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The Lover’s Apse was a much smaller room than the previous central hall and it curved in a semi-circle, brightly lit by large, arched windows and an occulae at the ceiling's peak. A stream of sunlight poured in through the Apse's many openings and illuminated the entire room, highlighting in particular the massive statue seated on a dais beneath the occulae. Ashe’s eyes were instantly drawn to it, her skin prickling with awe at its beauty and intricate design: a woman sat draped in heavy robes and was slightly hunched, her body leaning forward as if a great weight was tugging at her heart. One of her arms curled around the shoulders of her burden, a half-nude man slumped and slack, nothing more than dead weight in her lap. Her right hand clutched onto his shoulder while the other gestured helplessly in the air, caught in an unknowable question. Her head was slightly tilted and her almond-shaped wide eyes were fixed on the man she held, her lips parted and her small, almost girlish face, rent in an expression of grief and tremendous ache. On her head sat a garland engraved with the fon Carria insignia in its center, her long hair unbound and sweeping over her shoulders and breasts, the tips of it grazing the broken man’s sunken chest. He looked like a child, weary and lined with the face of a man in need of great rest, and Ashe was taken aback to see the exquisite detail afforded to so heartbreaking a scene. She was forcefully whisked away to her memory of another broken man on an altar, his youthful face frozen in time, still painfully beautiful even in death. She remembered the feeling of the glossed wooden coffin, the overpowering scent of lilies and the faint warmth of candles mourners had set around the platform. She remembered kneeling at Rasler’s side and wishing that she could lay with him once more, hoping to avoid the tumult of days to come and the wounds caused by those past.

Ashe willed herself to return to the present time, to the here and now, focusing on the statue set before her and the presence behind her, giving off a warmth for which she felt immensely grateful. She felt it quickening her heart and undoing the sores set upon it, alighting the frozen chambers with a sympathetic flame. Her surprise was great when she recognized the voice, and from where such warmth came, wondering on what winds such heat had traveled, and what other mysteries the temple held.

Balthier asked again, repeating her title in an undertone so as not to be overheard. “Princess?”

Ashe sniffled and steadied her shoulders, nodding to let him know that she was well. Forcefully did she tear her gaze from the statue and glance around her, her eyes settling on the priestess who now bowed deeply to an approaching figure that Ashe had failed to previously notice.

The Viera was tall and had the staple features of her kind, her long, rounded ears frayed with various cuts and mars, though of a startling and unstained white hue. She had longer hair than Ashe had seen on any of the others: the feathery-white mane fell down well beyond her waist and nearly swept the floor behind her like the train of a gown; a thick part was cast ‘cross her left eye, like a bandage, and shielded it entirely. Her skin was of a creamy-mocha hue, a bit darker than Fran’s, with no visible signs of age in her pointed features. Ashe knew that the Viera was not young, harking back to Vaan’s faux pas in Eruyt and to the knowledge she obtained from her studies as a young maiden, but like all Viera Ktja’s age was visually unknowable. She wore a simple gown that was pleated at the waist and knotted at either of her shoulders, the plain garb embellished by a silver collar fastened to her throat and set with wild, blood-red jewels. She seemed to walk on air, making no noise with each step, and Ashe could see the tips of her bare feet beneath the hem of her dress. When Ktja came close enough to the trio she greeted them with a warm smile and cradled her hands against her abdomen, her long nails faintly clicking against each other.

“Admiring the statue of our temple's patrons?" The Viera said, gesturing to the somber statue at with Ashe had been captivated. "T'is understandable. I need no longer gaze upon it to see its beauty, to be inspired by our Lady's courage, or mourn our Lord's demise; to be in its presence is moving enough." She straightened her shoulders and brought her straying hand back to her front, holding it steady. "Welcome to the abode of Lord Mausollos and Lady Artemisia. I am the temple Praetor, Ktja, keeper of these walls many years past. Tell me—which of you is the Lady Ashelia?”

