I haven't ventured into fanfiction for...years, apparently. Playing through The Last Story, however, the interaction between Lowell and Syrenne brought to life that shipping fanaticism I thought I'd outgrown. And as I see it, any urge to write is a good urge to write, even if I'll look back at it years later with embarrassment; that's why I won't delete my old fics even if I'd rather hide them in shame. Sometimes I still get reviews and realize that they are still entertainment for others, even if I wonder, Why? So this ones for you, fans of The Last Story in the present and the future - may you all enjoy! The events of this fic would occur around chapter 30 or 31 in the game, so be warned of spoilers and assumed knowledge.

Blackout Memory

When Syrenne noticed a man slip into the bar stool next to her despite the many other vacant seats at the pub—so close that she could smell that distinctly male musk, a mélange of sweat and cologne—she instinctively turned to him with a groan of disapproval. Here comes someone to ruin my night of mindless, introspective drinking, she thought. When she identified the man as Lowell... well, not much changed.

She remained on the defensive and asked with unconcealed suspicion, "Ugh, what're you doing sitting next to me? I refuse to be your wingman again."

Without wincing at her hostility, Lowell retorted with a smile on his face, "That was a terrible one-time experiment that will never be repeated."

The criticism stung Syrenne a little even though she knew that it shouldn't, and more importantly that she didn't want it to. She grabbed for her drink and took a big gulp, leaving only an unreachable ring of ale at the bottom of the glass. Was this her third drink, or fourth? She thought it was only the third but her head was beginning to feel heavy, a usual symptom of the fourth drink. Admittedly she had been consuming drinks one after the other that night, no breaks for chit-chat or rowdy antics as would occur normally. Just her and her booze bonding together at the bar. Perhaps this was why the effects of the alcohol were setting in quicker than usual. She'd have to be careful because just one drink could make all the difference.

You see, the progression of Syrenne's behaviour tended to be very constant. The first drink, a plain ol' pint of whatever was in stock that night, gave her that dose of tipsiness to set the mood. The second drink was usually a shot, a bonding experience among pub-goers – "drinks for everyone!" she'd announce, forming (or forcing) unity among that night's crowd. That done, she'd return to drinking pints, maybe sharing a pitcher if she was in the company of others. The third and fourth drinks would encourage her to take action, be it dancing with other inebriated patrons or picking fights and generally being confrontational. By the fifth drink she'd loose her tongue and share her honest opinions on anything that enticed her, even if she'd be embarrassed just to think it on an ordinary day. These opinions would transition into something dreary a few drinks later, in what had been deemed Syrenne's downer phase, and also the point where blanks appeared in her memory. Beyond that came the regret. Oh, the regret.

"So then I'll ask again what you want from me." Syrenne's tone began to sound argumentative.

Lowell turned his attention towards Ariela behind the counter for just a moment, raising his index and middle fingers on one hand in a silent request for more drinks. "Nothing more than your company," he answered after turning back to Syrenne.

"I don't believe you," she snapped back. Two replenished glasses of beer were set down on the bar next to them. Syrenne was the first to reach for one of the pints and downed about a third of it while Lowell elaborated.

"It's true! I want to steer clear of the ladies tonight."

From behind her glass, Syrenne's eyes narrowed at Lowell. There he goes again, counting me among the boys... She found his explanation curious, however; and not only in the manner that it ignored the curves that any other man couldn't help but stare at. He was avoiding the ladies tonight, of all nights? She could feel the truth tickling her vocal chords and just couldn't let it go unspoken.

"What, are you daft? Every single woman in the city is fantasizing about meeting the man of their dreams tonight." Without so much of a hint of shame, Lowell grinned at this comment. Oh what, consider me a woman only when I make remarks like this? There would be teasing to come, but she couldn't stop now. "Everyone's babbling to each other about Zael and Calista's wedding tomorrow. They're infatuated with the rise from mercenary to knight and the love that's come out of it. They want that, and you—"

"I am completely aware of all that," Lowell cut in. "And that is why I am steering clear of the ladies tonight. Look at them!"

Against her better judgment—not that much of that was left, to be sure—Syrenne obeyed and scanned the room. There were far more women than usual in this pub that was usually populated by men drinking and being raucous with lewd storytelling and behaviour. Any women she usually saw were either outcasts like herself or in the company of a man, but here they were, groups made up entirely of females gathered together chatting, shamelessly pointing at men while asking each other, 'What do you think of him?' Many of their gazes rested on Lowell and they whispered about how they'd seen him with Sir Zael, how maybe he'd be the next one to be knighted...

