Author's Notes: … I do not even know where to start XD I never thought I would have the guts to post such a story like this here – or anywhere - since I also look at this fanfic as something like "how far can I really go with this" (or, rephrasing, "how truly mad I am"). But I had a lot of encouragement from the awesome friends I made here that had the patience to support me, since I started to write this fic – in January - so this three-chapter story is dedicated to them all :)

Therefore, a special thanks to my friend and beta Landis Icelilly :D, as without her help, I would perhaps never post this – for I recognise that especially in this kind of fic, grammar errors are a mood killer XD - so, thank you so much for your aid :) and I want to mention also Aorin, Baschashe, Sita Silver-Breeze, Maudiebeans, Miss Famke, AkeriAerkix, Daemon Hunter and especially Feeny :P, because without the song she once shared with me and my friends – a song that was sad enough to give me the perfect mood for this - this prologue would, perhaps, never exist. I owe you a lot! Thank you :)

By the way, the song is: "Madame de Pompadour", from the Doctor Who OST (it may be found in YouTube: in the search file type "Soundtrack Madame Pompadour" and then click on the first link). If you can, just listen to it while reading, I did it while writing, with the song in "repeat" mode :P

Warnings: There are many, those resumed to the fact that the story that follows this short prologue has strong content and thus I ask of you, if you do not feel comfortable, do not read it. Though loving to write this, I was feeling quite insecure writing some bits, yet I want no one to feel uncomfortable reading those so… you have been warned.

Disclaimer: Final Fantasy belongs to the almighty Square Enix; I only own the inspiration that comes from playing such wonderful game.

All things said, I will stop this rambling, post this and flee! XD

.: ALONE IN THE DARK :.

Prologue

- Dusk -

North Sprawl, Lowtown of Rabanastre

Year 704 Old Valendian

The night of the Treaty Signing

Ashelia slowly went inside and closed the heavy door behind her with a vague gesture. With a flick of a switch nearby, a pool of dim ambiance bathed the room, which was cast from the grimy spellstone crystal that hung from the ceiling. As her eyes adjusted to the light, she sent an empty gaze upon the small space that could be crossed in four paces. Half the room was filled with wooden crates and boxes grossly shaping a pile, and if it was not for the dusty blanket and the wrinkled pillow that rested over the set, she would never guess that was supposed to be an improvised bed.

Around her, the naked dark walls had no windows, though she would not miss them: the sight she would find beyond would be no longer of her land. She would not overlook the exquisite gardens of her home, filled with scented bushes and coloured flowers, nor the sunlit rooftops of Rabanastre, her beloved father's kingdom. Indeed, the world Ashe always knew was now tainted with the colours of the Empire, black serpents on blood red background, their hiss now pushing her and her people into this gloomy underworld that would soon be nicknamed Lowtown.

She was extremely worn out. The tears she had shed for her late father since Vossler and a company of dispirited guards basically snatch her from her quarters and brought her here, had greatly drained her strength; and now that she was left alone in this room at last, she felt her soul being pulled down by the vindictive claws of grief. As her legs threatened to give away under her, she sat on one of the crates, her back facing the door, her eyes void as she stared at the empty wall in front of her, while a renewed flow of tears fell down her face, the sadness freely seeping into her spirit once more.

She did not understand why Vossler had left her in this neglected cellar that whiffed dirt and dampness. When they crossed the Waterway to these storehouses, she could not quite understand how she had managed to walk back then; actually, all the way she felt like she was floating, hovering over a cruel unreality as Vossler carefully chose the right words to unfold all the tale of that night, while his arm supported, or dragged her, through the sluice channels. He said something about the testimonial of a young soldier whose body has been temporarily saved, for he was mortally wounded and his soul seemed to have snapped beyond heal: the young man was delusional, reiterating a catatonic mutter "it was not him, it was not him, it was not him", his emotional upheaval telling otherwise to everyone who heard him.

And when she understood about whom the soldier was referring to, she refused to believe because it was the most far-fetched, implausible tale she ever heard of, and she stated resentfully back then in the Waterway, as she almost tripped on her feet and soaked the hem of her dark blue robe and nightgown, that Vossler should know better that accusing his comrade in arms of something he would never ever do.

