Authors Note: The past month has been hectic. I was coughing for about a week and a half at one point, and bad. After a while, Rosa's The After portrait sprang to mind. In my view, she looks a little sickly and run down. Perhaps writing this is more catharsis; I feel she's been really, really gipped from the very start of this sequel. Bear in mind that I haven't actually played The After, so I could be off on some important information. Finally, some of this may make little sense; I wrote this while sick and some delirium may have crept in.
The days since her crowning were filled with the light of many blessings. They married to a delightful fanfare. With a little adjustment, her mother's wedding gown had fit pristine and beautiful on her sensual and vibrant features. She radiated love in those days, love and joy as she embraced each arrival, some small spark of her pricked by the absence of Kain.
Rydia had grown into a fine young woman in her own right. So much charm! The lady of Mist had made her life her own out of the ashes of her tragic past. Rosa couldn't shake her memory of innocent little Rydia, who with a little guidance, admirably found the courage to overcome her past on short notice. No matter her age, Rydia would remain just that. The soft embrace of well-wishing brought all those sensations back to light. No matter her age, Rosa would see Rydia as that sweet, courageous little girl.
Edge, rambunctious as ever, approached the throne. For all his womanizing, he made it into a princely charm. His words would have made any other woman swoon.
Every second, she watched that door, hoping that Kain would arrive without notice.
And the honeymoon...
Nine months thereafter, they were blessed with the light of life. Her heart melted as she held the tiny bundle of love in her arms, her bangs turned to drapes in her eyes. Every piece of that memory had etched into the deepest layers of her. Cecil shifted a bang behind her ear and kissed her forehead. He looked into his eyes, so serene and proud. He wasn't a changed man, nor she a changed woman, as the common myth proposed. Their love only grew stronger, their bond reproved in flesh, a new life born from the intricacies of light and love.
She coughed into her hand, the motion she made bearing the grace and elegance of royalty even in these trying times.
She traded her crown for a scepter.
It crushed her thighs for her complacency, the weight of time pressing them firmer and deeper.
The folds. The rumples. The tiny cracks between. They chose this fabric, this style, its color and size and shape, and still her royal robe left a dull ache. The white silk hung, the belt loose and light on her hips.
The air billowed her robe into softly licking her fragile skin.
She winced.
She rubbed her forearm. Her hand shrank back when a fire of protest leapt up at the lightest fuss of stimulation.
The flame trailed to her lungs.
It burst in her chest.
She barely held instinct in check when it erupted in a series of hacking coughs, keeping her hand at bay from her breast.
She gripped her scepter tighter.
Her muscles remembered the soft arc of her bow. How gracefully they once plucked the air! A soft hum would radiate from the twine, as soothing to her ear as a lone note from one of Edward's harps. Her arrows would sail through the air, flying with the grace of a dove and the speed of an airship, to hit the mark without fail.
Her fingers slipped under to grasp her scepter anew, rolled as it was a few inches nearer to her softly swollen knees. In softer days, they carried her across the world. Forests. Deserts. Caves. The moon! Those days had faded like the shadows of Cecil's homeland that once glistened in the night sky.
Bruised. Her arm pulsed heat where she so dangerously touched moments ago.
The heat rushed to her face and lit it pink. A phantom of her crown pressed against her temples. They burned.
Her heart...
"Are you alright, my Queen?"
Concern. Genuine. It carried not on the phrasing or tone of his words, but the unspoken quality of spirit that took shape from the spaces between. A true warrior's heart, the pride of Baron. It made her proud to know she'd mothered a nation of compassion at the same time her husband fathered one of justice.
The fire crept up again.
Her teeth gnashed as the burn pierced her heart deeper this time than any other she'd felt.
Desert Fever. In the dawn of her life, she suffered that cruel affliction. How earnestly she called to Cecil then, his image haunting her like a spell of kindness sent down to ease her pain. Dead. Living. Illusion. The Cecil of her fevered dreams might have passed for any. Her relief at his survival when she awoke from that delirium had a short-lived time as the highlight of her life, moment after moment eclipsing that with wonders.
She reached out at his face, the knight of her memories standing proudly before her clad in the darkest, cruelest armor. Wait.. hadn't he transcended?
"Rosa?"
Yes... she looked to her right. An illusion, same as any other. Her love sat in the throne beside her, glowing bright with the light she'd seen in his soul since their youth.
She nodded, her voice wavering in the dangerous line between rest and response where so many thoughts meant as words became cries of her body for aid that would not come.
Desert Fever. It burrowed into her lungs, her mind, her heart. They said a Sand Ruby could heal the ailment. With age, it showed its true fangs. Scorched. Her insides felt scorched as the deserts of Damcyan, her outside aching at the lightest touch.
Strange that she did not see Ceodore enter the chamber and approach the thrones. His first day of duty as Captain of the Red Wings, a proud day for Baron and the Harvey line.
She smiled.