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Very Angry Author's Note: I had a lot more to this chapter--much more--but my computer froze and decided to change the four extra pages I had typed up into indecipherable text. Words cannot describe how pissed I am. Though I'd hate to give you guys a half-assed project, I knew if I didn't post the chapter tonight I'd be too angry to do anything about it for a while and I'd really hate to leave you guys hanging like that. If the chapter feels short and blah, that's because it's half-done. When I don't want to kill myself, I'll retype everything over again and put it in the start of the next chapter. I'm sorry to give you guys an incomplete product, but like I said.. if I didn't post it now, I'd probably forget it 'til the new year. I want to exert more self-discipline than that.

The stress of finals are over but life can't seem to give me a proper interlude.
-- K.

The desert wasteland surrounding Rabanastre was depleted of its heat by the night that crept up on the party’s back like a shadow falling on their every step, looming up behind them. Nine days were they on the road from Mt. Bur-Omisace, resting only when the darkness grew so thick they could not see the hands before their faces. Tonight the nocturnal curtain descended on what was a peaceful day’s travel; the party was in high spirits, moving together as a close-knit and reliable unit as they scouted the horizon for enemies, offering potions and curative spells to those in need, strengthening their flanks as they fought side by side, creating battle chains and counterattacks with a skill that had only grown stronger the more they fought together. Rarely did they call out orders to one another anymore; their camaraderie had surpassed the need for petty speech. A knowing look would now suffice as would a gesture, be it elaborate signals or a simple point, a wave of the hand. Ashe found this fellowship heartening, reminding her of the Resistance and how they always bound together in a compacted, steadfast family sharing not the same blood but the same desire in all their hearts: Dalmasca’s freedom. Though her time with them had been brief—forsooth, she never thought she would call those agonizing two years brief—Ashe had grown to admire them as she had her father and mother, as she had all the knights in their military cortege, strong, capable hands and hearts entrusted with Dalmasca’s protection. The memory of the failed assault on the night of the fete humbled her proud thoughts and obliterated her tender expression. So much had been lost under the Empire’s omnipresent hand, reaching far and wide, nearly snaring her in its grasp at every turn she took to avoid it. For a fleeting, horrible moment Ashe felt she would never escape from under its shadow—and now she sought to walk, willingly, into its very core, into a city quite like Rabanastre itself, and dispose of it from the inside out.

Not so, Ashe thought as she saw the walls of the city in the pale moonlight. She squinted up her eyes and felt tears press against her sight, threatening to blur it, as her body burned with the flush of relief the sight of her city inspired. The sand-dune rapidly declined in a sharp slope but Ashe stayed her feet on its peak, drinking in the stone fortress, the towers, the sight of the palace in the distance (her heart seized painfully at this) the banners and flags that rippled in the wind—bearing the stain of the Empire, but she disregarded this, knowing she would rid her country of its taint before long. Slowly did she turn her head, better see the city in its splendor. Her shoulders trembled and she felt her lips flinch; the tears could not be held back any longer and they hastened down her dusty cheeks, curving ‘round the shapely bones and highlighting her jaw, plopping down into the sand at her feet or meeting their end at the back of her hand. Ashe breathed so that her chest expanded, her heart shuddering loudly in her ears. She feared ‘twould burst from relief at her homecoming, at the hope it inspired inside her. There was nothing quite like it in her life.

Vaan paused as he passed her, glancing fleetingly at her face and noting the tears with a curious expression. Ashe doubted that he could feel the same immense joy as she at laying eyes on Rabanastre, though the boy could also call it home. She did her best to smile and reassure him as she spoke quietly, her voice hushed out of respect for her home.

“No matter how oft I see it, she’s still beautiful.” Ashe rubbed at another wandering tear and tried to compose herself. Vaan turned to regard Rabanastre and Ashe could see his eyes narrow, trying to see what she did. At first he didn’t seem to understand, but ere long his expression softened and his eyes seemed to glow with the same pleasure Ashe could feel burning inside her chest. Vaan nodded as if to solidify his shared affections, as if he read her mind.

