Author's Note: Because I love this pairing and because there's not enough of their pre-game relationship, so here's a little snapshot of Ashe after Rasler's death.

Welcome to my on-again-off-again relationship with present tense.

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Disclaimer: I do not own Final Fantasy XII, nor any of its respective characters, settings, etc.

Moonlight

The church ceiling looms high above their heads, filled with silent whisperings and the tinny resonance of an organ. Only a year prior, all of Rabanastre gathered here to celebrate the marriage of Princess Ashelia and Prince Rasler. Now people come together again, but instead of white, there is black everywhere Ashe's eyes wander. Up, down, left, right, draped over benches, draped on the attendees. Ashe has never been to a funeral before, only heard of them and their customs, but through all the stories, she could have never imagined so much horrid, horrid black.

There is a tug at her hand – her father squeezes her fingers reassuringly. Ashe swallows a lump in her throat, eyes ahead, watching as the priest stands before Rasler and speaks. His words are a mess of syllables and consonants and scripture to her; she is lost in a sea of black, too numb to feel anything but the pull of her father's hand, too deaf to speech. All eyes are on the priest, and those that aren't are steady upon her – though she cannot sense them, not even those of the captain who watches her from the corner of the cathedral, and who feels hollow inside his suit of armor.

When the eulogy is done, the procession begins. Rasler's mother rises first: she stands over his casket, but does not cry.

"My heart," whispers King Raminas, "watch the queen. What do you see?"

Her voice is cold and distant. "A woman who does not weep for her dead son."

The king nods somberly. "Nor must you weep, though your hurt may be greatest. That is your burden and your duty, for now you must be strong before your people."

Ashe does not understand why she is allowed to laugh at a wedding and not cry at a funeral, but has no heart in her to fight. Her lashes flutter as she blinks away tears, then stands to approach her fallen husband.

Each step feels insurmountable as she climbs toward him. She does not want to see his face frozen, his chest devoid of breath. But on she climbs, passing the queen, whose eyes are steady over the mourners and would never again be turned on her child.

Ashe's shadow is cast over Rasler's body, bathing him in black. He is drowning in roses, each immaculate and still as his porcelain face. The casket rises above him on either side, and he is regal, filled with a tragic beauty he never knew in life. She does not reach to touch him; he looks made of glass, as if even the subtle brush of butterfly wings might shatter him.

But he is shattered already. Though she cannot see it, she feels it – the gaping hole in his heart – hidden beneath his armor, away from prying eyes, where his life tumbled from his body and was lost in Nalbina.

She wills some great act of magick to resuscitate him, her dear friend, her dear husband. But he does not move, just lies before her, neither smiling nor frowning.

Every muscle in her trembles with grief, her eyes screeching in protest, demanding she cry. The entire church is watching her, gazes glued to her back – her father's burns hottest, but strangely is the one she feels least. Her knees shake with horrible tremors, and she can no longer contain her pain; she falls at his side, hands quivering on the edge of his coffin, a single tear down her cheek.

Behind her, her father clears his throat – Ashe does nothing. Basch rushes up the stairs and helps her to stand, a pair of gentle steel hands. She follows the warmth of his grip, feeling rather than seeing, as she descends back into the sea. By the elbows he guides her down the steps and to her seat, saying nothing as he bows and retreats back into the shadows. King Raminas mutters something, his words twisting and slurring in the air but never reaching her ears, as he leaves to ascend the stairs to Rasler's body. Ashe wipes the tear from her cheek and sits in silence as the procession continues, asleep to the world.

"You are a princess!" King Raminas scolds. He does not yell, for such is not his way, but his voice drops dangerously low – meant only for Ashe's ears as she kneels before him, he on his throne. Both are still in black. "You may one day be queen!"

Ashe's chin dips low, her eyes to the ground. "Father, I-"

"You cannot show such weakness before your country!"

Her head flies up. "What weakness is emotion? What weakness but that of all men?"

"We are royalty." King Raminas stands and approaches her. He seems to radiate anger, though he glides rather than stomps. Ashe lifts herself from the ground, gaze locked with her father, wishing she were his height. "We are above weakness."

Her fury is not so graceful. "Did you not cry when mother died?" Her hands ball into shaking fists. "Do you not laugh? Do you not feel anger now? You cannot deny grief! You cannot deny one emotion and embrace the others!"

He reaches a hand to touch her face, but she turns her head away. "Ashelia." Reluctantly, she fixes her eyes on him. "We are a symbol to our people. We are a symbol of power and of perfection. We must show strength in times of great suffering, be it war or mourning. That is our duty."