A ripple passed through the group, each of them reacting differently to Ktja’s proclamation. Ashe flinched and recoiled from the Viera yet her face was stern and preparing itself for a possible confrontation, while Fran merely shifted her weight and scowled, intent on watching what Ktja would next attempt. Balthier folded his arms and glared hard at the Viera priestess, his mind awash in curious suspicions and devising various methods of escape should the need arise.

Sensing their shock rather than seeing it, Ktja inclined her head and her smile became wistful. “I intend no harm, nor do I plot betrayal. Until but a moment ago I believed the Princess to be as dead as both the Bhujerban Marquis and the Empire assured us.” Ktja’s eye was unfocused and lost, staring forward as if in a dream, and Ashe was surprised that she had not ere realized it: the Praetor was blind.

Her pretense for combat abandoned, Ashe recalled her manners and stepped forward to kneel, holding her hand flat to her heart. She felt it beating steadily beneath her palm and was soothed by the rhythmic drum, feeling it spread out through her hand and properly compose herself. Ktja sensed the close movement and turned her head in the appropriate direction, her one eye staring absently into the distance.

“Mother Superior, here stand the Lady Ashelia.” The priestess attendant spoke from her position at Ktja’s side, gently grasping hold of the Viera’s hand and leading it to rest on Ashe’s face. Ktja stroked the princess’s cheek as if testing the surface of it, tryng to detect signs of hesitation or discomfort. Finding none she firmly placed her other hand on Ashe's shoulder and squeezed it once.

“Arise, Princess of Dalmasca, and let me look upon you.”

Ashe did as she was told and remained still as Ktja’s hands carefully brushed her face as if reading every feature, starting with the crown of her head and descending across the bridge of her nose, the angles of her cheeks, finally meeting at the point of her chin. One finger strayed over Ashe’s mouth and a joyous expression lit up Ktja’s face, setting it in a glow of light that seemed to shine from within. She removed her hands and let them fall to her side gracefully. “Though you may doubt such, the years have done much in the way of good. Your Highness is so like Her lady mother and lord father, t'were as if these hands touched their faces.”

Ashe knew that the combined effort of Vieran sense and a heightened perception made up for Ktja’s lost vision, as well as she knew that the compliment was not lightly paid. She could not help but to smile and attempt to convey her gratitude in every word uttered, hoping Ktja would acknowledge it. “So I have hoped. It is of great pleasure to hear it confirmed. I thank you…” But there was something nagging at her, something she was not sure how to address without appearing much too blunt.

Unfortunately for Ashe, and indeed she found herself silently swearing when she heard him speak, Balthier voiced her internal concern. “How is it that you were able to recognize her without being able to see her?”

Ashe turned and scowled hard at him, an expression he ignored as he continued to watch Ktja intently. The Viera priestess was completely unfazed by his question and glanced over to her attendant, who had not moved from her position at Ktja's side. The priestess flushed slightly from the brash course of conversation yet remained stern as she addressed the sky-pirate, holding her chin high.

“Behold,” she said, and pointed to a smaller statue set on a pedestal to her right. It was an Ashe-in-miniature, clad in traditional Dalmascan royal garbs and with the crown jewels set upon her head. Though nowhere near the impressive size of the statue of Lord and Lady, it was still captivating for how well it resembled Ashe. She felt strange to look upon herself in such a form. “We are Dalmascans and do not easily forget those who have ruled.” Her demeanor eased a bit as she quirked her brows and smirked. “Nor are we above petty gossip: whispers of Your Highness defying not only the Empire, but supposed suicide, have not fallen on deaf ears.”

"They certainly had not fallen on mine, Nara." Ktja said as a delicately arched brow pointedly displayed her surprise at the knowledge withheld by her attendant.

“And should they fall onto Archadian ears, hmm? What then?”

“Balthier!” Ashe hissed and made a small clenching gesture with her hand as if to snatch his words from the air and crush them in her fist. He glanced at her movement and smiled, totally unconcerned with her minor threat.

“Just making good on my promise to your liege, princess.” He charmed and winked at her. She responded only with a glare.

