Parades & Fireworks

by bladecatcher86

A wiser man than Balthier had once famously said that not all treasure was silver and gold. He used to think that was a load of rubbish... but all of a sudden that old line was finally starting to make sense. [Rated M for some language, some dirty humor, and adult situations in chapter 1. Balthier/Ashe, with some Balthier/Elza sprinkled in.]

2. All Of A Sudden I Miss Everyone

DISCLAIMER: I don't own Final Fantasy XII, its characters, or any other intellectual property belonging to Square Enix. Nor do I own any other pieces of pop culture that I reference here.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: "So have you got the guts? Been wondering if your heart's still open, and if so I want to know what time it shuts."

As I said at the end of the last chapter, all the M-rated material was in Part I, but in its place we will now clearly have nothing but pure smiles and sunshine.

---

PART II

"What's this dying for?" asks the Stork that soars

With the Owl high above canyons' mighty walls.

Owl said, "Death's a door that love walks through,

In and out, in and out, back and forth, back and forth."

- TV On The Radio, "Stork & Owl"

ALL OF A SUDDEN I MISS EVERYONE

---

If someone had asked Balthier to choose a single word with which to describe Ashelia B'Nargin Dalmasca (how he loved the sound of her full name, the contrast between the soft beauty of her first name and the rougher-edged consonants of her family name and the seamless flow of it despite that contrast), he would more likely mock the enterprise than answer truthfully. Of course, his reaction would be the same whether the question regarded Ashe or a man living on the moon. How could one word encapsulate the character of any individual, no matter how important or familiar such a person might be? Even the simplest of people were far too complex to be adequately summed up that succinctly.

However, if that someone were to hold a gun to his head and ask the question again, he would crack a quick joke about them taking their game too seriously before settling on intense. So much about her was exactly that – her walk, her voice, her focus on what she wanted, the determination with which she pursued those goals, all of it. It made him wonder if he had ever been as passionate about anything as she was about setting her kingdom free. At least he didn't have to question whether he and Fran and the others were risking life and limb just to help a pampered rich girl move back into her fancy palace. That had to count for something.

Still, as admirable as that intensity could be, there was always the yin to the yang.

The biggest reason he worried so much about her current pursuit of the nethicite's power was the furious grudge she held against the Empire. While he didn't blame her for raging against Archadia, her quarrel was with those who ran it. It was not against the millions of innocent souls who made up the rest of that populace, the lives she'd be risking by even contemplating the use of the blasted stones. Such a choice would make her no better than the Imperials themselves, who had wiped out her late husband's homeland the same way. If this struggle were to be worthwhile, she would need to prove to the Vaans and Penelos of the world that they were better off with her than without.

And speaking of Lord Rasler, there was also the nagging issue of that phantom groom shadowing her everywhere. She and (for some bizarre reason) Vaan were the only ones who'd been able to see the ghost, and it all gave him an eerie sense of déjà vu; he remembered his father following and conversing with an imaginary friend of his own. Balthier had publicly dealt with it by jokingly asking Vaan what the ghost looked like, if only to get a sense of the princess's taste in men. That she was still so troubled by Rasler's death two years later indicated that, despite the arranged nature of their marriage, he would have been her hand-picked suitor anyway. No one had ever loved Balthier that much. It was the first time he'd ever felt so envious toward a dead man.

As he sat by the campfire in the Paramina Rift, he could feel the chilly wedding band pressing against his thigh from within his pocket. He had taken it as collateral for his services, though Ashe was initially hesitant to hand it over. It was just another sign that she still had yet to give up the ghost, so to speak. But even Fran hadn't been thrilled by his choice of payment, and she'd made her objection clear when they crossed the Dalmasca Estersand on the way to Jahara.

"Of all the things you could have taken from her," the Viera asked as they tramped through the scorching desert, "why did it have to be that?"

"She has nothing else of value to offer," he explained. "I'm a pirate, am I not? I must live up to my billing as a heartless cur that – what was that flattering little thing she said? – 'thinks ever and always of his own profit.'"

He had overheard the princess say that to the eventual turncoat Vossler while helping Fran scour Raithwall's tomb in search of any valuables. The remark had stung more than he cared to admit. Here he was going out of his way to help her, albeit in exchange for treasures that she'd promised, and she still thought of him as a selfish piece of trash. Such a sour perception of his character was bound to embitter him towards her in return, even though it wasn't without merit. It did raise the question of why she'd been so quick to trade the Dawn Shard for his life aboard the Leviathan though.

"If you truly were the scum you claim yourself to be, I never would have stuck with you as long as I have," Fran said. "But sometimes you sink your teeth so deep into the role that I almost forget."

"As if that makes me so much worse than someone who seems hell-bent on watching the Empire burn," he replied.

Fran snickered a little. "You're right, that sounds nothing like anyone I know at all."

"I know where you're going with this, Fran," he said, shooting her an irritated glare. "But that was different."

"'I have no love left for the motherland. The whole of Archadia can burn to the ground for all I care,'" she quoted, mimicking his theatrical flair but not bothering to attempt his smooth upper-class Archadian accent. "Stop me if you have heard any of this before."

"I was an overly emotional teenager back then."

"And Ashe isn't?"

He opened his mouth to reply but could find no words, so instead he simply breathed a heavy sigh and wiped a few beads of sweat from his brow. If there was one person in all of Ivalice who truly knew how to get through to him, it was his longtime partner in crime. She was the six-foot-tall bunny-eared elder sister he'd never had, a rare gift from the gods bestowed upon him in his darkest hour. Her intuition was rarely wrong, and if it ever was it wasn't off by much. It was especially impressive for someone who began her life in Eruyt Village, a hermit society that convinced itself the outside world wasn't worth exploring or understanding.

"She may not wish to show it," Fran continued, "but her heart aches now just as yours did then, if not more. Ease up on her from now on, would you?"

She didn't wait for him to answer, choosing instead to help Penelo steady her arrow quiver, and so Balthier had been left to his thoughts. As he looked ahead toward the princess, he resolved to heed Fran's advice and start contemplating whatever she might have kept in her heart. He also struggled to not be distracted by the slight sway of her hips with every step she took, bewitching as it was.

The matter of Rasler's wedding band resurfaced a few nights after that in the Ozmone Plains, and this time he'd brought it up himself. It was another one of those nights where he'd gotten stuck taking the last watch. Ashe ended up being an early riser and took a seat on the opposite side of the campfire. She was surprisingly easy to talk to when she wasn't obsessing over her vendetta against the Empire from dawn till dusk, but he couldn't help noticing how she kept rubbing the finger where the ring in his pocket used to be.

"You miss your ring, don't you?" he asked.

"It's a nervous habit," she lied. "I just hope you don't barter it once we reach Jahara."

"I wasn't even going to try," he said. "You have no reason to trust a thing I say, given my chosen profession, but I am in fact a man of my word. Honor among thieves and all that."

The princess appeared to relax a bit – she stopped fussing with her finger, anyway – but he could tell she still didn't quite trust him. This seemed as good a time as any to tell her the whole truth, or at least as far as his payment was concerned.

"Look at it this way, Ashe," he said. "If I keep that ring out of sight, perhaps it might help you keep him out of mind."

She glared at him through the fire. He wasn't sure which of the two was more heated.

"That's an interesting bit of spin you're doing," she said. "You know as well as I do that you took it for yourself."

Typical royal, always expecting the worst from career criminals. And here he thought he'd grown cynical.

"So you can read minds now, eh?" he joked, a futile attempt to lighten her mood.

"You said you needed compensation," she answered. "Why else would you want it?"

Continuing to tease her would undoubtedly only make things worse – a shame, considering their conversation had gone well prior to breaching this topic. This time he addressed her seriously and sincerely.

"Because it isn't doing you any good," he said. "Carrying his ring around, seeing his apparition everywhere – you'll drive yourself mad, Ashe."

Just like my father before you…

"That isn't what you want, is it?" he asked.

Finally her gaze softened. She tucked herself into a little ball with her legs crossed at the ankles and glanced down into the fire.

"He was my husband," she said. "He was my friend." She looked back up at him with dejected eyes and a slowly growing frown. "You would have me act as though he never existed?"

He shook his head. "I said nothing of the sort."

"Then what would you have me do?"

"You need to stop letting him haunt you," he advised. "Only then will you truly start to heal."

"You make it sound so easy."

"Would that it could be that easy," Balthier said, thinking of a thirteen-year-old boy who sought comfort in the wake of his mother's death and found none. "But it never is. That being said, it's certainly nothing that you can't handle."

"There's so much to handle all at once," she said. "I don't know if I'm strong enough."

Not strong enough? This was one of the toughest women he'd ever met, one who was born into power, devoted her life to fighting for her country, and was destined for the history books regardless of her decisions. And she didn't consider herself strong enough?

Even the strongest of us have our scars, he reminded himself. Some of us are simply better at hiding them than others.

"Of course you are," he said. "Just take it one step at a time. If you can lead the resistance against the largest and most powerful military force ever known to man, then you can overcome this."

He made sure to emphasize the princess's preferred nomenclature, quick as she was to correct anyone who dubbed it an insurgence. Her frown twitched for a split second, most likely an acknowledgement of his word choice, but aside from that it remained in place.

"I couldn't lead the resistance on my own either," she muttered.

He gave a little chuckle, gently shaking his head, then leaned forward and looked her in the eyes.

"Princess," he said, "no one ever said you had to do anything on your own."

That line seemed to do the trick. Perhaps it was actually the campfire's reflection, but he spotted the spark returning in her eyes. She straightened up her posture with reinvigorated confidence. Through the fire he could see her lips gradually curving upward, and he wasn't sure which of the two radiated more warmth. It was the first smile he had seen on her face since the day he met her.

She looked as though she wanted to say something else. Then Judge Gabranth's good twin came crawling out of the tent, bringing their chat to an abrupt end, and gave the fakest-sounding yawn Balthier had ever heard in his life.

It was fortunate that Basch had found himself a niche in the military. He never would have stood a chance in the theater.

Indeed, on the rare occasions when the princess allowed herself to loosen up, take a break from "I must endure" mode, and reveal her softer side, Balthier found her rather endearing. During the party's visit to Jahara, while their comrades were off shopping for supplies, he spotted her over by the chocobo pen giving a big yellow bird a much-appreciated scratching on its long neck. It conjured images of princesses from old folk tales that she otherwise contradicted in so many ways, the sort that befriended woodland creatures and sang along with the robins and sparrows. He chuckled to himself, musing that of course the most outward display of affection she'd shown anyone since they had met would be toward this animal, and strolled over to join her.

"There you are, Princess," he said. "I see you've made a friend."

"When I was a child, I had one just like him," said Ashe. She gave a little sigh as her thoughts briefly turned to her much-loved and long-lost pet, which had fallen terminally ill when she was fourteen and had to be euthanized to end its suffering. "If only we had sufficient funds for a few of them. It's been so long since my last ride."

"I suppose it's just as well," he said. "You and Basch are likely the only ones among us who would know what they were doing."

"You never learned to ride?"

"Never had a single lesson," he said, shaking his head. "It's a bit old-fashioned for my taste. I prefer the sort of birds made from gears and bolts." He took a quick glance at the chocobo. "No offense intended," he assured it.

"It really isn't that difficult," she said. "In fact, it's quite fun once you're accustomed to it."

In her younger days, riding was a hobby that she'd shared with some of her brothers. As she grew older and her family started growing smaller, it became something of a solitary escape, a chance to clear her head and appreciate the beauty of the world in spite of its obvious cruelty.

"That's easy for you to say," Balthier said, leaning against the fence and running a hand through his perpetually well-maintained hair. "Then again, I suppose the right teacher would make all the difference."

She looked over at him with a little grin. "And if I were to instruct you," she asked, "what would you do for me?"

He put on a playful smirk, cocked his head, and raised an eyebrow. "What did you have in mind?"

"You could always teach me how to fly."

"So you'll know what you're doing the next time you want to steal my ship?" the pirate teased, recalling her ill-advised attempt to fly the Strahl to Raithwall's tomb on her own. "Nice try, Ashe."

"Of course you'd say no," Ashe replied as the chocobo lowered its head enough to let her gently wrap her arms around its neck and stroke its feathers. "You wouldn't want Vaan thinking you were playing favorites, would you?"

"Oh, heaven forbid," Balthier said.

They both laughed a little at that, but not out of a mutual distaste for Vaan. It was obvious that the boy meant well, but he could be a bit too headstrong for his own good. He was also very much lacking a sense of tact, which he would later demonstrate in Eruyt Village when he outright asked Fran about her age. Sometimes Balthier forgot that the seventeen-year-old aspiring sky pirate was only five years younger than he was, and two years younger than the princess.

"Have you ever wanted to learn how to shoot?" he continued.

"I never gave it much thought," she answered. "I'm perfectly comfortable with a blade."

"That you are," he said. "But a gun can do the same job, only quicker and easier. No need for you to get up close and personal with any especially nasty foes."

She took a moment to think it over. "There's logic in that," she said.

