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

Balthier did not quite like the look on Basch's face when they emerged, sleepy-eyed and reluctant, from the warmth of their tents the following morning. Though the trust between them had deepened considerably after the trip to Jahara there still lingered traces of doubt, harbored in part because of their respective backgrounds: a knight honed to the protection of royals did not get on with brigands as a matter of sheer principle, thank you. They were always such a fussy lot to begin with. . .

As they tended to the fire and the assorted gathering of foodstuffs suitable for breaking fast, Balthier passed the time by pondering the more personal objections Basch might have to a princess spending the night in a rogue's quarter. Oh, he liked the man well enough, did not doubt that an honest and true soul lay beneath the breast and all that, but no man was immune to jealousy. He wondered which stung the man more--his pride or his heart.

The conversation around the fire-pit fluttered to him like the gently falling snow, a growing crescendo of sounds and light laughter that tentatively shushed his cynical, internal musings. Penelo could be heard giggling in that insufferably endearing way of hers, and Balthier shot a glance over his shoulder to see her shuffling closer to Ashe, who had just joined them 'round the fire, kneeling without complaint in the snow and resting her hands on her knees in a relaxed, meditative pose. Balthier carefully watched as Ashe was nudged lightly by Penelo's elbow, an inquisitive glint in her eye.

"Do most princes act like Al-Cid, Ashe?"

Balthier scowled at the mention of that foppish prat. He had half a mind to interrupt, to strike the conversation down where it now grew, but the other part of him was evenly set on hearing Ashe's response--and regarding her impressions of the Rozarrian prince unobserved. He leaned over near the sack of rations and casually swiped a crisp, ruby Apfel from the top, munching on it thoughtfully as he appraised the scene.

Ashe had emerged from their tent that morning with an expression of peace stretched over her features, a fitful night's sleep having refreshed her from the prior day. She had seemed to be in no rush to withdraw her hand from his, he remembered, his mind trudging back to the tent. Balthier was content to keep her hand in his as long as he could, happy to have some warmth in this ice-coated Rift and he did well not to linger long on the pang he felt when, disturbed by the sound of Basch's voice calling to her, Ashe snatched back her hand as if it were aflame and bolted upright in her mat as if dragged by invisible strings. In the half hour's time that passed between now and then the peace had not left her face, nor had the traces of drowsiness abated her serene expression.

She stared into the fire with a distant gaze, thinking hard on something Balthier could not place. When she spoke she sounded lost, distracted by a memory. They seemed to be tailing her closely these days, he judged, based on the haunted look in her eyes whenever they grew near nethicite. There were the scenes in Raithwall's tomb and the Stilstrine of Miriam to be considered. He did his best not to scowl too harshly.

"Milord Al-Cid is more . . . colorful than most," Ashe replied with light emphasis on the word, taking a plate of what looked to be an interesting mixture of fruit and sausage-links from Penelo. Ashe wrinkled her nose and carefully picked at the fruit, handing the rest to an eager Vaan. She looked back to Penelo and continued, "But I assure you there was not a trace of heart in his words." Ashe chewed her bit of fruit and plotted her next statements. "We--men, especially--are taught the pleasantries of courtship along with a more proper education. Al-Cid was merely behaving as was his due. . . I would not think much of it, Penelo."

"You seemed happy to me," Vaan cut in with all the subtlety of a charging boar.

Ashe's face stiffened as she sat considerably straighter. "As I said," she replied tightly. "I would sooner be inclined to trust the affection of a sky-pirate than one of royal blood."

Vaan opened his mouth to question and no doubt harass further, but it was at this time that Balthier cut in, moving forward to rejoin the party. "Your Highness. . ." He began with wit drier than the Estersand. He feigned a look of great insult and placed his free hand to the front of his vest, over his heart, imitating one who has suffered a stinging blow. "I have ears."

Ashe seemed to falter as if a strong wind threatened to knock her from her perch. She opened her mouth around a remorseful and slightly worried frown, but a sharp shout from behind them all interrupted whatever apology she might hope to give—immediately they all turned to regard Fran who stood with her finger pointed towards the sky, her eyes narrowed and scanning the distance—and at the thick plume of black smoke that funneled into the air. Ashe was on her feet at once.

"No. . . The Gran Kiltias!" She said, fearfully. Her face broke into pieces as she hastened to Fran's side, eager to gather all the information she could from the woman. Penelo looked equally worried, her hands covering her mouth, her eyes scared and wide. "Larsa," Balthier heard her whisper in an undertone. He chucked the half-eaten Apfel to the ground and moved nearer to Fran.

"What do you smell?" He asked quietly, staring at her face intently for the subtle shifts and changes those with enough practice at a Viera's company could detect. Ashe glanced wildly between the two of them, finally settling on Fran's face as she brought a fist to her chest, fingers clenched tight with fear.

