A/N: This story is heavily influenced by the track "Two Funerals" by Bear McCreary and also by the episode "Act of Contrition" on Battlestar Galactica. Just so you know that I own up to ripping other people off.
-----
It has been some time since she has attended a state funeral, and this is her first time experiencing one in Archades. There had been no time to properly bury and remember her father, but she remembers Rasler's. It had been a mixture of Nabradian and Dalmascan rites. The expected silence of a Nabradian funeral with the only sound the whispered prayers of a Dalmascan cleric. The clothing of a Dalmascan widow and the open casket of a Nabradian ceremony.
In Archades, there is pomp and there is ritual. But there is no sincerity, no meaning. It is a show and a display. She isn't sure why she has agreed to come in the first place – no bodies were ever found, and so Dalmasca did not hold funerals. The slightest chance still exists, she reminds herself. But in Archadia, they are dead. No matter how much she tried to convince Larsa otherwise, the day is here.
Larsa sits in the front of the temple, Basch in full armor at his side. She represents Dalmasca a few pews behind, her face veiled so that no one can see the disgust in her face. The temple is adorned with the black and crimson of House Solidor, and the air is thick with the scent of burning incense that is nearly choking her. When she entered, she had been overwhelmed by the sheer number of people in attendance. That sniveling streetear Jules had even made an appearance, his clever face more amused than saddened. Perhaps people came to say they'd been there for the prodigal turned hero's funeral?
Two empty caskets sit in the center of the room draped in the Archadian flag. When the man at the front finishes his imperfect and generic eulogy, the caskets will be taken out and paraded to the grounds at Elysion. An order of judges will fire a shot for each year of life while the drums of war beat. She smirks, wondering how many shots they've estimated for Fran. A proper military send-off for pirates normally condemned to hang in the public square.
"Did you know they held a funeral for you in Archades after Vayne announced your death?" he asks quietly.
She shakes her head in disbelief and sits on the dock beside him, the port of Balfonheim surprisingly quiet and subdued behind them. The loss of Reddas has left the pirate city in a state of shock. "A funeral for me?" Vossler had never mentioned anything of the sort during the years spent under the streets of Rabanastre.
Balthier laughs. "Oh yes, nothing they love more than a good funeral in Archades. And since there was nobody left in Dalmasca to hold a state event for you since they killed them all, they decided to hold it in Archadia. Bit strange, don't you think?" He slides off his shoes and sets them down behind him on the wooden pier.
They captured her country, announced her death…and held a funeral for her? "I don't understand."
He shrugs and dips his feet in the water. "It's an event to attend. A very morbid way to socialize if you want my opinion." His eyes are hidden from her. "I don't want a funeral."
The eulogy remembering a true son of Archadia and his faithful companion mercifully ends. A clinking gaggle of judges raise the caskets and march down the aisle and out of the temple. She feels the edge of one judge's cape swish against her leg as he passes, and she tightens her fist around her handkerchief. She isn't crying, but apparently it is expected and frankly encouraged at an Archadian funeral. The louder the mourning, the greater the spectacle…and the grander the crowd that will follow to the burial ground. It sickens her to her core.
Larsa does not look at her as he and Basch pass, his young face clouded with sadness and she hopes guilt for allowing this pathetic event to happen. A Rozarrian delegation slowly filters out, and now she follows. Her own Dalmascan maids are crying audibly and clearly making more of an effort to behave properly. She will not lower herself to such things.
The sunlight pierces through the darkened temple as the grand doors are opened, and the judges carry the caskets to the first airship docked outside. She watches Larsa, Basch and several Archadian aristocrats board the next ship. The first ship departs, and the breeze from outside rustles her veil.
A judge approaches and nods politely. "Lady Ashe, you will travel to Elysion with the party from Mount Bur-Omisace." She does not acknowledge him aloud, but moves to stand patiently. A group of acolytes bow to her as she approaches. The ship's hatch opens and she enters.
When the vessel is full, the hatch closes and the ship takes flight. The route takes them past the Draklor Laboratory, and she wants to beat her fists against the window in anger.
They leave for Bahamut on the morrow, and they may die. "Why don't you want one?"
He is still looking far out on the water, yet his hand is mere inches from her own. She threads her fingers through his and he surprises her by squeezing back tightly. But the rest of him is completely calm, and there isn't the slightest indication that he is upset for any reason. "It is meaningless." Balthier turns to face her then, and she sees the slightest quirk of his lips. "A leading man doesn't die, Princess. Why hold a funeral for someone who isn't gone?"
"You're lying," she responds softly.
Balthier turns back to the sea and lets his thumb run gently over her knuckles. "Yes, I am."
Her nerves are about shot after the past few days. She is resigned to what she must do. She must kill Vayne Solidor to regain her throne, but that doesn't make her anxiety disappear. The odds are against them, yet he still remains beside her. This brief moment of calm is probably the last they'll get, and she slides over a little to lean her head against his shoulder. So much will probably remain unsaid between them but in this instance, she needs this.
"Balthier, why don't you want one?"
His hand leaves hers and instead wraps around her. They sit like that for some time, and she closes her eyes. She can only hear his feet splashing about in the water beneath them. Finally, she feels him kiss the top of her head gently.
"Because they bury you in the ground."
Elysion is a surprisingly open and lush green space in the northeastern part of Archades. Grand estates line the edges of the park, and white marble stones speckle the verdant landscape. The hallowed ground cannot be profaned with ships, and so they must walk from the docks at the edges of Elysion to the final resting place for the empty caskets. She wonders why the trampling feet of mourners are not considered abhorrent. She only follows the judges and Larsa's party, but already the grass has been smashed with dozens of footsteps.
