The Halcyon Days

—A monologue

You are the first ambassador to be presented to the Queen. Although this generation of Dalmascan monarchs has wonderfully benign relations with the current King of the Rozarrian Empire, it is still an official initiation to show that the two nations bear some sort of amicable public relations. You are only slightly apprehensive to bear the faith in King Margrace amongst the people that border idolatry. You are, if you do say so yourself, a rather marvellous ambassador, diplomacy and subtle maneuvers as steeped in your blood as the air that you breathe. Besides, it was an inconsequential if formal event. And while the Queen Ashelia B'nargin Dalmasca is famed throughout the lands, so are many other personnel, many of whom considered unsavory conversation topics in public and fascinations in private. Her years of reigning have softened her demeanor like ripeness in fruits—she talks to all with a tone of authoritative familiarity, much different from the terse and regal Princess the country knew and mourned for a while.

You briefly think about how the crown changes one, before casting away such idle foolery.

In any case, here she is, in her full glory, and you hold your heart still, determined to not succumb to novice nervousness. However, she is addressing you—

Might I interest you in some tea? It is quite a marvel: fragrant to the smell, and bitter to the tongue, but leaving a heavy, aromatic aftertaste, almost sweet. Imported from Arcadia—

The queen abruptly halts in her speech, and gains a misty look in her eyes, as if she is admiring some mountains in the distance—through the palace walls.

But of course you already know much of Arcadian tea. It will be served after dinner, to accompany some light refreshments to cleanse the palate. The official dinner is not yet for another hour, however, and pray, let us not talk politics the first minute we meet each other.

Impeccably genteel, you judge, and bemusing in her odd air of intimacy. She has a good face for it, you think, and it is very wise of her to employ her natural gift to its utmost extent. Her cheeks are still rounder than expected from the Dalmasca line, age and adulthood not slimming down the cheekbones; and her eyes are gently dropping, a perfect angle of polite tenderness.

You move your tongue to clean the floor of your mouth, clearing your head.

You must not be fooled by this.

May I be frank? Forgive me if I seem obtrusive, but I do hope that we shall be quite friendly and candid.

You are somewhat disarmed by this. Some would call it unbecoming of a Queen to be so…personable, but those people were the lesser politicians, you know. In fact, Lord Al-Cid Margrace has perfected the art of unconventional kingship, and undoubtedly the Queen had her own methodology.

You reply with as much polite distance as you could muster.

A queen needs not friends, you say? Oh, pardon—a queen could not keep friends. Well, I suppose…a princess might, though, from my own experience. Let us pretend I am a princess still.

Her gentle longing must be a part of some act to gain sympathy, for you know with certainty that she would not want to relive being a princess. Those halcyon days, you think sarcastically, when all she knew were fleeing, desperation, and dishonor.

You keep your thoughts off your face though.

The palace guards announce the arrival of a knight. She beckons the unnamed knight in with a steady, circular motion of her hand, smiling at you half apologetically.

Roy? Something for me? From the city, you say, I suppose it must be somewhat urgent, or just really silly—it's been a while since I heard from them.

A knight walks up to her and passes her a small bundle. His eyes were reverential as if she was a high priestess.

Oh what is this? Thank you for delivering this on your day off—yes indeed I remember your knightly schedules, don't be silly. What sort of menacing Queen I would be if I only cared about nations and not its people? In any case, please excuse my rambling and get back to enjoying your day, don't be bothered by anything else! And bring my regards to the Madame—pick an orchid from the royal gardens for her smile, if you please!

You are faintly surprised by this sign of congeniality. Your King rules benevolently but detachedly—he would feed every poor man with the flesh off his bones, but ask him of the mundane days of the mundane guards? Perhaps it is the way of the Dalmascan people, you think impartially, and why Arcadia had fought this country for so very long.

Ah, Ambassador, I assume a healthy amount of curiosity is as essential to your role as any other virtue! The hostess shall requite your passions and impatience, and let us see what this parcel holds! It is so very small—Oh! Oh…

You cannot see the object, and can hardly make out an old-gold colored glint. However, the sense of loss washes over you overwhelmingly despite her sudden smile, and you start trembling uncontrollably. It is as if the room's air suddenly congealed and cooled, and the syrupy quality freezes you into a dazzled, confused jelly. The Queen smiles enough for her entire nation, and had enough sorrow for the same.

