The next morning, she finds herself in the same place, and she has no way to measure the amount of joy that realization brings her. Perhaps the Occuria cannot reach so far, or maybe they think they have damaged her enough. No matter, she is determined to take matters into her own hands once more – she will be no servant of the Undying. Where her head had been pounding on her last lucid days, she feels lighter and freer. Of course, what has been done in her capital because of her weakness and inability to break away from Gerun's control still weighs on her thoughts every other moment.

There is naught she can do to erase the reality of the harm she has caused her people, but she cannot wallow in remorse – instead she must act. Ashe spent hours the day before in contemplation, planning her next course of action. The life of a fugitive is not unknown to her, but in these two years, her face is more easily recognized. But that is all ahead – first she must make way from Archades and that alone is a big undertaking.

Diplomatic meetings have familiarized her with Larsa's palace these past few years, but the dungeons are unknown to her. However, the courtyards just above them are not. Once she emerges from this cell, she needs only navigate the labyrinthine passages she is sure to encounter and from there she can escape. But where will she go? She knows she must find Fran and Balthier, that much is certain – but they could be anywhere, and word of her escape will spread quickly. Ashe hopes that time spent in an underground resistance as well as her months among notorious sky pirates will aid her.

A tray of food is brought, and she thanks the guard as kindly as she can. Who knows how she treated him in her missing time? Before he departs, she begs him to stay a moment longer. "Sir, is there a way I could meet with Lord Larsa this morning?"

The guard shrugs. "I am not sure, my lady. I am not the one to speak to about such things."

She picks at the meal she has been brought, a lavish breakfast that no normal prisoner would receive, and she is ashamed of how she must have treated Larsa. "Then if I might see Judge Magister Gabranth again? It would mean so much to me…and to my recovery from this illness."

The man shifts from foot to foot nervously, the knowledge that she is clearly unwell seeming to be widely known in Archades or at least in Larsa's palace. "I will speak with him, you have my word." Ashe nods gratefully and the guard departs, the key turning in the lock once more. Whether it is to keep her safe or to keep the rest of the world safe, Ashe isn't entirely sure – but she has a feeling that the latter is what Larsa has decided.

The hours pass away, and she forces herself to eat the food prepared for her. She does not need to insult her ally and young friend any more than she already has. She also knows that it may be the last truly nourishing meal she will eat for some time. There will be no trays of delicacies once she is freed of this prison – no wine and other luxuries. Bread and cheese perhaps, and depending on how long it takes her to find Balthier and Fran, she will have to ration it strictly. She will have to keep to herself and cannot afford to be seen in marketplaces buying food.

She traveled light to Archades, only clad in one of her heavier gowns because it is winter in the more temperate climes of the Empire. Beneath she has thinner petticoats, and she will not appear too out of place in them. She must sell the gown – there are some jewels sewn into the bodice and cuffs. Ashe is grateful that even in madness she made sure to wear some jewels in her ears and on her fingers – they can also be sold.

Hopefully she can make her way out of Archades proper quickly. She will sell her things in Old Archades and pray that her transactions are completed before a streetear catches wind of a woman selling jewels in a poor district. Once she has enough money, she will travel on foot to Balfonheim – she cannot afford to be seen on an airship, nor does she have means of identification. If she moves quickly, she can be through the caves in two days, Tchita in two more and then Cerobi in another three.

She smiles, knowing that her journey will go much faster without a sky pirate apprentice trying to attack every fiend within a hundred yards. Ashe wonders what will happen if she fails to find Balthier and Fran – does she dare seek out Vaan and Penelo? Shaking her head sadly, she knows that she cannot burden them with it. They are Dalmascan citizens and to aid a renegade runaway Queen would bring them unnecessary trouble. Balthier and Fran on the other hand seem to work best when the stakes are high, although she hopes that her mind will remain her own. They are the last people she can trust. She cannot afford to drive them away.

It all seems like a remarkably sound plan, but she still sits in a cell. Thinking ahead to what she will do when she is free helps her to avoid thinking about what she actually must do to escape. There's a probability of failure, surely, and she hopes that she will be able to overpower him. Of course, knowing that Basch would never strike her is keeping her calm – but the Basch she knows sees her differently now. Will he take extra precaution in her presence? Would he let her even come close?