"They are all looking for commitment," Lowell said with a horrifying emphasis on the final word.

Syrenne's irritation began to bubble. These girls were looking for sincere, gallant knights in shining armour. Not non-committal one night stands like Lowell. Not enablers of corruption like Zael. Poor Calista... poor girls... poor Syrenne! She wanted happiness too and that thought made her want to cry. Happiness was never at the bottom of the next glass like she'd hoped it would be; why did romance seem to be mandatory for happiness?

"Honestly Lowell," she chided, "you're too damn old to talk like that. Shouldn't you be thinking of marriage too? You're not getting any younger, and the girls your age are looking for serious relationships – soon you'll just be a lonely old man!"

"I may not be getting younger, but as long as I keep my age confidential I can pretend I'm in the age range of the free-spirited young things."

"Disgusting," she spat, motioning to Ariela for another beer. The drink was served so quickly that the barmaid had evidently foreseen the request.

While Syrenne steadily emptied her glass, and then another after that, the bustle of the pub began to dull. The conversations between new 'friends' and old acquaintances ended either in propositions to move elsewhere or declarations of a failed night of suitor-searching. Either way, the crowds cleared out until only the regulars remained, their friendly, familiar exchanges accompanied by the tune of the wandering harmonica player. He had surely been playing the entire night, as he did every night, but only now did Syrenne take notice of his music. It was a romantic song, filled with longing and loneliness all the same. Syrenne listened to it thoughtfully, her stare fixed on the bar. Somewhere in her head the conclusion was made that the song was meant to be the background music to her actions exclusively, which made her night of sitting by the bar all the more pitiful.

"Another drink please!" she blurted out suddenly. Taking a quick glance at Lowell's glass, she found it half full – that couldn't be the same pint that he had ordered when he first sat there, could it?

Lowell leaned forward on his bar stool, elbow on the counter and his face deliberately placed in Syrenne's line of vision. "What's eating you tonight? You're not even acknowledging anyone, unless you count your booze as a person. Hm... actually, knowing you..."

"Oh shut it." It was a half-hearted comeback. Syrenne continued on dismally, "Just because I'm not paying attention to the blokes here doesn't mean I'm not thinking about anyone." Without having to be asked, she kept on rambling. "I just think it's bollocks, all of this... nonsense. All of these people are so bloody keen for a marriage they really know nothing about. The bride and groom aren't even happy. It's sad. It's sad that all of those women are getting so happy about meeting new lads who are just gonna dump them tomorrow morning, at the same time that Zael and Calista exchange vows without even a bloody smile on their faces. It's sad and it's wrong." And if her tone of voice was any indication, it was final.

To the astonishment of Syrenne, Lowell didn't pick out anything tease-worthy from her tangent. Even more surprisingly, he might not have been looking for her to say something revealing; his face showed no signs of amusement. He sat thoughtfully for a few tense seconds. When he finally spoke, his voice was solemn. "You're right. Love may not be for me, but I would never want a person to live without experiencing it."

"Except you keep girls from feeling it all the time!" The words were out before she considered where they were going. She had drank too much to think of muting herself now. "Real love is mutual love. Any girl who falls for your flirting will never have that, and I feel bad for—I mean, it right pisses me off!"

"They can all get over me and move on to greater things."

God, it's as though he rehearsed justifying his philandering tendencies. Just how normal is all of this for him? That familiar sting struck Syrenne. "That doesn't work if they have to see you every day!" She could feel her emotions exposing themselves on her face but she lacked the control to push them away, fake a smile or even an agitated frown. It was all sadness. Her forehead was wrinkling and, ugh, her nose was starting to drip. She sniffed and reached for her drink, trying to be self-assured with a steady hand as she picked up the glass. Make herself look like an alcoholic, fine... anything was better than looking weak.

When she heard Lowell ask, "What is that supposed to mean?" she persistently kept all of her attention on her drink. Had she looked at him, she might have caught a glimpse of fear on his normally calm face.

Syrenne muttered, "It means you're stupid..." Vocabulary was never her forté, but as she gave that response it felt as though words were failing her now more than ever.