And then Vossler, looking at her with a mix of dejection and pity while helping her to stand, tried to break her hope saying that everything hinted at this knight's treason, and for that he had been led in chains by the Empire; he said they claimed to be outraged for such violation of the peace terms, wishing therefore to trial the traitor who had slain her father and disgraced her people. But she silenced him the instant he muttered the word "traitor", harshly wiping away her tears as her will to depart that very same instant to Bhujerba boiled in her veins: to seek her uncle, the Marquis Halim Ondore and appeal for his aid and protection to liberate her kingdom; to free the ones who had been arrested, including her knight; to fight in the name of the ones who have fallen, including her father and her husband.

Yet, when they finally arrived to the Storehouse Five, Vossler requested for her to wait in one of its many small rooms, and pleaded for her to remain quiet. And even if a very edgy princess knew they were wasting precious time, she took his words in regard, fighting against her keenness to leave and go to Bhujerba by her own, for the imperials were certainly now looking for her. Thus, as she waited, she willingly took time to think of her father, to pray and grieve for him, to mull over the last words he had said to her. She let herself be carried away by memories and solitude – a loneliness she was not used to, for though this was not the first time she lost someone of her family, it was the first time she felt completely and utterly alone in her mourning.

No watchful eyes of friendly shadow stood in the wake of a respectful distance.

Basch…

Much later, someone knocked firmly at the door and opened it. Yet she did not stand nor turned around to acknowledge the intruder, for this privacy was somewhat secure and she had not quite accepted the past few hours to face whatever the incoming ones would bring. The new presence had not stirred the heavy silence of the room, thus she almost, almost thought it was him who was there at the doorway, to shatter everything that has been ill-said during all these last hours, to tell her that everyone was wrong about him.

Still, she did not turn around. She did not dare to.

Because, deep inside, she felt it was not him who was standing there.

Still, when she heard Vossler's voice coming from the doorway, a tear skid down from her eye, because this was not the voice she wanted to hear. It cut the silence when he spoke, letting her know that an official statement from her uncle had been released, pertaining to a formal pledge of capitulation to the people of Dalmasca; he had also muttered something about not being able to go to Bhujerba. It was when she had finally sprung up from her seat and whirled around; stifling a sob, she contradicted him, insisting in their immediate departure to the sky city.

Her grey eyes dogmatically locked at those hazel ones, only to realise how utterly broken they seemed to be. Strangely, hers glimmered with a renewed stream of hope, because he too, certainly could not believe as well in this entire odd tale about treason. She would succeed in persuading Vossler to accompany her and do something, anything to free the one that ever protected her since the day she first opened her eyes; and she almost smiled endearingly by guessing what her guardian's face and words would be, if the idea of his liege armed with a sword, risking her life to save him, crossed his mind. He would certainly be outraged to say the least, but she did not care: all she cared for was to have him at her side again, for she knew nothing of a life without his steady presence. And then, with the ever loyal and faithful Order assembled under her command, they could outline an organised and abiding defence against Archadia; with them, with him at her side, she would have the strength to claim her throne and restore Dalmasca.

Because alone, she did not quite believe she had the strength needed to do so.

And when she was about to put forward such a confident standpoint, she felt that something was wrong when Vossler downcast his gaze, breaking it from her hopeful one. At this moment, she noticed the rolled parchment in his hand, and somehow, she sensed it was related to the declaration he had talked about, and that no good would come from whatever more would be written there. Yet still, Vossler handed her the letter, and she had barely took it in her hands when he slowly turned around and went out the room, closing the door behind him with an ominous thud. Only then she stared at the cedarwood parchment, trying to steady her shaking hands as she unrolled it. Her heart twirled itself in uneasiness, as she braced for whatever awaited her and began to read the black inked words.

"Sons and daughters of Dalmasca, I bid you lay down your arms. Raise songs of prayer in their stead. Prayer for His Majesty King Raminas, ever merciful. A man devoted wholly to peace. Prayer, too, for the noble princess Ashe, who, wrought with grief at her kingdom's defeat, has taken her own life."