It pains her to know that she must hurt her friend to save herself, but the need to get away outweighs that. She hopes he will forgive her – when she figures out how to cease the Occurian threat looming over her, she will have much apologizing to do. The guard has kept his word, and Ashe feels her heart quicken its pace as the sound of metal armor announces Basch's arrival.

The key turns in the lock, and she knows that she still has time to change her mind. Time to let herself face punishment from the Archadians and her own people. Although she does not remember her crimes, hundreds have died because of her. She should face justice, but what if the Occuria try for a new target? What if Larsa is seized with these uncontrollable impulses? Worse still, what if the Emperor Hammad in Rozarria is? Ashe knows that she must put a stop to it before others perish – it is the only way she can atone for what she has done. Once that is done, she vows to face the reality of her crimes.

Basch enters the room, and she stands by the table. "Thank you for coming," she says quietly while he locks the door and sets his helmet down as he had the day before. His eyes are weary, and she supposes that he is still unsure of what to believe.

His voice is unsteady, weakened and very much unlike him. "Your Majesty, word has arrived from Dalmasca. They have asked…" He looks away from her and frowns. "They have demanded that Lord Larsa send you back to stand trial for your actions."

Ashe tries to keep the fear from her voice. "I understand. I will cooperate." Basch moves to sit in the chair at the table, and she keeps her eye on the hard, unforgiving metal of the helmet. She doesn't really want to do it – not like this, but he is a lot stronger than she is, and this is probably the only way to knock him out. "When am I to leave?"

Basch drums his fingers on the wooden tabletop nervously. "Lord Larsa has promised to send you back with a full escort, myself included, tomorrow morning. I'm actually here to escort you to Lord Larsa's personal doctor so that you can explain your…visions or dreams."

This will be trickier than planned if there is a doctor awaiting their arrival shortly. She must work quickly. Ashe clasps her hands behind her back to stop them from shaking and waits for him to let his guard down. Then it's all a matter of timing. Tears threaten to form in her eyes at the thought of striking her friend down, but she does not require a doctor's prodding. She must instead leave this place – if she returns to Dalmasca, who knows what the Occuria will have her do? If she can plan to knock out a trusted friend in a moment of lucidity, who knows what she could be capable of under the Undying's trance? Hundreds are dead in Rabanastre already.

"I am truly sorry for the trouble I have caused both Larsa and yourself. You may not believe what I have told you, and in truth, I would be just as doubtful were our roles reversed…" He hangs on her words, and she puts as much regret into her speech as she can – not that it is so difficult with the depth of the remorse she feels. She rambles on about something or other, the words flowing from her like water in the Nebra, and she tries her best to close the distance between herself and him without alerting him to what she is planning.

She is within reach of the helmet, and he sighs. "My lady, I truly wish I could believe you, but the things you have done…"

This cracks her resolve, and she cannot believe he is so convinced of her guilt. "How can you think me capable of harming my own people?" Ashe uses this outburst to slam her hands angrily on the table, his helmet rattling slightly.

"It is probably not so very different from the way of things a few years back. Most were quick to assume my guilt as well," he responds quietly, but she knows why he cannot fully commit to the idea she is sane. In his case, it was mistaken identity – his brother slew her father, not Basch himself. Ashe has no such excuse. She is startled then to see his eyes staring desperately at her, piercing and determined.

"You mustn't do this, Majesty."

He has found her out. He knows exactly what she has been planning since he entered the room, and if she doesn't act now, her window of opportunity will have vanished. Basch flinches as her fingers curl suddenly around the Judge's helmet, and her aim is true as she strikes the side of his head. It all seems so strange, watching him fall from his chair and onto the stone floor of the holding cell, his armor crunching and the cape shrouding him.

Basch has fallen onto his side, and she kneels down, turning him onto his back. She's managed to cause a cut on his brow, not so far from the scar he already has, and she has to bite down hard on her knuckle not to cry out in self-hatred for what she has had to do. Ashe lets her fingers drift down over his face, watching a trickle of blood stain his hair.

