A/N: This was done for the LJ community 'springkink' and betaed by Mithrigil. It contains non-explicit sex and spoilers for the ending.
Basch sits beside the fire, cleaning his axe. Their camp on the Ozmone Plains is quiet, still, and the firelight gleams on the blade of his axe and on his scarred, dirty fingers in a poor imitation of blood and wine. Penelo and Vaan sleep, curled around each other like puppies. Fran is on watch, Balthier stretched out beside her with a blade of grass jammed in the corner of his mouth.
The grass brings back memories of Noah, of stealing sweets from the kitchen and fleeing to the stable roof, gorging on candy- sticky and melting on their tongues, teeth hurting from the sugar in a tingling pain- and chewing on bits of hay to pass the time spent waiting for the cook to give up searching.
A memory now, sweet as hot syrup drizzled across snow until it crystallizes, one that aches like a tongue prodding at a loose tooth.
He finishes wiping down his weapon and pulls the sheath over it, laying the axe near to hand. The air is pleasantly cool, warm breezes blowing from the deserts to the north, and they have dined well on hare, so he can be honest when he says that he is content. The deep gouges on his leg, courtesy of a feral chocobo, still pain him, but it is necessary to save their magic and potions for the others, for the children he's come to realize aren't truly children, for the pirates who aren't used to fighting all day and all night, for Ashe.
She is sitting across the fire, her knees drawn to her chest and arms wrapped around herself, her eyes fixed on the fire. He wonders what she thinks about, and laughs a little at his foolishness. She thinks about what she always thinks about: a lost kingdom, a rebellion doomed from the start, a motley band of people who may die in her service, an empire with as many soldiers as there are stars in the sky.
She senses his gaze, raises her eyes to stare at him through the leaping flames. He looks away first, returns his attention to removing the crusts of blood underneath his fingernails, and tries to ignore the weight of her gaze.
"Basch, come sit beside me." He pushes himself to his feet, hides a wince of pain, and circles the fire to sit beside her.
She is so young, her shoulders already burdened and hands roughened and nicked from weapons, and it pains him to see the change in her. She is nineteen. She should be dancing with Rasler in silver dresses, teasing her brothers, tormenting him and Vossler like she used to. And instead of doing that, she has become this whipcord-tough woman fueled by vengeance, a monarch without a country.
Ashe moves closer to him, and stills as soon as he notices. He looks away politely, and opens an arm to her. She slides into the space, allowing him to curl his arm around her shoulders, her bones thin and fragile as the wings of a bird. Her arm creeps around his waist, fingers playing idly with the tassel on his trousers. She is cold, and skinny, and dirty with the dust of travel, and every inch his Queen.
He is still, feeling her breath sigh out over his chest, and watches the stars move slowly overhead, bright and remote and silent like the memory of Noah. Ashe presses herself closer to him, and allows him to hold her tighter, to run callused fingers over her spine. Her voice, when she finally speaks, is thick with tears she will never shed.
"Do you think we can succeed?" Basch answers with the wearied optimism of a man who has suffered much and survived all.
"Yes."
They first lie together on the night before the Bahamut .
Her fingers slide underneath his bronze cuirass, warm and slender and kindling small fires wherever they touch, hooking into the straps binding it on him and undoing the catches. She strips his armor from his body, exposing old scars and old pains, pulls his greaves from his shins and his pauldrons from his shoulders, and she presses herself to his chest, all wicked words and gentle curves, so much like the ones he would see in half-fevered dreams in Nalbina.
She is unskilled and he uncertain, but she persuades him nonetheless, and it is sloppy and awkward and nothing like the fables of old, but somehow it is everything it should be.
While she sleeps on his chest, head tucked under his chin and his head full with the sweet scent of her, Basch stares into the darkness and pretends that he doesn't see the ghosts of Rasler and Vossler, dressed in the armor they died in.
Ashe has changed. Her hands, which he has grown used to seeing dirtied with blood and seamed with small cuts, are pale and perfect, and she now sits on her throne dressed in immaculate silver. She bears the weight of her crown proudly, and meets Larsa as an equal.
His charge bows to her, all grace and humility, and Larsa murmurs meaningless pleasantries to her, the words indistinguishable from where he stands in the doorway of the hall, boiling in plate armor and surrounded by sycophants. It is faintly absurd, this formal exchange, when these two young rulers have already forged a bond in fire and blood and steel.