She took a sharp inhale of breathe; she did not understand the purpose of the last sentence. With mind now clouded, her heart pumped fast and hurtful as she continued to read, and soon found that neither shield nor shelter would ever be strong enough to protect her from what came next.

"Know also that Capt. Basch Fon Ronsenburg, for incitement of sedition and the assassination of His Royal Majesty (H.R.M.), King Raminas, has been found guilty of high treason and put to his death."

She read this part again.

And again, but it was difficult, for her eyesight has suddenly blurred, stinging painfully and was certainly deceiving her.

And again, but this time she did not even reach the end of the statement, for her gaze fell trapped in his name, and it was indeed his name, a name once associated to honour and virtue now linked to rebellion and disgrace and…

… death?

Her breath was failing, she struggled for air, but she could not -

"… and put to his death."

The letter slipped from her grasp and drifted to the floor. Tears fell from her eyes and met the letter. No, she finally exhaled in a whisper, No, she wailed, No! she screamed and the room began to spin around her; her body swayed and unexpectedly fell not on stone floor but in arms that caught her, from someone that had thrown the door open and stormed into the room at her scream. Both slid down to the ground and onto the letter, Vossler held her tighter yet she released an even more sorrowful wail and almost pushed him away, because these were not his arms, it was not his voice, it was not him.

And this woe and pain and loneliness –

It was heart-wrenching, the way the world crushed around and above her: it was brutal, unkind, unforgiving. Her sobs filled the air as she buried her face in Vossler's chest, clutched his sleeves and sobbed, cried that it could not be, not like this, not him. He cradled her without a word, without a tear, his face contorting into a grimace nevertheless when she whimpered once more that he was innocent, he was not -

… he was dead.

A cruel eternity passed before she released a last mournful lament. Without wiping away her tears, she sunk herself into still and nothingness, closing her eyes. Vossler finally scooped her motionless body in his arms, and gently laid her on the bed-crates. He covered her with the dusty blanket, and sat on the edge, watching her for a moment before quietly leaving the room and her, believing she had finally found relief and sleep.

Nothing could be further from the truth.

As soon as he closed the door, she opened her eyes; she was wide awake yet missing, body and soul fully immersed in dirge. A stream of uncontrolled memories began to haunt her mind and torment her heart: his vigilant eyes, gentle smile and wise words; the sparring afternoons in sunlit yards when he thought her how to use a sword, much to her father's delight and Vossler's polite disapproval; her mother asking him to protect her always, while requesting her to ever heed him; his soothing presence when she buried her; the deep conversations when they unintentionally met at the moonlit royal gardens; the first and only occasion he requested her a dance when she turned sixteen, under the amused smile of her two remaining brothers; his soothing presence when she buried them; the dreamy tales of a distant land with snowy mountains, starry nights and northern lights over the ocean; his spellbound eyes when he greeted her at her wedding, and said courteously and in all honesty how beautiful she was; the anguish in his eyes as they met hers, in the rainy night he returned home with her husband's body in his arms; his soothing presence when she buried him.

And she recalled also his vow to protect her father, and this had happened only three days ago and that could not be this same person who killed her father, condemned them all, it could not be the very same person that was now dead, gone forever from this world and from her.

Still laid down, her swollen eyes met the letter that had previously slipped from her grasp, still resting at the dirty floor. From where she was, she could read it perfectly. She did so, slowly and thoroughly, torturing herself beyond fortitude, and this time she followed it to the end, where the last sentence stood out in dark ink:

"They who at this late hour choose still the sword are cut of the same cloth as the Capt.: traitor's who would lead Dalmasca to her ruin."

She then closed her eyes, but sleep did not come.

She did not remember how many hours passed as she wept through this unending night, coiled alone in the small room, wrapped in sadness, while very near her, several men struggled to hold down but a berserk one who, against all odds and twists of fate lived, unrelentingly fighting for freedom, kingdom and her, until the last drop of might finally abandoned him.

She did not remember for how many days she remained silent, wrought in misery, while very near her, a man was being tortured, questioned and tortured again, his unspoken obstinacy paid with his own fresh blood.