Ktja cleared her throat and spoke evenly to them all, though addressing Balthier's concerns. “Archadia holds no sway in these walls or in this heart. There is naught to gain from an alliance, and they have not tried to interfere with our ways—we would forbid it with every way of the law had that come to pass. That should suffice for reassurance, yes?” Though phrased as such, Ashe knew it was not a question. Ktja turned to where Ashe stood, the princess's anger ebbing in the wake of the Praetor’s gentle reprimand, and her expression was curious. “Might I inquire after Your Majesty’s company?”

“Forgive his insolence, please, Praetor Ktja. He is Balthier…” Ashe trailed off, realizing how little she knew of the man’s background and what knowledge she did possess she was unsure whether t'was suitable to be shared with such an audience. Ashe watched the smug way Balthier strode up to the priestess attendant and slipped his hand into hers, making quite a show of kissing the tense flesh and her gaze narrowed. She recalled his wink from moment's ago and all the wry, catty retorts she had endured in the past. She made up her mind. “… A sky-pirate of both notorious fame and ill-worth, once imprisoned for the theft of royal property.”

Balthier’s words were pleasant and well oiled without a trace of menace. He appeared unaffected by Ashe's attempt to tamper with his charm. “And you bade me to kidnap you to seek other treasure. I do say, Lady Praetor, t'is most refreshing to these old bones to know that not even royalty are above consorting with the common-folk. Truly, they are not as ghastly as I have ere reckoned.”

Ashe chose not to dignify this with a retort and waited until Balthier resumed his position in the back before continuing with the introductions. “And this…” Yet she was caught again, unsure what to say of Fran if Ktja had not noticed another Viera in her midst. The younger Viera seemed content to speak for herself, however, and walked forward, extending her hands to grasp Ktja’s own in a gentle hold. As she clasped them the Viera priestess visibly stiffened, though her face was not quick to hide her surprise before it gave way to delight.

“Happy tidings do I give, Tante. I am Fran—”

“You are of Jote’s kin,” Ktja whispered and the words made Fran hesitate, though she did not move or break their fasted hands. Ashe found it difficult to read her expression, not knowing the Viera warrior well enough to understand if this exchange was particularly tumultuous for her and not being able to translate the look on her face. She hoped it did not aggrieve her as had their excursion to Eruyt.

Ktja continued. “It is in the air about you, Nichte. A strong breeze I have not recently felt yet will not soon forget, however long ago I last looked upon your sister. Sag mal, have the ways changed since my days in the Wood? Does She now allow us to venture free?”

Ashe despaired at having put Fran in such a position yet made no move to stop it, unsure how to ease the discomfort. Even Balthier chose to watch the exchange with rapt attention, eyeing Fran intently with a gaze that Ashe had seen before: he wore it when they planned to seek out the Garif, when Ashe spoke of needing the nethicite to fight the Empire. It was a curiously concerned expression, one that softened his eyes and made his lips harden into a thoughtful frown—Ashe had not seen him oft wear such a mien, thinking a sky-pirate only capable of a limited emotional range that disregarded severity for temerity.

To her credit Fran neither paused nor flinched, but she could not bring herself to look Ktja in the face when she replied. “Yes,” she said in her usual subdued brogue. It was but a simple word that quivered and did not do much in the way of convincing, Ashe thought, and undoubtedly it did not fool Ktja.

Should she harbor any suspicion, however, she did not show it. Instead she leaned forward and placed two light kisses on Fran’s cheeks, a gesture of noble blessing that Ashe recognized from her years at the palace, tears shining in her bared eye “At long last…” The Praetor sounded truly pleased, her face alight with joy. “I have hope to meet more Nichten, should they choose to visit. Will you bid them come, Fran?”

“I give you my word: I will give them yours.” Fran’s voice had ceased to tremble though Ashe did not like the heavy weight that was set in it. It sounded too hollow and flat, a tone with which the princess was quite familiar, having spent much time in the midst of downtrodden and near hopeless Resistance members for the past two years. She could think of nothing with which to comfort Fran and thus stood helpless, feeling terribly guilty for bearing witness to such a personal scene.

Happily did the focus shift once the greetings were completed. Remembering the reason for the audience, the priestess attendant politely cleared her throat and addressed Ktja with a soft voice. “Lady Ashelia would seek your blessing, Lady Praetor, on this day of tribute.”

