes flashed to Penelo's as she sank down on the chaise and gingerly removed her shoes. “For what?”

“I don't know why you're being coy,” Penelo shook her head, “But this is for you-- a copy has been kept for his own records and another sent to Rabanastre.”

Alma froze, raising both eyebrows curiously at the sealed document that Penelo leaned forward to pass to her. She accepted it, removing her gloves to delicately slide her fingers under the wax seal to break it.

“What is this?”

“Just read it.”

The strain of reading the unfamiliar vowels had prepped her to deciphering the script without coming across as completely illiterate. Handwriting she'd describe as immaculately proportional, yet slanted in a hint of urgency and impatience with the task at hand:

'I, Noah Gabranth in the rank of Judge Magister, acting as appointed in lieu of Larsa Farrinas Solidor, hereby declare Alma Beoulve a citizen of Archadia, and therefore subject to....'

Still, it took her far longer than it should have to carefully decipher the dialect so different than that of her native Ivalice it seemed, as Penelo snatched the document from her hands and waved it before her impatiently.

“Gabranth instated your citizenship here. You're officially an Archadian now!”

Alma thought for a moment, failing to see what her enthusiasm was all about. “That is... good?”

Penelo's expression darkened. “Basch says that with the assassination of the Marquis, Queen Ashe is expected to start making inquiries. Particularly after what took place in those nameless ruins.” Penelo's eyes flickered to hers cautiously with the last statement, as if daring Alma to address it.

Alma nervously ran fingertips over her bandages. She was convinced that Penelo and Gabranth-- or Basch had meant her well, but she feared the possibilities of becoming a political prisoner for barter in a future conflict. Even if she had the apparent sympathy of a Judge Magister, what would keep the Emperor himself honoring that if his ties to Dalmasca relied on it?

Alma smiled, softly taking the document back from Penelo. “Thank you for bringing me this. Forgive me. I...” She sighed, looking down at the boxy lettered script, “I was not expecting it is all.”

“No problem, I understand.” Penelo shrugged, “It's all so sudden isn't it? Gabranth...”

“-Basch, you mean.” Alma interjected.

Penelo cocked her head curiously, “Oh. Right. He would've delivered it himself, but he's so busy these days and I was in town, you know?”

“How is Emperor Larsa's health?” Alma changed the subject as she refolded the document neatly so that it bared no sign of being opened aside from the seal separated from paper.

Penelo looked at her with a small smile that spelled relief, “He's doing much better. He had surgery and has just been on the mend since then. He's just always so tired.”

“That's to be expected, I'm sure.”

“The world outside is empty.” warned Jote, “Only death and disappointment awaits you there.”

“Death and disappointment await me here.” Fran asserted, eyes flashing to her sister as she melted a sheer paste to lubricate her arrows, dismantling them over the flames of the fire to coat them with a waxy substance evenly.

Jote shook her head, platinum locks brushing her chin. “The humes are fickle. They will leave you with nothing.”

“I will have freedom, so I will have something.”

“You will not stay out of love for us, then?” Jote pressed, “For your own sisters and your own kind?” She knew her question was unfair, and was a last-call desperate attempt to command Fran's sympathy. “Mjrn looks to you more than she does I.”

Fran pulled the arrow from it's position over the flames that separated them, cooling the waxy substance that coated the shaft and ensuring it was evenly spread. She pointed the arrowhead downward, so that the excess would drip and gather there with what heat was left from the fire. “Surely she has more to learn from the elder of the viera of the wood than me.”

Jote shook her head. “She does not see it that way.”

Fran looked to Jote. In her earliest memories she envied her elder sister's wisdom and strong sense of self and purpose. Jote longed for nothing more than what she'd been taught to long for: closeness with the wood.

But Fran's doubt had spread within her spirit like weeds in a garden: choking whatever could resemble even the most modest of devoutness to the wood as it demanded. She wanted to walk the stone lined streets of Archadia and to hear the hum of it's rumored aircraft, to wander the diverse hume markets and see the coast where water rolled in waves.

“You can see plenty as a wood-warder.” Jote offered, her voice nearly cracking in what was a final attempt to assume confidence and change her sister's mind. “I've vouched for you long enough.”

Fran lifted another arrow to the flames, crouching forward slightly on her heels in agitation. “I did not ask you to.”

Jote closed her eyes. “I did it because I wanted to. For a sister. Because the wood knows your thoughts, and my prayers have been the only deterrence keeping you from being exiled as it is.” Her ruby eyes seemed to glisten in the flames across from Fran.

“If you leave, I cannot protect you. In fact I could be your adversary if the wood commanded it.”

“If the wood commanded it?” Fran's lip curled, “Sister, do you hear yourself? You cannot wish that on me: to be at the mercy of the wood which does not want my freedom? Which grants me the mind to wonder, but punishes me for doing so? Did the wood not set us all up for this grief?”

Jote rose, her knees straightening in a lengthy single movement before she spoke again.

“If you set foot outside of Eruyt tomorrow, you are gone. You and I would be as strangers.”

Jote walked from Fran, whose expression never changed, sliding a waxy substance down the shaft of her arrows and letting the coolness of a withdrawal from a fire set it on.

“Thank you, Silvia.” Larsa spoke demurely, accepting the poultice as the handmaiden cleaned his wounds.

“Of course, milord.” Silvia curtsied slowly before him, warm hued locks spilling over either shoulder as she bowed her head. “I have other tonics and things, should you ever have need.”

“You are a botanist?” Larsa questioned, an eyebrow arched in inquisitively as he gingerly tucked his arm back into the sleeves of his robes, genuinely intrigued. He knew of her history as Vayne's favorite courtesan and felt partially responsible for how both he and his father turned a blind eye to her plight. The uttering of some gentry criticized her for her pitiful appeals for sympathy among them-- she was but a lowly prostitute before Vayne discovered her, should she not be more grateful?

Larsa knew prosperity didn't necessarily equate to fulfillment, and Silvia was extremely unhappy, prosperous or no.

“I should have need for a good botanist in the months ahead.” He spoke as warmly as he could, ever conscious of the cold inflection a regal tone could have.

Silvia bowed her head ever so slightly. “It would be my honor, milord.”

Alma looked at her for a moment, slowly sliding her hand across the table to squeeze her hand reassuringly though she wasn't exactly sure what in Penelo's mind required reassurance.

“What is it?”

Penelo sighed slowly, looking to Alma again with soulful golden-brown eyes. “You ever feel like something is off? With someone you care about?”

Penelo's hand was gripping hers back now, however slightly. All Alma could think to do was to answer her honestly.

“Yes, it's all a marker of adulthood, I'm afraid.” Alma recalled one of her last interactions with Dycedarg, when she entered his study late at night to inquire about their youngest brother and he briskly scrambled to shove a stone and parchment into the drawer of his desk as she burst in with only a modest knock to announce herself. His eyes were widened with shock and what she would only later identify as fear when she approached him with earnest concerns that were only returned with a cold dismissal. He treated her like a child, after all she was a child back then, though that did nothing to deter him from the ending he plotted for her, his own half-sister and the only female survivor of his House.

She knew then for herself that something was wrong.

“You fear for Larsa.” Alma surmised

Penelo chuckled nervously, rapping the tips of her fingernails upon the surface the the table. “Vaan tells me that I worry too much. But he hasn't seen him like I have.”

Penelo paused, hesitating. “Maybe I will take you up on that tea. I was going to eat with Vaan but lately I hardly feel like it. Tea would feel good.”

Alma nodded and rose, moving a kettle of water she'd reserved from the morning over the flames of the fireplace. She wiped the soot residue from her bandaged hands on her dress, though they stayed a tinge of grey and black. “I thought you said Larsa was recovering well?”

“Well, he is,” Penelo told her, “But something is just off. Like I said, sometimes you just sense it. There's no signs, but you just know.”

“Basch is charged with seeing to his well-being is he not?” Alma questioned apprehensively, noting how Penelo's hand halted it's drumming from her fingertips before adding her observation: “You do not want to trouble him.”

Penelo softly bit the inside of her cheek. “He's been so busy handling Larsa's affairs.”

“Surely this would be of importance to him.” Alma sank back down in her seat across from Penelo, resting her head on her palm as she studied the younger girl, genuinely interested in why she was so concerned.

“Basch is... practical.” Penelo declared, “He won't be bothered over me just having a bad feeling. It's just... Larsa remains so weak.”

“An expectation when one if recovering from trauma.” Alma reasoned to her, repeating her sentiment from earlier.

Penelo shrugged. “Yeah. Maybe it's nothing.”

“You must be absolutely exhausted.”

“Eh, maybe. But back when we traveled with Ashe, we traversed through worse. I've never felt like this, like I've never truly left that place, you know.”

Tears, chains, darkness, dirt. Alma looked down upon the smudge of soot of the wrapping on her hand and frowned as she rubbed at her face in the realization that by resting her chin there she could've inadvertently smeared soot on her face.

“I know something of healing.” Alma offered, “I could look after him, if you'd think I'd be granted access to.”

“Of course you could!” Penelo looked at her with wide-eyed hope. “You'd really do that?”

“It's the least I can do, after everything.” Alma shrugged. The kettle began to whistle with steam bursting from boiling water and Alma rose to fetch it. She pulled the kettle from the fire with the iron catch. “And I imagine sky pirates have other things to do other than stay here under such scrutiny for so long.”

Alma felt Penelo's eyes watching her with a telltale nip of her lower lip. “It's not ideal. But if you could communicate to me about Larsa it'd be helpful. He's never purposely deceiving, but I think it just comes with his... position sometimes, you know?”

Alma poured the steaming water from the kettle into a teacup and saucer from a cupboard-- by the ornate floral design it was clearly meant to be a decorative piece, but contrary to her childhood lessons, a teacup would be a teacup this evening.

“How did you meet him?” The question trickled from her lips after brimming for days since she disappeared and reemerged from the ruins with them. “How did you all know each other.”

“We um, met during the war.” Crypticism wasn't in Penelo's nature, and the vague explanation didn't suit her at all. But Alma quietly kept her skepticism to herself though her question threatened to go unanswered.

“So I've gathered.” Alma replied simply, setting the mug of hot water on the table as she crossed the room, she sifted through dried herbs that she'd bundled from the garden, sniffing them briefly as she searched for the best possible tea, adding. “You can become fast friends in a war.”

The fastest, closest friendship she'd ever witnessed was between Ramza and Mustadio. In the short time she traveled with them she couldn't count the number of times they'd ventured into town and secured lodgings only to find them in a drunken stupor together in a tavern or in the pasture attempting to sober in a brook. All it took was one war and Ramza suddenly had a full-blooded brother even if they didn't share common blood at all. She inhaled a bundle of lavender, the scent immediately harnessing distant memories of being a girl following the servants around in her mother's garden in Eagrose.

“Yeah, it was sort of like that.” Penelo confided earnestly, watching as Alma gathered enough lavender from the stems to form a neat pile of porous cloth and bundling it up with a string. “Except for me and Vaan, we knew each other way before the others. We've been friends since we were little.”

Alma walked to the table with the bundle of lavender, submerged it into the hot water and sliding the mug to Penelo to steep herself as the dried herb slowly sank into the liquid, staining it yellow.

“Alright, I'll tell you the whole thing.” Penelo caved despite no pressure, “But then you have to tell me what you were doing the whole time. Deal?”

Alma nodded reluctantly, unsure of which version of her story she could give Penelo. Would it be so wrong to be entirely honest as the girl was with her?

“Okay, well I guess it all started when Vaan and I were working for Migelo.”

“The merchant in Rabanastre?”

Penelo paused her steeping to look at her curiously. “You know him?”

“Only briefly. Rabanastre was the first... big city I encountered in a while and I was a frequent customer for a while.” Alma confessed.

“Small world!” Penelo smiled back at her in awe of the fact before continuing, “Well Vaan got arrested, and while he was in jail I got kidnapped because he was with Balthier when it happened, and-”

“When you were kidnapped?”

“No, when he was arrested! They were both after the same treasure in the palace, so the Imperials arrested them.”

“In Rabanastre.”

“Yes,” Penelo cocked her head sideways curiously. “The Imperials occupied us for three years. It was a whole thing. Were you in Archades then?”

“Ah, I was traveling... but never to Rabanastre.”

“Makes sense. Anyway, Balthier, Fran, and Vaan ended up in prison. When they were escaping they found Basch in his cage. They used it to escape. Vaan hated Basch back then. Everyone did. We thought he was, you know...”

“A king slayer?” Alma finished the sentence for her, the subtle pieces of the story Reddas hinted at, Ultima revealed, and then Basch confirmed suddenly seemed a bit more whole.

“Yeah, and the only reason they even found him was because they followed his brother, the real Judge Magister Gabranth in the chamber behind a sealed door. Basch just happened to be their ticket out. They were super lucky!”

Alma's brow furrowed as she thought. Basch had briefly mentioned that he was framed by his brother, but the new detail to the story-- his brother being an active participant in his imprisonment. She thought of the disfigured thumb of his hand that made her suspect torture and the idea of a brother possibly having such a personal in that made her shudder.

“They were lucky for finding him? Or he was lucky that they did?”

“Well when it all comes down to it I guess the luckiest was Ashe and me.” Penelo brought the steeped mug to her lips and sipped. “Because they found Balthier and Fran, Vaan had an airship to save me with, and Basch was hell bent on finding Ashe the second he was freed.”

“'Finding' her for what?”

Penelo finished her sip. “Just hold on, I'll get there.”

The brilliant sunlight felt blinding. Fran squinted and brought an arm over her eyes to shelter them from the rays now shining on her unfiltered by a forest canopy for the very first time. She fought the urge to curl against the dirt floor with her knees to her chest.

Her chest only allowed her shallow breaths at first. Her senses were overstimulated by the smells of the world about her than in her temporary blindness she was all the more overwhelmed. The ripe energy synthesized in the grass was summoned from roots beneath it, far more vast than the giant twisted network of the roots beneath the roads in Golmore. A faint odor of beasts that exhaled in ominous rolling bursts of gases from nostrils; she was unfamiliar with the breeds outside of hellhounds and cougars.

In the minutes that followed, her breaths adjusted to a more familiar rhythm and her eyes grew fond of the bright light. It's warmth upon her skin was still foreign, along with the contrasting cool breeze that swept freely across the plains. She knew she was not the first viera to emerge from the wood, however it certainly felt that way.

She ventured to Jahara first, where the garif welcomed her as a single viera traveler. It was apparent that they'd grown accustomed to accommodating the wayward viera however a rarity they were. The days were hot and bright on the plains, and the nights were cool and lonely, though the sky was filled with bright flecks of silver like she'd never seen before.

She lifted the tent flap and ducked inside the structure as she'd been instructed by the garif war chiefs. Inside, a single garif medicine woman beckoned her to sit, and she relinquished her bow from where it had been fastened upon her back, and the arrows next to it upon the linen lining of the wall.

She crossed the room, the immense heat washing over her as she knelt down before the hot embers, immediately greeted with a bowl from the medicine woman.

The masks hid all facial features of the garif, which made Fran oddly vulnerable as they all observed her features without reservation. She accepted the bowl and looked down in it for a moment, only briefly mulling over the substance ground it into a paste for a short moment before lifting the wooden spoon to her mouth.

She didn't know why the garif had led her to ingest this substance, but in her naivete she obeyed with little resistance.

Outside, a steady beat of drums all in unison pounded under a setting sun, and she scraped the spoon against the bowl before lifting it to her mouth and ingesting what she could until she suddenly felt a wave of nausea for the first time in all her years.

In Eruyt, they ate berries and various herbs, sometimes for the effect more so than the sustenance. Still, she'd never ingested anything like this before. The paste from the bowl made her so violently ill as it settled in her stomach that she retched immediately, worrying if this was one of the dangers of the outside world that her upbringing had instilled in her to fear.

The retching left her weak and shaking on her palms and knees until the buzzing from the ground shivered through her fingertips and throughout her bones. The buzzing progressed to a loud hum that made her ears twitch irritably.

Fran rose after several minutes when the humming subsided and the tremors were mild enough to let her steady herself. The retching subsided and a haze of euphoria set in as she immediately looked to where her bow had been placed, but it was no longer there. Fran lifted the tent flap and ducked out into the world outside, anticipating the bright light of day again, but was instead met by the night sky with its millions of stars glittering before her. The medicine garif rose from her place before the hot embers and walked silently behind Fran as the viera stumbled outside through the wilderness.

Fran's heart was accelerating in a fleeting moment of sheer panic, her shoes walked the paths of Golmore once again even as the world around her was open plain under the night sky that blanketed Jahara. Screeching filled her ears, and she knew it to be the death of the wood's voice within her. Even as she left the reaches of Eruyt,the influence remained, but now it was completely gone.

She walked for what seemed to be hours at a slow pace she could normally easily out stride, but the ground beneath her felt as if it would give way should she take a misstep and in her stupor she felt she take care to be cautious.

But if I go to the east, he is not there; if I go to the west, I do not find him. When he is at work in the north, I do not see him; when he turns to the south, I catch no glimpse of him. But he knows the way that I take; when he has tested me, I will come forth as gold.