Ashe stands- he notes that her hair has grown longer and lighter, bleached by the harsh sun of Dalmasca to an almost silver- in a rustle of cloth, accepts Larsa's arm, and they glide back across the hall towards the doorway, smiling and nodding to the delegations that surround them.
As they pass by him on their way to the formal state banquet, he feels Ashe's gaze settle on him. Then she smiles, and reaches out to touch his gauntlet.
The palace is abuzz with gossip over the happenings at dinner, but Ashe cares little for the machinations of servants, preferring to retire to her study with Larsa and pretend that she is able to speak freely, in this room with the windows open to the north to catch the breezes. The scent of Rabanastre floats into the room, smelling of spices and leather and the muskiness of the desert.
Ashe pours a goblet of wine and passes it to Larsa. She can feel the disapproval radiating from Basch, who stands near the closed door like an immovable sentinel.
"Basch," Larsa says, taking the goblet and sipping, "If the Queen of Dalmasca offers me wine and I refuse, it could cause a major diplomatic incident. Relations between our countries could be irreparably damaged!"
Basch's voice emanates from the helmet in a tinny murmur,
"Perhaps she is simply trying to get you drunk, Your Highness, so that she may coerce you into signing disadvantageous trade agreements." Ashe rolls her eyes, pours herself a cup, and regards it for a moment.
She hates his armor, despises the black enameled greenery and the cruel upswept curves of horns. Hates it for the memory of a man who died in it, hates it because it has taken Basch from her, taken him and molded him into a man who can never be what she needs him to be, a man hiding from her behind physical armor and emotional armor both.
"I assure you, Basch, that were I trying to get Larsa to sign disadvantageous trade agreements, I would have a much more subtle method than this. Take off that helmet, you must be uncomfortable." Basch reaches up, unlatches his helmet, and removes it. He has changed. His skin is pale, his hair cut short, but- Ashe notices this with some relief- the scar is still the same. He murmurs thanks, and accepts the glass of wine she presses into his hands, knowing that he would never ask for it on his own.
Time passes, and they fall back into old rhythms, discussing Fran and Balthier, Penelo- here Larsa refuses to say anything regarding their correspondence- and Vaan, remembering nights on Mount Bur-Omisace, running through the mines of Bhujerba.
The cups of wine dwindle, and she pours more, wanting to keep this fragile refuge from the outside world of politics and diplomacy alive. She would pour a thousand cups of wine, if only to forget.
Larsa finally grows tired, and excuses himself. Basch resettles the helmet on his head, and follows his liege out. It hurts, somewhere deep inside, to realize that she is no longer Basch's Queen, and he is no longer her knight.
Basch isn't surprised at the knock on his door. Nor is he surprised to open it and see Ashe there. She enters the room, closes the door behind her, and looks at him. He resists the urge to run his hands nervously through his hair, and instead watches her wander around the room, running her hands over his armor- here her hands clench briefly, as if contemplating an attempt to crush it- and inspecting the artwork on the wall with a critical eye.
Basch swallows. There are so many things he wants to say, so many words stuck in his throat, clamoring to be free, to escape into the air, but all he can force himself to say is,
"I have missed you." His voice cracks at the end. She crosses the room in three steps and buries her face in his chest, embracing him tightly as he buries his nose in her hair and inhales, the sweet smell stirring memories of home.
He is home, here in her arms. She tips her face up and kisses him, wild and longing and heartsick, arms tight around his chest, her hands sliding inside his shirt and tracing the marks of the lash, of the yoke. He cannot find it in himself to resist her, this strong, beautiful woman who he would die for in the space of an instant, and so slides his hands down her spine, undoing the tiny buttons as he goes. They fall onto his bed with a creak, and he is drunk on her, on the fact that this will forever be their last time together.
It is sweet, and slow, and sad.
After it is done, he rests with his hands spread over the gentle curve of her stomach, her legs entwined with his, and he kisses the back of her neck, the softness of her shoulder.
"If I call you," her voice is soft, and the words sorrowful, "will you come?" He whispers into her skin,
"Yes, my lady. My first oath-" an oath that has endured all these years, since the day he was introduced to a skinny girl with big eyes and a gap-toothed smile, "-was to you." She reaches down, tangles her fingers with his, and sighs.
He sleeps, and etches this memory in the back of his eyelids, a refuge of forgetfulness.
He knows she will be gone from him in the morning.