A/N: What to say? I haven't updated this in a good long while. If you'd like some recommended reading, check out 'You To Guide Me' by Seventhe over on AO3. It's a fantastic read regarding the origins of Freya and Zidane's friendship, and what inspired me to continue writing.


Greeted by the morning sun, Freya's eyes fluttered open. No hangover… She took a moment to remember the previous night's events. Glancing around the room, she noticed that nothing was out of place, or damaged. Stumbling home in the rain was never her favourite pastime. Her hat was missing, however. Where on Gaia did that go? The letter she received from Garnet as well as the ticket and a old bottle of wine were scattered on her desk by the bed.

Sitting up, she noticed that she'd discarded her coat, wearing only her usual leggings, and a white undershirt. The quiet, omnipresent sound of rain pattering against the window was always there. Her hair was matted, stuck to the fur of her head. She felt the bags under her eyes, a result of many lonely, sleepless nights. Ever since…

Staring at the unopened bottle of wine, a keepsake from her short time in Cleyra, Freya sighed deeply. Once a town of vibrant yet isolated vigour, now a lifeless sinkhole surrounded by creeping roots. A testament to her failures. The screams of those that perished that day, all for what? Even with the deep-seated hatred she once felt for Brahne, she couldn't help but feel guilt for it. The way Zidane spoke of Garnet's grief only reminded her of her own. She closed her eyes, turning her head from it. It was painful to think too deeply about. There are things that she would rather not dwell on, getting lost in one's own mind was a surefire path to despair; she would rather drown herself in the rain and drab stone and-

There came a knocking noise from her bedroom door. Quiet, yet still intimidating nonetheless. Her stomach lurched. Fratley was no doubt aware of her condition, he'd maintained a good distance from her since returning to Burmecia, like he was apprehensive that she'd suddenly snap. An unspoken tension, one that only added to the gnawing in her mind.

"Freya? Are you awake?" His voice called almost timidly.

For a moment she considered dropping her head into her pillow once more, surely he would understand. "Yes, I'm awake. You can come in." Biting the bullet, she prepared for his usual gentle, mentorly chastisement.

Opening the door, Fratley held a reserved and tense posture; almost like he was afraid to step past the boundary the door frame provided, wearing his earth-coloured travelling garb. The sight of him still took her aback, she could almost testify that the last 5 years had passed by in a blink and nothing had changed.

Of course, that would have been a lie. Fratley was still the same as he had always been, though it felt like someone else had stolen his skin; inheriting his personality, without the memories that made the man. The memories that shaped him. It wasn't his fault, she rationalised. But that never got rid of the unusual sensation she would feel when speaking with him. Amarant was right. She'd maintained the facade of politeness with him, never considering her own turmoil and addressing it. She'd had enough of it. The sleepless nights were evidence enough.

"Last night sounded rough, my lady. You stumbled in through the door, speaking of how you tried to fight with Sir Amarant of all people!" He awkwardly chuckled, though it didn't sound genuine. Almost like was mocking her, in his own soft way.

Freya grumbled, sitting up. "He shouldn't have started it. I'd have kicked his arse back to Treno." The last part mumbled under her breath.

"Well, discretion has never been your strong suit." He offhandedly said. His smile dropped slightly. "The King's Minister desires to speak with you."

Great, more problems. "Did he say why?" She asked, exasperation evident in her voice.

He shuffled to the wall adjacent from the door. "Unfortunately not. Minister Sheridan is never very forthcoming with his requests."

The King's Minister, Sheridan took over the King's duties after what happened at Cleyra. His son, Puck was more content pursuing his whims. Not dissimilar to Zidane, yet he had a duty. Even if he was a child. Freya crawled out of bed, and donned her coat. She stopped herself from reaching up to adjust her hat, second nature from how often she wore it. As she went to step past him and into the living area, Fratley spoke up. "Oh, one more thing. Your hat is by the fireplace. Have a fruitful day, my lady." He bowed slightly, speaking with that tender voice that she missed so much. She smiled and nodded back, feeling a spark of their former bond. He was really trying, despite her own conflicts.


The rain provided a melancholic sheen to the palace plaza. Where once stood the proud centre of a nation, reduced to a washed out husk. How many times had it appeared so, during the conflicts of old? Freya could only speculate, paying more attention to the pooling moisture beneath her feet. They'd stood here and sparred before, in simpler times. When she was a recruit. The training often gruelling, he provided a comforting presence. One that always felt like a mentor, not simply teaching her out of duty to his home, but to see her flourish as the best she could be.

Glancing at the palace's entryway, the rubble scattered upon her previous visit had vanished. She'd had no need to come back, the royal district gave her a sense of nostalgia, too much to dwell on. With the mist finally gone, Burmecia had little need of its Dragon Knights; the grand dragons were content to remain in the mountains unless provoked. With Princess Garnet as the head of Alexandria, she was sure that there would be a time that she and her kin were no longer needed. She lifted her head, peering upwards towards the ledge she traversed when the city was in ruins. The accumulated droplets fell from the brim of her hat, landing across her face and thin tail.

Shaking her head, she stepped inside, sheltered from the rain. Beneath the open-roofed courtyard stood a lone man stood in what looked to be the king's royal robes. Had the Minister taken the former king's clothing? Or simply had a different, similar set tailored? The Minister was a short thing, his fur a few shades darker than hers; he couldn't have been past her shoulder, looking to be around his late thirties. She approached from the shadows, stepping back out into the rain.

"Have you been waiting long, Minister? My apologies for not showing sooner." She cordially began.

Ears twitching at the sound of her voice, he span around almost comically. Perhaps startled. "Ah! And here you are." He stifled a cough with his sleeve. He had the look of a man that had been overworked, bags under his eyes and a resigned weariness behind the seemingly jovial veil he tried to parade. "You'll be going to Alexandria soon. As I'm sure you know, our requests for foreign aid from Alexandria have fallen upon deaf ears. I'll need you to act as a courier."

It doesn't help that the last time one of our ambassadors parlayed, it started the war thirty years ago. She had half a mind to put voice to her words, though an argument with the acting leader of her nation would not help anyone. "With all due respect Minister, why choose me? I'm hardly a diplomat." Freya never prided herself upon her charisma or decorum.

He raised an eyebrow. "For starters, you're on good terms with the Alexandrian royalty. You've travelled long distances before, and I trust you a damn sight more than those blasted moogles. Can't even shine their fur without bringing their mail system to a standstill." He shuddered, probably from being soaked in the rain as opposed to disdain, Freya surmised.

She couldn't help but feel that the minister was trying to be rid of her for a time. An unwanted blemish on the recovering Burmecian society. Perhaps he wouldn't even request that she return when the letter is delivered. Would Fratley wonder where she went?

With Garnet's birthday on the horizon, perhaps this would be a chance to start over.