The voice of the wood was all around her now, no longer screeching. The hume girl from her sister's tapestry was the first hume face she'd ever see, even if it was from a substance induced illusion of her mind's eye.

“Help.” The hume sputtered. Fran watched from above her now, where the grounds of the plain had inexplicably given way to what she recognized as the base of a waterfall under Eruyt. Mjrn climbed nimbly down the branches of the great tree as the wet hume coughed water.

Fran called out to her younger sister, but no sound was made. She was mute and helpless and she crouched over the opening of the hole in the ground to watch, and whenever she leaned forward to attempt to leap down to the base of the waterfall herself an invisible force would hold her out. She knew why this was even in the midst of her hallucination: the vision before her was the depiction of a land she was now ostracized from and she was forbidden from participating, even in her own dream.

Mjrn cradled the hume gently, and in a maternal tone that informed Fran of how mature Mjrn had grown in what appeared to be decades of Fran's absence by the time this scene was to transpire Mjrn spoke words of comfort to the hume woman:

“I'll keep you, little hume.”

Fran willed herself to fall forward for enough to touch her sister with a simple reach of her arm, but fell backward instead. Her mane of pale hair scattered upon the grass of the plain as a peculiar nocturnal herd of chocobo ran by, carrying humes encased in metal armor and heavy weapons. Fran's body stiffened from the tension of metal reinforced chocobo feet upon the ground as the bridled birds were running all around her. The medicine garif stood before her silent and unjudging, more of a guide than an active participant in this dream.

The stampede moved past her, the chocobo footfalls now in the distance, and she felt her body suspending in an open space as metal objects spun and scattered violently all about her. She was in the sky, disoriented and hurling towards the ground. But she wasn't alone, as she felt a hand in hers squeezing it tightly. Desperate-- the clutch of a man whose world was slipping away from him. The voice of the wood screeched in her ears again and she was finally able to make a noise again.

She wailed amidst immense pain as the hume-girl from the waterfall's complexion was transposed upon a white haired winged demon upon a ship. Her pain wasn't physical: it was pure emotional panic that the viera true to her stoic nature was unaccustomed to brought on by the inexplicable knowledge that her the demon-- now a hume again in a gown bursting through a door of glass in the sky, pointing to a well down on the ground and declaring it poisoned.

It seemed the more still Fran became, the faster the pace of her visions. And the fast pace only made her recoil into the ground of the plain further with the silent medicine garif standing over her.

Though she knew she wasn't the direct cause, Fran understood that the day she slipped out from under Golmore's reaches for the first time was the beginning of the end for her people. That one thing would lead to another, she'd learn to fly in the sky and befriend humes but would be unable to prevent this inevitable.

She felt as if she had a stirring in a womb within her; viera didn't feel children burst into life quite the same way that humes did, so she understood it to be a hume sensation. Feelings welled within her as her belly grew and grew as she screamed up at the white fabric of a bed in a room that filled with dust so much that her cries turned to coughs, and that familiar squeeze of when she'd been hurling through the air greeted her hand again. The cries escaping her weren't her own, she knew, and she felt comforted by that.

Comfort. She exhaled and faded into darkness for days, awakening upon a cot in the medicine garif's lodge with her bow where she left it. Shaking off the surge of visions in strict defiance of her curious nature, she shakingly collected her things and left.

Ondore's body was cremated in a pyre set by mages, and his ashes scattered to the wind in traditional Bhujerban custom.

Ashe watched the grains of dust fade to nothing in the evening gusts of wind, her features expressionless under the cover of her dark hooded cloak.

“My condolences.” Al-Cid's low voice came from behind her. She turned slowly, debating whether she should pay him no mind.

“You assured me you would look after him.” Ashe heard the words come from her lips sounding accusatory, though that wasn't her intention.

“I did,” Al-Cid reassured her, his tone sounding somewhat pleading. “He never let on his weakness until he succumbed to it.”

Ashe clenched her jaw, watching the eldest of the Ondore children light candles in the Bhujerban dusk, fighting gusts of breeze with the palms of their hands from the flickering flames of their candles as the funeral rites proceeded.

“My lady, I have been here since that fateful night. My siblings have written be various letters begging me to return home-- to return to safety and I have denied them even though I felt it unnecessary at the time because I only wanted to do for you what I had promised. Your uncle was a stubborn, prideful old man, like his forefathers before him. You would hold me accountable for that?”

She fought tears, watching the fiery auburn hair of Halim's oldest daughter brush over her cloaked shoulders.

“She's practically the same age I was when I lost a father.” Ashe observed of the younger woman, “She'll enter the cusp of womanhood fatherless and spouseless in a prosperous sky city teetering on the verge of a civil war.”

“And you survived two years of exile after being pronounced dead while your kingdom was managed by the hands of Archadian filth,” Al-Cid spat uncharacteristically bitter, “She'll manage.”

Ashe looked to him inquisitively, “You honestly believe I had it worse?”

“My Lady,” Al-Cid bowed his head slightly with his statement, “Believe it the greatest shock of my life when I learned you were alive, let alone with your old captain in tow on the cusp of resurgence to take your throne back. Yes, a thousand times, you had it worse.”

Ashe blinked back her tears for her uncle, grateful that they heeded her silent will to stay at bay as she pondered how to declare to the distant Rozarrian prince that she desired to depart to Ambervale with him.

The heat from the fireplace was bearable, but Larsa did his best not to mind it. After all, it'd taken him an immense amount of effort to make it as far as the chair before his desk in time for his appointment with Basch. He was out of breath from exertion, momentarily contemplating pouring a glass of wine from the decanter upon the desk for the sake of appearances, but the thought of consuming anything turned his stomach.

A knock sounded at the door, as expected.

“Enter.” He spoke, wiping the sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his robe.

Basch emerged and closed the door behind him, his helmet in his grasp as he bowed.

Larsa couldn't suppress a chuckle, there were no servants present to maintain appearances and while he could tease Basch over the charade, he knew to Basch it was no charade at all.

“My Lord.”

“Sit.” Larsa nodded to the seat across from him.

“How goes your recovery? Penelo expresses concern.” Basch spoke softly as he obediently sank into the wooden arm chair, propping Gabranth's helmet upon his knee and leaning into his elbow upon the top of it, his facial expression marred by concern as he studied Larsa from his head to his feet.

“I'd be fine if you'd all just let me be.” Larsa groaned, bringing a hand to his face to push back dark hair from it in embarrassment. “Whatever happened to the purpose of us arranging this meeting?”

Basch's jaw tightened as he suppressed a further smile “Alma? She's doing rather well.” He paused, pondering his words after that, “I've filed to make her an Archadian citizen.”

“Very well,” Larsa nodded, “And the Lady Ashe?”

“We haven't received correspondence from her yet. I expect we will soon.”

“And you'll tell her... what exactly?”

Basch sighed, telltale shadows under his eyes explaining how the recent circumstances pained him to become defensive against the woman he'd once risen from the dead to defend and support.

“I haven't decided what, yet.” Basch's eyes glittered with a hint of rare humor. “I'd hoped that would fall on the emperor, seeing as it is his correspondence that I'm managing.”

“I would if I could.” Larsa laughed weakly, though his counter was somewhat defensive.

“I know. I only wish I could talk to her in private. Without formal letterheads and seals with weariness of them falling into the wrong hands. She hears things best when spoken to plainly.”

“As do we all.” Larsa murmured.

“We obtained custody of a elderly woman from Balfonheim.” Basch informed him, ignoring his quip, “She remains in critical condition, but she seems to be an accomplice in the Bhujerba insurgency.”

This piqued Larsa's interest. “Where is she?”

“She's being treated in a medical pavilion in Archades under an alias. She may not make it, but if she should, I expect she could provide some insight.”

“Let's hope your methods with her are looser than that of the Lady Alma.” Larsa told hims slyly.

Basch's head cocked to the side as his brow furrowed, “Alma has never directly endorsed any harm on anyone, and she's capable of providing great insight.”

“Such as?”

Basch shook his head, “I've yet to recover anything beyond her whereabouts. She resides in the archives constantly, almost as long as Dr. Oleide.” He admitted.

Larsa said nothing, tapping the nail of his forefinger against the decanter in a signal to Basch that he should partake, and Basch silently took the message and obeyed, pouring the dark red contents of the decanter into a glass set up by a serving woman tasked to prepare the chamber for such an audience.

“She'll only find so much in the books. We will only find so much.” Larsa bit his lip as Basch sipped slowly from the glass, his eyes slow to meet Larsa's. “You know what this means, don't you? You must take her to Ozmone.”

“Jahara.” Basch rolled his tongue over his teeth. “You would have me go? She may not be ready yet.”

“Give her several days more.” Larsa spoke thoughtfully after a moment, “Let her seek what she needs to on her own; I'll admit I do like this approach.”

“Then tell her what exactly? My Lord, I'll admit I do not wish to deceive her.”

“Then don't,” Larsa shrugged. “After all, in response to the Lady Ashe's next messages would it not be easier to dismiss her concerns if I inform her Lady Alma has left the country in a private mission?”

Basch thought for a moment. “Perhaps. That could make things worse, you know.”

“Bah, what do I know?” Larsa exhaled and sank back into his chair theatrically, “I'm but a wounded emperor. A child still, by some's standards.”

Balthier lifted the flap in the partition of the Lowtown flat to find the hushed familiar voices of Reddas and Fran to be of something more substantial than just his imagination. The former Archadian Judge-turned-pirate was awake, much to his relief. He was eating and drinking ale from a mug at the side of his cot-- a luxury he knew Fran wouldn't allow unless he properly earned it by recovering to her satisfaction.

Fran sat across the room from him by the fireplace, the distinctive tone of her voice answering Reddas in what could only be an important conversation he'd just happened to interrupt.

“You're awake and well, I see.”

Chapter Text

The sun glared across the horizon, casting warm hues upon the surface of the waters on the coast.

The members of the patrol unloaded whatever they needed for the encampment that night at Barbaneth Beoulve's orders: kindling for fires, blankets and furs with ropes to string whatever needed to air out across the trees of the woodline. Dried meat was soaked in salt brine and a stiff barrel of ale was rolled onto the perimeter of the camp to a position far enough from the fire to not get in the way, but close enough to be convenient.

The most precious of the cargo helped themselves down the rungs of the stepladder adjacent to their wagon. Ramza emerged first, stretching his legs in his green trousers before offering his sister a hand as she descended the rungs after him, and only when her two bare feet touched the ground did they both take off in full sprint together, making their way to the sands of the beach as the tides rolled in and neither child minding the piercing prickle of the thick brush that poked at their feet from the ground.

They passed every servant that was tempted to stop them, running faster to avoid a scolding until the bottoms of their feet found relief on the soft wet shores, just close enough to their encampment that their father could watch and laugh at their whereabouts.

At one point Alma broke the surface of the water, lifting her skirts over her five-year-old knees with fresh scabs as Ramza followed her. She shrieked at him for following her and causing water to splash her chin, an unwelcome wet sensation in such a temperate climate.

“Ramza! Cold!”

“How far are we from the ruins?” Barbaneth approached his counsel that evening, gathered around the fire as the laughter of the children amidst the hiss of the tide echoed like ghosts all around them.

“We've currently skirted the remains of Mons Falconis, or at least the fishing villages that bordered it.” A tired monk scratched at his neckline. “Would be at least a day or two before we hit any significant battlegrounds.”

“Would be a wonder,” Barbaneth murmured, “To stand where he stood.”

The monk nodded. “The artifacts from the golden era would be priceless. If they had a relation to the Ronsenburg line even more so.”

“I disagree.” A weathered looking Beoulve scholar settled himself before the fire and his lord Barbaneth. “Not many would recognize anything merely by the name. You'd have to trace it to the significance of the age.”

In the hills below them, the children ran further into the water. Ramza spotted a crab large enough to snap his small legs like twigs in its pincers, and its own spindly legs spanned longer than the length Ramza's body. He kicked sand at it that rose in a dusty plume underwater and laughed as it snapped at him, then turned and scuttled for the next closest target: Alma.

Ramza called to her playfully, announcing the crab was headed her way and she panicked, fighting the resistance of the water that gurgled around her legs; the crab was but more accustomed to moving on the ocean floor than she was to stick her legs into it. Under the turbulent surface she could make out it's shape, ominously scuttling towards her, pincers at the ready.

“You'd likely not find treasure in his name, anyhow.” The scholar continued, “Perhaps a family coat of arms or a weapon, but by the golden age the family's finery was more or less spent.”

“Which made him all the more the hero,” Barbaneth resisted, “Does gold and status define the legends of old?”

The scholar cocked his head. “With respect milord, legends are often exaggerated in detail, we don't know for a fact if it was him who vanquished--”

Alma's piercing scream penetrated the emerging darkness, and Barbaneth alongside his knights drew their swords and made for the beach, where the little girl ran to them in tears, with a reluctant and shameful brother murmuring about a crab somewhere behind her.

She ran to her father's arms, frightened and stiff as he lifted her from the ground, cradling her on his hip with either one of her legs in his palms to observe little streaks of blood over her heels where the crab swiped at her.

“You are to look out for your sister.” Barbaneth scolded Ramza sternly, “ She's but a girl, but she is my girl. You understand?”

Ramza looked at the ground sheepishly. He wanted to avoid his father's eyes, so he looked to the setting sun on the beach instead that cast hues of pink and gold against the horizon.

“You know little of the way of the knight,” Had he not been interrupted, Barbaneth would've scolded the scholar. “The historical significance is not a matter of gold or finery of me; it is the soul of the man behind the sword. How many heroes of Ivalice have since claimed the same accomplishments in the name of honor alone?”

Penelo's heels clicked against the floor of the halls. It was still too early to see Larsa. She fully anticipated visiting him prior to leaving, but she knew Archadian eyes well enough to understand how scandalous and detrimental the visit of a Dalmascan girl in an Emperor's chambers before an hour where he was likely to be bathed and dressed could be.

She stopped by Basch's chambers instead in the adjacent wing. She knew that if Basch's brother were anything like him he'd be an unfruitful source for gossips, likely shutting in with ale in the evenings when he wasn't in the training yard; much safer territory for a Dalmascan pirate to pass the time without gathering too much attention. Raising her knuckles to rap upon his door as she had so many times over the last several days, she heard the familiar hum of a specific voice and cadence: Vaan.

She froze, smiling to herself and shaking her head at the recognition. When she awoke that morning before the sun rose, he wasn't in his bunk. She took that to mean that he was most likely anxious to take to the skies again that day as they had planned and was probably in the shipyard with the Galbana, tuning it up and ensuring everything was in order for an on time departure.

She certainly hadn't taken into account that Vaan might've thought to visit their old friend.

She reached for the door handle instead and pushed down and inward, and the hinges groaned as she stepped into the foyer of a Judge Magister's office. Her heels clicked upon dark green slate as she passed numerous shelves stacked with whatever records the director of the 9th Bureau needed at his fingertips.

Vaan and Basch fell silent from the desk in the parlor and turned to look at her. She couldn't help but let out a chuckle. Basch leaned casually back in his seat, dressed only in his dark liners and Vaan in a borrowed server's garb. Both were sheened with sweat and their weapons nearby that told a tale of a dawn's sparring session in the training yard when Vaan should have been seeing to the Galbana.

“Old habits.” Penelo smirked observantly, crossing her arms as she walked to the chair where Vaan and any diplomat requesting an audience with a Judge Magister would sit, folding into the arm of the chair as Vaan made room for her.

“Your partner tells me you're leaving today.” Basch nodded to Vaan. “It only seemed appropriate.”

“This old man still moves faster than you'd think.” Vaan observed bluntly, and Penelo elbowed him lightly as if in a warning.

“Where will you head next?” Basch questioned.

They both answered simultaneously, though Vaan's answer differed from hers, much to Penelo's annoyance.

“Balfonheim.” She said.

“Rabanastre.”

Penelo turned to Vaan incredulously. “Are you serious?”

“That's where Balthier went.” Vaan shrugged back at her, clearly irritated by her lack of understanding.

“It sounds like your partner has differing ideas than you.” Basch observed aloud, his eyes squinting with amusement.

“We talked about this.” Penelo shot back, “Where do you think Balthier is going to go to sell all that loot? Not to proprietors lurking in Lowtown, he'll circle back to Balfonheim eventually. He'll have to.”

“Why go back now?”

“We'll only gain attention if we loiter around Archades, right Basch?” Penelo looked to the older man, who had attempted to excuse himself from their dispute by placing respective records back onto the shelves about the desk in his study.

He glanced over his shoulder at Penelo. “What would you do in the meantime, if you're in Balfonheim rather than Rabanastre?” Basch phrased his question carefully, doing his best to remain neutral.

“I have business to settle in Balfonheim, at least.”

“Our old landlord who went on a stabbing spree in Bhujerba you mean?” Vaan replied to her nonchalantly, making a stabbing motion with his hand in a manner that elicited a sharp scowl from her from his insensitivity. Basch's eyes darted in between the two new pirates with inscrutable tension. He turned back to the hard covered record in his grasp and suddenly devoted attention to the shelf before him.

“Balthier probably won't be there for another month as least--”

“--Then we'll wait..”

“You just want to find out Maela's business.”

“I thought I knew everything about her, Vaan. But she killed the Marquis.”

