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A fine-toothed comb, set about with pearls along the handle, slowly cleaved through Ashe’s hair and smoothed the vagrant strands until an even flaxen mane soon framed her face. It stared back at her from the tri-paneled looking-glass and it seemed to her that a delicate façade of porcelain was set over her true face, perfectly sealed, erasing all traces of the Ashe beneath the hardened exterior. This mask betrayed not a glimmer of the worry and fright surging behind it. Her mind felt a separate and alien thing in her own head, looking into unrecognizable eyes, watching a foreign face make expressions she did not feel. It was as if the stem between the two was faulty and irrevocably flawed. Distracted by this, Ashe did not soon realize that the hands tending to her were not her own. It took a child’s memory of thin, ropy-veined hands patting her tearfully swollen cheeks, hands that could easily support a squirming, quick-to-grow girl-princess for her to recognize them.

“Mama,” Ashe breathed, but the words did not leave her head. Her lips remained stationary, sealed with a terrible wax she could not break.

She could not see her mother’s face but she knew those hands, had sorely missed those hands; such a strange thing to think on when there was so much else of her mother to pine for. Emeïs B’Nargin placed the comb on her daughter’s vanity, the exquisite bone clinking quietly against the thin glass, while she lifted the coronet-and-veil from off its presentation stand: a model head with no eyes or lips. Ashe wanted so badly to turn and look into her mother’s face but her body did not obey her command. Her mother remained a presence in fragments: hands, arms, the stern line of her jaw and pursed lips, her long neck decorated with a collar displaying House Dalmasca’s emblem. Ashe did her best to assemble what she could of her mother’s face from memory, and failed.

Ashe felt the weight of the coronet sink heavily on her head as if each pretty jewel and link of silver were fashioned with every stone in her heart, every weight of guilt she shouldered in her short years of life. Heaviest of all lay at the centre of her forehead: a Tiger’s Eye, a brilliant gem of honey and gold roughly half the size of her fist. She now knew two pairs of eyes in the faces of two astronomically different men who bore such jewels. Her reflection was obscured by the soft cloud of the veil that draped over her face, woven of the finest and thinnest silk, inlaid with diamonds so sharp she dreaded to breath lest she inhale and they scratch at her lips and throat. The veil fell to her breasts, hanging in a shroud of glossy white and making her appear all the more a spectre. Ashe could hear her mother take two steps back as if to appraise her work from a distance. Fleeting was the thought to cry out and reach for her, take hold of her and eke some mete of strength from her memory. She knew it was a futile dream.

“Your lord father would have you arrayed as such for your lord husband.” Her mother spoke harshly, and there was great disapproval engraved into every word. Was this but a mockery of her heart, a vision sent by her demons to torment Ashe with what her mother would say of the union between a daughter of Dalmasca and a son of Nabudis? Mother was not alive to see us betrothed. This is but a vicious jest, Ashe consoled herself but for all the good it did to relieve the panic in her mind she may as well have thought nothing. She was not relieved, she was not eased. Her body alone remained a perfect figure of serenity while her mind became a foul tempest.

Emeïs steadied her hands on Ashe’s shoulders and squeezed hard, not comfortingly but as if to shape, to force, like gods’ hands tending to the Wheel of Life. Ashe was lifted to her feet and turned in the direction of what she could assume was the chamber door. “Come, the bells ring anon, summoning the maiden to her altar.” As if waiting for their cue the doleful, heavy ringing of temple bells clamored in the background, breaking the silence with their echoing notes. Both the steps of Ashe and Emeïs were in sync with their intonations. With each forward step Ashe was frantic to crawl back, on her hands and knees if she must, her fear overwhelming her thought and better judgment. There was something awful, something wrong and she wished not to see it.

The temple was radiant in the light of the sun and the golden, joyous banners of celebration set about in every nook and on every edge. A mesh of faces awaited her appearance as she stood with her mother at the front of the aisle, but she could make out not a one. They blurred and melted together, forming a titanic mass whose attention was bent purely upon her arrival. Emeïs placed her hands once more on her daughter’s shoulders and lead her forward as a guard leads its prisoner to a cell. Ashe watched the altar draw nearer and searched desperately for that familiar, handsome face of her dear Rasler, so sure she was to see him again, so sure that her dream would not go so far as to deny her such a joy, even if they meant only to harm her with it. But he was not there. A much taller, broader and darker man stood in his place, his raven hair set about his conniving face in soft waves, his eyes the most frightening feature of all: there remained depths uncharted beneath their churning surfaces, flashes of his true nature bursting through before they were spirited off, glazed with a horrible, deadened stare Ashe would give her very life to prevent from looking any longer on her beloved Dalmasca.