She did not remember when her soul started to wither, consumed by sorrow and engulfed by those sentences that associated his name with sedition and rebellion. She did not quite recalled the countless times that Vossler had lost his patience and snarled to her that he was dead, gone, his words hurting like knives thrusted into her flesh. And while she understood that this tiny room would be her home for the time being, very near her, a man was being shackled and hanged inside a small cage, being told by his own brother that this was his new home till the day he decided to die.

And Ashe did not remember as well when, a few days later, she actually began to bury the voice of her heart and heed Vossler and everyone else's belief that in fact, her knight brought Dalmasca to Her ruin; she did not remember exactly when she started to dismiss her angst, or when she began to forget he has been her knight, or when she banished his name from her mind. And, still very near her, a man tried, tried so hard not to reflect upon the extension of his failure. A knight of a kingdom which once had a king, a queen, eight sons and one daughter was reduced to nothing but this princess, to whom he devoted all that he was. Thus dismissing chains and wounds and the doomed destiny that laid ahead for him, his every thought remained with her, hoping that she was shielded from whatever Dalmasca was now, protected from the corrupted world that now stood far above him.

And though she could not accurately recall when, but who she was had began to die, Ashe still clearly remembered the day she had picked up a sword, locked her sadness inside the room as she closed the door behind her, and went to the Waterway. Roaming through the filthy sewers, she killed every beast she met along the way, swinging her sword countless times in bursts of rage and growls and not a single tear. And in each blow, each kill, each stain of darkened blood, she felt every bit of fondness, respect and love she always held for Basch, being gradually replaced by wrath, fury…

… and pure hate.

And the man who was very near her, concealed by the underground, trapped in steel and iron, kept enduring everything, every incoming query about Dalmasca and her with his silence because he needed to protect her. While holding an undying wish to return to her side, for many days he bore fetters and lashes, punches and questions, thirst, hunger and anger… and whenever isolation found him, he closed his eyes and summoned her image to his heart, her divine, vivid scent overcoming the stench of his own grime and blood. He would not break, for her he would endure, for her he would survive, and his brother would never ever find a way to rupture him. And little did he know that his brother was only waiting for the right day, the right moment, meanwhile witnessing how much his own blood could undergo, before delivering the final blow that would definitely break him.

And when he decided to do it, Judge Gabranth had come to the Black Watch, and from the small cage where he was being kept, Basch lifted his eyes and looked hard at his brother, derision and defiance glimmering in his eyes. It was then when Gabranth just took all the time to unroll the parchment he had brought with him and read that very same letter from the Marquis Ondore to the people of Dalmasca, the very same one that Vossler had read to Ashe, in days long distant. And when he was told that his princess, the reason he was still clinging on to hope and life, had taken up her own in grief…

… Basch began to die.

North Sprawl, Lowtown of Rabanastre

6 Months after the Treaty Signing

Ashelia did not know how, nor when, or why she had written this, but it was there, her handwriting and her words, on the parchment.

"I wish I knew.

I wish I knew, someone tell me; you tell me why you, our most honoured, truthful and beloved knight, have chosen such a path. But you cannot, can you? You are already gone, and I did not see you one last time to ask you why.

I wondered what your last words had been: I heard rumours that you have said none. I then wondered how you were executed: I heard say that you were beheaded, and it has been swift, a single stroke with a sword against your neck. I felt dismayed, for decapitation grants little pain when I have hoped for you to feel it the fullest.

Frequently I find myself wanting to have been the one to execute you. How I wished to lock my eyes with yours, before I have raised the sword that would take your life away: that way you would be able to see how much I hate you and I would be able to see in your eyes your own rage against me, my father, and my kingdom, along with all the other reasons behind your conduct that night.

And now that you took your leave of the world and of me, flaming in the Eternal Fire, I ask you if you can see me now: if you can see my tears, if you see their glow, if you feel their cold, if you taste their bitterness. I pray you do, for if so, you know that I amalive. Unlike all you have certainly sought for me, I am alive and I will restore my kingdom, which fell because of you, and you only; my hope will Glow against your Darkness, my Wrath shall face the Ruin you have cast upon me, I hold the Maelstrom which will engulf the Flame you set free against me and Dalmasca.