Ashe spoke up eagerly, hoping to receive but an inkling of the hoped relief she had felt ever since deciding to pay the temple a visit. “I journey onward to roads long abandoned and to roads not yet forged, to make way for Dalmasca’s rebirth. Were I to travel with such weight I fear I would burden myself… and others. I cannot abide this weakness. Much is on my mind of late and I make a plea for you to release it…” Though Ashe knew that Ktja’s blessing would not rid her mind of its painful reminiscences, it would do much in the way of removing their jarring sting. Ashe could not ask for anything more that that, nor did she expect a miraculous reprieve from her sorrow. Only time could transfigure her wounded memories into recollection’s faded scars.

Ktja nodded solemnly, her face sympathetic to Ashe’s spoken words. The princess surmised that the Viera priestess sensed more than she let show; there was a mysterious air swirling about her, a brisk chill that made Ashe’s skin prickle and her ears tingle with a wordless hum. She felt such power before: once when she had retrieved the Dawn Shard, and again when she sent a probing thought to her blood as the pure descendant of the Dynast-King, bidding hers to commune with the mysteries of Raithwall’s. When Ktja spoke it was as if this same hum, this unknowable force, spoke with her. Ashe wondered if Fran and Balthier noticed the change in the Praetor’s cadence. “Your request is granted, princess. Do you seek release by the ways of Lady Artemisia or that of Lord Mausollos?”

Balthier interjected before Ashe could respond, his look fiercely calculating, as if trying to unravel a tenfold-tangled coil. “What are the differences between the two?” He asked the Praetor, keeping his tone as deferential as he could.

“Artemisian Reprieve requires a meditative fast and vigil in Mausollos’ tomb free of talk and rest. It cleanses conscience and the consciousness so that the Partaker might receive a curative Vision of Our Lady.” Ktja paused, as if detecting the way Balthier’s mouth twitched at the word “might.” She smiled slightly at his interest. “Hence the name. Mausollean Amnesty requires an elixir to be prepared and imbibed, sending the Partaker into a vision meant to soothe the burdened mind. Lord Mausollos oft drank such potions when first he fell ill as a means of relief from the infection. It is for Her Highness to decide the preferred path.”

Balthier set his hands on the leather straps that circled low on his hips, looking doubtful of the whole matter. “And how long do such sacraments take? We are operating on a bit of a tight schedule, you see, and it would bode little good to have the princess dazed for days.”

Ashe wanted to chide him for being so capricious. Had he no shame, no sense of consideration? He chose to follow her here, he chose to be here, and now he chose to be a nuisance? Though a nasty voice reminded herself that she was stalling…

“The vigil is a night-long task, while the vision lasts the length of a dream. Precepts decree that the Partaker must reside within the temple to share the Lord’s slumber. Should milady chose it, she must remain here for the night—should Her court will it, they may also be housed in separate quarters. Although… Balthier,” Ktja spoke the sky-pirate’s name with an amused quirk of her mouth. “One would do well to not limit the lengths of grief by Hume-constructed concepts as time.”

“Ah, yes, because no other race deigns to carry a pocket-watch.” Balthier looked to Ashe and gestured with an open hand, dropping the previous conversation quite abruptly. “Choose your poison, princess, but choose it carefully. We have places to go, things to see, empires to thwart…”

“I understand.” Her voice was dangerously low, brimming with malice. How she hoped that Balthier did not see her as low as all that, as one fast to throw down her duties for the sake of a diversion—she was well aware of her obligations and she had little need for his sly reprimands. What right did he have to sway her to anything? He was but a sky-pirate, after all. Ashe steadied her gaze back onto Ktja, forcing her words ‘round the lump in her throat. “Then I choose Mausollean. Would it be much trouble?”

“None at all,” Ktja assured her warmly, and her priestess attendant hastily scurried towards a side room, gesturing to Ashe when she reached its door. The princess followed without hesitation, leaving Balthier, Fran and the Praetor alone in the Lover’s Apse. Balthier glanced at the chamber to which Ashe entered, plainly wanting to follow after, as did Fran, though Ktja held out her hand and clasped Fran’s wrist in her grasp before the other Viera could move.