Ashe and her mother stopped before the small steps leading up to the dais. She wished to scream, to throw her mother’s hands off of her and run back the way she came, away from this place, away from that man’s stare, away from those hands that could throttle and crush the very life from her ere she had a chance to protect herself. She did not deserve this, she did not want this but her dream moved onward, indifferent to the cries of her heart.

“Here stands your lady offering, Lord Solidor.” Emeïs then stepped back from her daughter, her hands lifting off their perch and leaving Ashe defenseless, completely alone before so many eyes, so many witnesses, and the only one she feared was the one who stared down his nose at her. Vayne Solidor held out his hand to Ashe and against every howling thought she had, Ashe reached out her own and clasped it tight.

“The Desert Rose stays not oft in bloom. Her petals shed, her days are spent, roots wrenched by eager lover’s hands.” Vayne lead her to his side in front of them all, speaking a child’s song beloved of Ashe when she played in the palace garden. At the time she did not understand the words coming from her mouth, delighting only in making pretty speech she had memorized from the books her tutor shared with her. How painfully well she understood Vayne’s intent in the awful, cryptic wisdom of dreams. She could have wept if she had the will to summon tears. Her grief tore at her heart like a blade, and she could only watch in horror, pleading frantically with gods, with herself, with Vayne himself, to spare her the shame of being unveiled by such brutish hands. Not like this. Not by him, please. Not like this! Vayne’s grin was terrible as he carefully raised the veil, letting the light pierce Ashe’s eyes so that she had to shut them to recover. She felt the cool air of the temple on her face and stood like stone, rooted to her spot at Vayne’s side and at his mercy. She wished only for her humiliation to be over quick.

“Ashe, come on! Hurry up!”

The heat of the Estersand was dreadful, but she had Dalmascan blood in her veins and knew how to withstand such upsets as the weather. It took several moments for Ashe’s mind to realize that her eyes were not closed: they were, in fact, open and wide, and that she was not at the altar of a temple but was standing at the foot of a very tall, very steep incline in which her party members were already halfway through. Only Vaan had turned to summon her, waving her on with his hand. She recovered just in time to recall basic motor skills such as speaking and walking, and doing both at once, to call out to their backs, her steps faltering as they sank into the wide sand.

“Wait! Please!” Ashe’s breath caught tight in her chest like thorns wrapped around her lungs. She heaved and winced against the pain, urging herself onward regardless, not wanting to be left behind. How was it that they moved so fast and she could only flounder helplessly in their wake? She struggled for the first few minutes, her eyes glaring hard at her feet as if to will them to move faster, until her gaze flickered to the mount ahead of her, curious to see how much distance she had breached between her and her comrades. But they were nowhere to be found. Stumbling blindly after the illusions of a broken heart, had she been so eager for companionship that she dreamed it all?

Ashe gave a heartbroken cry as she stumbled and fell, sputtering, into the sand, her hands sinking in to her wrists, her skin burning under the hot sun. She wailed and pulled them free, placing them instead on her face, over her ears, at her throat that felt tight and threatened to close from fear. They could not have left her. They could not have moved on without her—she could not have lost them so easily. They were out of sight just over the hill, waiting for her to catch up. If she would just get to her feet and move forward this insufferable panic would release her, chased away by Vaan’s naïveté, by Basch’s steadfast servitude, by Penelo’s cheer, Fran’s reserved wisdom, by Balthier, simply Balthier. If only she could stop wasting time in a heap in the desert, crying like a child, adrift in grief and a stupid ache that she wished to rid herself of completely! But Ashe could not rise to her feet; her body would not obey her. It heaved and trembled with the force of her sobs, her mouth opened wider than she thought possible as howl after howl tore themselves from her lungs, cast out into the open air like a declaration, a cry, a decree the gods themselves would someday reckon. Ashe wished her heart to be heard.

“You know much of nightmares, do you?” Balthier asked as he watched Fran place her hand flat on Ashe’s forehead, drawing it back slowly and lightly moist with a glistening sheen of sweat. Balthier lent the aid of his handkerchief and Fran accepted it with a nod of thanks, not breaking her steady gaze as she pressed the cloth to cheeks, throat, and forehead, doing her best not to disturb Ashe.