Without acknowledging her reply, Lowell shifted in his seat and reached into his pocket to pull out some gold coins. He set them down on the bar and called out to Ariela, "If this isn't enough to cover my and Syrenne's drinks, just let me know tomorrow, alright?" After receiving her okay, he hopped off of the bar stool and turned his attention to Syrenne. "Okay, up we go," he said, slipping his arms under hers and coaxing her up.

"What? No!" Rather than putting all of her weight into resisting, she made a final reach forward and snatched her not-quite-empty glass.

"As if you're not drunk enough as it is..." Lowell murmured more to himself than to Syrenne.

She wobbled on her feet, but managed with reluctant consent to follow Lowell as he guided her to the pub's second storey. The handrail and Lowell's arm around her midsection were crucial in completing the slog up the stairs. His hand felt hot on her bare skin so she took a swig of her drink to cool down, facing away from Lowell with her hair hiding her face.

"Oh will you stop that?" Lowell scolded as he stole her drink away with her spare hand. Before she fought to get it back, he chugged what was left and set it down on the first table they passed after reaching the second floor. He made a noise of repulsion after emptying the glass. "I swear they deliberately pick out the strongest alcohol just for you."

Syrenne let herself laugh, just a little. "Good people," she said. With a slight twist of her body, she freed herself from Lowell's support and walked to her room's door. She carefully repeated a chant of left foot, right foot, don't fall, in her head while moving forward, using the floor's wooden planks as an indication for what a straight line should be. Making a point not to turn her head too far towards Lowell once she reached the door, she called back, "Thanks for providing a mobile support beam. Well, you have a good night then." Her escape was so close, the cool metal of the doorknob beneath her hand. A comfy bed and a night of blackout, dreamless sleep was just beyond that door. Everything would reset in the morning, bad feelings forgotten.

But as she moved to push the door open, Lowell appeared and held it open for her instead, waiting for her to step inside. "I can't let you off that easily," he said.

Too worn to argue, Syrenne entered the room and tossed herself deadweight onto the bed closest to the door. Her voice muffled by the comforter, she urged, "Then you talk."

Lowell stepped in after her and shut the door behind him. Never one for modesty, he sat on the same bed as Syrenne without reservation. "We've spent many a night at pubs together, drinking to the point of brutal honesty, yet I have never seen this particular kind of personal honesty from you before."

Groaning against the bed, Syrenne turned onto her back so that her voice would be clear. She fidgeted awkwardly when she caught Lowell's stare, acutely aware of the circumstances in which he usually looked down at a woman like this. "Yeah—you never stick around late enough to see it," she explained, turning her body slightly away again. "No one does, not these days..." When it was clear that Lowell was not going to say anything to break this chain of openness from Syrenne, she continued with a sigh. "It's just lonely, is all... being on the outside of everything."

"And here I was getting my hopes up that this drunken drama was all about me."

"Don't flatter yourself." Syrenne flipped fully onto her side and curled up slightly, her arms hugging herself. "Zael and Dagran are all busy in high society. Yurick's still a kid whose bedtime is way too early even if he's gotten more social. You're always off with a new girl every night, and Mirania's been doing some research or something every chance she gets." She paused. "That just leaves dear Syrenne, with no ambition but to get totally hammered." Cheers, she thought, to the one constant, reliable presence in her life.

But rather than offer a little sympathy or an apology at her dramatic monologue—not that she wanted his pity or anything—Lowell just laughed. It started with a bit of hesitation that acknowledged Syrenne's seriousness; however, that courteous snickering gave way to a boisterous 'Ha!' sooner than she liked.

"Oh, you're so insensitive!" she yelled without looking up. With a blind jerk of her leg she managed to connect with Lowell's torso. It only shut him up for a second, though.

Once his fit of laughter subsided, Lowell took a deep breath, cleared his throat, and readied his serious voice. He placed a hand on Syrenne's calf, gentle and comforting, and offered reassurance in a way that only Lowell would: "I think you should sleep with me."

"You—WHAT?"

His hand was rapidly removed from her leg as a barrage of kicks and shoves forced Lowell off of the bed. The disjointed protests of, 'Wait—Let me—I didn't—' weren't given the time to be completed before Syrenne's response of, 'No! No! No! No! No!' cut them off.

Having surrendered his perch at the end of the bed, Lowell stood next to Syrenne and stared down at her, although Syrenne refused to regard him with even a glance. "You misunderstand," he insisted. "This is not an offer for a night of sweet Lowell loving. This is the company of a friend, available to you tonight and any night in the future when you're feeling a bit lonely."