“You don't know her like you thought you did, apparently.” Vaan noted, then suddenly realized as soon as the words left his mouth that he'd made Penelo's point exactly. His confident, forward leaning posture in his seat slacked and he leaned away from Penelo.

“If we go to Rabanastre it'd be a waste of time. Balthier and Fran won't be found until they precisely want to be. You know this.”

Vaan looked to Basch for support, who only looked back at him with an eyebrow raised, mimicking Vaan's expression.

“We're going to Balfonheim.” Vaan confirmed slowly, clearly not liking the words as he tasted them. He turned to Basch again. “What would you do?”

Basch didn't bother to turn this time, but his eyes flickered to where Vaan sat in his peripheral. He exhaled slowly.

“Penelo makes a sure point,” Basch shrugged, “If you're sure that Balthier will sell his loot in Balfonheim and you have other business there.” He looked to Penelo, now standing with her arms crossed and shooting Vaan a gloating look over Basch's approval. “And I'd be curious to know what you discover of the woman, as well. As would Bhujerba. And Lady Ashe.”

A moment passed at the mention of her name, until Vaan broke it, as was his usual way.

“You haven't heard from her yet?”

“Not of anything other than formalities. Larsa intends to preemptively remove Alma from the Citadel immediately, to attend to business with myself in Jahara.

With this revelation, Penelo's head snapped in his direction. “Alma is leaving?”

“Aye.” Basch studied her carefully, genuinely curious at her alarm.

“Is that necessary? I mean, you made her an Archadian citizen.”

Basch resumed his busy work, frowning at the unsteady notes she carried in her voice.

“It is necessary.”

“How aggressive do you anticipate Ashe being about this whole thing? Can't someone else go?” Penelo continued, dissatisfied with Basch's lack of explanation.

“She is pretty aggressive.” Vaan cut in, absentmindedly scratched at the stubble growing along his chin.

“It concerns you.” Basch observed aloud, looking directly at Penelo.

Penelo sighed, crossing the room to him and biting the inside of her bottom lip apprehensively.

“Why?” Basch pressed her gently, and she unfolded.

“I should've told you sooner.” Penelo admitted, recrossing her arms over her chest.

“She'd paranoid.” Vaan cut in dismissively.

“Shut up, Vaan.” She snapped, elbowing Vaan irritably for the second time, “I ah- had questions about Larsa's health. And who we are allowing to have access to him in his state. Alma knows more about that sort of thing, so I was going to see if you could give her clearance?”

“That wouldn't be possible, even if she were to stay.” Basch replied simply.

“Not possible? Isn't that sort of thing your job?” Vaan chimed in, yet again ignorant to the harshness of his words.

Basch looked to Vaan, speaking equally as plainly. “My job is to ensure his protection, yes. But I also answer to him and--” He nodded to Penelo “Everyone with access to him now has been screened, some of them have been serving the House of Solidor for decades.”

Penelo stared at Basch for a moment, as if willing him to piece together for himself the words that just left his lips.

“Is that such a good thing though?”

Ramza felt his lips stiffen to a frown as his eyes scaled the walls of the manse. The patrol would soon be coming to escort him to the Akademy in Gariland in the morning, first thing. Dycedarg called for a fete in the name of the occasion, where nobles from all the lands surrounding Eagrose came to drink, dine, and toast the youngest Beoulve son to his path toward knighthood.

To Ramza's delight, he and Delita were registered to begin their studies together as they had lived their entire adolescence. And together they departed from the formal festivities under elaborate chandeliers of shimmering glass reflecting the nobility's fine silks to the flickering dim light of candles in the barn with unrefined liquor that made him gag as he forced it down, further jostled by a mirthful clap on the back and jeers from his companions as he did so. There were no refined nobles' silks, but there were boastful card games being had and string music being played.

It was a night to remember.

He left Alma behind among the nobility while fully knowing she'd have no choice but to carry herself with the grace that being a Beoulve daughter demanded, even in the guest of honor's absence for favor of a much more rowdy crowd. Alma was undoubtedly furious; the thirteen year old girl was likely pacing her room in a nightgown cursing him in whatever delicate language that her noble tongue was entitled to utter.

He couldn't leave her like this. She wouldn't write him. She was his one sibling that he had any resemblance of a familial bond with, so her silence would surely bring him angst. It wasn't so long ago that Barbaneth Beoulve was as healthy as can be for a man his age, wielding sword to battle in their cause and commanding the same men that he had when he'd barely broke into his twenties. These days it seemed that he suddenly became so ill he could no longer stand, and Dycedarg stepped forward to assume his duties as the heir to House Beoulve.

Zalbaag was a knight through and through, operating at Dycedarg's behest. The elder Beoulve children shared their father's narrow features and angular noses. But Alma and Ramza shared a common face: a softer face that belonged to the mother they shared, with kind dark eyes and high cheekbones. That, and an impish smile that squinted at the corners of their eyes when they laughed, and a yearning for delinquency. Or at least, as close as a Beoulve could come to it, especially if that Beoulve was rumored to be illegitimate.

Ramza wandered through a cobblestoned courtyard, clumsily drunk. He cursed loudly as he stubbed his foot upon the rolling seat where his father had been escorted in the courtyard where Alma would positioned him in the afternoons, reading him whatever reports she could find of the war and historical entries of their familial line she'd found that she imagined he'd look upon fondly. She was temporarily dismissed from her studies at the Monastery due to their father's illness, and the lack of mental stimulation weighed on her after she began so accustomed to it.

Ramza squinted at the blurred vision up high. Alma's chambers were in the tower directly above, but in his current inebriated state he could only see shadows obscured by light glowing from a single window over his head.

The guards at the stairwell had denied him entry on Dycedarg's orders. It didn't matter that he was a son of Beoulve desperate in a drunken stupor to see his sister, they were given strict instructions to keep Ramza from straying anywhere but his own bedchambers to sleep off his drunken state in time for his morning departure.

So he opted for the elderly vines that wrapped around the rough stone of his ancestral home instead. Still nursing a stubbed foot under muffled curses, Ramza grasped for the broadest limbs he could overhead. His grip seemed firm enough, so he hopped up to catch his feet on the ledge provided by some bricks at his feet.

The ledge wasn't steep enough, and his feet slid clumsily toward the ground. A grunt escaped his lips as the rough stone scraped his knees abrasively, threatening to skin them completely had they not been protected by the woven fabric of his trousers becoming tousled under the friction.

Regardless, he tried again. And again.

Finally he managed a grip with both his hands and his feet enough to where he could pull himself upwards towards Alma's window unbeknownst to the guards posted beneath him now. Luckily for him, the strands of ivy was thickest just over their heads, and Alma's looming shadow crossed before the window above him again.

The two were so close and looked so much alike they were often mistaken for twins by the nobility that wasn't up to par on Barbaneth Beoulve's excursions with his favorite courtesan. Alma had hit her growth spurt first, making her the same height as he. She grew gracefully with long thin fingers and thickened honey blonde hair that fell about her waist. He was just barely hitting his, just standing only a hair's width taller than she, if that, and giving only the slightest hint that though they came from the same womb, perhaps it wasn't at the same time.

He reached and pulled himself further upwards.

“Let's get going, then.” Vaan punched her arm lightly as he rose from his seat and walked to the back momentarily. He was picking up her slack today, noting how distracted she looked by her far-away gaze and her absent-minded chewing of the inside of her lip.

Penelo sat in her copilot seat on the Galbana, eyes staring out the window before her. The golden coin that glimmered green being flipped over and over again between her fingers in her lap.

She was no stranger to violence, or war for that matter any more than he was. Before she was member of Ashe's rebellion she was an orphan, and before that, she was simply his best friend.

Something about her was different now. Bhujerba must've been a real massacre, Vaan noted. The thought of her running through the streets left to fend for herself made him unsettled, even though he knew it wasn't really anyone's fault but the perpetrators who disguised themselves as servants.

One of which Penelo swore was Maela, the elderly owner of their regular boarding house in Balfonheim. The thought was confounding to Vaan as he fixed the latches of the storage around the cabin, saying nothing as he moved around his companion.

“Ramza!” Alma's voice gasped above him.

He'd nearly lost grip at the sound. His encircling haunting soberness threatening to give him the clarity that would reveal to him just how insanely dire his current predicament was.

Of course Alma was angry with him. She'd snub him at his farewell in the morn. But after a week or so of what would be the longest separation they'd ever had she would have of course written to him.

But it was too late to go back on his grand gesture and the tangled arms of vine slipped from their hold on the Eagrose manse. A small cry escaped his mouth as his sister leaned out her window, downward at him in horror as he narrowly regained his footing.

Alma hopped up to bring her knees to the window ledge, leaning as far as she could reach without falling forward completely. In a fleeting moment Ramza thought to take her hand, but Alma was a small girl and his weight would surely be enough to pull them both to their deaths.

“Get back inside.” He hissed through his teeth, gripping another stone ledge with his fingertips and pulling himself up further.

Alma disobeyed, hesitant and frantic. “Ramza, I swear to God.”

Her shrill voice was surely alerting guards below that something was amiss, and Ramza sobered further, only temporarily enough to move more frantically with intense precision, finally getting close enough to Alma's window that he was able to reach for her hand without her leaning most of her body out in the open.

She let out a strangled cry with the amount of force she used to practically throw him into the window with her and they both toppled into her bed chamber with a ruckus. Alma rose faster than him, straightening her night gown and closing her robe tightly around her. She'd already gotten ready for bed. Exactly how long had he been drinking for? He couldn't recall.

“You're drunk.”Alma frowned, crossing her arms as she kicked him lightly with her bare foot while he caught his breath on his hands and knees. It wasn't her way to be cross. Alma was known for her kindness. But under current circumstances, she seethed with fury before him.

“I-I didn't see you before I left.” Ramza heard himself slur. He rose, swaying in a feeble attempt to collect himself and appearing more sober than he really was. In reality, his heart was pounding so hard in his chest that he actually felt more clear-headed in the rush of awareness that only came from such a closeness to death.

“Before you left?”Alma scolded, her voice incredulous and accusing. “Ramza, Dycedarg himself said you won't depart until tomorrow!”

“I-I wasn't certain when exactly.” Ramza stammered. It was a lie; he did know, but he wasn't sure that Alma in her fury could find the will to save face for her brother and be there to wave him goodbye.

His boyhood was ending, and childhood summers of dodging thunderstorms on their ancestral property with bare feet in wet grass would soon be behind him. That was the true reason for his climbing of the tower to Alma. When he left for the Akademy, there was no turning back. Alma would grow older, and in due time be betrothed to a worthy house to embolden Beoulve, and like his mother and likely soon his father, she would evaporate from his world altogether as he sought to live up to the shadow cast by their brothers.

“The creature that took him, I've seen it.” Fran confessed. She'd eaten dinner alone with Balthier in silence in a seedy Lowtown pub as Reddas recovered back in the flat. “A pale-haired winged she demon. She does not reside far from us.”

Balthier halted his chewing, picking at his teeth thoughtfully as he tilted his head in intrigue. “The creature from your hallucination in Jahara, you mean?”

He knew that when he put it in those blunt terms that it was likely to offend, but if he dared to talk such to anyone it would be Fran.

Fran obviously sensed the careless complacency of his response. “The woman. You sympathize with her.”

“Alma? Why wouldn't I?”

“You know the properties of the Jahara medicine women.”

Balthier raised a mug of ale, watching Fran cautiously the entire way as he drank from it. It wasn't like his companion to be especially superstitious, but when she spoke of certain things such as her visions in Jahara that took place years before he was born, she held them with utmost regard.

“I know what you tell me of them. Yet, with all of our interaction with the garif during the war they never quite made themselves known, unfortunately.” Balthier set his ale back down upon the table, pursing his lips in the tension so harshly that his cheekbones ached.

“The medicine women don't concern themselves with humes so frequently.” Fran picked at her plate with the three pronged fork from the Lowtown eatery. The viera didn't share the appetite that humes did, but living among them she'd learned they didn't care to eat in another's presence alone. Meals were communal, and during the war she'd learned to humor Ashe's entire entourage by indulging with them in a group setting.

And now, it was her only behavior with Balthier that was for appearances sake.

Balthier stopped chewing and swallowed, critiquing her silently.

“What about her troubles you? Saw her in that hallucination, did you?”

“Vision.” Fran corrected him.

“Vision.” Balthier repeated, insincerity seeping into his voice.

“I only saw her in the beginning, she is summoned by the tapestry in Eryut.”

“That hardly sounds so bad.” Balthier goaded her purposefully.

“I felt her throughout the rest. Always there, like a spirit. She births the bringer of certain destruction of Ivalice.”

Balthier ran a hand through his hair, gently scratching the back of his scalp with apprehension. He trusted Fran entirely; however, his mind only functioned in concrete logic. While he enjoyed creativity as much as the next person, he hardly saw it as something to be taken seriously when the visions were drug induced and viera were particularly sensitive to certain such substances.

“You mean... a literal birth? Or is this some sort of figure of speech that's gone so far over my head I don't follow it?”

Fran's ear twitched irritably. She stopped eating momentarily, no longer taking care to humor him for his comfort. “It was quite a literal hume birth.”

“Hmm.”

“You do not believe me.”

“I believe that you believe it,” Balthier shoveled another fork load and coughed as he swallowed hard at a humorous thought.

Fran said nothing.

“Do we dare speculate on the father of the evil bastard? Or do you suppose being a white winged she-devil evil enough to instill in one's offspring death and destruction?” Balthier waved around a fork ful of meat dramatically to accentuate how ludacris Fran's assumptions were to him, “Do white winged she-devils require inheritance from both side of the tree? Or is it just the mother? Poor parenting on the father's side perhaps?”

“It could be you.” Fran replied back in humor, though she was hardly amused. “You've a reputation for dallying with dangerous women, rumor has it.”

Balthier chuckled, drinking from his ale before he spoke again. “I'd be as likely a father as any, I suppose.” His voice darkened, hinting at a truth Fran already knew for herself: Balthier had long since written off the possibility of fatherhood, for whatever scar his father had inflicted upon him. “Whatever darkness lies in the father or the mother, does not necessarily continue with the offspring.”

“That can be true. But darkness in memory leaves scars, as you know.”

Balthier fell silent. An apt deliverer of vague riddles, she knew he tired of such conversation, so she didn't peruse it.

Alma paused from the pages that were shockingly written in the exact manuscript that she learned to be literate with before her formal education in the Orbonne Monastery. A distinctive heavy cadence of armor against stone floors echoed around her, and by the dim light of her candles she saw scholars lift their gazes with curiosity in the dark.

A judge was walking through the archive, though Alma knew Dr. Oleide would protest vocally if this was a visitor who was unwelcome here. She paid the noise no mind and continued to read, scratching notes in the paper's she'd saved after her study of Belias.

It was silly and wasteful to avoid Ultima the way she did, though a tiny notion told her that Ultima was the esper she was most personally familiar with, and so it made sense to dedicate time to get to know the others. After all, they were all or mostly members of the Lucavi who contributed to her current predicament.

For what? She wasn't sure. But there was a common pattern of the green tree from Dr Cid's notes and the coin that she'd seen in Penelo's coin purse in Bhujerba that mimicked the stained glass window over her bed in Orbonne.

The footsteps fell closer. Alma initially identified them as the Judge Magister she'd grown somewhat fond of, peering from the narrow bridge of her nose over the book's pages and resting her quill in an inkwell in time to greet him at the archway to her study.

She anticipated the gentle face marred by the single groove of an old scar but to her surprise it was a much younger skinned judge without the Magister's elaborate trademark armor.

“Lady Alma.” The Judge bowed forward slightly and she nodded her head in return. If she were in her normal state of displaying manners she'd stand for him and curtsy, but she chose not to. He looked much too young to be addressing her with such authority, but then she reminded herself, children had such things expected of them all the time if they had certain names.

“I've come to deliver a message from the Judge Magister Gabranth.” He spoke. As if she needed further confirmation that he wasn't who she first suspected him to be when she heard him step through the halls, his voice drawled with what she'd come to know as strictly Archadian gentry speech that lacked Basch's distinctive spoken mannerisms.

“The Judge Magister is preoccupied with more pressing matters I take it?” Alma questioned, unsure of why disappointment seeped through her voice. If the source of the message was the same either way, what did it matter?

“Yes, milady.”

“Speak, then.” Her tone was curt, but the boy judge hardly seemed phased by the bite of a Citadel wench. Murky green eyes settled on her, and she felt the eyes of the scholars who sat about the chamber outside of her little partition draw upon her in mild curiosity.

If anything, she always managed to spark curiosity.

“In three night's time, you are to meet him at the aerodome. You will depart for Rabanastre, and from there you will travel south past Giza plains.” The judge spoke softly, so that would have to stand directly in the partition among Alma's things to hear him clearly.

Alma furrowed her brow. Her body tensed. She didn't like the idea of being told to travel so far away when she'd only just barely gotten some form of independence with the terms that she wanted with her last venture with Basch.

“Whatever for?”

The Judge shook his head, still neglecting to meet her directly in the eye. Such was the way of Archadians, she'd come to notice. “He said he'd explain to you en route during your flight for utmost caution, milady.