The ground is soft and the scent of a variety of flowers drifts about where they lay on the hundreds of graves throughout the massive park. As she passes various stones, she notes that they are all nobility. It seems he will be laid to rest falsely among the family he ran from. And as for Fran, her wishes are ignored, and her false rest will be by his side. The whole farce astounds her as they reach the top of a hill and her eyes first spy the two open graves awaiting the empty caskets. She wishes to run as far as she can. Because they are not dead. They cannot be. It has only been a month. It all feels wrong.
The cleric from the temple, the one who had called him Ffamran and nothing else, opens a dusty tome while the caskets are arranged for interment. Larsa stands beside the cleric and his young eyes seem to veer downward into the empty graves. She wonders if he truly thinks them dead. Larsa has attended many a funeral in the past few weeks. His father, his brother, various judges in service to his family. Yet this funeral marks the first where death is presumed rather than definite. She wants to raise her veil and demand he call it off while he still can.
So many faces in the crowd are unfamiliar. Vaan and Penelo are in Rabanastre. They know Balthier and Fran must still live, and unlike Ashe, they had no political expectation to attend. She longs to be home and away from this green field. The cleric begins to murmur more insulting prayers. There is no Viera in attendance to mourn for her lost sister, and the mutterings about faith and gods are a far cry from any belief system he was like to have, if he had one at all.
Thankfully, this second pathetic eulogy is over, and the Archadian flags are folded into a tight triangle by the judges in attendance. That one who fled their ranks is now buried with full honors seems to upset the judges very little. But then again, she reasons, these men and women wear helmets. She looks to Basch at Larsa's side and his face is also masked, as it must be for now. Is he as insulted by this display as she is? She cannot tell.
Larsa is handed the flag from Fran's casket, and her eyes follow the boy as he clutches it reverently. Fran was no Archadian soldier. If the woman could ever laugh, now would have been an appropriate time. She is so busy watching this strange occurrence that she barely notices the judge now standing before her. The voice of a young woman emerges from the helmet as she holds the flag.
"He was the last of his line. Lord Larsa wants you to keep it," the judge says, waiting expectantly for her to take the blood red flag.
They will be leaving in a few short hours. And before that, he must leave the room and return to his own. His breathing is even, small warm puffs of air against her chest as she lies on her back. She runs her fingers through his hair and grins, still puzzling how they had gone from the dock to this in only a couple of hours.
The room is quiet, and she can see the faintest glint of his rings. The bright colors stand out against her pale skin where he holds her.
"Balthier," she whispers. Although she'd rather not wake him, they cannot risk being found. She lets her fingers run along the line of his jaw and touches his lips. "Balthier, it's time."
He groans softly and tightens his grip on her. "Not morning yet," he replies grumpily.
She chuckles quietly. "Come on, you have to go." Much as she wants to savor this last bit of happiness with him, her duty won't let her. She cannot board Vayne's flagship drowsy. He finally moves up to lie facing her and brushes his lips against her forehead. "Tell me something."
"Anything. Putty in your hands, Princess," he answers softly, his voice still clouded with sleep.
"When Archadia had a funeral for me…"
She can feel him stir more at her side, his hands all the more possessive and insistent now that she has ventured back to their earlier conversation. "What did they do? They didn't have anyone to bury, since I wasn't dead after all."
"Empty," he whispers in her ear. She feels a knot tighten in her stomach at his nonchalant reply, and he seems to sense a change in the air. Balthier presses a kiss to her forehead and then his lips travel across her face in between his words. "Don't need a body for an Archadian funeral. All about the ceremony. Rather mind numbing, actually. So I imagine they buried an empty casket for you just so they could say they did so."
He holds her face in his hands, and she opens her eyes. His face is serious, lines of frustration crossing his features. "It's for finality's sake."
She takes the flag with shaky hands, knowing that if she does not take it that it could spark an international incident. The drums begin to stir, and the pounding is like a steady heartbeat pulsing in her ears. The judge steps away from her, and she feels the soft cloth in her fingers. The first gunshot is almost like the blast of cannon, it feels so close. She actually jolts at the sound, and the flag drops to the soft green grass at her feet and unravels slightly from its tight folds.
The sound of grinding metal she can hear in between shots indicates the descent of the empty caskets into the earth. Her cheeks are wet, and she has no idea when she actually began to cry. Another shot goes off and she nearly jumps out of her skin. She can feel soft hands on her arms and knows that it must be her ladies supporting her as the drums play on. The judge from earlier is kneeling before her, refolding the flag and returning it to its proper state before handing it off to another of her girls.
They are not dead, she wants to scream. They cannot be. This entire act is an insult to them both, and as the guns cease firing minutes later, she can see members of the crowd beginning to wander away from the spectacle. No one is truly in mourning for them. The feet trample the grass of Elysion as they return to their ships and the rest of their lives. Larsa passes without so much as a word of apology, and Basch as Gabranth cannot offer a word of comfort. She hears them depart, and now she is alone with her ladies and the two ardents who wait with spades to finish the last bit of the ritual.
The girl nearest murmurs something to her about heading back to the aerodrome, but she asks them to leave her in peace for a few moments. They begrudgingly leave for the moorings at the edge of Elysion, and she stares mutely as the two men start to shovel the earth into the pits. The dirt smacks against the empty caskets within each of the graves.
"It's for finality's sake."
Each scoop of earth covers them up, and she understands why someone like Balthier was…
She shakes her head angrily and corrects herself. She understands why someone like Balthier is opposed to it. She looks away from the ground and instead to the sky.