Balthier's death came upon midday.

Fran knew she should not be so torn up over it. It was suitably noble and heroic for him, came late in his bawdy, adventurous life. Songs could be sung of it, if there were anyone there to write them. Fran was there, but the wound of his loss was still too new to consider poetry in light of it.

They'd been on another treasure hunt, same as any before, but Balthier was not as spry or limber as he'd once been. Many times Fran had tried to convince him of the idea of retirement, of settling somewhere to relax beside the ocean tide. He wouldn't have been Balthier if he'd agreed, of course.

Fran, please, he'd chided and taken a sip of his whiskey, and that was that.

Perhaps he'd realized that the death which was always on his heels and just barely avoided would catch up with him, and perhaps he didn't care. Though he had pretended not to mind his age, Fran had seen him: running a hand through his hair and staring as strands of it were left upon his hand, greyed and colorless; eyeing his wrinkling face forlornly in the mirror.

He'd continued carrying on as if he were five and twenty and not five and forty, but it could not – did not – last. In the aftermath, Fran was left adrift, all their treasure and she had no use for it, a ship for pirating and no desire to go anywhere, and a bed still unmade from when last they'd laid in it, long since gone cold.

Fran left it all behind her; shed her old life like a worn cloak. She took with her weapons and armor, what she needed to survive, and the brightly colored rings Balthier had always worn, still stained with his blood.

For a time she wandered.

Ivalice was a wide world, and even in all her traveling she had not seen all of it. So she went about seeing more of it; traveled across borders and through ancient woods, to the capitals of far-flung countries. Fran had adventures of her own, shed blood, saved and took lives, and came away perhaps richer than she'd ever been before.

She lived a life close to what she'd lived with Balthier, but it was empty anyhow.

So, after two years, she abandoned her adventuring gear and her treasures, and after a great deal of hedging, made for Rabanastre.

The city was much changed from when last Fran had been there.

Many decades had passed since Ashelia B'Nargin of Dalmasca had ascended the throne, and Rabanastre (and the greater country) had begun to thrive. Armed soldiers no longer patrolled the streets; the people were no longer forced underground for want of money. The markets were lively, the streets full of citizens and visitors from near and far, especially from that once-enemy of Arcadia.

Fran considered approaching the princess, of seeing Ashe again. Surely a queen was always in need of more guards, particularly one of such knowledge and power as Fran, in addition to being a friend? Yet, Fran stood beneath the arches of the castle gates and realized her return would be followed with sour news. The face of her friend, twisted in suffering brought from her lips. Ashe had been so fond of Balthier. Fear quaked the viera's stomach and so she turned away and disappeared into anonymity in the crowd.

But she didn't leave Rabanastre and its familiar, comforting streets, streets which were home to Vaan, Penelo, Ashe, and Basch at some time, which so much had been sacrificed for. The city was greatest achievement of her and Balthier's great adventures, proof that her beloved pirate had done some good in the world before fading into legend. Fran stayed.

She earned a living off the quest boards, drifted through the underground which had once been the slums, stayed hidden in the crowds which were so diverse and thick that even a viera with such an outstanding look could easily hide.

"Fran! Fran!"

But not so easily hidden from the discerning eyes of a friend.

Fran turned; the figure striding across the market towards her was both strange and familiar. She had the form of one who'd once been starving thin and had since built up weight and muscle, yet could never escape the deprivation of those hungry years. Long blonde braids came out of either side of her head, and a friendly smile lit up her face. It was a ghost from the past, all grown up to some thirty plus years.

"Fran, it's so good to see you!" Penelo beamed as she approached. "It's been such a long time." Last she'd been to see her friends in Rabanastre, Balthier had been alive. "How've you been?"

Fran's eyes darted over the younger face, over the scar which now tore the woman's bare shoulder, still fiercely red. Opening her mouth to speak seemed impossible; terror stilled her tongue. What would she say? Hello old friend, Balthier is dead?

Nothing needed to be said. Penelo's knowing eyes looked over her once-companion and then she nodded away, towards the exit. Fran required no further prompting to follow.

Fran found it odd, at first, to find that Penelo alone lived in her small apartment, a broad two level with wide open windows, laden with carpets and pillows. The two friends sat upon these after Penelo poured them both glasses of tea.

"I did stay with Vaan for a time," Penelo explained when asked. "After a while though, it felt like I wasn't living my life, but somebody else's, y'know?"