Fran lifted her head above them—no chore, for she stood a head above most—and closed her eyes, her small nose twitching and sniffing fiercely at the winds. Balthier could hear Ashe draw in her breath and hold it, as if letting her lungs get their fill would somehow disturb Fran. More than simply smelling the air far better than a Hume could ever dream Balthier sensed that Fran was making good use of her other senses, reaching out with invisible fingers to part and prod the Mist. When she opened her eyes, it was upon Balthier that her gaze fell, cold and heavy like a god's hand.

"An eager kindling from the imperial inferno hath strayed to a holy place. There are cries: survivors and fallen, both." Fran took a brief moment to spare a glance at the others, stopping the longest on Ashe, whose expression seemed rent between grief and anger.

Ashe nodded and shut her eyes, her jaw set tight. Balthier wondered at what sort of chidings she silently endured when he noticed how white her knuckles were, how hard she pressed her fist to her chest as if willing to push it through flesh to equal a physical wound that her shame had wrought. "We make haste. Break camp—at once." There was little need for an order as the others were already moving when she finished her first sentence. Quickly did they unhitch the tents and hastily stuff what remained of their breakfast back into the rations sack, or toss it a distance away for wandering animals to eat, worried looks on them all. Ashe was muttering quietly to herself, both of her hands shaking like mad, her face threatening to crumble beneath the tremendous weight of such burdensome emotions. They seemed to be prevalent in her life these past two years.

Wasting little time, they collected their weapons and utilities, scrambling fervently to break camp and make it to the summit for. . . what, exactly? What awaited them there? Balthier did not let himself think on it long. He had heard Fran’s words, as had the others. He knew what those keen eyes had seen.

Fran shouldered the rations with ease, a sign of how fast they were dwindling, while Basch and Vaan shared the task of binding up the tents. Ashe stood towards the front line with her lips locked and her head turned to face the airborne smoke, staring hard as if it might contain some answers. Balthier noted that she had shed her normal weapon in favor of the Sword of Kings, entrusting the bow into Fran’s care. Fran accepted this change of positioning without a word of protest, falling back a few paces ahead of Vaan and Penelo, offering what little advice or solace she could when they gave voice to their questions. Once they were packed and bundled, they all gathered ‘round Ashe, who nodded once to indicate that she had noticed them, and they made their way towards the summit. A tense silence descended upon them that mercilessly throttled all attempts at conversation. Vaan and Penelo whispered quietly to each other, sometimes including Fran or trying to rope Balthier into the discussion, who offered shrugs of his shoulders and waves of his hand in response. He was too busy watching the two in the front to let petty talk distract him. Basch and Ashe did not speak but marched quickly ahead of the rest, who trailed behind at a gait that displayed their hesitation more than they might have realized. Balthier lingered somewhere in between, speeding up to stay near the front should trouble find them, and falling back to listen in on the rear conversation when he was sure no harm was afoot. They avoided what confrontations they could, taking longer, wider gaps between creatures so as not to tire themselves out needlessly. Remarkably, the fiends in the Rift seemed to sense something they could not and were far more subdued and withdrawn than they were on their previous passage. They were uneager to fight and kept an equal distance between themselves and the traveling party. Balthier liked not the look of that—what the bloody hell could have humbled these beasts?

After they had pushed hard to the incline, the air growing deathly cold and, somehow, heavier with each forward step, Basch could stay silent no longer and shared his concerns with the others. He eyed Ashe pointedly.

“No doubt this travesty is Archadia’s doing. Even more reason it would be wiser to keep our wits rather than charge with naught to steady us save rage. The Empire would be victor ere we strike.”

Ashe gave no suggestion that she was listening, still pressing forward with a firmer force in her step that belied both her impatience and faltering grip on moderation. Balthier frowned at her back and chipped in. “What he means, princess, is don’t go losing that pretty head of yours.”

Still she did not stop. “I heard him,” she shot back, her chill voice like a knife slamming down to sever their slowly assembling admonitions. There was no trace in her voice of the Ashe from last night, only the regal and determined majesty with a terrible weight on her heart.

“Princess, I make a plea for your ear.” He did not let her temper deter him. Basch, who had much longer strides than Ashe, stepped in front of her to intercept her path. Ashe froze to her spot and raised her chin, her spine erect and hands clenched. When she spoke it was with a great effort that she maintained the diplomatic, even tone that sounded dead and forcibly flat to Balthier.

“Granted,” she purred dangerously. “Speak fast, my liege.”

Bash brought his fist to his heart and bowed his head. “Milady is not the only victim of imperial brutality. I ask that she think on the losses of others, of. . . ours, as well as her own, ere she strikes with her sword.”

