fanlisting | fanfiction | fanart | lj icons | other graphics | contact/submit

“Do you know the tale of Adfero Exsentio?”

“W—What?” Ashe found herself stammering more than she’d like at his sudden question, left hanging out there as it cut through the almost comfortable silence they had been in.

After they had made their escape from the Witch’s Inn, Balthier and Ashe had slipped into walking, considering the crisp air and the contrast of the city lights and the deep night sky, without the complication of words—one being sullen, hands hanging down at her side wishing she had but pockets to stuff them in, so she could retreat to a fuzzily remembered image of teenage petulance, the other being contemplative, face lifted to the sky as if trying to piece it apart and see what was beyond. One head down, the other head up. Only it was the wrong arrangement, to have nobility made docile while the thief embraced fortune—it was almost an insult. Ashelia B’nargin would not be out-stood by a petty <i>thief</i>. The realization had her correcting herself, adjusting her position and adjusting her mindset so as not to dwell on the… festivities that had already taken place that same evening. She didn’t have the energy for anger, she lacked the mental focus to commence with the berating she so wanted to execute, but she would not let her stance be indicative of such.

The sense of competition he had created in her, without even knowing it, simply gave Ashe more cause to obstinance. She wanted to leave his company, be back with Basch or Fran, with those who saw reason and exercised enough common sense not cheat at silly card games in the first place. 

Even so, curiousity had won out over deep seething indignation and Ashe had found herself staring at him—whether she had been entirely in control of her actions or rather her gaze had just decided to rest in his general direction it was uncertain but she certainly preferred the latter by way of explanation—and was a bit surprised to what she found. Contemplation and anger, a frustration of his own that was honed to a finely tipped edge and could either waste away into impassiveness or control his whole person had he the self-loathing to allow it. When she had become too frightened on what she had seen in his face, she had let her gaze slip downward, trailing a line down the length of his jawbone and the collar he wore around his neck until Ashe could endure the heaviness of her own gaze no longer. Still questions and curiosities lingered, plaguing the ever-jumbled state of her thoughts.

Her thoughts were becoming a dangerous place to be. She longed to know what he was thinking, what made him look to the sky the way he did, if he might ever gaze upon her with the same muted emotion.

If she asked, would he tell her? She remembered Phon Coast, how honoured she had been by his admission and what he had offered her—truth, faith, and trust. But those were as fleeting as anything, she knew with the ghost of Vossler still weighing heavily behind her eyelids.

So, when Balthier finally did speak, it caught Ashe inappropriately off guard creating another hot swell of anger in her. With the silence there had been naught any issues to address and she might have slipped into a sort of calm resignation if he had left her be, but her thoughts were cloudy and like Raithwall’s Labyrinth once more.

“Do you know the tale of Adfero Exsentio?”

His voice for repeating his question was soft, as if being too loud would break the night and turn it back into day.

“I remember it,” Ashe answered, not to him, but to the air in front of her. “Don’t think there was a child in Ivalice whose parents neglected to weave that particular tapestry.”

Balthier chuckled, a move that had her shift in sudden annoyance—how dare he laugh at her? It was only through swallowing, a distinct gesture that could be observed from the outline of her corded throat, did she bite back any haughty urges.

“Ah, princess, entire books could be written on what you do not know about parents.”

She whirled on him then, ready to give her indignation a voice, “If you are implying—”

Smoothly and with the appearance of giving it no effort, Balthier cut her off. “I only meant that you had a better childhood than most. I fail to see the difficulty in having two parents who loved you and an entire palace of servants to wait on you.”

“Eight brothers to pull at my hair and leave toads in my bed,” Ashe countered with a lightness she didn’t feel. She didn’t add that in the later years, after her engagement to Rasler was proclaimed, they started leaving prophylactics in the place of slimy amphibians.

“Yes, quite,” Balthier chuckled easily. “You offered a near perfect segue. And on such an illustrious night…”

“What are you getting at?”

“How many years has it been since you’ve heard the tale of Adfero Exsentio on the eve of its birth?”

The question caught Ashe off guard, the second time in the rather short period of time they had been in each other’s exclusive company—and she found herself struggling for an answer. She remembered the one night a year, in her discarded childhood, where everyone gathered in the west parlour to sit by the warmth of the fireplace while the late Queen Amasis told the story in her soft, wavering voice, the fire throwing weak shadows of her seemingly perpetually sickly form on the wall. She remembered her older years, the family stripped of a mother as Dalmasca was stripped of its queen, and in one mysterious bout of nostalgia at age four and ten, asking her eldest brother, Iavoin to tell the story. He did not even gat half of the way through it before his intended, a horrid woman whose name Ashe had long let slip from her unyielding memory, pulled Iavoin’s attention away from her.

She did not request the story again after that. She allowed herself to embrace adolescent difficulty, pretending that because it was not offered to her she did not want it, and let the beloved ritual of the holiday slip between the cracks.

“Ten seasons, I suppose.” Made again sullen at the memories, Ashe could not meet his face. “Is it of any regard to you?”

“Maybe I just want to know as much as I can about you,” he replied, leaning over so the breath of his words was hot on her face. She was not immune to his flirtation, nor the brief swell of yearning she felt within.

How long had it been since a man had rightfully paid attention to her—not in the playful quips and offers of Al-Cid or Balthier’s inherent offerings of a closer intrigue—but in a way that said they desired to carve a place in their life for her? Made again suddenly frustrated at her own confusing emotions, whirling around somewhere she could not trace or track, Ashe said nothing, lulled into silence by her own unwanted feelings.

Why did she so oft feel confused? Why couldn’t she be smarter, stronger, and able to get out what it was that was spinning her about?

“Cid”—there was something in the way he said the name, the faintest change in his tone of voice, that caught Ashe’s attention and refused to let go—“never wanted me to hear traditions such as those. He believed in carving a new way for Hume, not clinging to old wives tales.”

“Did you believe him? That it was just an old wives tale?”

He looked at her then, for perhaps the first time that evening since they had been evicted from the Witch’s Inn, and Ashe found her breath catching. For a moment everything was spoken on his face; pain, longing, anger, honesty—and it was a moment he offered to share with her. She was only vaguely aware of everything else for that moment, from the sudden lameness of her hands (it was a very good thing she was not carrying a chamber pot else it would have been smashed into dozens of pieces at her boots about that time) to the fact she had not moved, had not blinked, had not said anything for that one very long moment. Such a gift was not meant for her, and when her senses funneled back into her, Ashe looked back to the sky.

They had stopped. A small bridge, overlooking a muddy stream that eventually filtered into drainage.

Ashe let him move ahead, look over the railing, consider the world around him in whatever way he might.

She wasn’t even really aware of the weight of the words as she said them. “Would you tell it to me?”

He looked back, left eyebrow arched, not understanding her words.

“The legend of Adfero Exsentio.”

His lips twitched in a knowing smile, far removed from the smirk or the all-knowing frown that made her so angry, and he waved his arm to beckon her forward. Ashe complied, cutting a straight figure next to his slight slouch as she fixed her eyes on no particular point in front of her.

“As you wish,” he complied, and began to bring life to one of Ivalice’s most known legends.