Disclaimer: The Final Fantasy series and its characters are property of Square Enix. I do not own Final Fantasy XII and make no profit off this work, just like I made no profit when you bought the game. Curses!
A/N: 'Mechanicsburg' is the name of a PA town, and my current favorite place name. I wanted to do a series of one-shots or loosely connected one-shots based on game mechanics, when characters are on the field and in the players' control. They were supposed to all be humorous, but then a drama snuck its way in and everything was shot to hell. So I give you first a dramatic piece while I tinker with the others. Cue violin!
possible spoilers Please decide for yourself what they are; I just write the stories.
"The Feywood"
Ashe hated the Feywood. The relentless attacks with no space to breathe in between, the twisted paths that went nowhere, the silence, the cold, the sense of trespassing on something sacred. And worst of all of these was the Mist.
"I see him everywhere," she cried, as another figure ghosted its way into the silvery shroud. Silver Mist, silver armor, silver ghost. It was all Ashe could do to stumble forward, her legs ever threatening to give way under the weight of her grief.
"It is not him who you see," said the Viera softly behind her. "Yourself, only."
She was right, but that made it all the more horrible. Unlike the Feywood's creatures, the Mist did not bother with a continuous assault. It struck when Ashe happened to raise her eyes from the uncertain marshy path in front of her, on the periphery of her skittish vision. And because every time it was as startling and upsetting as the first time, Ashe would snap her head around to follow the thing which she knew to be illusion, just in time to see her own back retreating, her own tired feet rushing into the unknown.
This is how I ran through the halls of the palace to the War Room, where they told me Rasler was dead and had left me a widow at seventeen. This is how I ran from the Throne Room, my father's death and queendom dogging my heels. This is how I ran through the sewers, under the bewildered feet of my people, amid the filth of my people, newly aquainted with Dalmasca. This is how I ran. This is how I am running and will run for so long as Rasler's ghost bids me go on.
I just want to know where I am going.
Her goals were always as elusive as the phantasm in the Mist. Riddles. Promises of 'maybe's. The sliver-thin, treacherous space between rocks and hard places. Hope comprised of subtle poisons. But on and on she went, her past self and her present both chasing the future, which refused to reveal its destination. And by the time Ashe thought she'd figured it out, she was already there - and lost as ever.
Nor was there any use in looking back. Ashe played tricks on her own mind by hoping that the Mist would stay ever in front, obscuring only what was to come. The path already trodden, she thought, might at least be left clear; if she could not find the way ahead, she wanted to see what steps had led to the here and now. But whenever she glanced over her shoulder, she found that the pearly fog had sidled 'round behind to enclose her. No past and no future, except for the ghosts.
Ashe began to run in circles.
After another round of mechanical fighting, from which she rose to step over the carcasses into the Mist, Basch put a diffident hand on her shoulder.
"Highness," he said, his mournful voice touched with gentleness, "this once, permit me to walk ahead of you."
She nodded wordlessly, too exhausted to protest the need of a shield. Basch trotted to the front of the party triangle and she fell back, adjusting her stride to match Fran's. The figures in the Mist looked different from back here, vaguer. They only suggested pain, and Ashe found that she did not have to accept what they implied. If she looked away very carefully, the shadows in the Mist were only shadows, caused by air currents and tricks of the light. The hurt was still there, but lessened.
From the way Basch was turning his head and shifting direction, Ashe knew it was different for the fallen knight. Whatever figure he saw in the Mist was likely his own; one ghost exchanged for another.
"Are there none who walk the Feywood freely?" Ashe asked, half to herself.
"Only those without regret," replied Fran. Ashe looked respectfully away - the Viera, living with regret for two of Ashe's lifetimes, surely knew of what she spoke.
Turning away turned her gaze backwards once more, but since her eyes no longer sought phantoms, she saw the people who were really there. Vaan and Penelo, their fair heads alternately darting and ducking, children squirming away from nightmares. The charm and dash wiped from Balthier's face to reveal something more grimly honest.
Regret: one more sad thing that bound their group together. Ashe wished it for her companions even less than she wanted it for herself. But she did not think she could bear to be alone in the Mist. Those around her were her companions - though once unwanted - and Ashe supposed she was thankful they were there, all their ghosts beckoning them, for now, toward the same unknowable future.
- - - - -
A/N: When I first entered the Feywood, I
really thought the Mist figures were random people. It took me a
while to figure out they were just reflections of the current party
leader. A little less cool, but still creepy and confusing. Anyway,
feedback is alwasy appreciated, so please do leave some!