Alma weighed her options. Under what little direction she was given were no stipulations given as far as what she was to bring with her. Perhaps she could bring her studies to Giza plains and beyond, or whatever Basch had in store for her.

With this thought, she halted her hesitation, the pads of her index finger absently running the length of the binding of the book in her grasp. “Fine.”

“The aerodome, three nights from now.” The judge repeated, looking for a confirmatory nod from her before he turned and spoke over his shoulder.

“And be prepared to travel by foot from your destination. Clothing will be provided in your chambers should you have a need for it.”

Alma said nothing, watching him leave just as strangely as he'd come.

“Can you give me a minute, Judge? I'll need for you to escort me.” She called to him, mimicking Dycedarg's memory as best she could, shoulders square to the judge as if he'd come there at her bidding in the first place.

The judge halted. “I do not take orders from a Citadel wench.” His voice was callous, cold, unnerving for an adolescant boy.

“I...” Alma started what could've been a firm sentence in her mind, however under the circumstances she fell short of a proper authoritative phrase. This was still in many ways like her brothers' Ivalice, and like her brothers' Ivalice she would have to fall in line yet again to get what she wanted.

She bit the inside of her bottom lip in frustration as the judge walked on, feeling sorry that she couldn't keep her word to Penelo to look after Larsa. But then, if she couldn't even have the capacity to decline the summons of a judge than surely an emporer would fare better than her.

It all made her stomach twist nonetheless. She halted her pursuit of the judge, her gown sweeping over her ankles in the hall at the change in direction. She would be obedient if it meant getting what she wanted again, yet even that would come with a price for Archades.

On her last night in Bhujerba, Ashe walked the halls to Halim Ondore's office. Her shoulder was still sore form her injury, but she'd just regained clearance from the healer to free her arm from the sling, so long as she didn't give it any strain. The newfound freedom was welcomed; she didn't care much for attracting attention from others as a near cripple.

She eased open the door to find the eldest son Halim Ondore V, sitting at his father's desk. He was not yet wearing his father's robes, but he shared the same square jaw as his predecessor. And by the portraits of ancestors upon the walls, the same jaw of all his fathers before them both. Dark stubble peppered over his jawline and chin told of previous recent sleepless nights that left him little energy to care for his appearance. His head burst with almost unkempt, thick dark auburn curls.

“Lady Ashe.” Her weary cousin greeted her as she entered, “I was not expecting you.”

Ashe's eyes moved sheepishly to the floor. She was in no way intimidated by the youngest Halim, but his presence caught her off guard as equally as hers did his.

The chamber seemed different somehow from her memory, although in actuality it hadn't changed much at all from how it was when she strode into it as a newly rescued Princess by Balthier's craftiness and Basch's determination. It was there her Uncle first saw her as a woman and a prospect for a queen, and unbeknownst to her she stepped to the very spot before her cousin at his father's desk where Vayne offered to present the latter with her remains after claiming to have recovered her body from the streets below the palace in Rabanastre, or that her mother stood once with heels where hers were, defiant against Halim IV's arrangement for her to marry Raminas.

Torches were lit about the chamber, illuminating the old family portraits and pieces of fine art about the high banners of Bhujerba.

“Nor I you.” She answered him, waving him off when he rose to bow to her. “It feels like decades since I last set foot in here.” Her voice was husky, barely above a whisper, but in the acoustics of the chamber it echoed around them.

Somewhere, years in the past, Ilana in her rage was swinging open the door so hard that it the hinges squealed.

“I've only been allowed in here twice.” Halim admitted, “Once to receive a formal invitation to your wedding via my father, and the second was tonight. My birthright I suppose now in the aftermath of his death.”

Ashe said nothing, boldly reaching to smooth her fingertips over a formal Bhujerban coat of arms, fully disregarding the live soldier that stood at attention directly beside it.

“I've lost a father too.” She said.

“I remember.”

“I first heard the news on a night not unlike the attack in your home.” Ashe started, remembering the still shadows of her bed chamber being broken when Vossler himself burst in, just short of ripping her apart from her arm by the force in which he wrenched her from her bed.

“I was forced to live in sewers, plotting like the petty widow I was.”

“It was my father who announced you were dead.” Halim recalled, arms crossing about his chest uncomfortably. They weren't that far apart in age, but still Halim had every bit the hint of a timid little boy to her. “The last of her house: Lady Ashelia B'nargin was dead and conveniently battered beyond recognition from her fall.”

“He did. But we moved past that. I...” Ashe sighed, stepping closer to the desk behind which Halim sat, “I forgave him for that. Completely. Ultimately we wanted the same thing for Dalmasca and for each other. I couldn't have won my country back if it weren't for him.”

“But do the people of Dalmasca forgive him?”

Ashe's lips tightened in response before she forced a reply. “I'm sorry?”

Halim V's tone changed to something sad and dark, and the air in the room suddenly felt heavy in her lungs. “Well, it was he who announced that you were dead. He claimed he received your remains. You were buried in the family crypt.”

Ashe's funeral was a closed casket one, due to the sensitive nature of her remains. Instead, her casket was lain before the entrance to the crypt and adorned with galbana lilies. Vayne was present as the Imperial representation as the halls were lined with judges. The last of her house, and her end was a voluntary one. The mourners were beside themselves with grief.

“But he was wrong. If you were not dead, then he did not see you; then he lied to Bhujerba and Dalmasca alike. And for that, your people believed you were dead.”

“For that, you and I both lived.” Ashe replied sharply before adding, “You watch your tongue, boy. Your father is barely in the ground.”

“I merely speak the truth.” Halim looked at her sternly, even in his youth he somehow distinctly echoed the countenance of his father. “You certainly benefitted from it in the end. But what of the other involved?”

Ashe tensed.

“In the same breath my father pronounced you dead he pronounced Captain Basch an executed traitor in Nalbina.”

“Your Father--” Ashe interjected, but Halim cut her off.

“My Father was a great man, Lady Ashe. Make no doubt that I know it. But his politics made him dishonest. My first order will be an inquest to the goings on of Nalbina. If your former Captain was indeed not a traitor, and was executed wrongfully for a crime he did not commit would you not care to know?”

'I do not care for you to know because I already know.'

Ashe's hands when to her temples in frustration, glaring back at her cousin. She understood the honorability of his intentions.

“The Captain's trial had an eyewitness.” Ashe countered.

“A lowborn footsoldier who was treated for his wounds in Archadian custody, only to conveniently die from them a month after his testimony?”

He certainly had his father's sharp mind. Well meaning at best, but neutral to facts, even if those facts betrayed his own family.

“Shouldn't your first order be an inquest to your own household?” Ashe inquired, gentler than she'd have liked. “Your people will question your ability to judge if you get involved in foreign affairs immediately. A Marquis was slain. Answer that, first.”

Halim's eyes tread downwards towards the parchment stacked upon his desk.

“And Nalbina is my territory more than it is yours.”

“Well then, my queen.” Halim replied softly, “Perhaps it is your duty to fulfill an inquest more than it is mine. After all, my father is no longer here to intervene. An assassination attempt by an Imperial loyalist was thwarted but a month following your coronation, you think your people hold all your actions these days in good faith?”

Choosing to remove herself from a conversation that would only make her spew words of anger, and when Halim V brough one more revelation to her attention Ashe frowned and turned on her heels, leaving him. Passing the halls back to her own guest chamber, she thought of how Halim V was every bit the politician that his father before him was, and it bothered her.

He did, however have a point. Basch would never admit it, but she did know that one of his deepest wounds wasn't a scar on his body, but the knowledge of the hatred that the people he'd grown to love now despised him. Perhaps this heir of Bhujerba could stifle some of that hatred if Basch's blame was overturned?

She knew Halim V to be an admirer from boyhood of the Dalmascan hero the way many young boys were; and the opportunity to redeem a childhood hero would be tempting with the authority of a Marquis. None of that should matter to him, but it did more so than his own father's death.

Yet selfishly, she wanted to dabble in foreign affairs herself. She wanted to investigate the Archadian prisoner Alma, and to seek vengeance for her Uncle when his own children would not.

Time had taught her patience, even when it went against her nature. She nodded to the Dalmascan order member who stood before her chamber, allowing him to open the door for her and escort her inside.

“You had a guest, milady.” The grey eyed man told her dutifully. “I had to tell him you were occupied and would have to make future arrangements to visit with him should that suffice.”

Ashe furrowed her brows, loosening bracelets from about her wrist and setting them upon the vanity in her quarters. “Who was it?”

“Lord Al-Cid, your highness.”

Ashe exhaled harshly, “I leave for his ancestral home in the morn. Is that not soon enough?”

It was rhetorical, still the guard answered: “He can surely wait until you arrive in Ambervale, your highness.” And with that, he exited the chamber and closed the door, leaving her alone, sitting before a vanity, rubbing at her wrists in the dark.

Ramza halted under the archway of the inn. The eerie darkness from the lunar eclipse cast a feeling of complete darkness save for the flickering lights of the courtyard.

Alma sat upon the bench outside the establishment's wall, one of her stockinged feet partially slid out from her boot as she leaned downward to rub at it.

Save for her cheekbones, all other indications of her noble ancestry were now gone. She rode with the same skirt, blouse, and shawl for months now, and baths were few and far between at times. Still, the light in her eyes shone with compassion and hope so that every time he looked to her, she reminded him of these things like she had in her childhood.

Before the Lucavi. Before Ajora. Back when getting her father out of bed in the morning and pushing him to the gardens was the greatest task of her life.

“I'll secure the lodgings.” Ramza called to her and she nodded, disappearing from his view under a tangle of vines growing over a trellis that bordered the double doors of the establishment.

The bar hand was a regular contact of his, and one of the few living souls who knew of Ramza and Alma's true identity. In the corner of his eye was another: a dark-haired astrologist and as of late, recorder stepping away from the bar with drinks in hand.

Tempted to open his mouth to greet the old friend, Ramza decided against it temporarily. They'd be reunited shortly either way. The barkeep nodded to him knowingly as Ramza reached into his pocket a slid several coins of gold across the counter.

“Seems a lot for a drink, lad.” The barkeep scratched the stubble on his chin with a smirk.

Even in rural towns such as this with little ties to the Glabados church, a single prying eye could be the end of them, especially as they were to stay there for a while.

“Aye, I've come for more than a drink.” Ramza replied cryptically.

“How long?”

“Two weeks.”

“The both of you?”

“Yes, and one more.”

The barkeep raised an eyebrow. “That'll cost you more than this.”

“I'll take care of that clan of goblins migrating onto your land.”

“You and your sister?”

“She's harder than she looks.” Ramza said firmly, “Plus we have the one more.”

The barkeep chuckled, pouring ale into a mug and removing a key from the hook on the wall.

“The cottage on the far side of the property should serve you well.”

Ramza nodded, sliding one more coin across the counter before accepting the drink and key in return.

He emerged back in the courtyard ready to announce his success to Alma by pushing through the double doors by the flat of his elbow and circling back by the trellis where he'd left her. He saw her again when he was under the archway, mid-embrace with the one that would be joining them.

Orran Durai was once primarily an astrologist, then a soldier during the war, and now years later he was a scholar. He'd been tracking Alma and Ramza's whereabouts since the day he personally attended Alma's funeral.

He found them nearly two years later, ensuring their secrecy in a vague letter by telling them how the funeral went years before: a clear sunny day with the songbirds singing from the blooming branches in the grove at Eagrose. Beoulve cousins and allies mourned the only daughter of Barbaneth Beoulve. Her eulogy given by a Glabados priest who had never met her, but with her parents and brothers gone and her “death” occurring as an 18 year old maiden without children, it was the best that could be done. She was the last of her house, and the legacy of Barbaneth Beoulve would eventually fade to obscurity.

Ramza had forfeited the right to a funeral in their eyes. Even after all that the church had done to him, the idea still stung him a little. Orran told Alma of her eulogy once. Even in what ladylike politeness she had left she rolled her eyes when she heard who the priest spoke of her benevolence and her devotion to God, and how that, and only that, contributed for her great love for her brother that drove her into his wickedness to no fault of her own.

Orran was embracing Alma now in the courtyard, on a similarly sunny day as that of her funeral. She stood from the bench with her back facing Ramza, her body hardly visible as she wrapped her arms tightly around Orran, a significantly taller and cloaked in heavy dark clothing, her neck strained to tuck her chin into his shoulder.

They agreed to stay with him during this extended period of time in one location, offering relief from strained and vague letters of cryptic sentences. They'd live together on a cottage on the innkeeper's property, hunting goblins by day and soaking sore feet by the fireplace at night exchanging stories. Orran was particularly interested in Ramza's account, taking care to write his words down.

“Welcome home.” Alara greeted him when the ramp of his airship touched down at the docks. It was very much the nature of his family to not waste any time in bludgeoning him with his duties, even when such a bludgeoning was due in an inconvenient hour.

“You've never greeted me thus far,” Al-Cid bowed ceremoniously before his elder sister. “Was no one else able to stay up so late?”

“Too much wine to be had at dinner.” She smiled warmly and offered him her arm. Ladies in waiting shuffled around them, carrying Al-Cid's belongings to his tower in the advance of his arrival there as he strolled leisurely beside his sister.

“Such is the Margrace way.” Al-Cid muttered fondly, inhaling the citrus scented air slow as he mused aloud: “You've been sent to assure that the Dalmascan Queen has fallen to my charms.”

“Something to that likeness, yes.” Alara admitted, laughing a little as dark strands of hair fell from the jewels that adorned her head. “I'm a bit insulted you seem to hold my feelings for your welfare in such low esteem. Bhujerba is a dangerous place as of late.”

Ashe stirred in her bed in Bhujerba, her stomach sick in the wee hours of the morning with a rush of anxiety as she recalled a moment of her enounter in the late Halim Ondore IV's office, when as a niece she'd further argued with a son, even if it was in a manner of civility.

“Did you know my father invited those people here? The ones that murdered him along with members of his guard?” Halim V questioned her just prior to her retreating to her own chambers.

“That is a bold accusation.” Ashe observed neutrally.

“It's the truth.” Halim held up pages of script from his desk lazily, a flick of the wrist suspending parchment in the air before her. “They were religious fanatics and yet he invited them into his home.”

Ashe crossed her arms, speechless and disbelieving. More than anything, she was perplexed as to how Halim's heir could speak such nonsense.

“Bhujerba is dangerous? Or just the people that live in it? Such a place reminds me of my own home so I wouldn't know the difference.” Al-Cid pointed.

“Yet you survive your diplomatic missions there every time.” Alara praised him, they turned a corner down a road that would normally take him to the water gardens where his nieces and nephews played, but the hour was too late for such activity.

“Is the Lady Ashe ready to accept your proposal? What should I report to our Father?” Alara pressed him.

“Your father was an honorable man.” Ashe persisted doing her best to keep her voice level.

“My father was a politician, like yours. He played all sorts of mind games with me in my youth to ensure I could lead in the same manner, most of which involved some sort of deceit to master. He convinced the world of your suicide with such games, even if he was unaware of his part.”

“He wouldn't have known any better.” Ashe spat, her fists now clenched, “It was a trick by Vayne.”

Halim V clicked his tongue against his teeth. He was cocky, but she knew better than to underestimate someone for being young and cocky. “It was Vayne's trick, but my father had a hand, which brings me to my former point.”

Basch.

Ashe bit the inside of her cheek before dismissing herself moments later.

“It'd be sensible for her.” Al-Cid confided in his sister earnestly as they approached his tower. “The desert queen has what remains of Nabradia, and if she is the successfully rebuild two nations under one ruler she requires resources.”

“She may be sensitive to being indebted to a man offering a simple solution to her problems.” Alara cautioned, “Resources alone will not make you her consort. I've heard the rumors.”

“The Archadian sky pirate, you mean.”

Ashe ripped over the covers and stumbled from the bed in a wave of nausea that swiftly subsided the moment her bare feet touched the floor. Unsure of whether she should return to the bed or linger closer to the bath for another potential wave of sickness, she compromised and instead sat before her vanity, her arms crossed over her chest.

Her stomach flipped and churned and the rush of emotions that struck her made her vulnerable. In the dark, she allowed herself to bring her hands to her face, the uncontrollable sobs causing her shoulder blades to flex and relax, with the nightly Bhujerban breeze from the window giving them goosebumps. She longed to wail from her clenched teeth, but refrained, knowing that her pride couldn't afford for the ears beyond her door to hear.

“We should attend to our guest.”

Balthier stared back at Fran, amused. “You simply cannot wait to get more information out of him can you?” The Archadian in his accent laid on thick when he had the upper hand in an accusation.

If there were any signs of an upper hand, Fran's face wasn't one of them. She remained stoic. “I will attend to him, then.” She rose, dropping a napkin by her plate. “Do pay them well,” She looked around the dim features of the tavern “I like this place. I'd like to come back someday without the tarnish of your exploits.”

Balthier watched in silence as Fran walked passed through the tavern, attracting several curious glances along the way. She was used to it being a viera in a world rampant with curious humes. He himself was curious for her sudden exasperation at his antics. Was she truly that sensitive about his apprehension of her hallucination?