"So," he asked, extending his hand for her to shake, "do we have an accord?"

"We should get this in writing first," she said. "That way it'll be easier holding you to it."

The sky pirate gave another soft chuckle. "Clever girl," he said. "You truly were born to be a diplomat."

She flashed a wistful little smile this time and rested her head against the chocobo, hugging the bird a bit tighter than before.

"I learned from the best," she murmured.

The conversation ended as Vaan came jogging through the village, eager to show off his new sword. The rest of the party had joined them soon after that and they set off for Mount Bur-Omisace with forced detours through Eruyt Village and the Henne Mines. As for the pirate and princess, it seemed that nearly every time they'd had a chance to chat someone or something would show up to interrupt before long. Sometimes it was Penelo having abrupt "hey, look at this" moments that befitted a young girl exploring the world for the first time, or little Lord Larsa asking questions about her while hiding his nerves. Other times it was Vaan needing to be rescued after he picked yet another fight with a beast out of his league. And then, of course, Basch would occasionally swoop in with an obviously innocent question for the princess about the party's next move. Soon Balthier began to wonder if it was all happening on purpose, as if the gods themselves had aligned against the growth of their friendship. All he wanted to do was make a little small talk with a pretty girl. The last time he checked, that wasn't considered a mortal sin – not that he kept himself up to speed with such matters.

And now here Ashe was, joining him at the campfire in the Paramina Rift. Judging from her cautious crawling exit from their tent, Balthier concluded that the others were still asleep. He remained unsure how long it would be until the rest of the crew decided to rise and shine, but no matter. He was grateful to at least have some company for the time being. Perhaps he was simply going stir-crazy from sitting around with so little to do for so long, but he figured he was a hair's breadth away from making shadow puppets on the walls and improvising a dialogue.

Just what Ivalice needs, he thought, another Bunansa driving himself utterly insane.

"Good morning, Your Royal Drowsiness," he greeted the princess. "Did you sleep well?"

Ashe yawned and took a seat at the opposite end of the long stone that had been Balthier's makeshift bench, grimacing slightly as she felt the cold rock beneath her. "I never sleep well anymore," she said.

"Did you at least have pleasant dreams?"

"If I did," she replied, "I would still be trying to sleep."

"I guess that means I wasn't in any of them," the sky pirate joked, showing his signature smirk.

"You wouldn't want to be in the dreams I've had lately."

Ashe typically didn't remember her dreams, not even the happiest ones. But the worst of the lot tended to stick with her. The last nightmare that she could fully recall had ended with her people dragging her kicking and screaming to a guillotine in the Rabanastre town square. Given the choice, she would gladly take the usual amnesia and go about her business without giving it a second thought.

She'd had that one shortly after leaving Eruyt Village for the last time. Upon Fran asking if the Wood hated her, her elder sister Jote had said the Wood instead longed for her return; Fran had immediately seen through that lie. Ashe had briefly wondered if the Dalmascan people thought of her the way the Wood now viewed Fran: She abandoned us. She deserves to rot.

The accepted narrative for the last two years had been that she'd taken her own life after her father's murder. Sometimes she wanted to just blurt out the truth: that her uncle (Halim Ondore, Marquis of Bhujerba and highly convincing liar) had fabricated her suicide to protect her from being hunted down, and she would never turn her back on Dalmasca. But what good would that do when she could walk around her own capital city in plain sight with a pseudonym – her mother's name – as her only disguise and still not be recognized? It made her worry sometimes about how many of her people now accepted or even preferred living under Vayne Solidor's thumb. She quickly dispelled that worry by reminding herself how much the Empire had worsened the quality of life for far too many Dalmascans, forcing them out of their homes and into the underground slums of Lowtown. But every time she overheard someone question how a girl who couldn't cope with loss could ever have been a competent queen, every time someone grumbled that "at least Rasler went down fighting," that feeling would poke its ugly head back above the surface.

Thankfully, she sensed that her latest dream had nothing to do with any of that. The reason for her early rise this time had been the worst kind of unpleasant dream: a nightmare in disguise. It had started off so comforting, as though she'd earned everything she desired (her kingdom and title restored, the admiration of her people, and a husband and children who loved her and each other just as her parents and siblings once did). It had stayed that way for some time before finally stripping that feeling from her all over again and thus showing its true hideous colors. She couldn't even remember anything specific about it, but this nightmare had kept her lying awake for the past twenty minutes or so as she tried in vain to relax. All she knew was that she'd woken up with a vague but familiar sense of dread, the same sort she'd felt two years ago as Basch solemnly approached her to explain why her husband was lying motionless on a gurney.

It was the sort of dream that made her glad to forget the details of her dreams. It was also the sort of dream that made her wish she could remember, if only so she could understand why she woke up in a cold sweat with her heart thumping hard enough that she feared it would explode.

Worst of all, she couldn't tell anyone about it even if she did remember. It was just as Vossler had always instructed her: Be strong. Keep a stiff upper lip. Don't let anyone see you crack, or they will exploit it. After all, people had their own baggage to carry without worrying about lightening her load, didn't they?

She'd had far too many opportunities to practice her poker face by now. Frankly, it was frustrating to know that there were still people who wouldn't buy it.

"You do not fool me," Judge Ghis had taunted her as she sat in a cell aboard the Leviathan. "Beneath all of your rebellious bravado, you are naught but a sad and frightened child, crying for her mother and father. Make no mistake about this: you and your little insurgence intimidate no one."

"Resistance," she'd spat at him. "If you're going to insult us, at least get our name right."

Vossler would have been proud of her for that. Of course, Vossler had also advised her to settle for having her home and title back, but still acting as Vayne's puppet queen. She hadn't taken well to that idea. Nor had the sky pirate, of all people, whom she had expected to care the least about her affairs. His reward for this loyalty was a sword aimed at his throat, courtesy of Judge Ghis. He responded by unflinchingly telling the Judge, "At least your sword is to the point." It was as if he knew somehow that Ghis wouldn't follow through on the threat. But that wasn't a chance Ashe had been willing to take.

"Well, that's the one good thing about a bad dream," Balthier said. "All you have to do is wake up and it's all over."

"I suppose," she mumbled, and let out a little sigh as she sought a new topic to discuss. "I could barely get comfortable in there. Yet it's still better than the sewer, which only makes this the third -worst place I've ever slept."

"You actually have a list?" he asked, snickering.

"Unfortunately, I do."

Frequent relocation had been among the consequences of going into hiding. The Empire may have believed Princess Ashelia to be dead and buried, but the Resistance leader Amalia was still alive, at large, and among the top-ranking names on their Most Wanted list. It almost made disguising her identity seem pointless; she'd removed one target from her back only to paint a new one with different colors, and if she had to bear one she might as well have kept the one she'd been born with. But it also meant she couldn't stay too long in the same place.

And that was before she and her newfound entourage had set out on this globetrotting journey. Between the irritating sand of the desert surrounding Rabanastre, the cold and sterile cell aboard the Leviathan, the sweltering heat of the Golmore Jungle, and now this place, that list of hers was growing far too quickly for her liking.

"I take it the sewer was number one?"

The princess shook her head. "The sewer was number two."

"Wait a minute," Balthier asked, cocking his head, "something was actually worse than the sewer?"

She nodded this time. "Something was actually worse than the sewer," she confirmed. "And I'm not telling you what it was."

He supposed he could handle any answer as long as she avoided Al-Cid Margrace's bed at all costs, but no matter. She'd only just met Al-Cid; it wasn't worth worrying about at the moment.

"Leave me in suspense, why don't you," he said. "Whose idea was it to base your resistance movement in a sewer, anyway?"

"Not mine."

"Of course not. If I were a betting man – and as luck would have it, I am – I'd put my money on Vossler."

"Good guess," she said, wincing a little at the mention of that name. "He said it would keep us close to the city while still being spacious enough to offer an abundance of hiding places."

"Something tells me your delicate royal sensibilities were quite offended by the notion of living in a sewer," the pirate observed.

Ashe nodded her head again. "I told Vossler on several occasions that I'd rather sleep in a pigsty," she said.

"Well, I certainly hope he didn't call your bluff."

She groaned and wrinkled her nose in disgust, or perhaps as if trying to keep an unsavory memory repressed. "I… I won't even dignify that with a response," she said, secretly grateful that the dreaded moment of hitting absolute rock bottom was already behind her.

"That was number one, wasn't it?" he teased.

"Stop it."

"To think I once believed Vossler had no sense of humor!"

"That's not funny. Can we please drop this?"

"As you wish," he said, but he still had a little laugh at her expense.

With the subject finally dropped, they sat at the campfire in silence for a moment. Yet it was a silence that they couldn't enjoy. Each of them wanted to keep talking, but neither was entirely certain that the other wanted the chat to continue. Both were racking their brains in pursuit of something new to discuss just to pass the time, but something other than the Sword of Kings. There'd be plenty of time to dwell on that later and it was better to discuss the plans for the day with everyone awake, even if Vaan and Penelo momentarily diverted their own attention to rattling off their top five favorite swashbuckling pulp novel heroes. Fortunately they found they could still rely on one classic last-resort small talk standby.

"You're looking a bit chilly over there, aren't you?" Balthier asked, noticing that the princess was visibly shivering from the cold.

"What tipped you off?"

"We've been traversing through a mountain range in the middle of a seemingly perpetual snowstorm. Call it a hunch." He paused to look her over again. "Plus, I think your legs are beginning to turn blue."

"How very astute of you," she said. "I'm not sure whether to appreciate your concern for my legs or scold you for staring at them too much."

He chuckled some more at that – not that he was about to take his eyes off her, though. "Relax, Princess," he said. "It's only a bit of humor."

"You're lucky I've grown accustomed to your particular brand of humor," she said. "Three weeks ago I would have found such remarks slap-worthy."

"Nice to see I'm finally starting to grow on you."

"Like a cancer," she said with a snort.

"You keep telling yourself that," he said. Of course he couldn't just leave it at that, so he loosened his grip on the blanket, inched toward her a bit, and held out some of the thick soft fabric. "Would you care for a blanket?"

"No thank you," she said, "I'll be all right." She clenched her mouth shut so he wouldn't hear her teeth chattering.

"As you wish," the pirate said again. "Wouldn't want you catching your death of cold out here, though."

"If I decide that I need it, you'll be first to know."

Ashe continued to shiver in spite of her adamant insistence upon going without the blanket, but Balthier knew that she was if nothing else a woman of great conviction. Once her mind was made up, she could be exceedingly difficult to coax into reconsidering. If he couldn't talk her into taking it, he could at least play with her a little more.

"At the very least," he said, "a change of clothes might have done you some good."

Now it was her turn to smirk and snicker. "Complaining about the view?" she asked as she began to stretch her legs.

"Oh, Princess," he joked, stealing a glance at her thighs when she wasn't looking. "And here I thought you'd know me better by now."

Her thin smile grew a little as she twisted around and brought her leg across her body to stretch different muscles, pausing only to brush her short blond hair away from her eyes. How could such a basic and routine exercise look so innocent and so alluring at the same time? Even something as simple as walking could appear that way with legs as smooth and limber as hers. And now that she wasn't wearing any armor over her legs or wrists or arms, having taken it off before bed, he couldn't help noticing just how much bare skin her usual attire left exposed…

Take it easy, old sport, he thought, observing that all her stretching had brought her a couple of inches closer.

"All I'm trying to say," he continued, "is that perhaps the micro-skirt was a tad impractical."

That damned skirt… what a tease that was. And what an eye magnet. It made him want to track down whoever designed it and shake their hand for somehow leaving everything and nothing to the imagination all at once. The skirt clung so tightly to the curves of her wide hips and heart-shaped ass that the slits on the sides could trick one into thinking it was bursting at the seams. She wore a thick blue belt to hold it up, though stitching three such belts together would likely have covered the same amount of territory. It looked less like a proper skirt and more like a magenta censor bar.

"I hadn't anticipated having to come all this way on foot," Ashe explained. "But I happen to think it's the most effective part of my wardrobe."

"It's certainly eye-catching. I'll grant you that."

"Good," she said, "so we're both fond of the color."

She looked over at him and waited for his laughter to die down before going on. Though she wouldn't admit it out loud, she did enjoy these little word games on some level. As an added bonus she now had an opening to admire his tight leather pants and wonder why he couldn't borrow some fashion tips from Vaan and lose the shirt for a while. He always took great pains to keep himself looking impeccably clean and maintain a top-notch physique. She sensed that it would be worth his inevitable complaints about the cold, especially when considering the dulcet tones of his voice; though she despised the country that birthed him, she did enjoy that suave accent he'd developed there. She could scold herself for the impropriety of these thoughts later – and also pretend certain other thoughts lurking in the back of her mind didn't exist.

Balthier contradicted nearly every notion she'd ever previously held about pirates. She'd seen others who shared his profession being hauled off to dungeons or read about them in books, but had never encountered any quite like him. Pirates were supposed to be low-class rough-and-tumble types with crude vocabularies, people who valued enriching their own wallets and legends above all else but would otherwise settle for a good fight and a better drink. This one carried himself with the grace and intellect of a noble gentleman who harbored little fondness for fisticuffs and lived by his own code of honor. The dashing good looks certainly didn't hurt either.