Fran did not. Working with Balthier had been living a dual life, a symbiotic life whose ending had left Fran wanting.

"So I decided to come back home and find my own way." Penelo continued, shrugging reflexively as she gazed around the room. "It's not much, but it's something."

They lapsed into quietude, seemingly peaceful if one went by looks; but inside, Fran's tumultuous heart pounded, and her grip on her tea cup tightened.

Penelo caught the movement, and her eyes lingered on Fran's fingers and widened.

"He's gone, isn't he?"

Fran's eyes lowered to the rings which fit loosely around her fingers. Her silence was affirmation enough.

Somehow Fran could not bring herself to leave.

One morning waking by Penelo's hearth became two became three. Each day she came out of restless sleep to the smell of incense and the Rabanastre sunrise filtered through sheer, shimmering curtains.

Penelo had found her calling in the conquering of the beasts which called the wilds surrounding the city home. She was talented; the demure young woman who had only agreed to Ashe's quest to follow Vaan had been replaced by a seasoned swordswoman.

Fran could remember the early battles, when Penelo's youth and inexperience had been fresh; days spent discussing battle, the weapons of war, how to shield oneself from fire spells, how to bind a broken limb. She took to it, but reluctantly, skilled yet not desiring the need for such skills.

That reluctance had evaporated in the twenty years since. When Fran and Penelo took on quests and went out in search of their targets, the hume vibrated with energy, eager for the fight to begin, and exhilarated when it ended. The passion with which the woman had befriended so many before had been poured into her fighting style.

It was easy to fall into a routine with one she already knew so well, and so the next few weeks passed. Fran stayed with Penelo, earning her keep by assisting in hunts across the lands. Not unlike her questing after Balthier's death, but made better by the company. What livelihood had been unfulfilling before became enjoyable to the fullest.

When first they kissed, it seemed a wonderful accident.

They'd just completed a harsh, lengthy quest through the Giza Plains, in the wet season, taking on a great tortoise which had vexed the natives.

Many hours of hunting and combat finally gave way to victory; Penelo, enthused, had given a joyful shout and leapt skyward, bloody fists raised, before turning to Fran. A big grin brightened her face, she pounced, and their lips met clumsily beneath the dark clouds drenching them.

But "accidents", by definition, are random and unlikely to, if ever, be repeated. The "accident" on the wetlands occurred twice more in the next few weeks: once during a drunken revel in the tavern, when Penelo's willingness could be explained by drink, but not Fran's; and again one evening just before bed, a sweet goodnight kiss upon the viera's cheek, the meaning of which could not be misconstrued.

It would be false for her to say she did not want these touches; but at the same time, Fran found it hard to invite them. Was it hard hearted, for her to have moved on so quickly? A hume would consider three years passed as quite a while, but to a viera, such a time was infinitesimal.

The wound of Balthier's grave upon her heart was still bleeding and here she was, practically courting the girl who'd once swooned over the pirate's handkerchief.

"You seem upset."

Late night had descended upon Rabanastre; lanterns, string tied to posts and floating above the winding pathways through the city's streets. Fran and Penelo sat upon the window sill, blanketed by the scent of roast mutton and garlic wafting up from the restaurants serving dinner down the street.

Penelo, relaxed against the pillows, had her hair down against her shoulders and was eyeing Fran carefully. The viera glanced away; she looked out onto the crowds below, watching the lanterns sway with the wind.

"Are you happy here?" The hume spoke slowly, nervously, licking her lips after. Fran glanced back up.

"I am." She stated firmly. "It is only…" I should not be. I should not have moved on so quickly.

"Only what?" Penelo smiled a little, relieved by Fran's strong affirmation. "Is it the place? You could buy your own apartment now, I'm sure. We've earned quite a bit in hunts these last weeks."

They had. Fran could buy an apartment suited to her needs three times over; yet, leaving the shared space with Penelo hurt, and that was the source of her ire, that fondness she should not feel.

Once, in her youth, she had learned the folly of trying to deny her heart. She had stood upon the borders of the Wood, staring out into the great world with wonder, returning home every day with a heart bruised by denied desire. In time, she'd come to see that resigning herself to the wants of others only hurt her and hurt those around her as they were forced to watch her slip away into somber silence. So she listened to her own desires and left.

Here she was again, attempting to forsake the fervor in her veins for propriety, for the sake of appearance, when all she wanted was just before her, offering to be hers.