“It’s the only place I ever had to call home,” he confessed and Ashe listened with rapt attention. Though she had obtained pieces of his past from what he shared with them all, and Basch had informed her of what he could when she inquired about him at the journey’s start, wishing to know from where her allies came, she could not say that she knew his history as well as, say, he knew hers. The private lives of royalty were always public affairs. Ashe faced him and let him know that her ears were his. “Even after losing my parents, after losing Reks. . . after the invasion, it’s still home to me. It’s the only home I’ll ever have.”

“And yet you seek the freedom of the skies. Pirates often have no home, Vaan.” Balthier fluttered in her mind’s eye and she felt her curiosity stirring again. “They owe allegiance to no land.” Though she might not know his past, she knew of the imagined future set inside his heart. She saw the way his face lit up at an open sky, the way he stared happily as airships passed above or heard them mentioned in conversation, Balthier’s own Strahl being a subject of god-like awe to the boy. Ashe thought of their conversation that night in Jahara, how Vaan confided to her that the dream of being a sky-pirate was but a smokescreen for him to see the world, though she thought there was sincerity in his desire for such a life.

“Yeah, that’s ‘cause of the Empire.” Vaan shared his gaze with Ashe and his face was uncharacteristically stern, wise beyond his ken of seventeen years. “When you become queen, it’ll be different. I know it. Things will be like how they were before the war, before the Empire ruined everything—I’ll still have a home to come back to.”

Ashe smiled warmly and pressed her fist to her heart, inclining her head reverently to the boy. “I am honoured to be trusted as such,”

Vaan returned her grin and rubbed the back of his hand over his nose, dropping his rare display of solemnity and returning once more to the boy she had met that night in the sewers, the boy who seemed eager to impress with baubles and brags. He nodded at Ashe and they made their way down their slope, kicking sand up around them, scattering across their shins and shoes. Ashe lifted her head to the skies and let out a stream of air, her body easing into comfort as she thought of her home, thought of her people, thought of the distinct pleasure she would receive when she was inside those high walls, her feet on the cobbled and smooth paths. It reminded her of a poem she had read years prior, sifting through the volumes of sonnets her tutor carried under-arm, written by a Rabanastran exile a century ago.

My fist I raise to the gates, bidding them to part:

Make way for your Lost Son!, wanderer these many years

Ah, splendor of Dalmasca: Gem of all Jewels, the finest Desert Flower!

I have come home now, and ne’er ‘gain shall I stray.

Ashe whispered the words to herself like a prayer. She could not describe the bliss that welled up inside her, feeling at long last like the presence of the gods were with her, lending their unknowable support to her fragile Hume back. There was something far greater, a presence, an unseen entity, moving like wings beating inside of her.

Hope, she thought. And faith.

“Bloody peddlers. . . Always the last place to quiet down,” the guard huffed behind his mask, an armament which proved effective of reducing him to naught but a muffled voice, his identity entirely shielded behind the Empire’s armor. Ashe’s heart soared at the defiance born in her people and masked her pleasure lest it attract unwanted questions, choosing to look at a point beyond the soldier, turning her head away from him as Basch continued the discussion. How he kept a straight face and looked upon them, Ashe did not know. She would not have had the ability to hide her loathing of them, or keep the disdain from her voice—nor did she trust that he fear would now make an appearance in her eyes. Considering it was part of his routine as a prisoner to endure the company of imperial hounds, Ashe assumed that Basch had simply grown accustomed to the displeasure. She did not allow her thoughts to stray to all that Basch had endured for she had dwelled on it long enough; his sentence became an addition on a lengthy catalogue of reasons for her to seek retribution for the dead and wronged. But was vengeance the definitive solution? It was Basch’s counsel what warned her against it, a counsel part of her mind could not fathom though she puzzled over it like a riddle, her thoughts prying at the surface and revealing nothing of its inner contents. Surely he, sufferer at the Empire’s hands for two torturous years in solitary confinement, reduced to a withered and weakening man, would see the merits of it. Why should she spare the Empire her wrath? Why should she stay her hand—why should she abstain from what the dead could not do for themselves? Ashe closed her eyes and sucked in the cool night air, hoping to scatter the traces of anger and the tears they brought with them.