“Nichte, wait. A word, if you please.” Fran spared a glimpse to Balthier, who nodded once and disappeared into the smaller chamber, closing the door behind him to give the Viera privacy.

Ktja remained silent for several moments, the brisk wind swirling about her again, making Fran’s sensitive skin prickle. “The Green Word—it has not changed, has it?” She asked at long last, her voice in a neutral emotional ground.

Fran’s gaze fell to the floor briefly, zigzagging its way across the glossed tiles. She was not ashamed to be caught in a fable, though she wished Ktja would not look at her thusly; the elder Viera’s eye was full of a serene tenderness of which Fran felt undeserving. “To you I spoke a lie, Tante. I have as much a right to call the Wood home as Her other deserters.”

Ktja fell to silence again and Fran could not help but look upon her once more, curious at what she would find writ upon her face. Her expression was remarkably kind, aided by a faint smile stretching ‘cross her lips, and a light in her scarlet eyes that Fran had seen only by those still in the Wood. When Fran looked into her own face such a light had gone missing, the glow of the Silent Voice forever dimmed—she wondered how Ktja managed to grasp it still. “You may be gone, but She has not left you. You were born from the Wood and though you make your path elsewhere—with whatever wayfarers you may choose—the Wood shall always be your home. From you, that can never be taken.”

Fran shook her head at this, not sure if she could believe such a thing. Her past was surely as abandoned as she was forever bereft of its warmth. The Wood was part of this, as was the sense of home it previously embodied. Fran felt not the Wood’s Presence when she opened the way to Eruyt, managing only to grasp at stray words and thoughts as she honed her ears and mind to the long silent Voice. The Wood seemed to speak riddles to her, the Green Word forever mangled into an arcane tongue Fran could not decipher. Had the Word changed and the Wood with it? She thought this fearfully, fleetingly, ere settling on the bitter truth: The Word had not changed, nor the Wood—she had.

“I fear I am lost—in favor and truth,” Fran said at last, thinking on her reasons for leaving Eruyt a half-century prior. To be in the world and of the world… To know the Ivalice she had only heard in song and story, to cut a path the Wood had not forged—that is what she had desired. It had been an arduous expedition for Fran, the years somehow renewed when she discovered Balthier not long after his own homeland depature, still somewhat a Hume-boy of ten-and-eight at the time of their meeting. They had need of an unquestioned companionship, of freedom both on the land and sky, and fortunately they could provide such to each other. Fran had never offered allegiance to parties and gave no quarter to such propositions that came her way, sensing they had no need of her, had mind only for the novelty of her kind and Viera mysteries. Balthier… Balthier had such a need, though he hid it well and made sure to speak lightly when first they met. The look was plain in his eyes; oft were they the betrayer of his devil-may-care demeanor, and Fran was inspired to comply with his offer of camaraderie based on those eyes alone. They were an interesting puzzle to her, a path she knew neither its depth nor destination, her mind keen only on the journey of such intriguing inner-workings and the lonesomeness laid about it.

She had seen such longing in Humes before; in truth it was not an unknown trait to her. They, Humes, were ever a lonesome race, seeking privacy and familiarity with conflicting hands that were ever at war with the other. It was a mystifying discord. Such solitude exceeded social standings and clans, infecting them all—for example, it was plainly writ in Ashe’s every feature, resounding from her flesh like a mournful dirge of which Fran’s ears could pick up but a mere trace. She was alone, forced to flee and tell lies to spare her life, and wanted nothing more than familiarity—to find a sense of home. Fran wondered if Balthier had detected this within the princess, though he was slower to grasp such things through no fault of his intelligence, only the limitations of his kind—and she wondered if this explained his ransoming of her late husband’s wedding ring, as well as his offer to aid her to Archadia.

“Do you regret your decision, Fran?” Ktja inclined her head as her question faded into the silence between them, drawing Fran from her reverie.