“No, I don't foresee that as an obstacle,” Al-Cid assured his sister. “Every king has his fancies, or there wouldn't be bastards made. We have father to thank for our understanding of such things.”

Alara smiled as the floor scattered with brilliant yellow tile and nodded to herself, affirming Al-Cid's notion. They had numerous half siblings living amongst them in the palace and in various villages across Rozarria and abroad; the appetites of the king a commonly known and accepted truth.

“She'll have her fancies and I'll have mine. So long as we have a true born heir of Rozarrian blood, her line will be secured along with ours, and I'll finally see the day when my brothers and sisters leave me be.”

Alara paused, stopping him before the entrance to his tower. “You know we just want you to have what suits you, brother.” She raised a hand to his cheek, running her thumb along the thick spikes of stumble there. “You were meant for more than drunken pursuits of maidens and barmaids by the water gardens.”

Al-Cid raised and eyebrow, feigning surprise. “You know about those?”

Alara laughed. “We all do.”

Ashe's stomach continued to churn. She opened all the windows of the bedroom, and Bhujerba's almost violent cross breeze whipped about the room, swaying the curtains of her bed and rattling glasses upon the shelves, but the chill of the air soothed her, if only temporarily.

Halim V was correct on his assumption of Basch's innocence, and if he was equally correct about his claim of his father it meant that Bhujerba had a religious insurgence at bay brought on by it's own Marquis. She'd only just recently returned from the conclave at Mount Bur-Omisace where the new Gran Kiltias had been more than more than accommodating to her and her fellow heads of state.

Ashe paced the room, frustrated by her emotions: anger, impatience, and sadness all welled within her.

She would eventually close all the windows, retiring to bed shivering from the chill, unwilling to ask the staff for furs. She rise in the morning early, eat breakfast and bid her cousins farewell as they lined up for her before the young Brinda-- the eldest Ondore daughter accompanied her to Ambervale, frowning defiantly the entire way as Ashelia did.

And several mornings later, Ashe awoke sickened and nauseous, barely crossing the chambers before Brinda burst in with a bowl carved from jade just in time for Ashe to vomit the scarce contents of her stomach into it. With her palms and knees on the hard stone floor, the yellow hues made her nausea worse. She instead raised her grey eyed gaze to Brinda's, eyes sunken and hollow with dehydration from the wine she'd drank the night before with Al-Cid.

Perhaps she'd had too much. Or perhaps the rapid changes in climate was getting to her head and her stomach. However, there was a part of her that knew better.

“I think she's cross with me.”

Alma treaded a ways behind them. She gripped her short sword somewhat loosely in her hand. Her gaze was down at the ground, rather than up observing the rocky terrain as it should've been. Alma had been enough years on the road to know better than to tread with her eyes downward, but with both Ramza and Orran present and currently ahead of her, she was clearly more complacent.

Ramza furrowed his brow, planting his foot upon a rock before them and hoisting himself up by the agile momentum from his knee as Orran did the same. The newfound scholar had long proved himself to be a capable soldier, and he made their morning patrols more pleasant with his company as Ramza kept his bargain with the innkeeper that ensured their comfortable lodgings.

“She's not cross.” Ramza looked over his shoulder again, watching her hop a few steps upon the ground the maneuver the smaller rocks around her. “Why would she be?”

“She is so.” Orran groaned. “And I admit I'm hesitant to tell you why.”

Ramza laughed. Such a comment sounded absurd from the man who had become one of his closest friends.

The sharp tone of metal striking stone caused them both to halt and abruptly turn around to see Alma cutting brush as her path slightly waned from theirs. She was considerably shorter than them both, and it made navigating such terrain more difficult. She paid them no attention.

Orran sighed with relief and they resumed their progress. A flat drop off below them was littered with charred wood and black ashes; it was the only remains of the pyre they'd made the previous morning from the fresh corpses of goblins they'd slain, save for the ears that Ramza cut from them to deliver to the innkeeper as proof of the success of their efforts. Every day they had to progress a bit further to find their prey.

“I... hinted at my feelings for her.” Orran's eyes darted from Ramza to the ground.

Ramza cocked his head. “What feelings?”

Orran shook his head. “Are you meaning to be this daft? I've always loved her.”

“What?”

Orran scratched his head as the new ground was more level and the strain on their legs was significant'y lessened. They halted for several moments to allow Alma to catch up. Orran spoke lowly enough so as to not raise suspicion from her. “Since I first saw her. That tavern after the war.”

“Ah, Alma attracts eyes when we stray from town to town.” Ramza crossed his arms, speaking thoughtfully, “I may be her brother, but I understand it.”

“I'm shocked you haven't tried to strike me.” Orran let out a relieved chuckle. “But scribing your story, and her first hand account over the last two weeks... I've fallen for her completely. To follow her brother into heresy and expel Ultima merely by sheer will is the kind of strength I've never heard of in a woman before her. Nor a man, for that matter.”

“What did she say? When she scorned you?”

“Nothing. She excused herself to bed. Now she won't look me in the eye.”

“I'm sorry. Her life has been hard on her, but I hope it does not make her lonely.” Ramza chuckled, but he still heard the somberness of sincerity in his own voice. “You mentioned her will; it is my belief Alma would never reciprocate a love with anyone that has less of it than she.”

Orran scoffed. “That would be impossible. I have will, however. I suppose I'll have to show that to her.”

Ramza stepped in front of Orran, scanning his eyes to find his meaning.

“I'll publish the papers when I finish. For all of Ivalice to see.” Orran's voice was decisive with clarity, and the meaning of it all sent a chill down Ramza's spine.

“The clergy will see! Orran, that would be insanity, you'll be hunted as I was and burned at the stake!”

“You would rather I write these words, your story and Alma's story to have them be forgotten? I won't have it.”

“You'll not live to let her accept your affections.” Ramza jabbed his finger as Orran accusingly, “We agreed to a truthful record to be archived, not an extravagant and public love letter for my sister.” He spat at his friend warningly just as Alma emerged from the rocky formation, huffing a little and sheathing her sword.

“Can we rest for a minute?” She called to them, shielding her eyes from the rising sun with the back of her hand, “I'm getting tired.”

Ramza nodded, walked from both of them with his arms crossed, and the three of them sat in awkward silence.

The morning dew weighed heavy upon the grass when Alma departed from her flat. She walked with her cloak covering her new trousers and blouse, delivered to her the night before.

Autumn was gradually turning to winter, and she hoped that while escaping Archades she'd at least be going to a warmer climate, and from what she remembered of the plains south of Rabanastre they would surely be warmer than Archades. The terrain was unbearable at times as she stumbled from Eryut to Jahara, then north to Rabanastre.

She clutched the strap of her satchel, knowing Basch would likely frown upon her bringing the extra luggage of her books along with them for whatever this mysterious errand was.

She nearly passed right by him, had he not removed the hood of his cloak in time for her to catch him at the corner of her eye. He hadn't purposely been trying to flag her down, but was knelt on the morning light upon the bridge of the aerodome, carefully inspecting his weapon while muttering to himself. If she hadn't traveled with him in their brief excursions before she would've passed him right by, never suspecting him to be an imposing Judge Magister without the armor.

“And here I was unsure of how I'd recognize you.” Alma walked to him, leaving her hood over her head but taking care to lift the hem from her eyes.

Basch squinted up at her in the sunlight and rose. What couldn't been the formation of a smile flickered to a frown when his eyes settled about her bag.

“You brought books.”

“Good to see you again also, Judge.”

Basch eyes settled on her satchel. “Hoping to accomplish some reading?”

Alma shrugged, “Your messenger declared that I am to leave with you in three morning's time. I wasn't quite sure what to bring.” It was only a partially snide lie; unbeknownst to Basch she'd spent quite enough time on the road with Ramza to know how much of a luxury books could be. But at least, they'd offer some distraction during their flight before likely becoming a tiresome burden.

Basch nodded, sheathing the sword at his waist. “You're carrying them.”

Alma cocked her head to the side, following behind him as he went. “Of course I am.”

“Jahara is far.”

“I'm aware.” Alma shifted the strap uncomfortably on her shoulder. Her body was strong, but her shoulders were small and the threat of such a distance.

Basch looked up at her with the slightest hint of amusement. “An awful far distance to carry such things.”

“I don't want to be bored when traveling with such dull company on a mysterious mission I've yet to be informed about.” Alma said cooly.

Basch nodded. “Fair enough.”

Alma stepped to keep pace with him, momentarily dreading the pompous manner in which she spoke, because truthfully the weight of her bag was already straining her shoulder from lugging it across the Citadel.

Eerily enough, as if he could read her thoughts, Basch looked down at her from the corner of his eye. “Not to worry. Can you manage a chocobo?”

Alma let out a quiet sigh of relief. She was more than accustomed to chocobos than most, and the idea of not having to let her pride push her to attempt to out-muscle Basch was a welcome notion.

Basch reached to his waist, pulling a dagger from the sheath by his sword. He passed it to her without looking, eyes upward and straining in the glaring sunlight to assess their ship waiting at the dock instead.

“In case you wish to rid yourself of your dull company.” Basch said dryly, with no hint of humor until Alma accepted the weapon and replayed his words over in her head twice. She laughed lightly at them as they boarded the ramp to the aircraft.

Chapter Text

“Lorrina.”

“Shhhh.” The dark-haired beauty brought a finger to her lips to hush her husband. “I like this view. Don't ruin it with your mouth.”

Cidolfus couldn't suppress an amused smirk. He sat by himself with a lit cigar and a self poured glass of whiskey in his study when she'd stumbled upon him, making an intricate gesture with her hands the way she did when she found inspiration, and rushed out to gather supplies from her studio.

She'd announced to him what her handmaids had suspected for some time now-- she was just far along enough with a child that she started to show, and by the way her hands moved instinctively to her belly when she sat across the study from her husband, she appeared to glow in hues of green and blue from the light of the stained glass window.

Cid breathed in the oaky vapors, tasting them in his mouth as he had hundreds of times before, then jokingly tapped the burning end into his inkwell with a wink.

“Cid!” Lorrina laughed. Despite their difference in age, he absolutely adored her company. Lorrina was far from his level of intellect, but she had a quiet yet powerful presence, ever adorned with humility. Never one to overshadow him, but never one to shrink into the shadow of him either.

He liked that.

Ashe boarded her private cabin, turning to face the fiery-haired newly appointed maid-servant from the House of Ondore.

Brinda had been quiet the whole way. Quiet as Ashe's other maidservants directed her on how to pack her things, quiet to the chatter as they loaded up the ship, and quiet as Ashe led her alone to her quarters, turned, and shut the door.

Ashe knew better; the wandering but sharp green eyes that watched her and darted in the direction of anyone that uttered a word. This wasn't a young girl enamored by the prospect of being promoted to the queen's court someday as her family had hoped; this was a girl who got pleasures for more scandalous pursuits, or rather being one who knew of them.

“Close the door.”

Brinda offered a brief curtsey-- a low effort display of subservience in Ashe's opinion. She crossed the room and pulled the lever to the chamber shut, her pale green dress that mirrored Ashe's swaying as she walked.

“All the way.”

Brinda froze, having not yet even had to opportunity to even turn around. She shot Ashe a puzzled look over her shoulder and reinforced the lever, shaking the door twice against it's hinges to emphasize how very shut it was.

“Good. Now, come here.”

Brinda had sharp words at the brim of her tongue, Ashe could tell, but she withheld them. Brinda stopped several paces from her before she dutifully brought her hands together and gazed downward towards the ground, long strawberry blonde hair falling down over her shoulders.

“You have been entrusted by my court as my personal maidservant because of our familial relations and because of your father's untimely demise. None of which had to do with your training as I've just determined from that monstrosity of of curtsy.” Ashe spoke fiercely, earning a stunned gaze from the girl, “Nor did it have to do with your relations with me. We may be blood but that won't earn you any favor.”

“Permission to speak, your majesty.” Brinda stammered, starting to curtsy again, but Ashe swatted her arm away gripping it tightly.

“No. Listen. I loved your father,” Ashe seethed, forcing the girl to stare into her grey eyes that shown like blue as they were lined with red from lack of sleep. “I loved him like I loved my father that I lost before him. He was the last semblance of family I had in this world, do you understand?”

“I--” Brinda was an unusually smart girl as far as Ashe could guess, yet she stammered again, speechless. Ashe's grip on her arm threatened to bruise.

“You are in my service. And that is fine. There's nothing I can do about that without raising alarm. But you will not utilize this station to undermine me, or to gloat in the perils that woe the crown. Because you” Ashe jabbed her finger at her accusingly, “You will need me to back you one day. I can smell bullshit from the next town over, and I can already see you're swarming with it, and I'm telling you it ends now.”

“All right.” Brinda swallowed, hiding the smirk that threatened to crawl across her face from hearing the queen cuss in such a vulgar manner. “Do you um, want a warm bath, your highness? Or a glass of wine for your travels to Ambervale?” She coated her voice as sweetly as she could.

Ashe blinked. “That would be nice.” She admitted defeatedly.

“Sure. All right.” Brinda nodded, “Let me, ah- figure out how to co-ordinate that for you.”

The girl stumbled around the room, and Ashe thought of the moment she'd slapped Basch across his face aboard the Leviathan, a moment she'd long felt pity for him over because she lacked the humility to apologize to him for it while knowing he didn't fault her for her passion at all.

She hoped her instincts were true and that this was necessary.

Basch excused himself soon after the flight took off, murmuring a thought of stocking up for their travels and Alma only nodded in response, suspecting that a portion of his rationale for leaving the cabin was to give her some privacy, which she appreciated.

Her stomach flipped, but not with the same physical twist that it had when she was riding with Balthier. It was a subtle anxiety, like what she'd had in the several times Ultima attempted to commune with her in her travels with Ramza. The last attempt before the ruins took place on an airship such as this, and Ultima's playful bloodlust was recalled like a feminine laugh in her ears.

The cabin was sparsely furnished with nothing more than a double bunk and a table with no chairs, but comfortable enough. She suspected Basch could've easily provided something far more elaborate but settled for a cabin that wouldn't attract any attention. To the average passerby they were an anonymous man and woman traveling through, and that was as it should be.

Alma lay on her side in the bunk with her knees drawn to her chest, eyes closed though she never slept until the door to the cabin slid open just a moment after her subconscious rose in some semblance of sleep. She jumped, startled at the sound as she sat upright to see Basch reenter with 2 neatly wrapped packages and a bag of dried herbs upon the table.

“My apologies.”

Alma shrugged, rubbing at her eye with the back of her hand. “It's all right.”

“Cloaks. For Rabanastre. You never know the prying eyes we'll meet there.”

Alma looked at the packages, neatly stacked and tied with a crude wiry string. She immediately assumed he'd been referring to herself as the subject of the 'prying eyes' that he spoke of, but then she remembered that it was like his face he'd be most interested in hiding. Immediately after that thought, she looked back to him, still standing there, and it occurred there was no where else for one sit in the room but the bunk where she was still sprawled out, now propped up by her elbow.

“What's this then?” Alma pulled herself up from the lower bunk by the ladder and walked, still a little wobbly, she nodded with her head to the bunk. “Go on, sit.” She peered into the cloth bag before squinting her eyes and adding, “I need to stretch my legs a little.”

Basch's forehead tilted downward as he looked at her skeptically. “You are not ill?”

“No, I'm all right.” She lifted several pieces of a stringy plant to her nose sniffing it as her thumb ran over the small dried leaves, “Is this usnea?”

Basch's brow furrowed, “Is that what you call it?” He took her up on her offer and crossed the room to the bunk where she'd just been laying.

Alma cocked her head, genuinely curious. “What do you call it?”

“Usnik.” His voice carried a tinge of an accent she hadn't placed on him before, as if recalling a word could carry old sounds of vowels that he could still deliver after long periods of time.

“Interesting,” Alma noted dismissively before looking back into the bag. “I'm more curious about why you didn't purchase sage? Usnea we need in a tincture to have any medicinal use.”

Basch's elbows slid to his knees as he relaxed in his seat. His hair was grown from it's traditional short crop, so much that the edges were pushing his ears. But perhaps that was intentional for their mission, whatever it was. “They don't sell such things here. You know something of tinctures?”

“I know something.” Alma agreed cryptically, “Thus why Penelo wanted me to stay and look after your emperor, I believe.”

“Ah, so she told me, however reluctantly and at an hour too late for my intervention.” Basch spoke the last few words with genuine regret. “But make no mistake, I had the matter covered before we departed.”

Alma looked as him for a moment, saying nothing. He'd never appeared to her as anything less than earnest, which was the one factor that led her to comply with yet another sudden and vague departure from Archades.

“I hope you're right,” She murmured, before looking back into the bag. “Are these... cacti?” She pulled out the contents that were relieved of their usual prickly spines, but still maintained the familiar shape of the desert dome shaped plants.

“Most of my knowledge of botany came from Dalmasca,” Basch admitted, “Perhaps I should have sought you to shop on these matters.”

Alma studied the plants one by one, their surfaces smooth under her fingers without any needles to mar her skin. “You know how to use these, yes?”

Basch nodded. “As a salve and an antioxidant to ingest. Nothing more.”

