Ashe and Basch share a strange moment in the Giza Plains.
Ashe eased her eyes open as a peal of thunder boomed overhead. Above her was the wooden frame and burlap cloth of what she guessed was a tent. A rip in the fabric was dripping rainwater; as the thunder died away she could hear the dull patter of rain on thick canvas.
Clenching her eyes closed, Ashe lifted herself up on an elbow. Her head and neck ached; her brain might have been full of cotton. She lifted a hand to her temple and felt the faint ridge of a thin wound, mostly healed and scabbed over. Gently she pushed the coarse patched blanket off her legs and swung them over the edge of the makeshift cot, casting her gaze about the small tent to assess her surroundings.
They'd removed her clothes and armor and boots and placed them neatly at the foot of her cot. They'd dressed her in a thin sleeveless shift, the hem frayed and torn. Looking down to her right, Ashe saw a small chipped ceramic bowl of clear water, a damp rag laying across the wide lip. Next to that was a dented metal bucket, freshly rinsed. Around both bowl and bucket were an assortment of empty vials and bottles.
At the mouth of the tent with his back to her sat Basch, whetstone in hand as he sharpened a quiver of used arrows. Across from him, leaning against the thin wooden beams making up the tent's frame, was his longbow and her own sword, newly sharpened and gleaming with a fresh polish. Ashe furrowed her brow in confusion. How long had she been unconscious?
She pushed herself off the cot and a wave of dizziness and nausea overcame her. She gasped, falling back against the makeshift bed, scattering glass vials as she yanked the metal bucket off the floor and began to wretch. When nothing came up, she leaned back against the side of the cot, breathing deeply. She hadn't heard him approaching, but Basch knelt beside her, pulling the bucket out of her grasp and placing the damp rag in her hand. She wiped at her mouth and closed her eyes and Basch pressed his hand against her forehead.
"Your fever has broken. We were worried," he said, pulling his hand away from her and reaching for the flask tied at his waist. "Drink this. You need something on your stomach." Ashe took the flask and sipped, coughing as the spiced wine stung her raw throat.
"Where is everyone?" Ashe rasped, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand and sipping some more.
"They've gone to Rabanastre to gather provisions. We've run out of medical supplies."
Ashe replaced the cap on the flask. "Why aren't we in Rabanastre? We are only just outside Jahara; Rabanastre is only a day away on foot." Ashe braced herself on the edge of the cot and hoisted herself up. Gripping her hand, he helped her to her feet. She walked stiffly to the tent opening and peered out at the wet landscape. In the distance she could dimly see the tall spires of Rabanastre. "The Imperial caravan might be there already."
Standing just over her right shoulder, Basch looked down at her. Her face was so solemn as she stared off toward the city. Such a drastic difference from what he'd seen the past few days.
"It wasn't safe to move you," he told her. "The antidote we used needed time to work. Moving you would have caused the poison to spread more rapidly; you could have died." Ashe sighed and turned away from him, moving further into the tent. She picked up her belongings and spread them out on her bed, preparing to dress. Basch continued to look out through the rain, idly turning an arrow in his hands. Before long Ashe was back by his side, fully dressed and looking herself once more, if a bit pale.
They stood in silence for a moment as the rain pattered above their heads. Ashe glanced up at him and licked her chapped lips before speaking. "Thank you for taking care of me. I know I haven't been the … easiest person to get along with."
Basch returned her gaze. "I couldn't blame you if I wanted to. They made a very compelling case against me." He lowered his gaze to the arrow in his hand, turning it over and over. "It looked for all the world as though it had been I who had killed your father. It was no large leap to assume I had a hand in killing Lord Rasler as well. I was, after all, the last one to see him alive."
Ashe placed a hand on his bare arm so that he would look at her. Her stare was hard and earnest as she told him, "That wasn't your fault. I know that now. I don't blame you, Basch." He placed a hand over hers and closed his eyes.
"I may not have loosed the arrow that killed Rasler or held the sword that felled King Raminas, but if I had been more clever–if I had been closer to Rasler, if I'd seen that soldier sooner–"
Ashe took the smallest step toward him and brought her hand up to his lips, effectively stopping his words. They looked at each other for a long moment, the silence stretching between them. Ashe shook her head slowly.
"I said I don't blame you, Basch. You shouldn't blame yourself, either."
Basch took her slim hand in his and pulled it away from his lips. He brushed his thumb over her fingertips, looking at them rather than at her face. He couldn't bring himself to look at her; the urge to kiss her had never been more powerful than it was in that moment.
Ashe was looking at him intently. Their bodies were very nearly pressed together, and she was trying to quell the urge to close the tiny gap between them. His hand was engulfing hers, leaving his lips open to her own should she wish to unite them.
"I see you've recovered."
Ashe jumped away from Basch as Balthier's amused voice cut through the rain. He was standing mere feet away, hands on his hips. Penelo, Vaan, and Fran were a few yards behind carrying packs of supplies. Basch backed up to allow them entry to the tent. Ashe's face reverted back to the familiar solemnity upon their arrival.
"I am fully recovered, thank you. Let's pack things up. We need to get a move on."
Balthier shot Basch a sly look, eyebrow raised, as Vaan and Penelo began packing their belongings. "As her highness commands."