Fran shook her head after a moment, her words following shortly thereafter. “My choice is long since made. It cannot be undone… I have no use for regret. To make an end of my choosing, to live as I want, how I want—that is what I wished fifty years ago.” Fran thought back to that day and familiar words surged on her tongue. She spoke them ere she had time to think, in the ancient word of her kin. “Ich will die Welt—nicht der Wald. I am free, but as such I am Viera no longer.”

Only another of her kind could understand the implication behind those words. To be a Viera meant to be the Wood’s warden, Her loyal child for long years, forever stationary in Her Boughs. To seek freedom meant sacrificing what ties Viera had to the Wood: cut one’s past to cut one’s path. Balthier had spoken thus when she told him of her decision, and she would forever be pleased at his keen grasp on what, precisely, it meant to forsake your history to forge your Self.

Ktja nodded as if a realization was dawning slowly upon her, the chill wind wrapping itself around her impressive form, filling her with its acumen into thought and heart. “Eternal Children of the bough and earth, keepers of the Wood, ears for Her Words—that is Viera to me. The Wood is of Ivalice as Humes are their cities, as Viera are to Eruyt. The Wood belongs as much to the world as do Her children.”

Jote would not agree with this, Fran knew. She would say the Wood was not Ivalice’s domain but a realm forever meant to stay separate, untouched by the hands of Man. To hear such a thing from Ktja made a part of Fran regret having given Jote too much credit into the Lost Viera’s thoughts: Jote could not know Ktja’s mind as she could not know Fran’s. “You say this, having the choice taken from you? You left by hands of Hume-men, not by your will.”

Ktja opened her hands and made as if to pull at an invisible chord, undoing all that had been previously perceived and decreed of her. Fran shivered, feeling the wind snake over her again, wondering at what Ktja could accomplish with her unknowable power. “It is as you say, Fran—I have no use for regret. It would not bring the Wood back to me, nor I to Her. I have found my peace in this world and so may you, the gods-be-willing.” Ktja paused as if listening to a distant voice, lending her ear to its counsel. She closed her eye and breathed deep. When she spoke next her voice was thrice amplified, strengthened by a lilt whose origins Fran did not know—she could only assume the temple patrons, both Lord and Lady, gave aid to their Praetor by way of wisdom. “There is beauty in Ivalice in spite of its pain and wretchedness, beauties of shifting face and form, differently seen by different eyes. Fear not loneliness. Fear not the hunger of a heart—for every plea there is a promise, for every stray hand there is one to grasp. I pray you find this vow, this offer, and may you find it soon, Nichte. Be as the Wood to this Hume-man, be Home, Heart and Hearth to those of your troupe that go without, as the Lady Ashelia is to Dalmasca.”

Fran’s eyes widened at this profound revelation, at the kindness in her words and the beauty in Ktja’s heart, the force of it shining through her skin as a transcendental light that warmed Fran to the core. When she recovered from the thrall of the propesy, she leaned forward and gave Ktja the kiss of greeting, a friendly press of her lips to either cheek. Ktja responded by holding out her hand in search of Fran’s own, squeezing it hard when she found her mark. A great weight seemed lifted off Fran’s conscience and her gratitude went beyond her ability to describe—nor was she exactly forthcoming with such information. She opted instead for a safer path on which to close the conversation as she gently steered Ktja towards the side-chamber, their steps unhurried and padding softly on the Apse’s floor. “They sing of you still, Tante. The Viera will always honour, in hymn, in dirge, those they have lost.”

Ktja bowed her head and smiled. The expression seemed somehow sheepish and humble, a surprising sight on so impressive a figure. “Even Viera have need of remembrance. They are not unlike the Humes, the youngest of Ivalice’s brood. Let them sing, Fran, for the world has much need of mystery. T'is one of its beauties, yes?”

The hour tolled in the distance by the soft cadence of bells. They were aided by the hushed hymns surging up from the temple’s main hall, the voices of many joining in a voice of one, offering praise and prayer to beloveds, to gods, to Fates and Man for hope and salvation. Fran thought of the Hume-weakness called loneliness, thought of the hunger of a heart, and did her best to suppress a shudder at the bewildering aspects of Hume constructs, of Ivalice itself, and how one might ever find beauty in such abject, world-spread despair.