Fran thought through these things quickly, before raising her head to meet Penelo's gaze. "Only, I wonder why we waste the hours here, when the night is so pleasant."

Penelo's eyebrows shot up. "Oh?"

"It is a night of revelry." Fran continued. "Why should we sit inside and pass it by?"

"I… did not think you would be interested." Penelo shrugged and looked away, color rising to her cheeks. "But… if you are willing?"

"I am."

Her face brightened, she grinned, and leapt to her feet. "Then let's go, before we waste the whole night away!" She extended a hand to Fran, and the viera hesitated for just a moment, before she reached out and took hold of it tightly.

Months became a year and time seemed to pass more quickly than it ever had before.

Fran did not move to her own apartment; together, they bought a new place, large enough for the both of them, and split the cost between them. It was a splendid place with a view over the plaza in front of the palace, warmly colored and infused with the feeling of 'home', even before they'd put a single piece of furniture down.

"This'll be great," Penelo chirped the night they brought their things in. "Just wait. It won't be long before we're spending nights drinking with Ashe in the palace and inviting her over for tea!"

Fran had doubted it; friend or not, the princess (soon-to-be queen, and married) would have time to entertain friends in her home, let alone leave to go to a simple commoner's dwelling. She should have known, the moment she had the thought, that Ashe would surprise her; the woman was good at that.

The second week they were in their new home, Ashe called upon them, appearing at the door of their apartment alone, hooded, with a sword at her belt. Penelo squealed when she opened the door and leapt on the woman, and startled Fran so that she ran in from the other room.

The sight of Ashe's smiling face relieved her immediately, and she stood back from the two to examine the former royal on the run. She'd grown, in weight and height; where she'd been thin and girlish before, she'd truly taken on a woman's form, with broad hips and a larger waist. The benefits of not being constantly hiding and going without, surely. Her face had grown rounder, her look less harsh but not less fierce. Though she was not formally dressed, she still looked fine in a long crimson gown, with a silver brocade on the shoulder of her cloak.

"It is good to see you both," Ashe smiled, sitting upon the sette. Fran sat across from her, still examining the strangeness of a familiar face looking so different, as Penelo fetched them tea from the kitchen. No matter how many years she spent among humes, she would never be used to how easily the shift of time changed them, how ten years could make of a hume a completely different, unrecognizable person.

"Thank you," The princess smiled as Penelo held the tea cup to her. She took a seat by Fran and handed the viera her tea herself; Fran caught Ashe's eyes watching them intently, her smile becoming something of a smirk.

"How are you?" Penelo asked. "It's been forever since we've talked or even traded letters."

"I am sorry," Ashe sighed. "Your latest letter sits, open, upon my desk, and I have read it but not been given the chance to sit and reply to it."

"Don't worry I'm sure you have much more important things to attend to."

"More urgent things, but not more important." Penelo flushed, and Ashe grinned at the sight. "How are you Fran? It's been much longer since we've spoken; perhaps before my coronation."

"I apologize for my distance. There has been… much happening, and my mind has been too clouded to think to write."

Ashe glanced away, a finger running along the edge of the tea cup. "I am sorry about Balthier."

Fran gave a slow nod; Penelo's eyes widened. "You knew."

"I am head of what has become a prominent country," Ashe explained. "There is little that I do not know."

Penelo seemed slightly unnerved, giving a shy shrug in reply. They fell silent, and for many minutes, it seemed the spectre that stood between them would keep them quiet forever.

"I've heard you've been busy." Penelo finally said. She giggled half-heartedly, attempting humor but afraid to do so, but she needn't of have been afraid. Ashe responded in kind.

She cocked an eyebrow and smirked. "Oh you have?" She replied after taking a sip of her tea. "This is lovely, by the way. The rumors about my trip to Rozarria, at least those concerning my betrothal, are true."

Penelo squealed, bouncing in her seat, and a little of Fran's tea spilled onto her leg. "Then you are to marry Al-Cid?" Fran remembered the flirty, debauched royal, and could not remember him without being reminded of Balthier's ire towards him, his irritation with losing the limelight to such a supposed cad. The memories were distant enough that they did not sting anymore, they merely ached.

Ashe nodded. "I am." She was not enthused; but she did not seem resigned either. It was a state of acceptance without excitement. "I came tonight hoping you might attend the wedding."

