Disclaimer: No characters of the game were harmed in the making of this fic. FFXII belongs to Square Enix and its wonderful, wonderful programmers. All situations presented are pure fiction and should be taken with a spoonful of sugar.

Welcome back to Ivalice.

Treasures of Nabradia

The murkiness of the Deadlands clung to our swords and armor, made them dull and less than they were. Mist and mist oozed together, wove strange patterns and whorls in the air. It was as if we were wading through mud. Wading and drowning. Everywhere was mud and the not-yet-fully-dead.

I saw the lotus peeked out of the bones of the fiend I felled.

Like a whirlpool, the little flower almost threw me down into the depths of despair. The current was strong but I kept hacking into long rotten flesh, fought the tide of mud, monsters, and memories.

The blinding sunlight as we ran through the rushes. The cool water and slimy mud seeped through our soles and fingers as we crouched, breathless with laughter. Hidden from view, we watched how the nurses cried out in dismay and the guards frantically searched, and shared looks of accomplices. I noticed how torn up your fingers were, beads of red clung as you parted the bright green screen of reeds. There, the "Treasure of Nabreus". The intense blue against the reflected sky took my breath away. Yet, it paled next to your proud, laughing eyes.

"Highness?"

Basch. He was quickest to notice my 'moods'. Always was, always will be. The fact irked me then, how he can read me so well, but there was nothing I could do except to brushed past and pretended my almost-twenty years was worth more than his almost-forty.

"I am fine, Basch. Let us move on. We need to reach the Necrohol and find the others before it is full dark."

I hope I did not sound as cursory as I felt. Basch gave no hint he had noticed my tone (despite being able to read me, he, on the other hand, was rather too good at hiding his own thoughts) and squelched forward to part the reeds for me. The lotus was again hidden from view and we pressed cautiously into the Necrohol. I tried not to look back.

I looked back and watched the frail bloom of a lotus slowly disintegrated, its petals spun about in the middle of a heap of decayed flesh and goggle skulls. I recalled bygone scenes of two children, caked from head to toe with mud. They stood close together, shared easy companionship in hastily stuffed snorts, shuffled feet, quirked grins as they were lectured by hoarse nurses and sweaty guards.

Not yet lovers, already friends, and just that day engaged to be married.

Their best clothes were of course ruined beyond washing, but nobody truly paid any mind.

The smell was the most disturbing part: at once stale and rotten. The air laid heaving like a dying animal, sometimes it twitched in visible throes, gasped out Mist. We drew breath with difficulty and reluctance. My thoughts turned to the others, already here somewhere within the damp dim-lit corridors. Hopefully Fran would be able to withstand this place. I blamed the fog of the Deadlands for separating our parties and making our hunt harder than it has to be.

The constant assault of baknamies and floating fiends left us no time for thought as we ventured deeper into the cloisters where the mark was said to haunt. We came to this fell place in search of great power and much needed coin, but now I found the chance of us leaving alive much reduced. It maybe we might join the throngs of shuffling zombies instead, doomed forever to wander the slanted halls and broken beauty in a horrific imitation of the once joyful place.

Basch was a silent companion for most of the time. He was a solid wall, a loyal soldier, and anything but distraction from the memories which assailed me at every turn of the corner.

We ran through the airy halls filled with ever present sunlight, the smell of flowers and green things. Ducked and weaved and evaded. The guards were giving us a good chase for once. Some banquet in honor of this lord-something-or-other. We burst into a vacant room and looked for hiding places. You accidentally stumbled against a wall panel and a secret room slid open. We didn't hesitate at the unfamiliar darkness but plunged boldly in. As we ran through the narrow in-between walls our hands never fell apart. I marveled at how large your hand was at thirteen years, still slender but already callused like the hardiest of soldiers. Sunlight at the end, we slowed and tiptoed our way into a small garden walled off from the rest of the world. The pool was the sky, filled with bright blue stars. You pulled me to the edge and we collapsed, half in, half out. Somehow we kissed the awkward, clumsy first kisses of every almost-grown. Your beautiful fingers tangled in my hair and I wished time would stop. I wished it on the small stars floating among the crystal blue treasures of Nabreus.

I still remember the red of your face and your sly, shy smile. I still remember how we kissed again, slow and sweet and how I thought time had really stopped. We woke late in the night to rough shaking and scandalous gasps and more lectures. I remember how our hands had to be pried apart.

I caught myself twisting the empty space on my left hand. I had tried to stop this habit, ever since I first noticed it. But like the many other things I had tried, it was no use.

We were all ranged around the small room: Vaan and Penelo in the corner leant against each other, Balthier and Fran consulted each other by the doorway, on the lookout, Basch not too close and not too far, on the endless task of polishing arms.

He glanced at me and I realized I had been staring. I shook my head and resumed my own polishing. He turned back to his blade with an impassive expression, but I knew him better. He was still worried. How could I have forgotten that I used to know this man so well? The lies of the Empire were devious, but it still shamed me to know I had ever doubted such a man, a true knight, the one who brought him back to me through blades and fires and wounds of his own.

I moved closer. He tensed and relaxed all in one movement. It was almost imperceptible but I caught it all the same. Weeks of travel together reminded me of his subtle expressions. I hesitated. But what was the harm? There was only my willingness in the way.

"There are too many memories of him here."

The cloth paused on the flawless edge and he nodded. I saw his eyes far away in distant times.

They called him the 'Everbright'. In his royal regalia no one ever doubted the name. He was often in the barracks before a march to make merry with the men. His voice was rather legendary, in an infamous way. He was humble, kind and gentle, not one for wars, but no one could miss the glint of steel in his eyes when he disciplined the roughers. We would have followed him the ends of the Ivalice.

The lady was solemnly revered only as the 'Firelily'. She was also kind, a little sharp. In times of war she was more quiet and reserved, but her rare fury was a sight to behold. She often surprised the bitter old veterans by visiting with probably-flinched baskets of fresh fruits and good wines. And she could dice with the best of them without losing over much.

Soon some of the soldiers noted how they would often sneak off together, nobody knew where, when the carousing was at its peak. But since they always came back in the end, no one ever mentioned this curio aloud.

It was hard to look into her eyes when I bore him back from the battle, but I did it. The eyes that used to hold so much fire, anger at her enemies, anger at her fate, tempered only lightly by resolve, were only cold then, cold like my homeland's fierce snow and sleet, and as merciless. They were much more terrifying than the explosive outbursts of her youth. I found myself thinking, 'Ah, how she has grown.' What emotion was in me then? Was it happiness? Pride? Fear? I knew not. But she was a princess before. Now she is a queen.

A small smile touched his lined eyes.

"It was always a subject of much…interest, how long your highnesses would disappear for," And why. That was left unsaid, but I knew. He used to joke of rampant betting in the barracks when we were together in one of our hurried trysts.

I felt a smile too and the fog in my heart lifted just a little. Yes, it was not all sad. Even if the past was past, there was still one here whom I could share my treasures with.

"Do you remember of when we hid from you in the gardens?"

Do you remember?

Do you remember of when the sky seemed to always shine, the air seemed lighter to bear, the weight of the world less than a feather?

Do you remember how we laughed and played and loved?

Yes.

Do you think we will ever feel that way again?

You will.

And you? What of you?

I would like to believe so.

…

…

Wasn't there a saying of this from Landis? I recall you used to say it to me.

The past is a treasure. The future is a hope for more.

…Basch.

Yes, Highness.

Thank you.

A/N: Thank you for putting up with my less than perfect grammar. Those with questions, concerns, or comments in general, please fire them at me using the button below.

Thank you for reading.