“Then you should show me. I've just never had to work with these before.” Alma scooped them bag in the bag and looked back at him, awkwardly realizing he was looking back at her, pondering whether he should stand and offer her the bunk back. She excused herself to go for a walk, though it was the last thing she wished to do.

The first word he uttered came with with a painful exhale. Balthier awoke in what was the ruins of the pod he'd escaped on with Fran in the moments of the Bahamut's collapse. Smoke filled the chamber, causing his to sputter and cough, and luckily for him the viera was moments ahead of him in regaining consciousness and had already begun the process of dragging him out from the chamber through a door that had sprung open in it's preprogrammed emergency escape function.

She dragged him by the tattered remains of his vest, and he started to bend his knees in an effort to push them off the ground and ease his burden on her, but his right knee hesitated as if it were caught in a knot and it suddenly felt cold and tingled with the warmth that came only when one was losing sensation.

He lifted his head and the dreaded thoughts that crept into his mind were true: a piece of shrapnel with the length and thickness of his own arm had pierced through the front of his thigh, pinning him to the ground.

So there, when his head rolled back to catch his companion's attention with the blinding beams of the midday light of the Dalmascan desert blinding his eyes, he called to her with them clamped shut, for they burned with sweat and blood that streamed down his face.

“Fran.”

When the ramp lowered in Ambervale, Ashe had just quickly refreshed herself in her chamber. Her face was washed, dried, then set with a sheer layer of matte powder that made her complexion appear flawless. The paint on her lips was a fresh shade of dark red, her hair was now just past her shoulder, but brushed upward and pinned with an ornate jeweled pin of green and yellow-- one of the several gifts Al-Cid had gifted her soon after her coronation.

She'd been in flight for most of the day, and so the touch up was more than needed. She'd never once ventured to Rozarria as it was a trip that her father only saved for her two eldest brothers for a state visit that took place before she was born or before she could recall anything. It was truly a beautiful land and, for a moment, she recalled what it would've been to arrive there as a princess with no foreseeable claim to the throne.

Thick green ivy layered in twisted braids above the columns of the palace, winding down in tendrils from the canopies of trees. She'd always thought of Nabradia and Archadia as lush and green, but they were as much of a desert as Dalmasca in comparison to this. The paths were all littered in little tiles with varying shades of yellow and orange that glittered in the setting sun.

“Your highness,” Al-Cid spoke with perfect formality though there was no one else present. “Please excuse the absence of my family, we thought it'd be best if you could rest a while before any formal meeting.” He bowed low, accepting her hand to kiss her knuckles when she offered it.

“I appreciate that.” Ashe said earnestly. Behind her, Brinda passed, moving several chests on a platform over wheels with the help of a Margrace servant who led her to the tower where Ashe would be staying.

“I heard you were a visitor to my chambers in Bhujerba last night.” Ashe spoke was an accusing tone, though she didn't mean for it to sound that way. She only wanted to be direct.

Al-Cid rose, maintaining a gentle hold on her hand as he looked down at her, puzzled. “I did no such thing.”

Ashe cocked her head up at him. “No? My knights would not lie.”

“I would not make that accusation.” Al-Cid frowned down at her.

Insects hummed at the impending evening. “I would like to look into that matter,” Al-Cid told her while offering her his arm, “But I also do not want to sully your impression of your first steps into my beloved Ambervale.”

Ashe accepted the gesture, clutching his elbow in a light embrace as her guard followed a respectable distance behind them.

They walked down the path of the docks to a pathway that split one way from the other. Al-Cid led her to the right, where tall bushes towered over her head with lavender colored small flowers that were blooming, and gave off a familiar floral scent that reminded of something she'd had in a perfume more than once. They rounded the path to a vast clearing where a pool of water sparkled dark blue in the dimming light with tall white pillars that interrupted the perfectly flat glass-like surface. Various rocks bordered the walls that contained the water, some covered in moss that trickled with water from an outside source. Plants sprung throughout the manufactured spring, and, upon closer inspection, Ashe could see that they were growing in clay enclosures while they gave the appearance of sprouting from the body of water itself.

“Wow.” Ashe softly breathed. She'd never seen such a space filled with nature and Hume-constructed magnificence. Perhaps Nalbina did at some point, but she'd never been privy to it as her ties to Nabradia as Rasler knew it had been short lived.

“The water gardens.” Al-Cid introduced her, “During the day you will find my nieces and nephews play here, dodging their tutors.” He then smirked at her, “As well as my siblings lurking for a chance of political debate, or personal interference.”

“I shall take that as a warning, then.”

“And here,” Al-Cid led her past the water gardens, though she looked over her shoulder at it one last time before it vanished from her view, “Is where you will stay. Up this way.”

The winding path curved upward, with ferns of varying shades of green illuminated by shards of crystals on stakes among them, making the pathway appear to shimmer in the light. Such a mundane area, and yet the aesthetic of Ambervale made it appear more dazzling than the gardens of the courtyard of the palace in Rabanastre even on the best of nights.

“I must admit I would prefer to spend more time with you this evening.” Al-Cid confessed. Ashe said nothing. Truth be told she was exhausted as she'd ever been as of late, and she feared if she spoke to soon for the sake of manners, she'd ruin her prospect for an early night. “But I suspect you'd prefer to rest for the time being.”

They stopped before a tower on the far side of the path. It was far from the end of the pathway, but it appeared to stand on it's own away from the others with a tree she'd never yet seen with long spindly branches and thin lilac colored petals that flitted this way and that from the slightest breeze, giving the entire tree the image of an organism that danced and breathed in a thousand different directions all in one moment. “The idea that you kept your word to this visit despite all that had happened is most admirable.”

Ashe studied the tower, with brilliant yellow stained glass windows that reflected what sky's light remained with a hint of gold. Her chin lifted to the sky as her eyes strained to see the top. “From which it feels like the perfect repose already.”

He held her hands softly, if only for a moment, before allowing hers to fall and gently fold themselves in front of her, her eyes still upward. “Take your time,” Al-Cid bowed to bid her farewell. “I won't be far, should you want company.”

Ashe looked up at him, mustering a small smile. “I shall do that eventually.”

“I'll look forward to it then.” Al-Cid told her as he rose. “Remember, avoid the water garden lest you long to encounter the awkward unpleasantness of my siblings.”

“Where would I find you?”

“The water gardens.”

Ashe cocked her head, letting her amusement show. “Seems a bit like you've a problem with unpleasantness.”

“'Tis true. I endure it for the view.” Al-Cid pointed a finger upward towards the sky, and Ashe's gaze rose beyond him yet again, following the direction that he was indicating. “First off, don't miss the sunset from the top tomorrow evening, for it's too far in the evening now. It's unlike any of the others.”

Ashe nodded a single time, and Al-Cid spun on his heels. She watched him walk the path from which they both came, his tall and darkly dressed figure appearing curiously stoic in the twilight. She turned and walked through the double doors as soon as her guard opened it for her.

If the windows from the outside offered a hint of gold, then the inside was like the inside of a shimmering topaz gem. Light from the warmly stained windows flooded the hall and the spiral stairs. As she ascended, wrought iron swirls from the architecture outside cast ornate shadows over the walls. She felt faint and dizzy as she climbed, and she paused as she arrived close to the top to admire the vast grandeur of her bedroom furniture on the level of the master chamber.

They donned their cloaks as the airship docked. Alma seated Basch's knife at her waist and pulled the strap of her bag over her shoulder, shifting to properly distribute the weight. She could already feel the strain on her neck from hauling it through the citadel in Archades, but her load was considerably lighter than Basch's, so she didn't make a fuss.

“We'll be quick, you hear?” Basch reaffirmed before they exited the cabin. “You are comfortable with arranging the chocobos?”

Alma nodded.

“Good, then I shall meet you just outside of the city beyond the West Gate. We'll head into Giza via the Westersand to prevent any potential pursuers.” He paused, and even under the hood of his cloak she caught the careful gratitude in his eye. “I would... arrange for the birds, but I'm awfully familiar with most stablehands in Rabanastre.”

“Of course.” Her assurance was genuine-- she didn't mind at all, though the reality of his situation struck her. If he was indeed once a Captain serving directly under the king himself and was now exiled from this land he'd once protected as his own, the idea of rushing through under a guise for protection of being recognized seemed pitiful.

It wasn't right.

“Wait.” His gloved hand was on the handle of the door. A voice came over the intercom as that moment, purposefully blaring in volume, politely bidding all passengers landing in Rabanastre to exit the ship. Alma reached to clutch his sleeve, but from the looseness of it her fingertips grazed his elbow. He looked down at her in silent perplexion.

“There could be a wait for the chocobos.” Alma reasoned, “Is there anyone you'd like me to visit in your stead?”

Basch said nothing, his eyes were always forgiving to his emotions she could tell, yet they widened just slightly enough as he looked down at her in what she understood to be surprise at her offer.

“A very kind offer,” Basch observed, “But there is not.” He opened the door to their cabin and she strode beside him through the halls to make their exit into the lobby of the aerodome.

“No one? It doesn't necessarily have to be a message I relay, more I could check in with someone and they'd be none the wiser.”

“There is no one.”

“I find that hard to believe.” Alma pressed him.

“Dead men have no wills.” Basch spoke lightly so that only she could hear him, his voice sounding particularly gravelly at the harsh sentiment.

They emerged in the lobby of stucco and blue tile, and the now familiar smells of the desert wrung through her nostrils: dust, heat, tangy fruits. Her eyes strayed the the reception desk, where she eyed the familiar woman who'd helped her board her flight bound for Archades for what seemed like so long ago now. They made eyes contact briefly, Alma's gaze moved to her feet as her free arms moved up to rest upon her collar.

“But you aren't dead.”

They descended the steps that emptied into the West Gate, satisfied that no stray travelers had bothered to pay them any mind. Basch separated from her, turning towards the gate rather than the road that led to the desert. Alma stood for a moment, shaking her head as she watched him walk from her appearing like a dark shadow under the sun.

The day that Ffamran was born, Lorrina awoke like any other. Cid's side of the bed was empty, as was usual. She groaned at the sensation of laying in one place for so long with such a large belly. It was unnatural for a woman as small as she, and when she rolled over to slide her feet from the bed her ivory nightgown fell towards the ground to hang above her toes, barely even allowing her much slack to bend over.

Lorrina sighed, sliding her swollen feet into her slippers before they dared touch the stone floor. A little flutter within her felt something of a cramp, but not so much that it was a contraction. She frowned as she froze, sliding both her hands to the part of her belly that was giving her trouble until the sensation subsided.

She waddled to the bath and disrobed, grunting in frustration as she struggled to pull the nightgown over her head. The cramping resumed. She was due any day now but oh! Something felt wrong.

She called for her maidservant, but there was no answer. The maidservant was likely to be in the kitchen this time of morning anyhow, and would soon arrive to the chamber with breakfast in hand. Lorrina halted before the warm tub that had already been drawn in anticipation of her needing it. The smell of citrus oils and sweet vanilla permeated the air.

Lorrina ignored the cramps.

By the time her maidservant had arrived with breakfast, Lorrina was in full panic, splashing and flailing dramatically in the tub as the serving girl called for others to lift her out, but Lorrina cried out and refused, as the entire time that she'd ignored her contractions they became more rhythmic and frequent, and she refused to emerge from the water in an irrational fear that only doing so she'd birth her child and die all in one feel swoop.

“It's alright.” Her maidservant told her calmly, “I've heard of some women in Nabradia delivering this way.”

“It's not time!” Lorrina cried, amidst futile attempts of trying to resist the maidservants encouraging her body into position, bent over the side of the tub with her two hands grasping it, her naked body tensed with the wave of another contraction and her teeth nearly bit down on her tongue from the shock of the intensity.

Alma stood before the chocobo stable since parting ways with her cloaked companion. And it seemed that by the presence of several men with the crest of the Order he was correct to assume such extreme precaution by avoiding the stables altogether even under the guise of a cloak. Surely even a long-dead Captain's voice would carry some resemblance to a soldier years later.

“Tolerate no injustice...” Her father's final words to Ramza still sounded as clear as they did when he lay on his deathbed before her. Perhaps it was something similar to that.

“Such a pretty bird.” Alma cooed, inflecting her voice like she would for an infant when spotting a particularly bright feathered chocobo that shuffled on it's unusually thick talons as it pecked as the grain from a trough. She reached out cautiously, slowly turning her palm upward in a show of gentle submission, silently elated when a vocalization of approval came from the sturdy carrier bird almost immediately. Brilliant yellow feathers rose, then lowered for that they were flush with the skin, giving her the signal that this was an animal was invited touch. She complied, smiling as her fingertips grazed smooth feathers.

“That's Monid.” A small moogle with a pink bonnet shuffled over to her, kicking up fine dust with her sandals. “He's one of my best, kupo.”

“He's certainly fine, isn't he.” Alma's observation was more of a statement than a question. “How much?”

“Name's Gurdy. Where are you looking to go?” The moogle looked up at her, eyes squinting under the midday sun.

“Ah, Jahara.” Alma said hesitantly. Basch hadn't clarified her on exactly how secretive she ought to be with the stables, after all she didn't want to subject the bird to a journey that it couldn't handle by lying.

“Through Giza?”

Alma nodded. “Yes. By the Westersand.”

Gurdy cocked her head. “That's a little out of the way, kupo.”

“We, ah-- I need to meet with someone there.”

“I see. It's not my business, kupo.” Gurdy shrugged. “Normally I'd up charge you for him. His stamina is unmatched! But I actually will charge you the regular rate because if you return him to the stables in Jahara you'd actually be doing me a favor, kupo.

Monid looked down at Gurdy intently, as if he could follow what she was saying.

“Oh?” Alma felt the weight of the coin in the purse of her pocket, none of which belonged to her. “Are you sure? I don't want to short your business.”

“It's no problem, kupo! See, Monid has a mate who laid an egg, you see. And the chick is due soon!”

Alma frowned. “Chocobos don't mate for life, do they?” It surely was news for her, she considered herself well versed in chocobo mannerisms having spent so much time with them on the road with Ramza.

“No ma-am!” Gurdy exclaimed, “Which is why Monid's devotion to his mate, Eliza is so important, kupo. He won't eat and hardly sleeps since they've been separated.”

“That's a curious thing.” Alma stroked the long neck of the unusually broad yellow chocobo again, and he observed her intently in return. “Do you have another he runs well with? I'll need one for my companion as well.”

Gurdy nodded, pointing to a limber looking female on the far side of the pen. “Britt.” The chocobo paused at the sound of it's name with a keen eye.

Alma smiled. “She's a smart girl.”

Gurdy nodded. “She has to be, kupo.”

“I'll give you this coin for that male you speak of.” A knight interrupted their conversation, flipping a gold coin. He bore a crest of the Order upon his leathers, though Alma didn't have enough knowledge of ranking structure in the Dalmascan knighthood to know exactly how high he was. She made a mental note to pry that from Basch later.

A hint of green caught her eye, and before the knight could react Alma's hand left the chocobo and snapped the coin from him, ceasing his theatrics.

“H-Hey!”

Her thumb grazed an image of a tree that glinted a distinct green in the desert sunlight. A familiar sight after she'd noted a similar token in Penelo's coin purse in the aerodome in Bhujerba the night of the massacre.

“Where did you get this?” Alma demanded, pulling her hand away as he quickly moved to snatch it back from her.

The knight stared back at her incredulously, all Dalmascan in composure with no expression left to the imagination, all astonishment in grey eyes and blonde hair.

“No matter of yours.”

“It actually is, knight.” Alma's tone faltered slightly as the potential seriousness of her perceived admonishment
of a knight in public.

“I see. Did it belong to you?”

Alma shook her head, calculating his words in her mind as her grip on the coin loosened and she reached back to him in a near apologetic offering.

'Did it belong to you?' Where would one purchase stolen goods? The bazaar? No, surely that would be too closely regulated for one to propose such a transaction. It had to be Lowtown. She wasn't certain as to why she was so curious about the coin, but it held the same allure to her curiosity as the one she noted in Penelo's ownership.

“Where did you get it?” Alma repeated.

The knight frowned down at her, and the scene was capturing the attention of the passerby that included two lesser soldiers on patrol.

“It's a done deal, ser!” Gurdy chimed in pleasantly, her short, choppy steps halted in between Alma and the knight, as if setting an invisible boundary. “I only accept gil, no trades! So sorry, kupo. I already had a fair deal with this lady.”

Alma ran a finger down the side of her face, nervously tucking loose strands of hair behind her ears.

“You ought to be careful, miss.” Gurdy told her in a low voice as the knight walked off, casting a perturbed glance over his shoulder. “He's a Lieutenant under Captain Morrid. Tensions are high ever since Bhujerba, kupo.”

Monid had been watching her intently the entire time. Alma nodded at him as if in silent agreement with the creature. “How much for Monid and Britt for a ride to Jahara?”

It was strange to be back yet again, like the feeling he imagined that one would feel when they returned to a childhood home in the midst of adulthood. Familiar, comfortable, yet distant. The breeze brought familiar smells of spices from the market, and as Basch swiftly crossed the square he heard the hiss of the water from the fountain there that immediately brought him back to the time he'd wandered there after being inadvertently rescued from Nalbina, and how the hiss of the water back then had made him recall all the times he'd spent there as a cadet in the Dalmascan army, plotting points on a map of the desert to learn land navigation skills as he sat on a bench with his back to the water.