"Oh, yes, certainly!" Penelo cheered, leaning into Fran, her hand reaching out and grasping the taller woman's arm. Then she stiffened; she turned to face Fran. "That is, if you want to go?"

Fran stared down into those hopeful bright eyes and wondered when they had come to this, to accepting and declining invitations as a couple, not as individuals. It was frightening – and warmed her heart and made her dizzy.

"I would be honored."

The next few months were a blur as the rather ordinary – though violent – lives of the two women became intertwined with the royal's busy schedule. Ashe had given them free run of the palace, the ability to come and visit whenever they chose, and had turned to them for advice on many aspects of the wedding.

Of course, there were those who opposed the union, for a vast many reasons, and there were those who acted upon their disapproval. The first time someone attacked the princess in retaliation for what they saw as "surrendering to the enemy", or as a dilution of the blood line of Dynast King, it was only Fran and Penelo's timely intervention which kept her alive; which was how the two went from being hunters to royal guards.

Many months later, they rode alongside the bride to be in her airship, on their way to Rozarria for the big day.

"Do not be fooled by the romanticism of the populace," Ashe had told them on their way to the ship. "This is a political merger only."

"Does Al-Cid know?"

"Yes, he knows." Ashe replied. They were walking along the streets of Rabanastre in a fashion Fran had never done, surrounded by soldiers and servants who were at Ashe's beck and call. She was dressed finely in warmly colored silks, with a sheer red scarf weaved through her braided hair, trailing down behind her. "It was my first condition. When the wedding is done, I shall return to my home, and he to his and our meetings will be few and far between."

"A loveless marriage." Penelo mourned softly. "Are you sure that's what you want?"

Ashe smiled indulgently. "What I want is peace and stability for Dalmasca, and if marriage to a kind hearted, well-meaning imbecile will do so, then I shall marry him."

Fran glanced at Ashe's face as her eyes went skyward, wistful. Fran did not think the marriage was what she really desired; but perhaps she was fonder of Al-Cid than she would admit.

They boarded the ship, and Fran and Penelo were permitted to remain with the Princess for a few hours more. Penelo was besides herself; traveling on a premium airship as a guest of the Princess, to visit monarchs in a far distant land? It was every fairy tale dream come true, and it gave Penelo a dreamy smile that made Fran smile to see it.

That night, they said their goodbyes and left the Princess to sleep, going to their own chambers. They were led to one shared room, which had only one bed.

Penelo blushed; Fran did not display it, but inside her stomach curled and twisted into notes. A nervous laugh broke the silence.

"I suppose we gave them an impression." Fran began. Penelo's head shot up.

"The wrong impression?" She asked.

After a moment, Fran shook her head. "I think not."

They shared a bed for the first time that night; all they did was sleep, and it was the best rest Fran had had in three years.

The wedding was a marvel.

It was held inside the Rozarrian palace, a place which had seen little use in the past few decades as the military industrial complex took control, but as the Margraces slowly and surely took back their political power, the palace became a place of meaning again. It was twice the size of Rabanastre's, with great spires piercing the sky, made of stone which had been worn and weathered by time, but still stood after so long since its construction.

Inside, the palace had been decorated according to the princess's desires. Dalmascan flowers made up the bouquets which were arranged on every table, and the desert's hues were the colors of the table cloths, the curtains, the glittering gems which decorated the fine furniture.

Ashe herself was a goddess in scarlet and gold, her hair piled on top of her head, her face hidden by a sheer scarf. The husband was not so bad himself, though his colors were more subdued, they did compliment his bride's.

The ceremony began; Fran and Penelo took their places on the left of the altar, awaiting the bride's entrance. As the soft flutes and winds began to play, Ashe passed through the curtain into the hall, and all eyes turned to her.

On her arm was Basch; the Arcadian royalty had been invited out of both courtesy, and in Ashe's case, genuine friendship. Larsa, who had sprung up quite a few feet in the years they'd been apart, sat in the front row in his best finery.

"He looks great," Penelo leaned over and whispered to Fran, eyeing Basch. He did indeed. His blonde hair was now a light grey, which only served to make him look august and distinguished; his face had grown gaunt, the signs of age becoming hard lines across his cheeks and forehead, but his warm smile softened the harsh visage.

Basch's eyes darted across the room and met theirs, and his smile grew; but then, they drifted upward, above the duo, and widened. Basch's hand leapt to his sword and a fierce look came over his face. "Princess - !"