I am the Dynast-Queen. And I will show to everyone and especially you, that I will not, I will never lay down my sword and forget the freedom I seek for my Kingdom. Yet if I fall and fail Her, then I commend my soul to Hell, hoping to be granted a place alongside you. For then, though I shall burn dishonoured, I will remain content for watching you burn as well: in pain, with me, for Eternity.

Yet then…

Why does my heart hurt so much with these bitter thoughts, these sour words? Why does it seem to quieten when you plague my dreams? Why does it beat so painfully when I consider for a moment, just for a fleeting moment, that you hold no blame, but life instead?

Silly heart of mine… dares to hope when there is none. I shall hush it."

Amalia

She read again the last sentences, words dimly illuminated by the candle light: a shadow of contempt crossed her fiery gaze. Clutching her quill, she quickly and irately strokes those lines off the letter. Then, like if she has given better thought, she tossed the quill aside and crumpled up the letter itself in her hands. And then, she picked up her sword and went to the Waterway.

Again.

It was a routine she learned to retain, days and nights of training in the sewers, to deliver herself into her own rage rather than exercise and develop her fighting skills. Slowly and painstakingly building up walls and silence around herself, her smile eventually vanished, her eyes gradually lost their former gentle glow, and her heart had given up on her and him, growing as bitter as winter.

Since that night six months ago, she wept no more. As stated by the Marquis Ondore, the lovely Princess Ashe had actually departed this life: her heart had ultimately died, petrified, surrounded by the kind of shields that no one would ever be able to shatter. So it was not a princess but a stone-hardened warrior that had approached Vossler one day, to propose the foundation of a resistance faction to make a stand against Archadia's growing oppression: a movement in the name of freedom under her steady leadership.

For she learned that, after all, she had the strength to do so.

Yet, she feared the nights whenever she laid on the set of crates that she learned to call bed, curled defensively her thin body and covered herself with the dusty blanket. She dreaded the dark void that came when the last flicker of the candle beside her faded away, leaving her alone in the tiny room with no windows, with nothing but a lone tear that she did not know she still kept. But every time, each time she closed her weary eyes, she could feel a pair of arms envelop her from behind, like dark feathered wings belonging to someone laid after her, shielding her from the darkness, caressing her hair till she fell asleep; for more than once Basch's name unwarily escaped from her lips in a whisper as she did so, in a soft tone that held no trace of loathe nor contempt. And she did not know, she could not possibly know that only happened because, very near her, there was a man who could not stop thinking about her, her image bright on his heart and soul. Her ethereal form was right there in front of his cage, otherworldly beauty wrapped in swirling silver Mist; her hand, light and kind as a white feather, reaching him through the cold bars to lift up his chin, for him to meet her wistful eyes and gentle smile. And he did not know why he kept summoning Ashelia, dreamily murmuring her name, why was she still so present when in truth…

… she lived no more.

And all these first nights, unaware they walked the path of dreams and nightmares to meet each other, in a world where both still lived under the sun and the palace towers. Yet when they opened their eyes and awoke to another unseen sunrise, each of them realised that it has been just a dream, that the other was forever gone. She used to open her eyes and turn on her bed to find no one behind her, no arms wrapping her; he used to open his eyes and lift his chin to find the solitude in his own shadow.

And they spent those days and nights in hell still devoted to each other, but in very different ways: while she tried hard to purge his hatred image from her mind and dreams, he ever fought to hold hers strong in his heart.

That the other was dead was a belief that had finally seeped and sunk into their hearts, and those dreams they had at first, their only escape from this cruel world, eventually faded with time. She did not turn again on her bed; he did not lift his chin anymore. And while time filled his heart with sorrow and despair, it tainted hers with wrath and disdain. The omnipresent darkness conquered them both, at last taking away what light remained in their spirit, even their fond memories; even that one, most treasured memory, of a divine dusk in the castle gardens not too long ago, when she placed a gentle, lingering kiss on his cheek and surprisingly, so wonderful and unexpectedly, he did not step away.

Even that memory faded away.