Though the area was undoubtedly rife with crime and risk at all hours of the day and night, the party was escorted by one of the guards towards a rather tawdry inn in the bazaar, which still had a fair amount of activity going on despite the presence of soldiers and the apparent nightfall. The imperials shouted to the crowd, casting threats of criminal charges though the crowd seemed eager to delay dispersing for as long as they could, ignoring the prospect of a prison sentence. Ashe was surprised at the near civilized treatment of her people; she did not peg imperials to put consideration before sweeping, grand strokes of power and bypasses of justice. She had heard horror stories from the Resistance members of citizens clapped in chains and thrown to Nalbina Fortress for lesser offences than insubordination. She supposed the attack on the palace the night of Vayne’s appointment had succeeded in one aspect: it had shaken this band of soldiers, reminding them of the resolve of the people they occupied, revealed to them the absolute loathing and defiance the Rabanastran people had to their Lord Emperor and his wretched son. No, these bazaar folk would not go quietly into the night.

Their escort saw them to the doors of a near-hovel simply named Sol’s Refuge, its sign heavily chipped and the letters peeling from long hours spent in the sun’s gaze. The party spilled into the lobby of the inn, fanning out to examine the notice board for hunts and details of the recent curfew, or stretch out their weary limbs in the space provided. Ashe followed Basch as he made his way to the desk and nodded politely to the man behind it, the obvious owner of this establishment. His sallow face and small, beady eyes peered curiously at them all, darting from Basch’s scar to the tips of Fran’s ears, sizing up her considerable height and presence, running his eyes appreciatively over the elaborate decoration on Balthier’s vest, stopping briefly on Vaan and Penelo before swinging ‘round to stare at the collection of gold and jewels on Ashe’s chest. He rubbed his fingers over his chin and picked at a scab on his face, baring yellowed teeth at the effort. Ashe frowned and stepped further to the right, hiding herself behind Basch’s back.

Basch’s gaze did not flicker, nor did he seem to reveal any displeasure should he have felt any. Practiced in a neutral tone he said, “We seek quarters for the night. Can you accommodate six? Two to a room, or three if necessary.”

“Aye, aye,” the man muttered quietly, curling himself over a thick and frayed book as he scratched out the figures for a night’s rest. Basch paid what they owed, their coin purse barely lighter as he dropped the fare into his till, and made to divide the room keys between the others. The man at the desk rubbed the back of his hand over his nose and smudged ink across it, staring once again at the party as if suspicious, trying to place their faces.

“Something the matter, lobby-man?” Balthier called out from his position in the back, having watched the exchange take place without a word, but a look of firm censure. Ashe remembered the expression on his face in Golmore and how tense he seemed for the entire journey to Rabanastre. It was entirely uncharacteristic of him to behave has such; though he joked as he always did, kept up the same witty banter as was his do, Ashe could not help but feel that there was more going on beneath that charming face and clever smile. Depths uncharted, territories unexplored. Again she thought of a pirate’s concept of home and wished she could pick his brain for the answers she sought, wrapping her fingers around them as you would the seeds of a succulent pomegranate, delighting at the rich pulp.

By addressing the man as his station Balthier not only set himself at a higher position but also reminded the clerk of his place in society’s hierarchy: he had little place to look on them so warily. The man scowled and quickly shook his head, shuffling slowly from behind the desk to lead them to their rooms.

“Ye pilgrims?” He turned to ask them on the stairs, his hunched posture making his movements sluggish. None of them spoke, unsure who would carry on this conversation, and the man continued as if dangling a treat before them, hoping to eke out an answer. “Lot’s o’folk comin’ in fer San’e Tienne.”

“Yes,” Ashe spoke before the others had a chance, taking command of the discussion. They had reached the second-story landing and gathered in the wide alcove at the front of the hall, a dimly lit foyer that led to their rooms. Candles flickered in their lanthorns and the floorboards seemed not recently trod upon: an inch of dust coated it. Ashe could feel their eyes upon her, surveying her curiously. Balthier had his arms folded as he watched her, and Basch looked unaffected, confident that she knew what she was doing. “Tomorrow we seek to call on the Mausollos temple and give offering to the Lovers.”