Ashe's eyes narrow, her voice matching her father's in venom. "Duty will not save those who have fallen." She turns and stalks away.

"Ashelia! ASHELIA!"

She waits to be walking down the corridor before rubbing furiously at her eyes.

Hours later, when the sun has set, and the world is blue fading into black, Ashe sits in the gardens. She wears white, a nightgown woven of fabric thin enough to let her feel the evening chill. Goose pimples rise on her flesh and up her arms like frostwork, but she has no wish to go inside. She ignores the cold, instead stares down at her fingers as she twirls a violet between them.

"Majesty," comes a gruff voice to her right, one she has not heard in weeks. "It is late."

"I had not noticed," she says for sake of propriety, for she knows the time and has no intention of moving.

Metal clinks; Basch kneels before her. She does not meet his eyes.

"Majesty, it is cold," he tells her, as if she also had not noticed that, and the fact would incite some great change of heart within her.

Ashe watches the violet spin between her fingers. "I cannot feel it."

"Majesty," he says, and Ashe grows tired of hearing a name that is not hers. "You will catch your death of illness. There is a warm bed awaiting you inside, and a warm sun awaiting you tomorrow."

"Then I will wait for it here," she mutters, "and be the first to greet it when it wakes."

A heavy sigh before a hand clad in steel falls over her own. The violet is still. "I will accompany you inside." He takes the flower from her and places it aside, then lifts his hand for her to take.

Ashe looks at it with the same interest she held for the violet. Her reflection is warped against the steel wrapped around his fingers. She catches glimpses of herself: the color of her hair, the blue her lips have turned, her cheeks, pinkened from the cold. She sees herself, a girl, not a princess or a woman who would be queen.

"Majesty…"

She takes his hand in her own, so small and fragile in comparison, and raises it to her lips. She places a light kiss to the metal; her shoulders shudder, tears fall from behind closed eyes. The steel is colder than the night air, but beneath it is a warmth she can feel – not like the warmth of her father, given to approve, but the warmth of a friend, given to encourage. She seeks it, placing his hand against her cheek as tears tumble. Rasler's face is in her mind, smiling, a vivid memory of the last time she saw him.

"Princess…" The voice spills not from Rasler's lips, but from Basch's. Her eyes flutter open to see him watching her. There is pity in his eyes, and sympathy, and guilt, and so much more warmth than she can ever remember knowing – and this warmth is that of a lover, given to ignite. Her sobs are greater, the tears hot on her face, sliding down her neck, beneath her nightgown. She presses her cheek harder to his hand, knowing that is all she can do, and wishing it weren't so – wishing she were just the girl she saw in his armor, not a princess, not a royal, not a symbol.

"Ashelia…" When he speaks her name, she feels her heart beat for the first time that day. But it does more than beat, it drums and thunders, and she can feel her blood, too, and the air in her lungs, and the prickles of cold on her skin. She wants nothing more than to be a teenager, free to marry whom she wishes and weep when she wants.

Basch's fingers wrap around her own as they leave her cheek. He stands and pulls her gently up; she obeys.

"I will escort you back to your room," he says. His voice is soft, calming, warm – but not so warm as his hand as it leaves hers. Frost nips at her again, and her heartbeat begins to hush as she walks beside him into the palace.

When they reach her chamber, a servant opens her door and stands waiting for her to enter. She turns to face Basch, who keeps a respectful distance from her. They share a look that lingers far too long, evoking one from the servant, who glances curiously back and forth between them.

Basch speaks first; his voice is hard as his armor. His weakness is gone. "Good night, your majesty."

Ashe nods. "Good night, Captain." Without another word, he turns and walks away. His steps are purposeful, but her eyes are not on his feet, rather his hands as they swing stiffly at his side.

She mutters a thank you to the servant and enters; the door is shut behind her. Her room is large and warm, a warmth she cannot feel. She goes immediately to the far side of the room and pushes open her window. Cool air rushes in, rustling her gown and hair. Ashe looks out over the grounds as she waits for the warmth to leave her room, and soon sees Basch walking off to the stables.

He is illuminated against the night, the moonlight shining off his armor, flickering like candlelight. He does not stride with the same fervor, as he did when he walked away from her. Away from prying eyes, his gait is slow and calm, as if he is one with the night, not simply walking through it. She watches him until he disappears into the darkness, then turns away from the window.

The exhaustion of the day sets in, and she staggers to her bed; within minutes, she is asleep. Her nightmares are of Rasler, glowing ghostly blue, stuck between life and death, but her dreams... Her dreams are only of the knight in the garden, a beacon of white in a world of black.