Ashe flinched as if his words had fallen hard upon her. Not liking that her back was to him Balthier moved carefully up along her side and stood just out of arm’s reach on her left, carefully surveying her expression with an inscrutable stare. She paid him no notice at all, so great was her rapidly kindly ire, and glared hard at Basch with a look of deep loathing, willing her expression to stay firm. Balthier could see it trembling, threatening to break.

“Ever is suffering on my mind, liege. You would be a great fool to think it had escaped me for but a moment. I was not on holiday in the sewers below Rabanastre, I was not relishing my time off the throne, out of the hearts of my people.” Ashe squared her shoulders and seemed to draw more breath for what she said next. “I dwell oft on suffering and this is my response.”

“I like it not,” Basch was, perhaps, the only one amongst them apart from Balthier that could stand to defy Ashe with as blunt an instrument as words. The knight certainly had more place to object, as it was his duty to care for her and all, and Balthier marveled at how he did not balk or break the taut gaze between them. He folded his arms over his chest and waited with a look of rigid patience for Ashe to continue.

“What you like is of little concern to what you do,” spat Ashe harshly. Balthier felt the ripple of shock pass through Vaan and Penelo, who were watching the argument with growing disconcert as children made to see their parents fight. Balthier, too, was surprised at Ashe’s vicious behaviour, and he toyed with the idea of stepping in, perhaps with a glib word or two to break the tension. Yet part of him felt that it was not his place. . . and besides, nothing he could think to say held up against Ashe’s constantly changing resolve. It burned and hardened into molten iron, only to cool and shatter, scattered far on the breeze in pieces she seemed so desperate to reassemble. Now she looked pleadingly at Basch, her lips trembling not out of anger but a mixture of fear and sadness at the damage her tongue had caused. She raised her hands and brought one to her chest, knotted into a fist. The other she extended towards Basch and her voice had lost all its bitter, jagged edge. “Did Vossler not fully entrust his duties to you, Basch?”

“Aye,” said Basch warmly, looking at her with great fondness. “But I am not solely a liege. There beats another heart in this skin, Highness. I pray, let it speak freely.” He again waited for permission to continue. Balthier found himself fidgeting at all this noble pleasantry, wondering how much time they were wasting while they dallied here on the summit. Ashe gestured openly with her free hand, urging him onward. “Victory cannot be had in vengeance. I ask that you not let your judgment be stained by the blood the Empire hath spilled.” Basch looked evenly into Ashe’s eyes before his head slightly inclined, moving back to his position at her side to allow her to pass. “That is all the counsel I can give you.”

I pray it’s enough. Balthier slowly unfolded his arms and fell into step behind them both. He spared a look at Ashe and saw that she seemed on the verge of tears with an expression rent between frustration and impenetrable grief.

It was hard to look into so many eyes, so many woebegone faces marred with the same ache, and emerge unaffected. When they reached the stone steps ascending to the temple Ashe paused with her foot on the first stair, looking up at the once beautiful structure with a heavy gaze. The others halted several steps behind her, giving her space to think. Ashe gritted her teeth and turned to gaze over her shoulder and back down at those they had passed, her eyes glistening with tears as she surveyed the carefully laid-out dead, the wounded who limped and clung desperately to pillars, to other survivors, to loved ones who had left them. She seemed unable to move on, held back by a force that toyed with her, a force the others could not see, could not touch or drive off.

Displaying her keen knack for sensing what others could not, Fran broke rank and walked carefully by Ashe and up the stairs, Vaan and Penelo following close behind, the latter looking desperately at Ashe with the intent to call her back from the sea of her internal anguish. Basch lingered behind the others, sharing a quick glance with Balthier before tentatively moving onward, affording the two a few moments of solitary chat. Balthier noted that though Basch had given them privacy he was not too far ahead. He would have to keep it short.

Balthier glanced down at Ashe’s left hand and to the silver wedding band that shined garishly against her pale skin. “They make a plea for vengeance, princess.” He stared at it a moment longer before his eyes drifted up to her face. He waited until he had her full attention. Ashe wrenched her eyes away from the grisly scene and stared guiltily at Balthier as if she were a child caught and stood waiting her punishment. Ashe lowered her eyes and brought her hands together below her abdomen, threading her fingers so they formed a cradle. Balthier marveled at how young was this queen-to-be, having forgotten that for all her resolve she was not yet twenty. “Will they be made in vain?”

Ashe shut her eyes and her body shook, perhaps with a mixture of cold and wavering strength. “I shall heed Basch’s advice,” she said, but her voice sounded dull and tamed. “But I cannot pretend that I understand the difference.”