Ashe could feel herself trembling at the notion, wondering how she could have forgotten the festival most important to her when she had been so careful to heed it in years past. Its name stirred something deep within her, a calling she barely understood, but knew it to be beyond her ken, as was the call of the Dawn Shard.

The old man’s face brightened at her declaration; his expression was hearty and one of a man who was not used to such surprises. He smiled broadly at Ashe, a handsome grin that moved her. “Not many keep ter the old ways. It warms the heart ter hear ye say so, lass.”

Ashe smiled in return and moved to let the man walk by, hoping the silence that filled his space was not one of disapproval. She looked out at the faces closest to her and tried to understand their guises, relieved when she noticed that it was only interest in their eyes, not reproach. She cleared her throat and addressed their unspoken questions.

“San’e Tienne is a holy day to Rabanastre—to all of Dalmasca. . . In ages past there ruled a king and queen of equal might and prosperity, descendants both of the Dynast-King: King Mausollos fon Carria and Queen Artemisia Tezelay Dalmasca. Lord Mausollos passed of a dreadful bane early in his reign, and Lady Artemisia ruled alone, strengthening Dalmasca and its foreign ties, though her grief was renowned the land over. She was broken in spirit, but did not stand down from her duties. ‘Twas how we became sister-realms with Nabradia.

“On the tenth anniversary of Mausollos’s passing, Lady Artemisia bid the finest architects of Dalmasca to construct a tomb worthy of her love, and it was in those walls did she take her own life at the heart of Mausollos’s crypt. It has since been made a chapel dedicated to their memory, and a sacred place for the Dalmascan people. San’e Tienne is a day of remembrance and tribute to those who are gone. . . for paying last respects.” Ashe found her courage faltering, slipping on the torrent of tears she had not shed though she had bitterly wept at every loss. She thought regretfully of her father, of her beloved prince, of all the comrades lost under the Empire’s might, and felt compelled to give them what she could: her prayers, her faith. Her eyes could no longer look upon her companions and she chose instead to close them, praying that they would understand her honour-oath to the tradition and would not fault her for it. “I would pay my respects to those lost during our stay here.” Let it never be said that her travel company failed to surprise her.

Penelo spoke quietly from her position at the top of the stairs, staring at her hands as they twisted uncertainly in front of her. “I’ll go with you. I haven’t been to the temple in so long. . . and I want to see my parents before we reach the capital.”

When she felt it safe to do so Ashe opened her eyes and looked upon Penelo carefully, saddened that the girl had suffered a great loss that likewise urged her to attend, but comforted, somewhat, in knowing that she was not alone in feeling sworn to tribute. The two of them shared a long look and Ashe felt as if she understood the girl’s heart better because of it. She smiled reassuringly. Ashe felt no need to ask Vaan; the look on his face was all the answer she needed as their words out in the dunes drifted back to her. His parents, his brother. . . he had cause enough to go.

Basch bowed his head so that his chin hovered above his chest. “I would also visit the Lady Artemisia, and dedicate a vigil to her liege Braxiest. Too long has it been since last I gave penitence.”

Ashe accepted this with a curt nod and turned her eyes upon Fran and Balthier, genuinely curious. “Though not citizens, you are welcome to join us. Dalmasca is not alone in loss.” She thought of Fran’s past, of her abandonment of the Wood and the silence of its Voice, the stigma laid upon her in the eyes of her kin. She thought of Balthier. . . and could only puzzle.

Fran seemed deep in thought, her face knitted with tension as she tightened her lips, pondering over how to shape the words on her tongue. After a time she spoke, but she seemed dazed, her usually strong and mysterious voice now tentative and thoughtful. “I will accompany you,” she said quietly.

Balthier shrugged and said, “Why not?” He was doing his best to be unfazed or at least uninterested—indeed if it was a farce Ashe thought he played his part quite well, though she couldn’t be sure with him. Ashe could see more in his eyes but did not address it. He would speak of it when he wished, no doubt.

They bid each other goodnight as they retired to their rooms, the girls in one, the males across the hall in another. Feeling as heavy as lead, her arms hanging low and her body sluggish with the weight of delayed repose, Ashe had time only to remove her shoes before she sank into the feather-stuffed mattress before she fell even more easily into sleep. Her worries did not find her there.