But she could not let herself get caught staring. He would tease her about it relentlessly. And he would do so in such a way that could genuinely indicate either interest or mockery, or possibly even both at once. The man played his cards so close to the vest that they might as well have been stitched into the fabric.

She found him infuriating. She found him fascinating.

"But you wouldn't expect a royal to walk around in something like this, would you?" she went on.

"Obviously you haven't met any of Al-Cid's sisters," Balthier said, hoping he wouldn't regret invoking the proper name of the man he'd promised himself he would remember solely as the Foppish Rozarrian Twit.

"You know them?" the princess asked.

"Not nearly as well as he thinks," he answered. "I'd correct him, but it's too much fun watching him agonize over the possibilities."

He'd met a pair of fetching twins by the name Margrace at another party he'd infiltrated in Rozarria about a year ago. They made some friendly small talk, but he opted to take his leave once he sensed their brother watching him like a hawk when not braying about his fancy new state-of-the-art personal airship (that someone else would fly and maintain for him, naturally) or the renovations being made to his already posh bedchamber. The word on the street was that Al-Cid had caught one of the twins in his bed later that night with a man matching Balthier's description. Judging from the Foppish Rozarrian Twit's treatment of him at Mount Bur-Omisace, those rumors were apparently well-founded.

Not that he'd been especially friendly toward the prince either, of course.

"Speaking of which," Ashe said, "what did you think of Al-Cid?"

Oh lord, he thought, here we bloody go.

"Truly delightful," came his monotone reply. "Why do you ask?"

She flashed the most innocent-looking knowing smile he had ever seen and said, "Fran told me the look on your face was priceless."

"Did she now?" he said, feigning nonchalance. "I think I may need to have a little chat with her later vis-à-vis the value of my facial expressions."

Indeed, Balthier had been quite irritated by Al-Cid's excessively flamboyant demeanor. Everything about that man, from the flourish with which he removed his sunglasses to the flowery vocabulary and hammy delivery he'd employed to woo the princess, dripped with obnoxiousness and arrogance. It was like watching a caricature of the dapper and charming gentleman Balthier had striven so hard to become.

It didn't help matters that the Foppish Rozarrian Twit had treated Ashe to a glass or two of Bhujerban Madhu, one of the strongest liqueurs in Ivalice, and tried to talk her into visiting his family's lavish gardens in the Ambervale. Balthier hadn't realized what drink it was until Al-Cid sent his assistant (he called her his "little bird," but treated her more like a pack mule; she was still carrying his sunglasses from earlier, among other personal effects) to fetch a bottle of the stuff. Ashe did her best to keep things professional, but anyone not named Al-Cid could see that she felt a bit uncomfortable. Surely he must have understood that she had more important things to consider than the lecherous whims of a self-absorbed prince. But there he was, constantly trying to touch the poor girl's hands and lecturing her ears off about how she simply must come to Rozarria because it was so beautiful, just like her, and all without a single attempt by her loyal watchdog to make him back off. Yet if Balthier had tried to pull the exact same stunt, Basch would surely have smashed the Madhu bottle over his head in protest.

Such were the perks of being spawned by the right loins. These were also the perks of not being a pirate with a bounty on one's head, but by virtue of birth Al-Cid was still more likely to get away with this behavior than Ffamran Bunansa.

And so it had fallen to the sky pirate to invent some fib about swords being on discount, knowing that Ashe wanted an upgrade. He also included a caveat: the sale was only for the day and the shops would be closing soon.

"You haven't finished your drink, my Desert Bloom," Al-Cid had said.

"I'm sorry," she said politely, "but I doubt I can handle another drop."

"No worries, I'll finish it," Balthier said. And with that he had downed the rest of her mostly full glass (which thankfully contained mostly ice), much to the Twit's displeasure. "Cheers, my lord."

"What do you think you're doing?" the Rozarrian fumed. "Just who do you think you are? That drink was for the lady!"

"And she appreciates the gesture, I'm sure."

The flustered prince then refocused on Ashe for another appeal. "My lady, how can you tolerate such rudeness?" he asked. "I cannot possibly fathom the depths of depravity you must be subjected to on a daily basis."

With all due respect, my lord, Balthier had wanted to say, there are a great many things that you cannot possibly fathom.

"Not nearly as deep as you may think," she told Al-Cid. "But even if it was, though I thank you for your concern, I can look out for myself."

Bhujerban Madhu was not the sort of drink that was meant to be consumed so quickly. It was a rather subtle liqueur that went down relatively easy but wrecked its consumer that much harder later if they weren't careful. To make matters worse, he'd already polished off a few pints of ale and a shot of rum beforehand. That was all he'd been planning to drink, but he simply could not let the Rozarrian have his way. He knew he'd likely start feeling sick sometime within the next half-hour or so. But he didn't regret trying to separate her from Al-Cid. In retrospect he could have figured out a smarter and less drastic method, but his results were inarguable. Even when he inevitably ended up sitting on a bench massaging his forehead, feeling dizzy and wondering if his liver had gone on strike.

"I owe you," the princess had said, offering him a glass of water.

"No you don't," he replied, accepting the drink. "All I've done is set our journey back until my bloody hangover wears off."

"The weather's been getting worse anyway," she said. "Perhaps we could use a day of rest."

"You're lying."

"So were you."

"Touché," he muttered. "But much as I am loath to admit this, you need that man as an ally."

"I still have him," she assured him. "He may not like the company I choose to keep, but he isn't angry with me. I did promise him another drink though."

"Another drink?"

"And I made him promise in return to leave the Madhu on the shelf next time," she answered with a little smile. "Like I said, I can look out for myself."

"You should still bring some backup just in case," he said as playfully as his inebriated state would allow.

This memory remained fresh in his mind as the topic of their current fireside chat had now thoroughly turned to the Clown Prince (though at least now he'd thought up another perfect nickname). He hadn't been eager to breach the subject, but once Ashe became queen there would inevitably be pressure for her to produce an heir. And for that to happen, as far as society was concerned, she would need another husband. Vayne Solidor, the mastermind of the Empire's invasion, was obviously out of the question, and his more level-headed and less power-hungry younger brother Larsa wasn't old enough to even consider it. Nabradia and Landis didn't have eligible princely bachelors anymore. And who knew what the lower ranks of the nobility had to offer?

All of this added up to Al-Cid Margrace being a very viable candidate for her hand, if not the most likely to meet her at the altar. And contemplating that was enough to make Balthier feel sick again. She deserved better than to settle for a man like that, regardless of his title or the beauty of his family's gardens. Hopefully no amounts of empty flattery or eyewear flourishes would convince her otherwise. She was smart and strong enough to resist, but she would also likely face absurd amounts of pressure from her so-called advisors and confidants to accept. This, Balthier figured, was the price of royal birth: phenomenal power and influence over everyone else's lives, enough to shape the course of history – yet little to none over one's own.

"What did you think of him?" he asked.

Ashe broke eye contact with him for a moment and stared off into space in search of the proper adjective. "He seemed… charming, I suppose."

"You suppose he seemed charming?"

"Well, he was laying it on a little thick, wouldn't you say?"

Balthier felt tempted to burst out in deafening guffaws, but restrained himself for fear of waking the others.

"Ashe," he said, "within five minutes of meeting you he was singing your praises, giving you cutesy pet names, and slobbering all over your hand. I daresay he was on the verge of suggesting names for your hypothetical offspring. Yes, it was a little thick."

"So you favor a more subtle approach to wooing the ladies?" she asked.

Her tone hit somewhere between teasing and serious inquiry, and Balthier was unsure which was closer to her true intention. He chose to play it safe and assume the former was the case.

"Compared to that approach," he replied, "parades and fireworks would be more subtle."

She didn't appear satisfied with that answer. But having successfully deflected the potential seriousness of the question, what else could be done but deflect even further?

"Honestly," he went on, "how did you manage to gather anything useful or interesting from anything he said? Every time he opened his mouth, all I ever heard him say was, 'Hello, I'm a complete jackass.'"

She snickered a bit at that. "Really? That was all?"

"Well, that and the absolutely adorable nickname he's bestowed upon you."

Ashe rolled her eyes at the thought of that botanically-themed moniker. Sensing an opportunity for a little fun, Balthier cleared his throat and began to mimic Al-Cid's strong accent. His impersonation of the voice was slightly off the mark, but the mannerisms were perfect. Almost too perfect.

"Good morrow, Desert Bloom," the fake Rozarrian said. "How are you today, my Desert Bloom? Radiant is Dalmasca's Desert Bloom." He inched a little closer to her so he could lean over and whisper in her ear. "This is the part where you're supposed to swoon."

He pretended to remove a pair of sunglasses and dramatically whisked his head to and fro as if shaking long hair loose. The princess began laughing softly, so he decided to continue.

"Let me symbolically pluck you from the proverbial rosebush," he said, letting the blanket fall so he could copy Al-Cid's hand gestures, "so I may metaphorically place you in my wavy ebony locks beside my literally ridiculous sunglasses, for you are my Desert Bloom and no one else's Desert Bloom. And if anyone else tries to claim you as their Desert Bloom, I may have to challenge them to a duel."

He paused a few seconds to let that sink in, clenching his fists in mock indignation – and then abruptly unclenched them to stroke his chin.

"But nothing that will damage my face," he said, "for I must always look my best for my Desert Bloom."

She was laughing harder now, a sound he'd once thought her incapable of producing. He wondered if she was now growing delirious too.

"Stop," she said, trying to hush herself, "he's not that insufferable about it."

"Stop?" he said, feigning offense at the request. "Stop? Why, Princess, men such as I know not the meaning of the word – and so I request a dictionary. You may deliver it personally to my ever-so-humble abode."

That got her laughing again, and now she was clasping her hand over her mouth to muffle it. He would milk this joke for all it was worth if it kept getting these results.

"Such things I will show you, my Desert Bloom," he went on, matching Al-Cid's deft blend of flamboyance and sleaze. "In Rozarria, of course, in the gardens of the Ambervale." He looked at her now with a narrow-eyed and lascivious gaze. "But most importantly, within my trousers."

This time Ashe's laughter finally began to dwindle. "That's enough!" she said through her hand. "That's terrible. You're terrible."

"Call me crazy," the pirate said, finally switching back to his natural Archadian accent, "but I much prefer the name your parents gave you. Ashelia B'Nargin Dalmasca – looks like a mouthful on paper, but I like how it rolls off the tongue."

It was the first time he'd used her full name. She felt a strange little tingle at the sound and was about to write it off as another reaction to the cold when the words say it again popped into her brain, though thankfully not out of her mouth.

"I thought 'Desert Bloom' was endearing," she said, "in its own way."

"Yes, the first few times he said that. But the more he calls you it, the more I wonder if he thinks 'Desert Bloom' is on your birth certificate."

"Well, no matter how foolish you think he may be," she said, having settled down now that Balthier's jesting was over, "he still went out of his way to meet with us. We need all the help we can get."

Balthier began to gather up the blanket, but didn't wrap himself back up just yet. "There are plenty of ways to treat a lady without coming off like you're auditioning for a bad play, you know," he said.

"All right, then," she said. "Prove it."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Show me what you would have done in his place." She pivoted to face him, crossed her legs, and folded her hands expectantly upon her thigh. "This ought to be good."

Did that really just happen, or was he dreaming again? Who was this girl, and what had she done with the real princess?

"So you're into role-playing games, eh?" he teased. "I never figured you'd be the type." You never did answer that question about being tied up, though…

"Balthier," she said, rolling her eyes again, "just show me."

He supposed he could take that as a resounding "yes."

"How do you know I haven't already?" he asked, flashing that devious smirk again.

"Because Al-Cid's the only person I've ever met with a greater flair for the dramatic, Mr. Leading Man." She pretended to check a pocket watch and looked back up at him. "I'm waiting."

He leaned forward, put an elbow on his knee, and rested his chin on his fist as he pretended to mull the challenge over. "Well, you've really put me on the spot here, haven't you?" he said. "Trying to figure out my strategy so you'll know what to look for? Then I'm afraid you'll be disappointed."

"You expect me to believe you don't have one?"

"I'm a pirate, remember? If there's one thing I know how to do, it's improvise."

She sat there pondering this for a moment and shook her head. "I'm sorry," she said, "but I still don't understand what you're getting at. Just once in your life, can't you give a straight answer?"

"Now where's the fun in that?" he asked, straightening his posture again. "That's the funny thing about communication, isn't it? So much of what we want to say too often remains unspoken." He paused to let the words sink in, acting as though he'd exposed some deeply profound truth with an obvious observation. "For instance, you'll sit there acting all intense and stoic, as is your wont, but for all I know you could actually be thinking, 'Shut up and shag my brains out.'"

He watched with amusement as Ashe's cheeks, already a little pink from being out in the cold, turned a slightly deeper red. Was she really this unaccustomed to such talk? He supposed she was still used to all the forced propriety of court, even two years removed from her rank. Her husband must not have spoken to her like that. He wondered if anyone in the Resistance had tried it.