Basch rounded the corner back towards the Western Gate, not daring to lift his eyes from the ground in fear of revealing his face to just the wrong passerby. He hadn't ventured far, just far enough so that he could see and hear the fountain. In truth, Alma's offer was as tempting as it was generous but he couldn't afford either she or him being spotted. He wasn't sure how often Vaan visited Reks' grave, but he longed to pay homage to the fallen soldier at some point. However, if he sent Alma on that task it would just be more time they would be delaying their journey.

He sighed as he descended the steps, recalling the glory of the news of Ashe ascending them when she arrived to Rabanastre as the newly vindicated queen-to-be. She was the Princess that was believed to be dead up until the hours before she strode through the gate where her people gathered. What a sight it must've been! He dipped his chin even closer to his chest at the realization that he'd never see it, as much as he'd wanted to.

Basch found a secluded spot on the wall far at the end of the street outside the West Gate, just close enough to where traders were prepping their caravans to set out across the Westersand so that he wouldn't be all that suspicious standing by himself. He'd always preferred to always have an active task on hand, as when he was idle his mind wandered to thoughts he didn't care for.

It was the same reason he kept his hours of sleep at night so short. The night before he awoke from one dream only to 'wake' in the next, where he bore the weight of Noah's Judge Magister armor he'd grown so accustomed to and walked the dark halls of Nalbina that he recalled so vividly, weeping wet blackness until he found Noah in the oubliette where he'd been contained, arms spread upward and outward like a bird in flight: Basch knew the physical pain that sustaining that position for hours on end could hold, and yet nothing he did could free Noah from it.

The wandering chatter of voices from nearby let him escape from his reverie.

“--will be at least two days before we reach the Ogir-Yensa Sandsea with that sand storm coming.”

“Did you pack enough?”

“What?”

“Never mind, Migelo's is still open.”

Basch smiled to himself, remembering how Vossler lamented that he wanted to see Rabanastre this way again.

Ah. He was doing it again.

Basch's stomach growled. He needed a task. He lifted his hooded gaze from the ground to the nearest merchant's cart, recognizing crates of saguaro fruits. They were commonplace in Dalmasca, but not so much elsewhere. Even on Larsa's table, they were rare in Archades. Basch couldn't remember the last time he had one.

After a moment of hesitation, he strode to the merchant that was packing the crates into a cart with the assistance of a young lad with long skinny arms.

“How much for the saguaro fruit?”

The merchant squinted up at him, undoubtedly curious about a stranger donned in a dark, heavy cloak under the heat of the desert sun. “How many?”

Basch bit the inside of his cheek for a moment in contemplation, eyes moving to the upside of his peripheral. If he was hungry, Alma likely was as well.

“Ten.”

The merchant shook his head. “Go to the market, ser. I've loaded up to make a killing off of the saguaros in Rozarria, I'm not going to unpack a lid for ten of 'em.”

“Twenty, then.” Basch countered gruffly, still careful to hide his face. “And I'll pay whatever the rate you charge in Rozarria.”

The merchant considered this, a smile slowly creeping across weathered features. “A real fan of the saguaro, eh? I can appreciate that.” He nodded to his younger helper, who lowered the crate he was lifting back towards the ground and pried the lid open with a metal instrument as the merchant rose and held out an open hand to Basch.

“The Rozarria rate with a discount is one hundred a piece.”

Basch frowned, scratching the back of his neck in contemplation. It wasn't worth bartering if he wanted to avoid any more attention than was necessary. “Two thousand total then?”

“That's right.”

Basch counted out the coins, compromising to himself that they could manage as long as he made sure to salvage loot on the road the Jahara; there was sure to be plenty. The assistant counted twenty of the red fruits encased in hard skins and loaded them into a cloth sack, passing it to Basch as the merchant counted the gil. He gave Basch a nod of approval upon totaling it, notifying him that the deal was done.

Basch wandered back to his former waiting post, taking one fruit from the sack and tying the rest of them around his belt. He looked down the road towards the West Gate. No sign of Alma yet.

Basch twisted off the top of the fruit, silently cursing as he'd forgotten how tough the stems could be. He worked it with the twisting of his wrist until it broke free. Placing the fruit in a firm grip with one hand, he held the stem as firmly as he would an axe, just the way Vossler had shown him when they lived in barracks as cadets. He struck it twice until the skin broke, revealing the red pulp inside as juices seeped through the cracks. Dropping the stem, he broke the entire thing open with both hands and scooped out the contents with the edge of his thumb, lowering his mouth to catch it before it slipped through his fingers.

“Enjoying yourself?”

Basch stopped, save for swallowing the sweet strawberry-like pulp and looking to the woman with the familiar voice in front of him.

Alma was smiling, as much as her voice sounded like an attempt to sound cross. In each of her hands she led a chocobo by the reins.

“Sorry it took a bit long.” Alma told him, looking to the larger of the birds to stroke it's neck affectionately. “Bit of bartering on my part, but we got ourselves two good ones.”

Basch looked from one chocobo to the next. Wiping the juices from the pulp on his shirt, he reached to gently touch the feathers at the base of the chocobo's neck. “'Tis a good steed. You've a good eye.” He observed aloud, returning his hand to the fruit in his grasp to scoop another chunk of pulp.

“I want to ride this one, if that's alright.” Alma nodded to the taller male, “He's got a waiting mate and chick in Jahara.”

Basch looked at her skeptically. Chocobos didn't typically have mates in captivity, but he refrained from telling her that. “I see.” He nodded. “I'd want you have him, if you think he'll handle fine.”

Alma handed him the female's rein, and he held out his arm for her to loop the rein onto it so that he could continue to eat with both hands. She then turned her back to him, starting the task of loading the leather cross bag of books and other supplies onto the back of the saddle, flexing her feet to stand on her tip-toes to secure them. “Why's that?” She questioned him, seemingly surprised he agreed to ride the lesser of the two.

“He's likely faster than this one.”

“Britt.” Alma corrected for him, then shot him a critical look over her shoulder. “You want me to have the faster one?.”

“Should we be under attack, it'll be easier for you to get away.” Basch elaborated bluntly.

“Or to run away.” Alma replied teasingly, looking up to study his face before recanting it. “I don't mean that.”

“Perhaps.” Basch finished the fruit, tossing it to the side of the street to load his own saddle. “Britt here can hold her own.” In the corner of his eye he watched Alma almost expertly pull herself up onto the saddle, shifting her weight with her hips a little to adjust herself. Surely she wasn't entirely as delicate as she appeared, but even Ashe and Penelo always required a bit of assistance when mounting.

He anticipated questions to come forward at some point of as to why they were making the journey to Jahara, and it truth he didn't understand it fully himself. He untied the bulky sack of saguaro fruit from his belt, pulling one and tossing it upwards to Alma from a sticky hand. She'd hardly been paying attention while shielding her eyes from the sun with one hand as she frowned at the expansive and treacherous desert landscape before them. His passing of the fruit had come at a surprise, and she gasped as she reflexively caught it in both hands against her chest.

“What am I to do with his?” Alma asked, rolling the fruit around in her hand.

Basch secured the sack to his saddle before pulling himself up to mount. “I'll show you when we stop.” He nudged Britt to a leisurely trot through the end of the street, looking over his shoulder to ensure Alma was following without issue.

It was getting close to midday and the heat was climbing even so late in the season, making him anxious to shed the cloak. No doubt Alma was feeling similarly. He saw her turn to both sides for a moment, unsure of where to put the saguaro until she found a spare pocket. Considering he had only a vague understanding of their mission and his only companion had none, he couldn't help but feel elated at the thought of being outside of Archades and seeing those open plains again.

“Ffamran, did you know?” Lorrina whispered to her newborn son in the hours later, when she was thankfully transferred from the bath to the bed covered in nothing but sweat, water, and salt from her eyes.

“You'll think of yourself as the beginning of this story. Perhaps. But your story began long before I met you.” She lifted her breast to kiss the crown of his head as he nursed. “It began long before I met your father, long before I was born.”

He was perfect, and as she looked at him she felt the pain melt from her body as if the very sight of him could fix her so that everything was right. “Even if you grow to love those little gadgets your father obsesses over, your story began well before the walls of that laboratory built, before my mother dreamt of me. Or my father, even.”

Lorrina sighed, the dull ache in her belly intensifying as the afternoon light filled the windows of the nursery. “But that's the thing about fathers.” Lorrina mused to the babe aloud. “Maybe it's because they're men; or maybe it's because they're just trained that way by the world outside. They try so hard to protect us and teach us.”

“Yet, some times, some days, they can be standing in the same room as us and see right through us if they aren't careful.” Lorrina kissed him lightly again, adding with a whisper. “Your story comes from thousands of others before it. But you have always played the lead. I'll always see that when I see you.”

A bright sun penetrated her eyelids, willing her to reluctantly part them. The sounds outside were minimal, but so alive. Birds chirped though Ashe knew them to not be the typical songbirds of Spring. The climate was noticeably less warm but more humid than she was accustomed to.

It reminded her a little of stirring underneath the canopies of the Salikawood. The door to the tower chamber opened and closed, and soft footsteps treaded to the sitting area on the far side of the room. Ashe selfishly feigned sleep, as she wished to avoid any contact with another at least for a little while longer.

This is what that old man in Old Archades spoke of; her thoughts moved to what seemed like a lifetime before when she and Vaan tiresomely roamed the foreign slums in search for rumor in a game that she thought to be a waste of time when surely the street ear that dispatched them likely already knew whatever it was that they would find.

The elderly man was dressed from head to toe in rags and slumped against a barrel, rambling nonsense about how his mind was a machine, and every morning the amount of effort it took to keep the machine's wheels turning was insurmountable. The apparently incoherent stream of consciousness had made Vaan look at her with an eyebrow comically raised as she mimicked his facial expression back to him. They turned a corner as they were unlikely to find anything of value there.

There was so many things Ashe took for granted back then.

The soft footsteps returned to the door to open and close it, leaving it shut. She opened her eyes fully, flecks of gray and icy blue facing the polished dark wood beams on the high ceiling. While Al-Cid's invitation to have time to herself was sincere, this was in fact a state visit. And as queen, there was so such thing. But then, wasn't that what she'd fought so hard for?

It took several minutes, the wheels of the machine that the old Archadian man spoke of proved heavy and stiff, and she swore she could feel the strain in her neck and her shoulder blades as she just barely moved to roll over in the bed. She could cry, but should anyone enter her chamber in the near future they would see it. She'd already shed more tears than she should allow for as of late.

Ashe eventually rose, the bottoms of her feet touching orange tile as she walked to claim a silk robe left draped over the foot of the bed for her. She walked to the sitting area, eyeing the green tops of the trees rustling in the mid morning breeze over Ambervale through broad windows.

She raised an eyebrow as several letters had been delivered to her, left aside her breakfast tray at the sitting table. She lifted the first one with the arm that still shocked her with sudden pains at such a sudden movement, turning it over curiously at the familiar penmanship. She reached and popped a grape in her mouth with the other, chewing until she recognized the author. The contents were thick, so this was surely more than his typical formal letters.

She stopped chewing, debating whether the 'machine' was ready to keep it's wheels turning or not.

“There's a strange ghost in the room.” Balthier declared, half drunken as he swayed a little, otherwise collecting himself.

Fran stiffened from where she'd been releasing Reddas of his remaining bandages. It was the early hours of morn in the flat in Lowtown, and thus little sound from activity trickled in from the street outside through the window.

“You advised an early departure today,” Fran noted aloud as Reddas followed the tense exchange in curiosity, “Perhaps you should sleep what remains of the night off.”

What remained of the night. Fran's frustration with him wasn't unjustified, as the throbbing pressure inside his skull assured him. He rarely drank so much that his memory became so distorted.

It wasn't the idea of him meeting the Rozarrian woman who smelled exotic even to his dulled senses as it was the idea of taking her aboard the Strahl where their extremely profitable and scandalous load from the ruins was being kept.

Luckily she wasn't Dalmascan at least. Though that was likely because as of late when Balthier looked at Dalmascan women he was only reminded of Ashe.

“Nothing was compromised.” Balthier countered irritably. Her skin was soft and utterly free of callouses unlike her and while he'd have preferred to take her from behind he'd proven much to unsteady for it in his condition, accepting submission as she rose and kissed him on the mouth and pushed him downward by the shoulder into a seat in the cockpit to straddle him.

Fran raised an eyebrow. “Everything was compromised.” She punctuated that last word in harsh accusation.

The Rozarrian circled the ship afterward as Balthier lay back in his seat, still naked with an arm leisurely on either armrest. Dark brown eyes darted about, wide with curiosity as she teased him. 'What would happen if I pushed this? How far could we fly in a single night?' And as she stooped to the floor, long thick curls sweeping over her shoulders of her hastily re-donned dress to pick up a gold coin from the ruins, 'What's this?' If it were a normal treasure he'd boast that she should keep it, but the abnormality of it all lunged him into temporary sobering moment where he jumped up from his seat and grabbed it from her, squeezing it in his own fist in a strange state of protectiveness.

“It's mine.”

“And this is where I depart.” Reddas announced.

Balthier lifted his head from where it rested so that he could massage his temples with his thumb and middle finger. “To where?”

“I depart for Jahara this morning.”

Fran's sudden look in Reddas' direction told him that this was news to Fran as well.

Balthier raised a brow. “To Jahara? Why in the gods'--”

“--You are not coming with us to Balfonheim?” Fran questioned quietly.

Reddas stretched a little, as if trying out new limbs. “I've found the treasure, haven't I? What I haven't found is the knowledge I seek.”

“What is treasure if not the wealth to be gained?” Balthier looked up at Reddas, studying him for some semblance of an answer, and as it turned out it was hard to read the facial features under Reddas' burn scars.

Fran shot Balthier another stern glance. “Tomb of Raithwall.”

Balthier understood her cryptic words-- that treasure could come in many forms. But he disagreed. “--was a con by a fallen princess with nothing to loose.”

“So you catch my point, pirate.” Reddas surmised, straightening the daggers at his waist before crossing the room, bowing slightly as if in a distant reminiscence to his days among Archadian gentry. “I thank you both for your hospitality. I owe you both a great debt.” He thought for a moment, “Consider my share of the spoils payment for that.”

Balthier's frowning expression never faltered, and his voice was flat. “Surely you can't be serious.”

“I can, and I am.” Reddas fumbled with the door knob for a moment before turning and adding, “I believe there is mint on the table by where I slept. It ought to do you good. For your headache.” He looked to Fran and nodded. “I hope you see you again soon. Give Balfonheim my regards.”

When the door closed behind him, Balthier and Fran looked to one another, both puzzled by the conversation that just happened, temporarily delaying Fran's contempt. The Reddas they'd met in Balfonheim was truly dead.

Ashe walked under the arbored halls pondering the contents of Basch's letter. He could be cryptic as he was, but under the guise of Gabranth he was even more so, and sometimes in his writing she had difficulty knowing whether he meant for her to read between the lines or was just speaking to her plainly only with the words he provided.

Ashe heard the distant chatter of parrots, inwardly delighted at the sight of such an animal. Yet another rarity in Dalmasca. She dreaded the goal of her visit, but after a full day's rest inside, she decided she couldn't waste her time away from Dalmasca any longer. With her uncle buried and his new scheming son taking his mantle, and Basch and Larsa apparently now in open defiance of her desire to investigate the one living person known to have knowledge of Ondore's murder before it happened she was left helpless.

She needed an ally.

She followed the gleeful cries of children and splashing around the corner to enter a mildly wooded corner of the water gardens that Al-Cid had pointed out the night before. As he'd admitted, he was there.

And from the looks of it, he'd been there for quite a while. Ashe crossed the walkway, narrowly dodging a surge of water that had inadvertently come her way by children in white wet clothing. It caught Al-Cid's attention, who rose cursing in such a manner that summoned a chorus of “Sorry's” from the children in the water. They ran towards the direction on the far side of the pool, the littlest ones shrieking and stumbling to keep up.

Ashe laughed a rare laugh, and waved them off before stopping Al-Cid as he strode her way. “Forgive me, I didn't think you'd be out here so soon after arriving.” He stooped to kiss her hand.

“Al-Cid, don't with the formalities.” Ashe tried to cut him off, but it was too late. He rose, looking skeptical.

“I beg your pardon?”

Ashe sighed and gestured to the table where he'd been sitting. “May I join you? I suppose it's my fault for not sending word of my intent to do so.”

Al-Cid flashed her a grin, gesturing to the table, “I suppose that would be a formality, would it not?”

Lorrina's world was like a glass lens. A bit cracked and hazy, the sounds were real but muffled, just enough material to separate herself from it. She awoke in her bed with her bloodied nightgown, running to the halls looking desperately for Ffamran in a panic.

She screamed for Cid, but there was no sign of him in the manse. She found Ffamran in his nursery swaddled tight and his expression peaceful, until the fine brown hairs of his eyebrows wrinkled and his lower lip pouted into a cry, and she reached out to touch him but she couldn't, no matter how hard she tried or how high pitched his howl.