He saw that the others had advanced quite far ahead of them and wondered how he could persuade her to move forward without laying his hands on her. Luckily she seemed to follow the drift of his thoughts and started to ascend the staircase, her lids peeling open to reveal tearful and glazed eyes. “The difference of what—revenge and fighting back, you mean?”

Ashe nodded and casually wiped away the traces of tears from her eyes, scrubbing them hard. When her hand dropped down Balthier saw that her expression had settled on a more human, natural look. He was much fonder of this than the stoic, royal facade she oft put up. She seemed heavy in thought, lost in the murky traces of a mental fog that did not clear, but grew thicker and more puzzling with the passing days.

Balthier shrugged and his lips twitched, finding her confusion to be quite valid. “T’is a fine line, surely. I cannot say that I see the difference in either one. . . a man kills your uncle and you extract a blood oath, or you clap him in chains and let the law have at him. Either way the man dies, the only difference is by whose hand.”

“Nay, but also the intent.” Balthier was momentarily surprised that Ashe had stumbled so quickly upon another answer, surprised and quite pleased that she had made such progress. He did his best to hide his smile and chose to peer at her curiously. She turned to him as they came to the last set of stairs that lead into the temple, the others waiting paces ahead. “The blood oath is for bruised pride and honour, to murder a murderer—an Ouroboron cycle. The imprisonment is to see justice.”

“Clever girl,” Balthier purred appreciatively, feeling heartened as Ashe’s expression lightened and he saw the smallest trace of a smile. He gestured towards the doors of the temple, slightly ajar and shedding a dismal light down on them all. “But you are not a judge.” He knew at once this was wrong to say, that it would only incite and undoubtedly upset her, but despite these things his curiosity had prodded him further. And. . . well, he couldn’t very well take it back now, could he?

Ashe’s face snapped back to hardness like a tautly-pulled string that rips under strain. “The gods be thanked for that,” she said coldly. “I seek only to restore Dalmasca. It cannot be helped if those who would obstruct me come heavily armed and prepped for battle.”

He had to admit that it was a fair point, and he allowed the argument to settle in her favor as they made the dreaded ascent into the temple. “Just don’t lose your head, princess,” Balthier warned again in an undertone now that the others were close by.

The look that spread across Ashe’s face was terrible and frightening. Balthier felt a familiar spasm uncurl inside his heart at such a look, and found himself regretfully thinking of a madman. His heart ached and how glad he was that Fran was not looking at him, that none of them were for surely even they could see the hurt it was so potent. “Perhaps another would get more use from that counsel,” Ashe whispered as they reached the doors. She looked in through the gape and stared hard at a distant, iron-clad figure what stood on the altar. Ashe extended her arms before her and pushed the doors open, allowing them all passage into the chambers. Just as quickly as the malevolent, brutal force had seized her did it let her go. She and the others stared in disbelief at the carnage in the temple, the brutal carbuncle of war that had spread its taint to this sacred, holy place of refuge. Fran grew very still and wary, while Basch hung his head and began to pray. Vaan and Penelo gaped in horror, the latter bringing her hands to her face as if to shield her eyes. . . Ashe stared round at it all, her shoulders sinking only to rise in uneven jerks in time with her hastening heaves of breath. She let out a quiet sob. At the sight of the mangled bodies of imperials and Kiltias alike did Ashe return to herself, the Ashe with whom Balthier had clasped hands last night, the Ashe whom he heartily preferred over the echo of his father.

There was little time to dwell on this, however, for the armed man at the altar had turned to witness their entrance. His voice was maliciously jubilant, marred though it was behind the metal mask of his attire and its impediments on vocal projection. “Ah, our vagrant princess. . .” Judge Bergan crooned, turning to face them and simultaneously reveal the corpse of the Gran Kiltias at his feet.

Balthier found himself wanting to turn to Ashe and tell her to forget that tripe from a moment ago, that not even a Harpies vile justice would suit the level to which the Judge Magisters had sunk. The Judge prattled and ranted, setting Balthier’s nerves on edge by the frenzied, all-too-familiar speech and the haunting image of the spectre that hovered above and behind him like a nightmarish shadow. He had laughed off Fran’s comparison and continued with his tirade, concluding with words that Balthier dreaded would set an already precariously positioned Ashe off the edge.

“The New Ivalice holds no place for the name Dalmasca! The stain of Raithwall’s blood shall be washed clean from history’s weave!” The Judge intoned, displaying duel blades equal in menace.

There was little time to think on this, however, as the Judge and a small gaggle of lackeys strode down the aisle towards them, swords raised, armor clanking with each step. It made for a chilling sight. Ashe had hoisted the Sword of Kings from off her back and held it steady before her. The others withdrew their weapons and rushed forward to engage in battle. Ashe’s screams were the loudest of them all.