Come to think of it, he wasn't even sure if Al-Cid would speak to her like that. Perhaps it was time to dial things back a notch.

"I can assure you that is not the case," the princess said.

"Of course not, Your Majesty. Your vocabulary is far less vulgar."

Couldn't resist that one, could you?

She rolled her eyes, gave a little sigh, and looked away from him toward the campfire, folding her arms and shivering a bit more violently than before. How much was from the cold, and how much of it was nerves? Balthier couldn't say, but it did make him feel increasingly guilty for still having that blanket all to himself. And to make matters worse, the fire was slowly shrinking.

"I usually start small," he said plainly, letting the blanket fall. "I'll buy a girl a drink, ask her for a dance, try to make her laugh… but I mostly play it by ear. You see, people don't come with instruction manuals. And years of people-watching have taught me the more desperate a man is to play all his trump cards, the less likely he is to get what he wants." He took a handful of the blanket and held it out to her, noticing that something he'd just said had caught her interest. "By the way, you really should take this. You need it more than I do."

"I'm all right. I wouldn't want you to freeze."

"You know Basch will have my head if you get sick. So why don't we share it?"

"What?"

"Relax, Princess, I won't bite – well, not without permission."

"And I'm not granting it."

"Oh, I'm only joking," the pirate assured her. "I promise I'll keep my hands to myself." He crossed his heart with his index finger.

Despite the gesture, Ashe remained hesitant to take him up on this offer of warmth in frigid weather. There was something about the situation that unnerved her and she didn't understand exactly why. In all the time she had known the sky pirate, he had never posed any sort of threat to her though he would have had plenty of chances. If anything, it was quite the opposite. This was the man who drank Al-Cid's liquor just so she wouldn't have to, who stuck up for her on the Leviathan and helped her escape, and who stayed by her side in a fight he had no apparent incentive to join with her wedding ring as his only compensation. How could someone who made her feel so at ease simultaneously make her feel so uneasy?

Was this what the world had done to her? Had she become so paranoid that she couldn't even trust a simple act of kindness from someone trying to be a friend? Or was this actually the latest side effect of losing Rasler, this feeling as though she was betraying her late husband's memory by getting all cozy with the handsome man who now held his ring? Was it something else that she didn't want to consider (that she could barely keep her eyes off said ring-bearer, for instance)? Maybe it was some combination of all that.

But was she really willing to risk hypothermia over all that?

She took a deep breath and recalled the pirate's words so many nights ago in the Ozmone Plains: one step at a time.

"All right, then," she said.

The two closed the remaining gap between them and let their shoulders touch. Ashe curled herself up into a ball and hugged her knees while Balthier wrapped the big blanket around both of their bodies. She noticed that her share of the blanket was significantly larger than his, and she could feel the remnants of his body heat through the fabric.

"There you are," he said, wincing as he felt her cold skin through his clothes. "If we'd waited any longer to wrap you up, you might have frozen solid."

The princess said nothing, simply basking in her newfound warmth.

"Admit it," he said. "This feels much better."

"It does," she said, nodding her head. "Thank you." She gripped small clumps of the blanket and pressed them against her ears until the cold dissipated. "I must say, Balthier, you're acting surprisingly concerned for my general well-being."

"Why the surprise?" he asked. "If anything happens to you, this little crusade of ours will have been for naught. And I do so loathe wasting my precious time."

She spotted the Betelguese shotgun lying on the ground at his feet. Perhaps she would hold him to the terms of their other agreement after all. She covered her mouth with the blanket so he couldn't see her grinning at the thought of him trying to ride a chocobo.

"Besides," Balthier continued, "I could say the same about you. I never did thank you for that business with Judge Ghis, did I?"

"It's all right," Ashe answered.

"You didn't have to do that."

"Of course I did."

She really didn't. Balthier remembered Ghis well from his training days in the Judiciary, back when he was still Dr. Cid's alleged pride and joy and being forced into a role that he never wanted to play. Ghis was a smug and self-absorbed old bastard who didn't always think things through before he did them, but still acted like he was always in control. Balthier could think of no more fitting end for such a man than being blown to bits by the Dawn Shard at his own foolish orders. Clearly the lessons of Nabudis and Cid's well-documented research on nethicite had been lost on Ghis.

More importantly, that incident aboard the Leviathan had not been the first time Ghis had threatened Balthier with a sword. His bark had always been worse than his bite. The threat was just as empty that day as it had been six years ago. Had it been Bergan, the ruthless Judge Magister who'd taught Balthier how to fight, that likely would have been a different story. He couldn't say he looked forward to any reunion with that man.

Of course, there was no way Ashe could have known any of this when she handed the Shard to Ghis that day. And this didn't seem like the right moment to fill her in. The last thing he wanted was her thinking he was some kind of Imperial plant.

"Really?" he said. "After all the trouble we went through to get that precious rock of yours, why hand it over just to save my neck?"

"I needed a pilot," she said after a short hesitation.

He snickered at her response. "Yes, and we've made such extensive use of my ship thus far," he said. "Come on, Ashe. Pilots practically grow on trees nowadays, most of whom don't even bear the burden of a bounty on their head."

"Those other pilots don't know who I am either," Ashe replied. "At least you and Fran are familiar faces. The five of you are all I have now, especially after Vossler…"

Her voice trailed off there. She rested her head against her knees and let out another sigh. "Never mind," she finished.

Vossler had been the closest thing she'd had to a parental figure in the years following the murder of her father. He protected her, offered her guidance, helped her make plans for the resistance movement, and taught her how to defend herself. She'd spent two years thinking Basch had been the backstabber, that Vossler was one of the only people left in Ivalice that she could trust completely. And then, just when it seemed the Resistance was finally beginning to make some progress, he sold out to the Empire. Had he always been a snake in the grass lying in wait until the right time to bite her, or had he given up on her and their cause altogether? Ashe wasn't sure which was worse.

And as much as Balthier would have liked to pretend otherwise, that situation hit a little too close to home.

"You think you know someone so well," he muttered. "Then one day, out of the blue, they turn into someone completely different."

"And it makes you wonder if you ever really knew them at all," the princess continued.

"Indeed." He cupped his hands over his mouth and blew a couple puffs of warm carbon dioxide into his palms. "So what about your comrades in the Resistance?"

Ashe shook her head and let a few loose strands of hair dangle across her cheek. "I kept everything strictly business with them," she answered. "I've lost too many brothers in war already."

"Brothers? How big was your family?"

"I was the youngest of nine."

And now she was the last one left. Disease had claimed the brothers that the battlefield had not. At least with those in the military, though she worried for their safety from the moment they left home, she'd known there was a significant chance they wouldn't return alive (not that this made it hurt any less when they didn't). The royal family's fortunes had plummeted so far that she wasn't even permitted to visit her sick siblings for fear that she too would fall ill and possibly doom Dalmasca to anarchy, conquest, or a succession crisis. All she wanted was to be kept abreast of their health, to wish them well – and when things turned for the worse (and they always did), to say goodbye.

It wasn't right. It wasn't fair. They all still had so much of their lives left to live.

"Nine?" the pirate repeated. "Your poor mother…"

"She never saw it that way," Ashe explained. "My mother loved having a big family. She used to tell us how we were her greatest treasures."

"My mother had a soft spot for children too," Balthier said, "but even she stopped at three."

"And I'll go no further than six," said Ashe, "though I could only hope to be even half the mother she was." She paused to rub her nose. "I lost her about ten years ago."

"The plague?" he asked, though he was fairly certain that epidemic had hit Dalmasca more recently.

"No, it was pneumonia."

It had been the first time the princess had experienced a death in her family, and it took some time for the concept to sink in. She remembered how as a child whenever she had a nightmare she would creep into her parents' bedroom. Her mother, who always was a light sleeper, was quick to wake and would bring her a glass of water, tuck her back into her bed, and sing her to sleep. About a week after the funeral, Ashe woke from another nightmare and had a hand on her doorknob when the reality of her mother's now-permanent absence finally hit her. She went back to bed, buried her face in her pillow, and later flipped the pillow over to sleep on the dry side.

Her father never remarried. He did, however, hire an official royal gardener to maintain the late queen's beloved flowers. He'd noticed that though his daughter didn't even know the basics of horticulture, she still tried – and mostly failed – to care for them herself. The look on her face whenever she spotted a dying rose or tulip or daffodil had been too much for the king to bear.

"I lost mine when I was thirteen," Balthier revealed. "It was breast cancer."

Ashe's eyes widened and she stuttered a bit when she tried to reply. "I'm sorry," she finally said.

"Unless you personally gave her those tumors," he quipped, "you need not apologize."

"Not just that… I mean, for what I said earlier."

"Like I said," he assured her, "you need not apologize. You didn't know."

"And what about your father?" the princess asked.

He visibly tensed up at the question and hesitated to answer. This was new. For as long as she'd known him, she'd never seen him as anything other than cool, collected, quick-witted, and in control. As frustrating as his cavalier "all the world's a stage" attitude could be, there was something to admire about the apparent impenetrability of it. This was the first sign she'd seen of anything even resembling a chink in that armor. But underneath that armor was a man, and no man was invulnerable. Some were just better at guarding those weak spots than others. She wondered if he resented his own weaknesses just as she did hers.

"Depends on who you ask," he said. "The man who raised me is gone for good, yet his body still walks the earth."

"What does that mean?" Ashe asked, picturing something from one of the stories Vaan liked to tell around the campfire at night – stories that she'd also heard about Nabudis after the Empire's destruction of it. People called it the Necrohol now; she recalled it as Rasler's old stomping grounds.

"It's nothing I like to discuss," Balthier said, hoping to deter her curiosity yet still feeling compelled to offer a few crumbs of the past in return for her honesty. "But sometimes I wonder how things may have turned out had he gone before my mother." He could sense memories of the old days nipping at his consciousness like the mountain air at his ears and nose, memories he'd spent the last six years actively trying to repress. "His family was falling apart around him, and he didn't give a damn. Not when his wife was wasting away. Not even when he had to bury a child."

The words struck Ashe like a dagger to the heart. She could never fathom being driven to speak such words about her father, nor could she grasp how anyone could fall as completely out of love with their own family as Balthier's father had. Meanwhile here she was, even two years after burying the last of her loved ones, still seesawing between anger and despair, still trying to adjust to life as an orphaned homeless widow, still following Rasler's ghost if only for the comfort of seeing him again, and the world had seen fit to deny her even one more minute with any of them. But these were the ways of the world, weren't they – seldom just and too often utterly nonsensical.

"Are you all right?" the pirate asked, having marked her reaction.

No. No, she wasn't. She hadn't been "all right" in so long she was beginning to forget what it even felt like. But how could she get that point across without tarnishing anyone's perception of her?

"You know," she said, trying to hide the cracks in her voice, "it would have killed my mother to see her children drop like flies. I don't know how my father managed it. Perhaps it was better that she went first."

She turned away and dabbed at her face with the blanket as if swatting away a bothersome gnat. It didn't help. Her body began to shake from something more than just the cold.

What would Vossler say if he were here to witness this? Or her father? Or anyone else?

You're supposed to be strong for your country, remember?

"But that was only the beginning," she continued. "Every time one wound started to heal, a new one would tear open. So after the Empire invaded Dalmasca and killed my father, I simply shut myself down. And I promised myself I wouldn't get attached to anyone else, no matter how badly I yearned for it."

You must keep a stiff upper lip!

She tried to heed this advice, but she couldn't hold anything back anymore. The stinging sensation in her eyes grew worse by the second. It was becoming unbearable.

"After all, why should I bother?" she went on, her voice breaking even more. "Everything I love gets taken away from me."

Don't let ANYONE see you crack!

"And I swear," she said, feeling about to burst, "if I must attend one more funeral, I… I…"

She couldn't finish it.

Instead she muffled her mouth with a fistful of blanket, hoping he wouldn't hear. She squeezed her eyes shut and turned her head away, hoping he wouldn't see.

Then, finally, the dam broke. And years' worth of bottled-up sadness, all these feelings that she typically only released through her sword after letting them ferment into bitterness and fury, came spilling out all at once.

Such weakness… it was so pathetic. All this time she'd wondered why nobody had ever questioned her uncle's story, but now the reason was staring her right in the face. Ghis had been right all along, hadn't he? She'd tried so hard to steel herself, and all it took was one conversation with a sky pirate, of all people, to shatter her illusion of strength – an illusion he'd believed in too. Surely this was the part where he would scold her for acting like an overgrown child.

But he didn't.

He draped an arm across her back and placed a hand upon her. She looked up at him from her makeshift handkerchief, and he could see her puffy red eyes and dampened cheeks, and he could see the surprise in her eyes at this gesture – and the fear of how he might react now that he'd seen her this way.

"Come here," he whispered, and guided her to his shoulder. "It's all right."

And that was all he said. He gave a gentle embrace, as if carrying a life-size porcelain doll in his arms, and simply let the princess cry.