“I know much of troubled hearts.” She shot a wry and knowing look at Balthier as he furrowed his brow and frowned, slightly discomfited by her keen gaze. A moment of silence passed between them, broken by the quiet whimpers and gasps that made Ashe’s body lurch and heave. Balthier found himself feeling quite uncomfortable as a witness to such a naked display of emotion. Surely the princess would not enjoy an audience to her grief, considering how keen she was to subdue it and render herself absolutely still, with a look of unchallenged patience. He bid Fran goodnight and ducked out of the tent, exiting as Fran chose to murmur a Viera slumber-song meant to ease. He heard it once before; she had sung it to him when he inquired after her tribe’s talents. It wasn’t quite what he expected as an answer, but the memory was pleasant for him. He hoped it would suit Ashe well.

The drastic change from the close-nettled warmth of the tent to the expansive chill outside was enough to set Balthier on edge. His skin prickled and he shivered, immediately eager to sort out his sleeping arrangements and call it a night. He glanced ‘round the hastily assembled tents and wondered in whose presence he would grace tonight when his answer appeared to him in the form of Sir fon Ronsenberg, paying his dutiful vigil by standing guard over the camp (despite there being little to fear in a refugee site). Basch nodded to Balthier and his expression was stern. Balthier decided to keep his own face light and relaxed—Basch certainly had enough solemnity for them both.

“Something on your mind?” He asked, quirking a brow curiously and keeping his impatience at bay. It was far too late to engage in word play with anyone, Basch especially.

“Aye. I would inquire after yours and your pointed interest in Her Majesty of late.” Like his sword Basch’s tongue cut straight to the heart of things. At any other time Balthier would have applauded this brashness, but now he found it an insufferable hindrance. It was late, it was cold, and they had an awful long walk ahead of them if they were to reach Archades before next year. Couldn’t this wait?

“I’ve no crude intentions, if that’s what you mean,” Balthier paused and held Basch’s stare without hesitation, letting the man take his fill of the stare to see that no subtle thread, no scheming plot lay underneath. “We’re comrades, all of us, you see? Bound together by a prank at which only the Fates can laugh. Your Majesty remains most untainted and beyond the influence of brigands, I assure you.” He let the silence spread between them, hoping to have eased whatever suspicions Basch might harbor, and shivered once again. A sharp cry rose from the tent Fran and Ashe shared, but Fran continued singing as if she were uninterrupted, crooning softly in a language Balthier could not understand. Basch looked inquisitively at the tent, perhaps puzzling over the tongue. His face was set hard with regret that Balthier could only guess was in part of his oath’s inability to protect Ashe from herself. Finally his expression softened, and Balthier quietly cheered victory.

Basch sighed heavily and turned his eyes back to Balthier. He bowed his head and brought his fist to his chest in a sign of fealty. “So I see. . . I am sorry to have doubted you, Balthier. I sought your mind once after Jahara, and again so soon surely reveals a grave err of my doing. I hope I have not offended you. If the Lady Ashe can trust you, then I should have no cause for hesitation.”

Balthier waved the apology aside but took it to heart, wondering all the same how much more of these inquisitions he’d have to endure. “I shall pardon any offence you might give so long as you tell me neither Vaan or his girl is in that tent.” Balthier indicated the lodging closest to them, wanting so badly to bury himself under a pile of blankets and bed-things and not wake up until he had his nice, comforting fill of repose.

Basch laughed heartily, a warm sound that Balthier quite liked better than the commanding “liege of royalty” tone he was so fond of using. If they spoke like actual people they’d be a hell of a lot more fun company. “Vaan and Penelo have retired on their own, but not in that tent. And you will be gladdened, mayhap, to know that you shall have your own company tonight. I will keep watch with the Kiltias and lend my aid where it may be sought.”

“Don’t overdo it now. The road to Archades is long and not lightly tread. You might not have a chance to rest for some time.” Balthier knew he was better off telling the mountain to take temperature pointers from the Dalmascan desert than convince a knight to skive off his duties, and was not surprised that Basch brushed off his advice, dedicating himself to some noble cause or another. Balthier said his goodnights and eagerly ducked inside his tent, diving with haste under the blankets and sheets, not bothering to dry his chilled clothes or remove his dirty, wet shoes. Sleep was what he wanted now—the black, dazzling gift of Morpheus.

A quiet sob pierced the night and Balthier bunched his hands into fists underneath his pillow. The thick silver wedding band he had ransomed from Ashe pressed hard into his palm, growing hot on his skin like a tiny flame, as if the groom’s disapproval surpassed even the grave.

Easy, young lord, Balthier wondered why he would seek to banter with a ghost. This ring had inspired quite a few perplexing deeds. I’ll see to her. But those sobs had reminded him of something awful, something far off and distant that, in the haze of descending sleep, came rushing forward from the recesses of his memory and jarred him horribly. A hospital room, a sallow wisp of a woman crying into her thin hands, and Balther’s father staring hard at something his son could not see; speaking to something he could not hear over his mother’s sobs.