I guess…he found his treasure.

Silence. A polite cough. The smile stretches on for miles.

The Queen looks, well, looks a little like your first sweetheart, to be honest, when you chose a political career over her, and she lovingly accepted it.

It must be the curvature of the room, you decide, that casts an almost humanizing glow to her fair, tawny hair.

I have been thinking of a play, or an opera, dear Ambassador—would you care to listen to the bare plot of it? I promise you it is a rather funny story, and it is a quick one as well.

These people sure did have their quirks, you think as you detachedly smile and indulge her.

There once was a boy—don't all stories start off somewhere along those lines? Still, bear with me.

You smile and nod, because a good ambassador knows when to comply to the requests of foreign powers.

There once was a boy, who fought through many plots and assassinations to meet his girl. But then he died, and that was that really, for mourning was not something one could afford to live in for long.

You lose what little interest you had to begin with. You are clever enough to deduce through all the anonymity of 'girl' and 'boy'—not enough time has passed to erase the memory of the late Lord Rasler of Nabradia.

Then the girl met a leading man—he was a witty scoundrel, the type that all girls fall for at least once in their lifetimes (and hopefully only once). Well, the problem you see, was that the man had met a woman long before the aforementioned girl was anywhere near the picture. Actually, let's say they were married—yes, married and bickering but never angry. Despite his obligations, he still whisked the girl's feeble heart away, with a kiss of the hand and a promise that really did not promise much.

Here she murmurs 'his greatest treasure', and you are inopportunely reminded of this bar fight you had witnessed back home. The rabbit-eared Vierra stood tall and ferocious over a striking brunette man. Rozzarians were commonly dark haired, and Dalmascans fair-haired-it was actually rare to see medium-hued brown hair (and such painstakingly sculpted sideburns). The female raised an arm—with a long gash on it that scared even mercenaries—and was about to strike the man when he rolled off his seat and avoided it. The ensuing battle was glorious and brisk. The end came abruptly when the brunette cheekily kissed her and said something about only able to return something if he still had it, and the Vierra really shouldn't be mad, because his greatest treasure was always here. The Vierra seemed pleased with that answer, and they walked out breezily, just like that.

You have no idea what overcame you. You are hardly one for irrelevant thoughts.

The little band of misfits traveled far and wide, to pursue the Golden Glove—I'll come up with some better treasure later—through the skies and the sea, and certainly Rabanastre*. They toiled through dragons and spirits, fought side by side, swam by the beach, lunched in the forest, hiked through mountains, etc. The girl was shown all the glory of the world. The process was drawn-out, but really of little importance. What mattered was that the girl grew up, finally. And then this man too, died, along with his lady wife. Let this comedy end here. Was this not a droll story?

You fail to resonate with her humor. In fact, the whole affair is permeated with such a haze of pronouns and confusion, and the Queen seems so genuinely amused by herself, that you are slightly uncomfortable.

I had half a mind to order a play be made out of it. Alas, the time for comedy is over. Come, let me rest my arm through yours, and face the dinner-party together.

She smiles her famous smile (that is strangely warm and impassive at the same time), and all is right in the world again. Your pulse slows down to its normal speed and you stop hearing conflicting voices in your head—you know your role and you know it well.

The Queen takes your arm in an assuring and patronizing manner, and leads the entire room through the gates pleated in sunshine, and for a moment, both of you are golden.

*Where the player can take on a sidequest relevant to this romantic subplot, in which a man in love with a Vierra expresses his gratitude to Baltheir and Fran for showing him how a Hume and a non-Hume could be happy together. This was perhaps the only bit that came close to loosely proving the existence of any romantic inking in their relationship, although such interpretation is never about being canon or not.

Author's Note: It's been a while since I played the game, so please forgive any inconsistencies with the game play, although I did try to follow it accurately. The narrator is OC or NPC or whatever, it's not really important. I always felt like Ashe needed closure, but would never really get it, despite being able to move on rather well…