For the first time since the day he left Archades, he felt a small pang of regret over his decision to run. Not because he regretted his new life as a sky pirate, but due to the possibility, however slight, that there was something he could have done in his former life to prevent this whole mess.

Had he stayed he would have been drawn deeper into Vayne Solidor's inner circle, no doubt their way of grooming him to one day replace his father, and been privy to all their scheming. He could have emerged as Vayne's rival and made allies among those in the Senate and Judiciary who would have opposed further conquests. Drace would have been on his side for sure; she wasn't afraid to speak her mind or stand up to Vayne. Zargabaath seemed noble, but was so quiet most of the time that it was hard to know where he truly stood. Gabranth followed whatever orders he was given, but at least he had a conscience, even if he ignored it until after his deeds were done.

On second thought, this would have required open and direct conflict with Vayne. And no good could ever have come from that. Vayne had once been third in line for the throne and now wore the crown himself, courtesy of those ahead of him meeting untimely ends by unnatural causes – namely, swords through their guts or poison in their drinks. The official explanation was that the culprits still remained at large, but Balthier knew better. No one in Archadia was more ambitious than Vayne Solidor, and none were better at playing the honorable man. He'd probably gotten rid of people like Drace a long time ago; he always did have a knack for working around obstacles.

Perhaps young Ffamran could have taken any information about invasion plots to Rozarria or Nabradia or Dalmasca, or even all three if he was daring enough, hoping to find some way to force Archadia to stick to the status quo. He'd be branded as a traitor in Archadia and could never go home again, but what if he succeeded? How many lives could have been saved? Then again, what if nobody believed him?

Or perhaps he could have courted Ashe himself and brought their nations together with no need to shed any blood, sweat, or tears – assuming, of course, that she would have chosen him over Rasler. He wasn't even sure if that would happen now, and the prince had been dead for two years.

Indeed, the more he asked himself what he could have done, the more his heart sank as he realized the answer was almost certainly nothing. Once the Empire wanted Nabradia and Dalmasca, those nations were doomed. Now all that remained of them were the oppressed masses, the bones of their slaughtered monarchs and soldiers, and one heartbroken princess nestling her head upon his shoulder. He held her a little tighter and began stroking her upper back, and she put her arms around him in return.

"I'm sorry," he whispered in her ear when she ran out of tears. What else was there to say?

"For what?" she mumbled, her voice sounding raspy and muted against his shoulder. "None of this was your fault."

There was a brief silence as he fished around in his mind for some kind of appropriate response. He certainly couldn't tell her about Cid, or his failure to do anything but watch helplessly as the old man's nethicite obsession spiraled out of control, or his choice to run from the Empire rather than make one attempt to challenge it from within. At least he could try to make her feel a little better.

"It would seem I've gone back on my word," he said, recalling his promise to not touch her.

He could tell she remembered it too from the soft sound of her snickering. "I'll forgive you this time," she said, and she tightened her embrace.

They sat like that for a moment, the only sounds being the dwindling crackles of the campfire and the cold wind blowing outside. Balthier initially figured he should wait until Ashe felt ready to talk, yet he couldn't shake the feeling that he needed to tell her something. It took some time to piece together some words, and he hoped they'd sound as good out of his mouth as they did in his head.

"I know it hurts, Ashe," he said, "but it's still preferable to being alone."

"Actually," she said, "your shoulder is much more comfortable than I'd expected."

"I appreciate that," he said with a short-lived smirk. "But you know what I mean: 'tis better to have loved and lost, etcetera, etcetera…"

"Do you truly believe that?"

He paused to think over how he could answer that. Once more he felt as though he owed her his honesty in exchange for hers, but this still didn't feel like the opportune moment to share everything he wanted – perhaps even needed – to tell her. It made him feel like he was lying by omission.

"I struggled with it for quite some time," he admitted.

He had the old man to thank for that. If he wasn't training or going off on mostly routine peacekeeping assignments with the Judges, he was being dragged into the office at home to lend Cid his own impressive scientific acumen. He wondered if Cid ever got around to finishing that sky fortress project. He hoped he wouldn't have to find out.

And now that his father once more occupied his thoughts, the memories came rushing to the forefront – of his last day in Archades six years ago, and of wounds that still stung more than he cared to admit.

---

If this had been a normal occasion, Ffamran likely would have focused all his attention upon the girl singing the hymn. She was a gorgeous doe-eyed brunette wearing an eye-catching blue dress and a big charm around her neck (was it showing a bird or a cage?), and her voice sounded quite lovely as it carried through the chapel. The hymn was a favorite at Archadian funerals, or so it seemed to Ffamran. He recalled hearing it at his mother's three years ago, something about unbroken circles and better homes in the sky or some such.

Perfect. He had a feeling Bhujerba was quite lovely this time of year.

But throughout his brother Orlandeau's memorial service, he was repeatedly distracted by his father's conduct. Cid had always been a bit eccentric, and after his wife's death he'd thrown himself into his work more than ever before. But ever since his return from Giruvegan he'd taken an even stranger (and frankly more infuriating) turn. It continued even now, on the day he had to bury his eldest son. He seemed anxious, perhaps even a bit irritable, as if there was somewhere else he needed to be, and from time to time he would mumble to himself – or possibly to some companion that wasn't there. Ffamran leaned over to tell him this would have to wait and was promptly instructed to not interrupt.

Perhaps this shouldn't have been so surprising. Cid had been absent for the entire process of planning the service and burial. He'd spent less and less time at the Bunansa estate and much more time at Draklor, as had become his custom. Apparently he and his invisible friend had been making some "most exciting progress" and simply couldn't be bothered. Ffamran had heard that line before, and as far as he knew nothing had come of it, but he had given up questioning it a long time ago. It did, however, make him wonder if anyone had told Cid that his son had been killed in an airship crash prior to the funeral.

At the cemetery Cid had been the first to place a flower upon the casket, followed by his second son Beoulve. As Ffamran followed suit, all he could think about was how Orlandeau had been claustrophobic and allergic to pollen; it was almost funny, the things one remembered at times like these. Yet when he turned away from the casket and faced the crowd, which included the Solidors and Judge Magisters from Bergan to Zecht (his childhood friends were no-shows, as expected), he spotted his father making a hasty exit. Some of the other attendees had noticed and concluded that perhaps the old man was too stricken with grief. Beoulve joked that Cid was merely trying to beat them all to the luncheon. Ffamran didn't have the heart to correct any of them.

"Where has your father gone, Ffamran?" Zecht asked as the crowd began to thin, no doubt making their own way to the luncheon. He had always struck Ffamran as among the most decent of the Judges (up there with Drace and possibly Gabranth), so naturally he'd barely had the chance to interact with Zecht at all throughout his tenure in the Judiciary. It was nice to be treated with some modicum of respect by a Judge Magister for a change; Bergan and Ghis, among many others in the Judges' ranks, were always quick to remind him that he was nothing more than a beneficiary of nepotism. But he was in no sort of mood to speak with anyone at the moment, not even Zecht.

"Home," he answered tartly. "Where else might he go?"

Zecht gave a frustrated sigh and shook his head. "He's claimed for nearly a fortnight that he's on the cusp of some major breakthrough," he said. "I shudder to think what experiment of his could possibly take precedence over this."

"Yes, I've heard that as well," Ffamran said, watching the first mounds of earth being shoveled into the grave. "It's a pity no one ever told Orlandeau. No doubt if he'd known he would have chosen a more convenient time to die."

Zecht was briefly taken aback by these words. For the first time, he realized how sore a subject this was for the Bunansa boy, and so he opted to stop prodding at the exposed nerve. "Will you be joining us for the luncheon, then?" he asked.

"I'm afraid not," Ffamran replied. "I would be loath to unleash my present mood upon an unsuspecting pack of innocent well-wishers."

"Very well," the Judge Magister said. "But please take care of yourself, Ffamran. Your mood at present does not give you cause to do something you may regret in the future."

"Suggestion noted," he muttered. He thanked Zecht for attending, and with that they parted ways.

The trip back to the family's estate was something of a blur. It was as if something was propelling Ffamran back to that house, something he'd struggled to control for a long time and was now threatening to explode. He barely paid attention to the shoulders that bumped him as he tried to weave his way through the throngs of whispering gossip hounds and shallow market patrons that typically populated the capital's streets. He rolled his eyes at the smell of the roast beef sandwich some idiot had snuck aboard the lift despite the plain-as-day signs forbidding it that were plastered on the walls. He passed a small tavern a few city blocks from the estate, and though the smell of cheap ale had never tempted him more, he recalled that his wallet was still at home. So he kept walking, letting the sound of voices crooning an old folk song fill his ears.

"Take my true love by her hand, lead her through the town," they sang. "Say goodbye to everyone, goodbye to everyone."

Finally he entered the Bunansa house and slammed the door shut. The house was empty, as expected; the servants had gone to pay their respects and would likely be gone for another few hours. This had been Ffamran's idea, as they'd been in the family's service for so long they'd become uncles and aunts in all but blood and name. Now this provided Ffamran with an unexpected benefit – the freedom to vent. But he hadn't a clue where to begin, so he simply dropped himself upon the nearest couch.

He spotted a small wooden frame resting peacefully on the end table. The frame contained a portrait of the man Cid Bunansa used to be, joyfully cradling his newborn third son in his arms. It wasn't long ago that Ffamran had viewed that picture as a glimmer of hope that this version of his father still existed somewhere. But there was no more denying the complete absence now. The man in that picture never would have done what his present incarnation had done on this day. Ffamran was convinced that either he or Beoulve or even a complete stranger could have been the body in that casket but their father's reaction would have differed little. It was enough to finally bring his blood to a boil.

He yanked the frame off the end table and flung it across the room. It shattered against the wall next to a window and fell to the floor.

And out that window, there stood the gardener's tool shed. Surely he could find something useful in there.

He stormed out to the tool shed and threw open the door. And after a few quick glances around, he found what he was looking for.

A large wheelbarrow. A mostly full matchbox. And a nice heavy sledgehammer.

He went back into the house, found the locked door to the office where his father would obsessively research and take notes or even do some preliminary small-scale testing before taking the experiment to Draklor. The door that had kept Cid shut away from the rest of the world, including – and especially – his family.

The sledgehammer made quick work of it. He should have thought of this a long time ago.

The office ranked among the smaller rooms in the house, but perhaps this was due in part to how much the old man had managed to cram inside it. There was a big wooden desk in the center cluttered with open notebooks and designs. A smaller table sat at the back of the room with some basic lab equipment set up. Along the walls stood bookcases filled with textbooks and notebooks, one to the left and one to the right, and a single source of light dangled from the ceiling. And that was all – no windows, no decorations, nothing but a monument to Cid's absolute dedication to science above all else.

Ffamran raised the hammer and brought it down upon the desk with all his might.

The desk and lab table and all of their contents were soon reduced to splinters and shards. Whatever papers were lying around within eyesight got torn to shreds. The shelves of books were completely cleared, either by Ffamran's hand or by his hammer if he couldn't reach, and they dropped unceremoniously to the floor. Then the bookcases were knocked over and smashed to bits themselves. Only the light was spared his wrath.

Try ignoring your family now, you stupid miserable bastard, he thought.

But even after all the time and effort he'd expended, he still wasn't satisfied. It was time at last for the big finish.

He brought the wheelbarrow to the back yard. He loaded it with as many of Cid's books as he could fit. Then he lit a few matches and set them all ablaze.

As Fframran stood watching the books burn, feeling the heat of the flames upon his face, he marveled at the sheer destructive might of fire. Just like that, years' worth of Cid's collected research and designs were reduced to a raging miniature inferno within minutes. It felt strangely gratifying to peer deeper into the wheelbarrow and see the accumulating mounds of ash.

But his sense of satisfaction began to die out long before the fire ever would. He recalled the advice Zecht had given him at the funeral, words that had clearly entered one ear and flown out the other. It all made him shudder before the destructive might of his own anger. He'd never been the type to explode like this. What good could possibly come from this? All that awaited him now was a swift and harsh punishment and an even greater rift between himself and his father than ever before. He didn't want to think about what he might have done had Cid been home, sitting in the office that was now left in ruins. Cid kept his most important work over at Draklor anyway.

Yet what good could have come from keeping quiet? The Bunansas had become so dysfunctional over the last few years that perhaps something like this was bound to happen eventually. Beoulve had initially resisted Cid's influence, but by now had become so thoroughly assimilated and entrenched in the life Cid had built for him (he worked as a laboratory assistant at Draklor, despite science not really being his forte) that there was little chance of him ever reasserting his independence. Orlandeau had never been secretive about his ever-growing disgust with their father, resisting him as much as possible before perishing aboard one of the first airships to test out Cid's newest magicite engine; the crash had been caused by a malfunction in that engine. The two elder brothers had frequently butted heads over this divide. Ffamran had tried to avoid that drama as long as he could, but it soon became impossible to ignore. His rebellion had up to now been rather hushed, as if he'd been waiting for the right time to strike, but after this there could be no turning back.

Still, the violence of his outburst seemed rather pointless – especially considering the idea that just now popped into his head.