To Syrenne's horror, she considered it. Not for more than a moment or two, but still! She looked up at Lowell and very deliberately stated, "No."

A taunting smile on his face, Lowell asked, "You do understand that I'm just offering to stay here in this room with you so that you don't have to fall asleep alone...don't you?"

And again the answer was no; only this time she did not speak it.

"Oh come on now, I thought you loved suggestive, misleading invites like that."

Instead of starting any exchange of wit—let's face it, she wasn't of sound mind what with the mix of alcohol and Lowell tormenting her mind—Syrenne once more covered her face and whined melodramatically. The reaction only further entertained Lowell, although he seemed to agree that he had done enough teasing that night. He urged Syrenne off of the bed so that he could pull the bedsheets aside and tuck her in properly. With her cozily wrapped up on one side of the bed, Lowell squeezed onto the other side and lay next to her, his arm naturally settling around her body while keeping that blanket between them as a boundary for physical contact. Those feelings of loneliness were lost in his company, she had to admit. But still...

"You'd better be gone by the time I wake up, y'hear?" Syrenne mumbled, her eyes closed and her mind already half asleep.

Lowell's smooth voice could be felt against her ear. "Of course. Sneaking out of girls' rooms in the middle of the night is my greatest talent."

Stifling a laugh, Syrenne couldn't even muster her usual exaggerated anger when she said, "I hate you." And a satisfied chuckle and his arm tightening its hold around her waist were all that she got in response from Lowell.

... ... ...

Even before she opened her eyes,Syrenne's head gave her a particularly brutal good morning. Throbbing and swirling at the same time, Syrenne wasn't sure that she was ready to attempt having her eyes accosted by whatever beams of sunlight pressed through the shutters. She let out a groan and covered her face with the blanket before opening her eyes, but her stomach took this step forward as a cue to begin gurgling and pushing whatever was inside up towards freedom. A bit too familiar with the sensation, Syrenne threw her bedsheets aside and prepared for the scramble to find a place to puke. There, right next to her bed, was a bucket waiting to fulfill this very purpose. Without fully getting out of bed, she snatched up the bucket and emptied her stomach's liquid contents. Once that suffering was over, her aching head took the forefront again. She half-heartedly pushed the now-heavier bucket away and let the upper half of her body dangle over the edge of the bed.

How much did I drink last night...?

The fact that she didn't even dare to guess a number was the first sign that she had drank too much. The more obvious sign was that her memory had a major blacked out segment. Sitting at the bar, having a few drinks all by her lonesome, Lowell sitting with her to avoid commitment (ugh!)... She didn't remember much of the conversation that came after that. Blathered a bit too much about her qualms with Zael and Calista's wedding, but her distaste for the high life was hardly a secret.

At an exceedingly gradual pace, Syrenne lifted herself fully back onto the bed, and then even more slowly brought herself to a seated position. She continued the slow and steady trend until she made it all the way to the door—although admittedly there was one trip back to the bucket before she got that far.

It couldn't be called 'fresh air' that greeted her when she finally left her room, but it was better than the stifling air that she had breathed so far. Ariela was cleaning the tops of the tables on the second floor, already setting out coasters and candles in preparation for the night's crowd. When she noticed Syrenne, she smiled in greeting. "Good morning, Syrenne! Last one up as always, I see. I was getting worried you'd sleep through the wedding."

"Mm, yeah..." No harm in trying to satisfy her curiosity. "What the hell did I do last night?"

Understandably in the habit of being asked such questions, Ariela did not hesitate to answer. "Nothing out of the ordinary—don't worry. Just chatted with Lowell and he helped you to bed when you'd had enough."

Massaging her head, Syrenne muttered, "More than enough, I'd say..." Ariela just smiled. Oh sure, it's all good for her when the tavern's patrons get carried away. "Thanks for filling in the gaps, then." The gap that she most wished she remembered was still missing, though, but she'd leave it as is. Lately more than ever she wanted to hold onto every memory of Lowell that she had, so the thought of this missing one left her a mite empty. Ariela wouldn't have the answer anyway; it's a memory that only Lowell would hold on to. Maybe one day he would tell Syrenne without her having to ask.

But if it's just stupid drivel, then the useless flirt can keep it to himself.