Lorrina called out for a maidservant, as his crying became unbearable to her and the small size of the room only seemed to amplify it. She longed to hold him and comfort him, but all she could do was stand over him, tormented and frustrated.

She ran out to the hall and down the corridor, momentarily pausing to look down at her bloodied nightgown in confusion. The staff passed her by, making no notice of her in such a state. They made no notice of her at all. She wanted to grab and shake them, to scream at them about her child wailing down the hall.

She spent her lifetime savoring her sight, touch, and smell through her art. But her touch and smell were gone, and even her vision was a blended prism of light that didn't allow her to see as clearly anymore, and the sounds were muffled and far away.

She ran back to Ffamran, passing through the door like a ghost. He was still there in his bassinet, crying with tight fists swinging, threatening to rattle the mobile of birds that she'd made for him. Surely someone would hear him through the great oaken doors at some point.

She tried standing over him and speaking the last words that she could recall:

“Your story began long ago...”

But the words never came, and when his cries became too much she paced the room until he was found. She paced quite a bit, after that. And in the timeless years that followed, her pacing slowed and her vision clouded even further.

Ashe could see why Al-Cid spent so much time there. It had all the tranquility of the palace gardens in Rabanastre, but the presence of water just made it appear more alive, constantly moving, never completely silent, and with the presence of children, even more so.

She never thought she'd have such a thought, but after two glasses of red wine with Al-Cid and she found her thinking it aloud to him. He cocked his head to the side at her, his foot casually on his opposite knee and his hands folded politely in his lap.

“Never did I ever think I'd hear you say such a thing.”

“Nor I.” Ash confessed, lifting her glass by the stem for another sip. Truthfully, she didn't like the taste at first, but the initial half of the first glass went down with much effort and then it became easier until her tastebuds dulled. Never one to enjoy such a sensation before, she certainly enjoyed it now.

For a moment, she saw a glimpse of the potential for the life he was to propose to her: Al-Cid was pleasant enough to be around, and surely would not try to sway her for his own gain. He was content with little authority, or no authority, for that matter. He was unlikely to ride to the frontlines of battle like Rasler. He was in every way an ideal consort to a Queen.

And he was very much not unpleasant to look at-- hardly like some of the aging dignitaries she'd seen in her lifetime. She eyed him in her peripheral. His skin shades darker than any Dalmascan, dark eyes lined with long dark eyelashes that skimmed the top of his glass when he drank, and thick wavy dark hair that grew past his shoulders, but also poked through as short stubble down the sides of his face and over his mouth and chin, and scattered across the tops of his arms and emerging from the steep neckline of his shirt. She found herself staring curiously, then snapped her gaze away when he looked back at her.

State visits would be here, with their dark-haired olive -skinned heirs running up and down the water gardens with their cousins, taking turn being the youngest to toddle behind clumsily among the watery vegetation.

There would be no Balthier. She felt a physical pain in her chest and didn't allow herself to think of it any further.

“Tomorrow you shall join me in my quarters for dinner.” Ashe said at last.

“Surely that will get the maids talking.”

“They're loyal to you, no?” Ashe set down her glass and gripped the edges of her armrests as she walked the children running about despite the maids pouring outside, calling for them to come inside for a bath and preparation for bed. “What does it matter?”

“I suppose my presence in your room insinuates something. We Rozarrians are far more lenient than Dalmascans and certainly more than Archadians, but when it comes to the Queen, outside of a match, there is a layer of scandal still, you understand.” Al-Cid tapped her knee with his.

“Then we should be a match, and get it over with.” Ashe said plainly.

Al-Cid's head bobbed backward slightly, as if struck with an invisible fist. “Your majesty,” He laughed aloud, “I believe it is I, who...” He paused and had another sip of wine, “Did you just propose yourself to me?”

The first of the children reluctantly emerged from the water, dripping it from their gowns to the fiery hued tiles beneath their feet as they were wrapped in towels.

Ashe couldn't help but offer a hint of a smile. “You may propose to me tomorrow, if that suits you better.”

“Still.”

The desert medicine woman shoved a polished wood shard in between Balthier's teeth and in his delirious state from the sedating herbs he almost laughed at the fact that it looked remarkably like a chop from Archades. The absurdity of a chop shoved into his mouth amused him to the degree of what would've been laughter had the incredible pain of his leg being reset.

He yelled out in agony-- an animalistic sound he'd never heard from himself before. Somewhere across the hut, Fran's injuries were being tended to in a similarly rough matter, though she was far more stoic about it than he.

Tears streamed down his face. Something was being torn, stretched, and twisted and he'd never had it in him to strike a woman but that damned medicine woman was rearranging his body like snapping twigs for kindling.

The dreamlike imagery of Basch's large and calloused hands handling thick branches for the fire danced across his eyelids. The strain of his grip and the snapping and peeling of smooth bark that followed made him want nothing more than to find that fallen knight and perhaps strike him the way he wanted to strike the medicine woman.

Balthier's world went dark.

Some days later, he awoke sore but somewhat mobile. Fran's cot was already empty. With a makeshift crutch left for for him at bedside, he realized had badly he wanted to piss. The linen shorts he'd been left draped loosely around his waist and would've fallen to the floor around him completely had it not been for the drawstring to secure them.

He limped outside into the expansive desert view that was only interrupted by the other huts in Nebra. The sun burned his eyes after days of darkness.

“You're awake.” The medicine woman flashed a smile at him, revealing a missing tooth. “Looking good.”

The soreness in his body had escalated from the effort of movement. “I've got you to thank, I suppose.”

The medicine woman shrugged. “No big deal. So what kinda trouble did you get into?”

Balthier hesitated. “Faulty mechanics. We were caught in the crosshairs of the air battle, I'm afraid.”

“Ah, I hear casualties were minimal. But I guess that doesn't mean 'no casualties'.”

Balthier said nothing, scanning the village for a place with a bit of privacy to relieve himself.

“My training delves in the spiritual as well.” The medicine woman divulged.

“You don't say.” Balthier murmured, clearly uninterested.

The medicine woman pointed a finger at him, “You've got a woman with dark hair on you, or at least she wants to be.”

Balthier snorted. “That sounds delightful.”

The medicine woman shook her head and laughed. “No! Not like that! Gods, you're a funny one, aren't ya? I mean, she's longing to follow you, but she has to stay put. She's just... heavy.”

Balthier cocked his head, unsure of the meaning of such an absurdity. “Something go wrong with Fran? The viera in my companionship?”

“No, not viera, she's a Hume. I ah, could barely hear her. But you repeat her words sometimes.”

Balthier muttered to himself about mad women and hobbled with his crutch to a secluded area behind the hut, kicking sand up as he went.

Brinda stirred in the stillest hours of morn, after the owls had retired and just before the birds of autumn crowed beneath her window. Her chamber adjoined with Ashe's, though the heaviness of the doors and of the walls allowed for privacy for the queen. This came much to Brinda's disappointment. as Al-Cid Margrace had been visiting her in private every evening since they announced their match.

She rolled onto her back, one hand buried in her currently unkempt auburn waves and the other across her chest, when she heard something. It was an odd something, like someone choking. Her eyes snapped open and her lips parted.

The Queen was being murdered.

Brinda shot upright. She didn't care to confront the assailant but she didn't care to die either for having a room adjoining Ashelia B'nargin Dalmasca. She scanned the room in panic. She could scream, but that would give away her position. She could climb out the window, but to where?

Thinking quickly often kept her from trouble in Bhujerba, and afterwards, it would most certainly save her life. She leapt softly from her bed, stumbling across her room. She found a spoke before the fireplace to use as a weapon if need be.

She padded across the tiled floor, the bottoms of her feet chilled by the cold, smooth surface and wrenched the door with one hand, gripping the spoke tightly with the other, but when she saw the queen she dropped it entirely. The hem of her nightgown brushed her calves from the sudden halt in her stride.

On all fours with a pool of deep purple vomit beneath her, Ashe was coughing violently as her chest seemed to heave.

“Your majesty!” Brinda let go of the door in alarm and she searched the room for a far different type of instrument in desperation. She grabbed a bowl from the adjacent shelf, meant for decorative purposes only and covered with jade stones. The force of her movement knocked two matching dishes to the floor, sending them crashing as they collided with it, scattering shards of matte blue stones over glossy orange and red.

Brinda dove down, sliding the bowl under Ashe just in time for the next wave of vomiting. Brinda turned her head, wrinkling her nose in disgust at the dark red contents.

When the heaving ceased, Brinda spoke gently. “Too much to drink, it seems?”

Ashe nodded, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand and leaning back on her knees. Being sickly and looking pale and disheveled, she looked like a very different kind of woman. Like she was both older and younger at the same time.

“I'll fetch towels.” Brinda assured her, hurrying across the room to grab the neatly folded linens by the ivory bath behind a partition. There was a crystal water pitcher still set out from the night before, with slices of citrus that had darkened and curled around the edges overnight. As the maidservants hadn't yet set out the glassware for the day, Brinda was left to resort to emptying the used glass from the day before. She filled it with the day old water, and dropped the towels in a heap next to the vomit.

Ashe was now sitting upright, leaning her back against the wall. Her arms were shaking and the clammy pallor of her skin made heavy dark shadows under her eyes. She accepted a hand towel and the water glass from Brinda, appearing grateful in her frail state.

“I will clean these. Should the others see it, rumors will begin to spread.”

“Rumors?” Ashe repeated the word back her curiously, wiping her hands with the towel slowly, folding it over itself again and again as if in contemplation of something.

Brinda looked up at her from her efforts to mop up the emesis with the towels. Could she be that naive despite being several years older and so worldly as Al-Cid had proclaimed her to be?

“They will say you're with child.” Brinda said slowly for emphasis, hoping to keep her tone in check to avoid another outburst like the one from days before. “It's one of the greatest pieces of gossip in a household. No matter how vague the evidence, it will spread like wildfire, after which we will all speculate why your belly isn't growing.”

Ashe's expression was odd. She no longer returned Brinda's gaze but looked toward the bed, her eyes open and appearing as if they saw something miles away.

“I'll wash the towels, there won't be an issue of it.” Brinda repeated.

“I heard you.” Ashe replied quietly. She tucked loose blonde hairs behind her ears, sipped from the glass, and then held it to her chest with both hands.

“It's clear you had far too much to drink.” Brinda wrinkled her nose as she wrapped the towels over themselves so that she only could touch the dry portion. “It's all red and purple, like wine.”

“I've had wine with Al-Cid for the last three nights, the first far more than that.” Ashe replied, her voice still uncharacteristically low and monotonous, “I fell ill like this before, in Bhujerba before we departed. Before the wine.”

Brinda stopped her folding, leaving the jade bowl of emesis where it lay despite having just been meaning to pick it up to dump the contents. “There is... a possibility it is what the gossips would say it is?”

Ashe turned the glass in her hands before shooting Brinda a sharp look. “A possibility, is all.”

“I know of a way to find out. Fairly accurate.” Brinda blurted out, and when Ashe's brow furrowed at her she elaborated, “My handmaid in Bhujerba had a friend who knew a close acquaintance who had a situation like this.”

Ashe groaned, shutting her eyes tightly. “I suppose a proper healer is out of question.”

Brinda nodded. “You are correct, your majesty. We are not in Dalmasca. Even in Bhujerba I could ensure some form of secrecy. But Al-Cid's birds are... his. I've only been here for these several days and I've seen it. They fawn over him like little girls and if his betrothed is with child already they will be delighted, and not for your sake. You haven't... been with him that way, have you?”

“No.” Ashe replied, her tone revealing her unsure of Brinda's point. Brinda sighed. How was it that a queen was so ignorant to such matters? Brinda had been well versed in pregnancy scandals for nearly a decade.

“Then you must. As soon as possible, just in case. Then if you are with child, no matter the date of your wedding union, the child would be his, no question. When is your next appointment with him?”

Ashe drank from the glass, still appearing helpless and weak. “Tonight.”

“Then you must seduce him tonight. My method will take several days to confirm for sure.”

“You advise me to seduce a man to save face?” Ashe looked at her incredulously.

Brinda shrugged. “You are to marry him, you're clearly no intact virgin. What does it matter?”

Ashe said nothing, her gaze returning to that strange far-away place.

Minutes passed before she spoke again. “The other one... the one I've been with... he is so far away. He prefers to be everywhere and nowhere and he can't bring himself to be anywhere else.” Her voice was barely audible, as if she was speaking to herself more than she was to Brinda.

Brinda rose with the bowl and left her that way, earnestly exasperated with the position she'd been tasked with. “That is a good thing in this circumstance, your majesty.”

A knock came at the door, and Cidolfus Bunansa's eyes flickered from the parchment he'd been writing and over the rim of his glasses to the door of his study, the rest of his body still and tense. “Enter.”

A butler entered and bowed. “Tolland Glabados, as you requested milord.”

Cid nodded his approval, leaning back in his seat to appraise this infamous man he'd been tracking for the last several months.

Tolland entered, bowing lower than even the servant who introduced him. “Greetings, Lord Bunansa.”

He was an odd looking fellow, with a cloak that looked worn and frayed at the edges with dyed colored and varying degrees of fading. He wore glasses also, but their quality was quite thin compared to the materials that Cid wore. He was short, stout, barely standing tall enough to pass for a woman's stature. His posture was seemingly held up right with an oaken cane that looked to be the most expensive thing he owned. He appeared to hobble with some innate deformity from the hips downward, and the fact that he carried a worn leather suitcase in the hand not supported by the cane made his balance appear all the more questionable.

Cid motioned for the chair, lifting his chin entirely as if to signal that his guest had his full and undivided attention. “Tolland Glabados! You've come at last. Please sit. I trust the road wasn't too troublesome for you with my escort?”

“Hardly,” Tolland's voice resounded like a breathy whisper, telling of days long spent with a pipe in hand. “When the Doctor Cid summons you with utmost urgency and provides a chocobo drawn carriage for your comfort, you do not turn that away.”

Cid waved away the servant, leaving them alone in the study. He docked his quill in a bottle of ink, and patiently waited for his guest to seat himself in the plush chair across his desk from him.

“A drink?” Cid offered.

“Nay,” Tolland huffed, not sounding very convincing, “I'll admit I stopped in the pub in town on my way him. T'was a long time since I've set foot in Archades.”

“I see.” Cid's eyes twinkled with amusement. “Then I'll introduce you to your task at hand before I send for the servants to show you to your quarters.”

“I'd prefer to discuss compensation first, if that suits you.” Tolland heaved his suitcase to the table with a thud! And proceeded to unbuckle the latches to open it, pulling a sheet of parchment from the inside across the top.

Cid said nothing, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. This man was supposedly Archadian born, but yet so straightforward. Cid liked that. “All right, then. Let's get to it.”

“The first week I devote to diagnostics.” Tolland told him. “I'll stay in your quarters and eat where she ate--”

“--In my quarters, you say?”

“Well she slept there, yes?”

“Yes, but--”

“I've to form a bond with a woman I've never met, who I will never meet. I sleep where she slept.”

Cid blinked, momentarily pondering what sort of madness he'd invited into his home.

“I'll need frequent access to the nursery, where she passed. And are there any other rooms or artifacts of significance?”

Cid thought for a moment. “She had an art studio in the gardens. But the servants only see her in the nursery. And... no artifacts per say.”

“Per say?”

“Our son, Ffamran. He's never quite expressed seeing her but the servants with the terrible dreams, they all surround him. Some are quite off put by the boy because of it.”

“But you've never had nightmares yourself?”

“No, I have not.”

Tolland lifted Cid's quill from the inkwell and proceeded to fill in spaces of the apparent contract before him as he spoke. “And your boy?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“How old is he?” Tolland's writing halted and his bright blue eyed gaze bore into Cid's.

Cid's hands folded carefully in his lap at the discussion of Ffamran. “He is twelve.”

“May I interview him?”

“I'd prefer it if you didn't.”

“Very well.” Tolland concluded with a surprising degree of submission, “What of the servants?”

“As much as you need.”

Tolland nodded, filling in more blank spaces and signing at the bottom with scratchy and pointed characters before returning the quill and spinning the sheet of parchment around with one hand so that it appeared upright to Cid.

“Look it over, take as much time as you need. I require half payment upfront, and half when it is completed, should I find a way to access your Lorrina. Should I find nothing, I keep half for my time and you keep half and we walk that way.

Cid gripped the corner of the parchment, pulling it upward while carefully listening to Tolland's words. It seemed bizarre and strange to his logical mind that he was discussing a contract to commune with the dead in such plain terms. He skimmed over, but a paragraph on the bottom startled him.

“Blood Magicks?” Cid questioned skeptically, “Your methods include executing a goat in my house?”

“A goat?” Tolland's laughter sounded more like a wheeze. “Nay, a goat's blood would be no good. But Blood magicks, sacred geometry, etc, etc are a last resort in all my cases. 'Tis only a part of being a professional in the occult. We'll start with the least invasive measures... and go from there.”

Cid pursed his lips, hesitating only for a moment, and then he saw her in his memory, studying him as she painted in that same room and the same desk where he now sat.

“Shhhh.” Lorrina brought a finger to her lips, “I like this view. Don't ruin it with your mouth.”

He signed on the appointed line, and in the following years he lost more than he could've ever hoped to gain.