How did that old saying go? "A man chooses; a slave obeys." And Ffamran was through obeying his father.

He turned away from the fire and made his way back through the house to his bedroom. He found a large duffel bag and loaded it with his wallet, clothing, and various toiletries. Then he went back out to the hallway and passed the room where his mother used to teach him the piano. She loved classical pieces while he preferred jazz, but their favorite piece to play together was a marching band tune written many years ago to celebrate Gramis Solidor's ascension to the Imperial throne and performed at his coronation parade, a piece which she'd rearranged for the ebony-and-ivory setting. Shortly after he'd become a widower, Cid had sold the piano to help fund more of his damned research.

He entered Cid's room and took whatever money he could find, even going to the old man's combination safe and slowly deducing the combination by listening for the clicks. As soon as he emptied the safe, he went back to his own room and took the Claymore greatsword he'd been assigned with the Judges.

Once he was all packed up, he left the Bunansa estate with no intention of ever returning. He paused for a moment to take one last lingering look at his childhood home, but that was all. He supposed he would always have the memories of the good times there, but while those memories were nice, that was all they were. That was all they ever would be.

Ffamran's first destination was Vint's Armaments, where he immediately sold the Claymore; the Judges would simply have to learn of his desertion the hard way. He was much more gifted with a blade than anyone had expected, and he'd once set his sights on earning a Save the Queen sword, but that made no difference anymore. The shopkeeper seemed rather baffled when he purchased a used Altair gun with some of the money from the Claymore sale, but Ffamran dismissed his concerns and later used the rest of the Claymore money to stock up on potions and remedies at Granch's Requisites.

From there, he headed to the hangar where Cid's various airship prototypes were built, scrapped, and retooled in hopes of borrowing one of their vehicles – not that he planned on giving it back. Vandalism and grand theft aero in the same day? It was once unthinkable for Ffamran to do such things. Now it all felt so liberating, like he'd become a completely new and independent man. In fact, it felt so much so that he started thinking a name change might be in order. "Ffamran" had been Cid's father's name, though Ffamran never much cared for it himself; people frequently mispronounced or misspelled it and it had become quite a bother. He began to think up possible aliases as he reached the hangar.

By now it was starting to get dark and all but the patrol guards had gone home for the evening. Of course, this didn't mean he could afford to get sloppy, but it did leave him a little more margin for error. It helped that he knew his way around this hangar, having frequently snuck out here to take flying lessons over the last three years. He'd always been fascinated by airships and dreamed of being a pilot or an aerospace engineer as a boy. Instead Cid had shoved him into a heavy, dark, and hot suit of armor and forced him to help design just about everything but airships. There was that sky fortress project, but that had been so extremely ambitious that Ffamran was convinced they were wasting their time on a madman's pipe dream.

As he snuck through the hangar, keeping out of the guards' sight, he finally settled upon his new identity, and in retrospect the name had been a blatantly obvious choice all along. It was a name that his mother had wanted to call him when she was still carrying him, but she eventually let Cid have his way under the condition that she could name their next child. They never had another.

Ffamran Bunansa was dead. From now on, his name was Balthier.

He liked the sound of it. Certainly suited him better than "Ffamran" ever had.

He took a key from one of the guards after some brief interrogation that ended with knocking the man out. There was a ship at station twelve that was scheduled to be scrapped the next morning despite being perfectly capable of flight. It was the YPA-GB47 Test Combat Fighter, dubbed the Strahl for short, and it seemed a perfect candidate for borrowing and never giving back. The closer he came to station twelve, the more his heart raced with anticipation. He was long overdue for a fresh start, wasn't he?

Balthier was sick of being forced into a life he never asked for by a man who had chosen nethicite over his own flesh and blood. Sick of being told that the only reason his life had value was because of his high-profile surname, or that the only reason he had a chance to make a name for himself was because of that same man. Sick of hearing such nonsense from people who wouldn't give a damn who they hurt with their incessant gossiping if they earned more sandalwood chops out of it. Sick of being surrounded by people who would literally cut throats to ascend in rank. So now here he was, staring down the door to a whole new life – a life spent playing jazz, coming and going as he pleased, creating his own story instead of letting others ghostwrite it for him.

If all the world was a stage, then each life lived upon it was its own unique story. Therefore each man was the leading man of his own story. This was his life, this was his story, and he swore to never let anyone forget that again.

Escaping the toxicity of Archades could very well have been the best decision he'd ever made. The only question remaining as he started up the Strahl for the first time of many was where to go next. It was another question that proved easier to answer than he'd assumed, given his actions that day.

He set a course for the port city of Balfonheim, the veritable pirates' paradise built and run by and for all sorts of society's leftovers – the outcasts and the outlaws, the rebels and the runaways. It wasn't like Old Archades, where the Empire's least fortunate citizens lived in extraordinary squalor, only tolerating it because they still harbored delusions that one day they too could be mighty if they only caught one long-awaited lucky break. In Balfonheim your origins didn't matter; you could play by your own rules and earn your fortune based on your own merits and skills.

And besides, what better way to rebel against the man who made him a Judge than by reinventing himself as a sky pirate?

Thus the fates of Dr. Cidolfus Bunansa's three sons were set. The eldest was in the ground, buried with all of his unrealized potential, never to rise again. The youngest had fled to the skies, taking with him all of the genius his brothers had failed to inherit from their father. And the middle son was left somewhere in between, struggling in obscurity to pick up the pieces of a once-promising legacy.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Years later, not long before Balthier and Fran had set off for the Dalmascan Royal Treasury, they had met with the Pirate King Reddas to discuss their latest treasure hunt. It was a simple formality Reddas had asked of all the Balfonheim pirates when he first ascended to power. He wanted to keep track of their activities: who was going where to do what, how much money was coming in and going out of the city, and so forth – separate from the more official records of the harbor's proper business, of course. It also helped him encourage collaboration rather than competition between any pirates targeting the same treasures.

Though these meetings never took long Balthier found them a bit of a nuisance, but out of respect for Reddas he endured them with no complaints. He had to admit that the city had become less dangerously chaotic since Reddas had taken control. The streets were cleaner, the shops and taverns were safer, and the people generally got along much better.

This time, however, something compelled him to stay a bit longer after the meeting had concluded. Perhaps it was because the sixth anniversary of his flight from Archades had recently passed; he couldn't say for sure. He told Fran he would meet up with her later, and she nodded and walked out the door.

"Reddas," he said, "I was wondering if perhaps we might have a quick word."

"A quick one," Reddas said, nodding his consent. "I am a busy man, after all."

"I hope you don't mind if I shut the door," Balthier said, doing exactly that as he spoke.

This caused the Pirate King to raise an eyebrow in mild suspicion and freeze in his seat. "What is the meaning of this?" he asked.

"There's something I've wanted to ask you for a long time," Balthier said, racking his brain to find a way to phrase his question. "And I wish to address you not as a fellow sky pirate, but rather as a fellow runaway Judge."

This only made Reddas feel even more cautious. He leaned forward and spoke in a lower, more menacing tone. "I suggest you tread lightly, Ffamran," he said.

In his own former life, the Pirate King Reddas had been known as Judge Zecht, the man in charge of the Archadian forces when they invaded Nabradia. It was Reddas who had unleashed the terrible power of nethicite upon Nabudis, all to satisfy Cid Bunansa's curiosity. The guilt had haunted him so severely that he ended up following Cid's son's footsteps to Balfonheim, abandoning the Judiciary in the process. It was something he preferred to keep under wraps at all times; Balthier was the only other person in Balfonheim who knew the truth.

"No worries, Zecht," Balthier assured him, and he took a deep breath as he prepared his question. "I only wish to know if any acquaintance of mine back in Archades – whether friends, family, or anyone else – ever sought me out after I left."

He was ashamed of himself for even asking. He figured he already knew what the answer would be. But even six years after he escaped the capital, he still couldn't let go of the memories of his mother's piano, his father jovially helping him with schoolwork, and his brothers arguing over a girl or how to split their winnings from betting on chocobo races. It was a place where he once knew for sure he belonged. In Balfonheim his upper-class habits made him stick out among the ruffians that made up nearly all of the local populace. Over the past six years the only meaningful friendships he'd made had been with Fran, Reddas, and two of the trio that made up Reddas's crew (he didn't speak much with Raz), one of whom was still recovering from the cessation of their casual flings. It was, however, a significant upgrade over the situation he'd left behind in Archades.

Reddas reclined in his chair again, relaxing at the nature of Balthier's question, but his expression seemed to sadden as he considered his response.

"I'm afraid I don't know that answer," he finally replied. "I'm sorry."

"I figured you might say that," Balthier said, and he turned to open the door.

"Take care of yourself," Reddas advised.

The former Ffamran Bunansa looked back at Reddas with that all-too-familiar smirk on his face, though there seemed to be something false about it this time.

"Don't I always?" he said. And with that he left Reddas's manse and walked to the aerodrome.

---

Finally, mercifully, the memories faded, and Balthier was able to refocus all of his attention on the princess. She'd been quiet, still resting her head on his shoulder, waiting for him to gather his thoughts. He decided to give her the most relevant details.

"The years between my mother's death and the day I left Archades were not kind," he told her as he let her go. "My schedule was exceedingly full, yet my life felt empty. I fell out of touch with my childhood friends and wound up too busy and exhausted to make any new ones. I couldn't fit a girl into the itinerary back then either. I even grew distant from my elder brothers, and then one of them died in an airship crash not long before I ran off."

Yes, that would suffice for now – wait, for now? Was he really entertaining the possibility of telling her the whole truth? The last person he'd tried to tell about his father hadn't wanted to hear it and wouldn't let him finish. On the other hand, it hadn't stopped Fran from accepting him. She believed that the sins of the father should not tarnish the son, and Balthier was thankful for that as he had a myriad of his own sins to worry about. When he'd met her he was several months into his self-imposed exile, having long since concluded that he was better off on his own and without his connections to the Archadians. Fran's unyielding friendship from then on had reminded him that life really was better with company.

And now the princess seemed to be in dire need of this reminder.

"No," he went on, "I would not wish such a void on anyone."

"If only I could wish myself out of it," said Ashe, patting her cheek dry. "If only we all could have met before the invasion. At least back then I wasn't such a wreck."

"Princess," Balthier said, "no one will think any less of you for needing a shoulder to cry on after all you've had to endure."

"That's not true."

"Who would?"

"Who wouldn't?"

"I wouldn't," he answered, "and there isn't a single person in that tent who would either."

"How can you be so sure?" she asked. "I must stay strong for Dalmasca. Those people in that tent, and so many others like them, are my once and future subjects. No country deserves to see their queen sobbing like a baby over ancient history."

Was that what she called it? She made it sound as though she'd been bawling uncontrollably like some hammy actress desperate for her audience's sympathy. Even if she hadn't muffled her cries, she wouldn't have been loud enough to wake their companions. These had instead been the weary tears of a young woman who'd left her heart in pieces just to escape the constant cycle of rebuilds and collapses.

"And what queen deserves a country that won't see her as a fellow person?" he countered.

"What country ever does?" she said. "Like it or not, this is how I was raised. I must think ever and always of Dalmasca's needs first. All else must wait." She paused to rub her eye. "The queenly mask will always be my burden to bear, and I will wear it proudly. I cannot afford such weakness."

"This doesn't mean you're weak. It means you're Hume."

"Then I wish to be a machine."

"You don't mean that," he insisted, shaking his head. "A machine may have the ultimate tolerance for pain, but it will also never know pleasure."

The princess looked away from him and her head tilted down, and for a moment he worried that more tears were coming, but instead she only inhaled deeply and sighed.

"We all need release," the pirate continued. "It's either that or you bottle everything up. And you can switch to cans once you run out of bottles, and then boxes and bins and so on and so forth. But all that waits at the end of that road is a sledgehammer for you to swing around like a raving lunatic."

He placed his fingertip on her chin and guided her head back up until they made eye contact.

"So even if you think you're alone," he whispered, "or that no one else will lend you their ear, you'll still have mine."

She sat in silence for a moment, thinking about all that he'd said, letting it sink in, listening to the cold breeze outside starting to die down.

"And you will have mine," said Ashe.

Who would have thought that a sky pirate – one hailing from the very nation that had left her life in shambles, no less – would be showing her any sort of compassion? It made her feel guilty for ever thinking he lacked the stuff.

"Not a word of this to anyone, all right?" she added.

"This never leaves the cave," he agreed, and he let his hand fall from her chin. "Wouldn't want people thinking I've gone soft, after all."

That got a little snicker out of her. "Yes, gods forbid your reputation should improve," she said, and she dabbed at her face with the blanket again. "But really, I must admit… I've severely underestimated you."

"No need to worry," he said with a grin. "I like to think I'm impossible to overestimate."

"I wasn't joking," she said. "This isn't even your fight, yet here you are, hauling me all over Ivalice at great risk for little reward. You could easily have left us behind in Jahara, but you didn't."