Fran was spinning even as she saw Basch's brow furrow; she knew the signs of wariness on his face. But it was too late – the thunder of a gun split the air and screams soon followed. Fran tore across the room to where her bow lay against the wall; she had it strung and aimed skyward in an instant.

It wasn't necessary. Penelo ran up behind her, looking into the rafters as she was, and both saw at the same time the assailant receiving a knife to the throat, held in hand by a blond young man in a white shirt.

He looked up; immediately his identity was clear, but there was no time for happy reunions. Fran spun on her heel and raced across the room.

Ashe was on her knees, cradling Basch's head in her lap, hands and gown drenched in blood. The bullet had hit the soldier in his arm where he'd reached out to push Ashe away. Fran fell to her knees beside him; hands gently probed the wounded area, taking in the sight with a dull sense of horror suppressed by need.

"We must have a surgeon – now!" She shouted, and one of the servants dashed away. Al-Cid was at Fran's side in the next moment.

"Oh, Basch, don't do this!" Ashe was not crying, but it was a near thing. "Don't die for me!"

"The wound is not fatal, so long as we stop the bleeding." Al-Cid replied. He tore his coat off and pressed it against the wound, wincing as Basch let out a strangled cry. "But… such a wound…" He trailed away reluctantly.

Basch gave a weak laugh, lidded eyes darting to the royal. "You need not spare me. I realize t – the implications…"

"What's he talking about?" Penelo came to Fran's side, holding her sword in hand.

"The bullet shattered the joint in his right arm." Fran spoke slowly, evenly, as repressed anger and fear rose in her chest. Realization dawned on the younger's face.

"Fret not, Penelo." Basch coughed.

"Quiet, rest now!" Ashe brushed a shaking hand through his hair as she spoke.

"I – I would gladly give, a thousand times over, m – my sword arm for my Queen."

"Basch, please…"

They took him to the surgeon's soon after; and the ceremony was finished then and there, with blood dripping down the Queen's front.

"I will not let them win." She muttered viciously as they awaited the priest's return. "Foolish, arrogant men whose dreams of a free Dalmascan are mired in selfishness and ethnic purity shall not stop me!"

Al-Cid, wearing the jacket which had stemmed Basch's blood flow and was now wrinkled and red, smiled. "On that, we agree."

Ashe smiled in return.

If Basch had been a younger man, he may have found recovering from the wound slightly easier. As it was, arthritis had already begun to set in before, and the shattered bone and muscle tissue would not heal so easily.

"Tis not so bad," Basch told them, resting in his hospital bed. "I can retire with honor, and rest upon my laurels for the last years of my life."

"They'd better be more than years," the blond from the rafters insisted. "More like decades!"

Ashe smiled softly, and turned to the newcomer. "I do not remember inviting sky pirates to my wedding."

Vaan grinned. "Yeah, but you invited Vaan. Though I figured a little discretion might be in order, just in case."

Though she had recognized him easily, Fran still could hardly believe that the man standing before her had been the boy Balthier took under his wing more than twenty two years before. He had grown much taller and more muscular; his skin darkened from years traveling beneath the sun, with a scar running along his right cheek. His long hair had darkened as well, to a light brown with blond highlights, and it ran down to his shoulders and was pulled into a ponytail. Looking at him, it was hard not to remember Balthier. The hume had taken to dressing like him, with a white button up shirt and a vest over it, and black armored leggings tucked into boots.

"It's good to see you, Fran," He said to her later in the hall, somewhat awkwardly. Shuffling his feet, the man chuckled softly and turned away. "So, where's Balthier? Was he too miffed at not being the bridegroom that he didn't show?"

Choked by the words, Fran let her eyes fall to the ground. "… he is gone."

Vaan glanced back at her, mouth going slack. "What?"

"Dead, three years hence." Fran met his gaze and saw utter ruin in the young man's eyes.

Vaan crossed his arms and glanced down. When he spoke his voice was hoarse. "How'd it happen?"

"How it always happens." Fran spat back, feeling a flicker of fire in her gut. "Disease, weakness of age, the frailty of your hume bodies, the reckless abandon with which you live your short lives!" Hissing, Fran turned and paced angrily through the hall. "Forever chasing daydreams and adventure and laughing when your enemies finally catch up to you!"

"Is that how he died?" Vaan asked quietly. "Laughing?"

The anger fled her all of the sudden, deflated in an instant like a popped balloon. "Yes. He died laughing."