She paused briefly, as if bracing herself to say something important, and Balthier noticed her lips slowly curving upward. Ashe didn't smile much, and she laughed out loud even less frequently, and with good reason. But when she did… somehow, he could tell she meant it, and this only amplified that beauty.

As a Judge, he'd grown accustomed to being feared. As a pirate, he'd gotten used to being doubted. But for her to open up this way showed the trust and faith she'd gained in him. And he took this quite well.

"Does this mean you intend to see things through to the end?" she asked.

If there was ever any doubt about his answer to that question, it wasn't there anymore. How could he abandon her now? In fact, he felt more inspired to join her than ever. Even if the road ahead would lead him back to the capital, back to Cid, what of it? Here before him sat a princess of a conquered nation with centuries of history and the future of Ivalice riding on her shoulders, haunted by the ghosts of everything she'd lost every moment of her life (waking and unconscious), and though she'd suffered greatly her resolve and dedication to her people and her cause never faltered. This girl would make one hell of a queen someday.

More to the point: if, after all she'd been through, she could still face all of her demons and keep fighting without a second thought, then so could he. And Balthier would do it by her side, setting right what his father and Vayne and the rest of that inner circle had wronged, putting his heart at ease once and for all. He would take Ashe wherever she needed to go, and do whatever it would take to free her kingdom. After all, he reasoned, a leading man must always be on the lookout for a chance at heroism.

A wiser man than Balthier had once famously said that not all treasure was silver and gold. He used to think that was a load of rubbish: "Well, of course there are other kinds," he'd say. "They're called diamonds, rubies, and sapphires." It was funny, the way things turned out sometimes. All of a sudden that old line was finally starting to make sense.

He played it cool as he answered her, putting that usual smirk back on his face. "Now what sort of leading man would I be if I didn't?" he said.

"I believe the proper term is decoy protagonist," Ashe replied with a smile.

And she leaned a bit closer to him.

"No, I'd say that's got Vaan written all over it," Balthier teased in turn, and he leaned toward the princess as well. "So if I help you get your kingdom back, would you mind doing something about that pesky bounty on my head?"

"One deal at a time, Balthier," she said. "You still haven't taught me how to shoot, you know."

"Nor have you started your riding lessons," he countered. "Now, about that bounty…"

She pretended to mull it over as she rolled her eyes straight up and slightly tilted her head to one side, presumably in a mock-thoughtful pose – but something about it also seemed, dare he think it, accommodating.

"I might consider it," she said, making eye contact again.

If this had been any other girl in all of Ivalice, he would have gone in for the kiss right there.

So why was he hesitating with this one?

Well, for starters, this situation seemed to call for something more tender than anything he was accustomed to giving – or receiving, for that matter. But he knew there was more to it than that.

The answer was simple: because he was unworthy of this one, especially in the eyes of society due to both his chosen profession and her esteemed rank. And there were other reasons atop all that. Ashe may not have deserved to be stuck with the Clown Prince of Rozarria for the rest of her life, but it wasn't as though he himself was much of an upgrade, if he could even be considered one. For six years he'd gone through women the way the Strahl went through gallons of fuel, but this was not someone he could simply treat as another anonymous pair of ankles on his shoulders. As much as he wanted to try something now, it would likely feel tantamount to exploiting her current vulnerability.

Still, there was something that kept compelling him to give it a go anyway. His best guess was the look on her face; it seemed to say I think you're worthy, though it was likely best to avoid jumping to any conclusions.

Meanwhile, the princess's head was filled with many of the same thoughts swirling around not unlike the wind outside the party's shelter. She craved a happiness that would endure. It was the kind that required much more effort to piece together, like a carefully composed piece of music or a well-choreographed dance routine, until it was something worth showing the world. Over the years it had proven elusive to them both. Each of them had felt it as children, back before each of their mothers fell ill and their homes started crumbling. She thought it was finally returning the day that float carried her to her wedding, while he sensed it the day he left Archades; still, neither had known much else but struggle. And it still seemed elusive, even now. If they were to pursue each other, surely the world would get in their way eventually. Surely there were no happy endings that would result from this tale.

As a result, she ended up feeling just as stifled and baffled as the pirate. It reached a point where she tried to organize everything into an internal dialogue where all the lines were spoken in her own voice.

---

MIND: What are you thinking? He's a sky pirate!

BODY: But he's different. His style, his physique, his hair, that voice – it's all so dashing and debonair.

MIND: Oh, stop it. You sound like a smitten little schoolgirl, trying to reform the good-looking "bad boy" from the wrong side of town.

HEART: You focus too much on what, and not enough on whom. I think he's more than a simple lothario looking to sharpen his technique.

MIND: Don't interrupt. Haven't you pressed your luck enough with him?

BODY: Apparently not, because I know something else you want to do with him…

MIND: That's just disgraceful.

BODY: And that's just being prudish. He seems interested. You know you're interested. And don't deny it, because you've been undressing him with your eyes for the last few weeks.

EYES: We can vouch for that.

BODY: See? What else is there to discuss?

MIND: Really? Must I labor this point further? Royalty and piracy mix like oil and water.

BODY: Except in those storybooks you used to read as a child—

MIND: Which are fictional, and therefore inadmissible evidence.

BODY: Where's your sense of romance?

MIND: Where's your sense of reason? You have more important things to worry about! What would your family think? What would your people think? What would Rasler think?

BODY: They would want you to be happy.

MIND: They would want you to be responsible.

[And so, this time, it came down to her heart to cast the deciding vote.]

HEART: Wait a minute! Since when were those concepts mutually exclusive?

---

In real time, all of their confusion and the conclusion they reached happened in approximately ten seconds.

It wasn't clear which one eventually broke the stalemate, and indeed from an outsider's perspective a case could be made for either the princess or the sky pirate. It was all in one continuous – and seemingly simultaneous – motion.

He placed a hand on her neck; she gently gripped his shoulder, which was still a bit damp with her tears. Their eyes shut; their heads were drawn closer as if by magnetism.

And then, finally – lip contact.

It started with a few simple pecks, as if they were both wordlessly admitting the fear of getting caught and their gradual acceptance that this was really happening and they both wanted it. Then she pulled herself closer, tighter, with her arms over his shoulders and around his neck. He wrapped an arm around her middle and gently brushed his other hand across her cheek, letting it rest on the nape of her neck, and he moved in for something deeper and more lingering.

She was happy to accept, returning each kiss with just as much affection if not more as her heart raced and soared in ways she hadn't thought were still possible. She even let out a small muffled giggle as she felt the downward trajectory of his hand from her neck to her shoulder and all the way down to the small of her back. He paused and was about to start inching his hand up her back again until she reached for his arm to keep it in place.

They parted for just a moment while she lifted herself off the stone and lowered herself onto his lap. Her bare legs still felt chilly from the cold weather, but this was overpowered by the jolt to his system caused by that soft round ass of hers rubbing against his lap as she adjusted her position, as if his system wasn't already jolted enough with every kiss.

He began caressing her thigh – her skin still so smooth against his somewhat callused fingertips – and leaned in to leave a small trail of kisses on her neck, which tickled her a bit at first until he found the right spot. She let him linger there for a little while, and then touched his chin and guided his head upward until their eyes met. His expression was slightly quizzical, as if wondering whether he'd done something wrong. But she simply smiled and pulled him into another deep kiss, and then another that included some of her tongue, and they continued just like that for some time. Their lips barely parted between each kiss, and his fingers on her thigh inched ever closer to that pink skirt while she slipped hers under his vest to touch the toned chest underneath, all the while hoping for a chance to feel the skin beneath the fabric.

Not once did it matter to either of them that one was a princess and the other was a pirate, or that the rest of the world would likely find such a union utterly scandalous. All that mattered was this: a young man and a young woman sharing something special with each other, a growing bond that had brought them this far and – they hoped – farther still in the future. And just as one taste ended, another began, and then another…

And then someone inside the tent started yawning and rustling, completely throwing off their rhythm.

So typical.

They both jolted into tense upright positions, startled by the sound, and inched apart just a bit. Their eyes were now fixed upon the tent as they waited to see who would emerge. Sure enough, a sandy-haired teenage boy came creeping outside, stumbling a bit as he exited the tent.

"Oh, hey guys," said Vaan as he spotted them by the campfire, and he raised his hand to lethargically wave. "Good morning."

"Hello, Vaan," said Balthier. "Awfully eager to get started today, aren't you?"

"Definitely," Vaan answered in mid-yawn, stretching his arms. "So how was the watch?"

"As humdrum as always. Another night without incident, I'm afraid."

Ashe was thankful the sky pirate had been so quick to adjust. The more he spoke, the less attention Vaan was sure to pay to her attempts at settling her heart rate and letting the blush disappear from her face.

"Sounds real exciting," said the urchin.

There was a moment of awkward silence, and Vaan resorted to his usual nervous tic of folding his arms behind his head.

"Um… did I just interrupt something?" he asked.

YES, they both shouted at him telepathically.

"It's all right," said Ashe. "It's nothing that can't be continued later." She glanced over at the man sitting beside her. "Right?"

"Absolutely," Balthier said.

"Hey, did that storm ever let up," Vaan went on, "or will we just have to sit around doing nothing all day?"

"Why don't you have a peek outside and see for yourself?" Balthier asked.

Vaan nodded and staggered over to the opening, taking extra care to avoid stepping in the fire. He stood outside and promptly learned the hard way that though the storm had long since passed, the wind was still blustering as much as ever. He complained a bit about the breeze, lamenting his ill-advised lack of a shirt beneath his vest. Then he shielded his eyes from the cold air and looked toward the sky.

"Wow," he said. "You guys should really check out this sunrise. It's pretty amazing."

"There are plenty more where that came from," the pirate replied. "Believe me."

"I'm over here, you know," Vaan said as he came back into their shelter. "How much longer do you think it'll be before the others start waking up? I am so ready for the Stilshrine of Miriam."

Awake for five minutes and already Vaan's zeal for treasure hunting had reached peak levels. Balthier had to laugh a little at that. Even after all this boy had lost (his brother was mortally wounded protecting Ashe's father two years ago, and his parents had both died before that), he still approached everything with seemingly boundless energy. Perhaps he really would make a decent pirate after all.

"Oh, good," Balthier said, "another enormous fiend-infested trap-loaded tomb for us to raid. I don't know about you lot, but I can hardly contain my enthusiasm."

"Have you ever been there before?" the princess asked. "It might help to know what we could be up against."

Balthier shook his head. "I haven't even the slightest clue what the place looks like," he admitted. "Basically, the plan is to follow the map until it says we're there. But at least I'll be one step closer to crossing 'visit every locale in Ivalice' off the old bucket list."

"So where is the map, anyway?" asked Vaan.

"Fran had it last. It should still be in her pack."

The boy made his way over to the tent and stepped back inside, and for a moment both pirate and princess thought they'd bought themselves another few minutes of one-on-one time. But then they heard the telltale bump of two heads colliding and a young female voice going, "Ow! Watch where you're going, Vaan!"

And then Vaan came stumbling backwards out of the tent. "I'm sorry, okay? How was I supposed to know you were up?"

Penelo crawled out of the tent, rubbing the sore spot on her forehead. "You know what, forget it," she said through a yawn. "I am not enough of a morning person to pick a fight with you right now. What time is it, anyway?"

"The sun just came up," Vaan answered. "Nice bed hair, by the way." He reached over to muss Penelo's already disheveled blonde hair. She groaned and swatted Vaan's hand away, and Balthier noted that the absence of her trademark pigtails made her look a bit older and more mature. It suited her well, so much so that he grinned at the thought of how Larsa might react were he there to see it. Vaan certainly seemed to like it.

"Calm down, you two," said Ashe. "Let the others sleep."

That drew the girl's attention to their seat by the campfire, and she observed the close proximity between the pair still wrapped in the blanket. "Ooh," she said, "what's going on here?"

Balthier noticed Her Majesty tensing up beside him, so he fielded the question himself. "Only a bit of friendly conversation," he said. "Nothing more, nothing less. Sorry to disappoint."

"Well, on that note," the princess said, letting herself relax, "perhaps those of us who are already awake should get a head start with our gear." Her stomach started to growl. "And breakfast, while we're at it."

"I second that motion," the pirate added.

And with that he and Ashe both stood up and let the blanket drop. Vaan and Penelo went back into the tent to collect their packs.

"We will continue this 'friendly conversation' later," Ashe told Balthier while stretching her arms above her head. "But for now, the Sword of Kings awaits."

"It would be rude to keep the Sword waiting, wouldn't it?" he joked.

She snickered at that, but continued as if he hadn't said anything.

"And if it makes you feel any better," she whispered, "Al-Cid isn't my type."

Balthier raised an eyebrow at that, but before he could respond Ashe went over to the tent to gather her belongings, still stretching her arms overhead as she did so. He noticed that she'd added a little exaggeration to the usual sway of her hips while she walked. It was like she knew he'd be watching, and of course he was. And she must have known where he would be looking as well. She took a quick glance back at him before entering the tent and returned his contented grin.

She nearly collided with Vaan on her way back in while he hurried out. He really did need to pay more attention to his surroundings.

She spotted Fran rubbing her eyes, having no doubt been awakened by Penelo rooting around in a bag full of canned food with a skillet in her hand. The girl apologized, having tried to be as quiet as possible, but Fran brushed it off, blaming it on her sensitive Viera ears. Ashe figured it was fortunate that Penelo had been around to make noise, for surely her own thumping heart could have been the cause.

But it was a good kind of thump, an excited thump, the kind typically felt when eagerly anticipating something. Part of that was of course due to their fast-approaching hunt for the Sword of Kings and whatever purpose it might eventually serve. And another part was reserved for the people who were helping her on her quest to free Dalmasca: the boisterous teenage orphans still smiling in the face of oppression, the wise Viera and all of her worldly guidance, the humble knight who sought to prove his undying loyalty, even the flirtatious Rozarrian prince (though she still hoped he could take "no" for an answer) and the young Archadian prince who still carried hope for a peaceful future despite a war that seemed sadly imminent. And last but not least: the charming sky pirate, the one who excited her most of all, and the one she could still faintly taste on her lips, a taste that filled her heart with genuine joy and left her wanting more.

It even made her feel a slight glimmer of hope for the hated Empire. Yes, Archadia had spawned people like Vayne Solidor and Judge Ghis. But it had also given the world people like Larsa Solidor and Balthier. She wondered which group was greater in number.

The trick, of course, was finding a way to keep these new friends, along with what she now hoped Balthier would be from this point forward, a part of her life once her throne was reclaimed. Larsa and Al-Cid would be easy; as representatives from other nations, she was sure to meet with them frequently as queen of Dalmasca. Basch would still need to have his name cleared, but could perhaps resume his old post in the military or as part of her security detail. But the others would be more of a challenge. Unless Vaan stumbled across a new lifelong dream soon, he would follow in Balthier's footsteps and become a sky pirate, and wherever he went Penelo was sure to follow. And then there were the ones who were already veterans in piracy. Ashe promised herself to grant Balthier and Fran clemency for their role in freeing her kingdom as one of her first orders of business, but she could only do this within Dalmascan borders; the rest of the world would likely not be so forgiving. Just because her own feelings for Balthier were strengthening every day (and had just hit a significant growth spurt that night) didn't mean anyone else would be quite as taken with him.

But as Ashe exited the tent after gathering all of her belongings, an idea popped into her head. She thought of the numerous conversations she'd had with Balthier as they traversed the world on foot, chats that had usually (unfortunately) been interrupted by something or other but had still yielded plenty of points of interest. She remembered the stories he would tell her about venturing across Ivalice in search of treasures and artifacts that hadn't been unearthed in centuries, stories which revealed to her a) that he'd led quite the exciting life, and b) that he had some level of interest in history. Her idea was the creation of a royal archaeological society, of which Balthier, Fran, Penelo, and Vaan could be the first members. They could still go out on treasure hunts, but this way it would be legal - their activities would be for historical research on behalf of the Queen of Dalmasca, as opposed to self-enrichment with the approval of the Pirate King of Balfonheim. At the end of each expedition, they would return to Rabanastre and report their findings directly to the Crown. If they agreed to join, it would give them a place to live in her capital and a way to stay in her life.

And this would keep Balthier coming home to her, allowing their blossoming relationship to keep growing - well, if it got that far. There were likely some kinks left to work out with this plan, but Ashe was eager to suggest this idea to him as soon as she thought through the details.

She spotted him pulling a map out of his pack and approached him to ask about the path to the Stilshrine, though she was fairly certain she remembered it correctly. Part of the reason was because it was time to start getting back to business. But there was also a part of her that craved a little more time with him after the night they'd just had and the interruption that ended it. It had felt like a dream, as if she was about to wake up in that tent having never kissed Balthier or sat on his lap or let him stroke her thigh. In truth she had never even been that touchy-feely with Rasler, who (being the consummate gentleman he was) had noticed her nervousness and assured her that there was no need to take that step until she was ready. But this time she had cast her fears aside and let her heart take control, and it was the happiest she'd felt in years.

Life had a strange way of catching people off guard. It wasn't too long ago that Vossler had been Ashe's only real friend. Now, with this entourage assembled around her… who could say what would come next? She knew she couldn't replace what she had lost, nor would she ever forget it. But her memories of the old didn't have to stop her from treasuring the new.

Basch woke up some time later, alone in the tent except for his sword and supply pack, and for a moment he wondered where everyone else had gone. He relaxed as he picked up the smell of cooking meat in the air and slowly climbed out of the tent. He spotted Penelo seated by the campfire, skillet in hand, with a small pile of empty tin cans beside her. Across from her stood Fran, who had just finished re-stringing a bow and was checking its tautness. Vaan stood some distance away, limbering up for the day's travels and slashing his dagger at imaginary foes. Finally, in the middle of the alcove, there sat Lady Ashelia, her eyes fixed upon Balthier's finger as he traced their remaining course on the map of the Paramina Rift that lay unfurled across their laps. And though that finger was treading dangerously close to her thigh, she seemed to have no intention of swatting it away or even scolding the sky pirate for it.

This could be a problem, the captain thought.

Basch might have done something about it if they were alone, but he figured nothing inappropriate would happen in front of the others. Then Penelo broke his train of thought by declaring that breakfast was ready, and they all gathered in a circle around the campfire to eat and discuss their plans for the day. The conversation was intercut with Vaan's complaints about the small portions, as he insisted he was a growing boy who needed his protein. He stopped once Penelo threatened to bop him with the still-hot skillet.

As soon as breakfast was finished, the party began their preparations for their trek to the Stilshrine of Miriam. Fran gathered up the blankets and contemplated whether to leave them out if anyone needed to warm up along the way. Penelo cleaned up her cookware and empty cans while Vaan kept a lookout in case any beasts stumbled upon their little hideaway. And Ashe stood by the fire holding her armor in hopes that it might warm up enough to not feel unbearably freezing against her skin once she put it on.

Balthier helped Basch take down the tent and roll up the tarp and poles, and once that was done he took a seat on that stone slab he'd rested on overnight while the captain started equipping his armor. He pulled out a handkerchief and started polishing his Betelguese, sensing Basch's watchful eye from time to time. He briefly wondered if Basch overheard any of his chat with the princess, despite knowing that he'd slept soundly. So he simply sat there, innocently cleaning off the shotgun, glancing around the alcove at his companions – mostly at Her Majesty, and only when Basch wasn't looking. And she stole the occasional peek at him while she bent to pull a protective plate over her shin.

Then, as he sat there polishing his gun, one more memory came back to him. It was that marching band song he'd been trying to recall earlier that night, the one his mother had taught him on piano, the one that had been written for Gramis Solidor's coronation parade, honoring the dawn of an enduring new age of prosperity, optimism, and all-around good feeling. The name of the piece was "Welcoming Ceremony," and he began to softly vocalize the melody as the notes returned to him.

Balthier wasn't going to tell anyone about this night, as he'd promised, but it was disappointing to see it end. The royal lips were addicting, a sweet taste of forbidden fruit that he was eager to make a staple of his diet. It had been chaste enough to ensure they wouldn't go too far too fast, but it was also just far enough toward the opposite end of the spectrum to keep things interesting. He was unaccustomed to walking that line or sharing affection in secret, but he'd had enough experience in being sneaky and keeping secrets to render this unintimidating. He wasn't sure how long it could possibly last once the crown was atop Ashe's pretty head, but he figured getting her kingdom back would be the tougher challenge anyway. For now, at least, he certainly liked where things were headed. They were a damaged young pair of people who'd been hit hard with personal tragedy and forced to grow up too fast, but now that their paths had crossed perhaps they could help each other heal. They were smart enough to figure something out, and stubborn enough to take a chance despite all the naysayers. If the others had still been sleeping, he absolutely would have kept talking with her – and also kissing her.

He heard some faint laughter close by and paused to look up from his gun polishing before the last line of the tune. It was Ashe, who was looking over at him with a little smile as she bent over to adjust her shin guards. He smiled back at her, not caring whether the good captain could see this, and hummed the last line of "Welcoming Ceremony" as he holstered the Betelguese.

Fate could certainly work in mysterious ways. How could he ever have predicted that the least attainable woman he'd ever met would be the one to inspire him like this?

Then again, if there was one thing Balthier had learned in six years as a sky pirate, it was this: there was no such thing as unattainable treasure.

---

THE END

---

That's not a skirt, girl, that's a sawn-off shotgun,

And I can only hope you've got it aimed at me.

Suck it and see, you never know.

Sit next to me before I go.

Jigsaw women with horror movie shoes…

Be cruel to me, 'cause I'm a fool for you.

- Arctic Monkeys, "Suck It And See"

---

THE LONGEST AUTHOR'S NOTE OF ALL TIME

The title of Part II comes from an album by Explosions In The Sky, while the author's note quote is a lyric from "Do I Wanna Know?" by Arctic Monkeys. And for the record, "suck it and see" is a UK slang term that means "give this a try." It sounds more risqué than it actually is.

That marching band song that kept getting referenced is "Rufus' Welcoming Ceremony" from Final Fantasy VII. It's played during the parade in Junon after Rufus becomes the Shinra president. It's also used during an early Active Time Event in Final Fantasy IX; it's in Evil Forest, not long after Zidane meets Dagger.

Parades & Fireworks: The title of the story came from Balthier's joke about Al-Cid's lack of subtlety in this chapter. This began as a light-'n'-fluffy thing covering the conversation between Balthier and Ashe in the Paramina Rift, ending with her realization that he's been flirting with her the whole time. But it kept growing from there, and I eventually thought up a whole new meaning for the title: metaphors for relationships. Fireworks are short-lived "bursts of energy and color" designed to provide "instant gratification that instantly fades away." Parades, on the other hand, are enduring periods of happiness that require more work and coordination. Elza wants the former, Ashe wants the latter, and Balthier is somewhere in between. This is why I originally wanted to post this as two long chapters, and have gone back to it: Part I is about a series of "firework" relationships, while Part II is about the beginning of the "parade."

Good Morrow, My Desert Bloom: Writing the part where Balthier makes fun of Al-Cid was way too much fun. Portraying those two as rivals was fun. Al-Cid in general is fun. Even in the game it's pretty clear that Balthier can't stand him. How could I not explore that dynamic here?

Fun With Flashbacks: The hymn sung during the funeral scene is an old gospel song called "Will The Circle Be Unbroken" that is now a country standard; it's also known as "that song from BioShock Infinite," and the singer is based on Elizabeth. Speaking of BioShock, Andrew Ryan's motto is quoted toward the end of the flashback. Balthier's brothers are named after Cid and Ramza from Final Fantasy Tactics. And the song Balthier hears on his way home from his brother's funeral is "Take My True Love By The Hand" by the Limeliters, which appears here because the lyrics apply (especially if you consider the Strahl his "true love") but mostly for its use on Breaking Bad, another story about a man reinventing himself as a notorious criminal. In the eyes of Archadian society, he's "breaking bad," but the more "respectable" people he leaves behind are actually worse.

Pirate vs. Princess: One other thing I wanted to do with Elza in Part I was use her as a foil for Ashe. They have some similar issues and deal with them in opposing ways. The references to Catherine in Part I apply here too; Catherine is a story where the "leading man" (Vincent/Balthier) is torn between freedom (spiral-haired Catherine/Elza) and order (Katherine/Ashe) and must figure out which one he wants more when it comes to relationships. And the reference to Elizabeth from BioShock Infinite could work here as well, depending on how you look at it. Early in BioShock Infinite you are told to choose which charm Elizabeth should wear around her neck; the options are a bird and a cage. Elza's line about her "boring" home life implies that she was a caged bird who yearned to be free, while Ashe is a free bird who misses her cage because it's the only home she's ever known.

Sad Girl In Snow: Of all the things about this story that kept my opinion bouncing back and forth, none were of bigger concern to me than Ashe's breakdown. The closer I got to writing it, the more I realized the whole story had been building up to it and I really needed to stick the landing. I'm still not sure if it's executed as well as I would have liked. It's not like it comes out of nowhere, though. Aside from all the pressure she puts on herself to "stay strong" and her frequent memories of all that she's lost, there was also the use of "Melodies Of Life" in Part I – yes, that scene was the payoff for that. The first time Zidane hears Dagger singing it in Final Fantasy IX, she says it's something she does whenever she feels sad or lonely. And while we're on the subject of Final Fantasy references, Ashe's belief in avoiding loss by avoiding meaningful relationships was inspired by Squall's philosophy in Final Fantasy VIII. I figured it would make sense for someone who's literally lost everything and everyone she's ever cared about to start keeping her guard up to that degree, even though inside she really doesn't want to.

Closing Thoughts: From "Harbor" by Touché Amoré, which basically tells this story in 40,000 fewer words…

"I've always envisioned myself as a giver, but as I reflect I've left something to be desired. Not that my heart hasn't ever delivered, but that it's never felt this inspired – to have direction, to feel complete, to embrace affection, to end all the 'woe is me,' but mainly to harbor the love that I have to give."

Thanks for reading!