Her hand is trembling as she strokes his cheek, her tears falling from her face to his. "I am sorry, I am so very sorry," she mutters, trying to beg forgiveness from an unconscious man. But she remembers then that this doctor is expecting them, and she knows she must leave. Ashe gets her clothing in order and ensures that she has all the jewelry she brought on her person. A quick glance around the room assures her that she has everything.

When her eyes meet the bedside table, she sighs. Almost everything. Her fingers close around the vial of water tightly, and she slips it inside her bodice, keeping it near her heart. It is a rather sentimental gesture, but then again, she wore a dead man's ring for two years – she is prone to it. At the very least, keeping the vial close will be a constant reminder of what she must seek out. She takes one last look at her friend lying on the floor and prays that someone will find him quickly to stitch the wound.

Her face is stained with tears as she stumbles into the hallway, grateful to see that it is devoid of life. Apparently Larsa has ordered some measure of privacy for this part of the dungeon, and she is thankful for it even though the young Emperor will probably regret it now. She steps as quietly as she can, hoping that the path she has chosen will be the quickest to the courtyards above. Her nerves are about shot, but she must work on pure adrenaline if she is to make it out of Archades successfully.

She gets lost in the endless corridors, but fortunately they are empty, and she has not yet heard any cries that she has escaped. Finally, she spies a staircase of spiraling stone at the end of one hall, and she hurries over. So much of Archades is metal – she recalls the confusing passages of the Draklor Laboratory in particular, and also the difficulty of navigating the Empire's ships, having been prisoner aboard one of them as well. So it is curious to be held in a simple stone dungeon – but as she climbs, she is grateful. The stone is warm beneath her palms as she holds to the walls as she goes up, desperately trying to stay upright lest she collapse from the stress of it all.

There is a wooden door at the top of the staircase, and she prays that the courtyards she knows lie on the other side. Has someone been posted at the top or has Basch dismissed them? If the Judge Magister was set to remove her from the dungeon and take her to a doctor, perhaps he was kind enough to ensure that this would be done in as much privacy as possible? Letting her sweaty palm rest on the door latch, Ashe breathes in and out several times and closes her eyes. When she crosses this threshold and sneaks out of the palace grounds, she will be a fugitive – will they hunt her down? Will there be a bounty on her head as large as Balthier's? Higher still?

Her thumb taps against the latch rhythmically, weighing her decision. She has already knocked Basch unconscious – the proverbial ram has touched the wall, she decides. There can be no turning back now that she has escaped the cell and made her way here. Ashe grips the latch and pushes, exhaling as the wooden door creaks open and her eyes are greeted with a cloudy sky and the towering palace of the Archadian emperor.

Even with the heavy gown, the air is chilly, and she can see tiny snowflakes drifting through the manicured lawns and hedges of the courtyard. There are guards at the far end, but thankfully, they are not looking at the dungeon entrance. She takes a few seconds to get her bearings, doing her best to walk quietly across the crushed gravel footpaths that crisscross the courtyard in between the bushes and flower beds. Crouching behind a rather large hedge, she feels rather ridiculous, but she would rather look a fool than be discovered.

To the best of her knowledge, the hedge runs parallel to one of the inner walls of the palace compound – and unlike her own palace, Larsa's is far above the remainder of Archades, perched at the top of what was probably once a grand hill but is now a clustering of governmental buildings and offices. She cannot simply scale a wall in broad daylight – there are too many people on the grounds for something like that, but her absence from the dungeons will not go unnoticed for long.

Instead, she must think less like a Queen and more like a gardener. Ashe continues to walk crouched over, letting her hand brush against the cold stone palace wall as she makes her way to the tiny storage shed she knows must house trimming shears, seed for plants and other necessities to keep the palace grounds in top condition. There are no guards or landscapers hovering near this building, and she is happy to discover it is unlocked. Not so surprising considering that the palace grounds are strictly patrolled and monitored – it would be unlikely someone could breach the external perimeter to even get a chance to wander into the courtyard she's presently in. Well, she thinks in amusement, Balthier probably could. She wonders if he ever feels as terrified sneaking around as she does right now, and she shakes her head. Of course not – the man is not even afraid of death, or he is very good at hiding it.

Closing the door behind her as quietly as she can, Ashe sighs at what she has sunk to. A small metal locker yields a pair of mud-stained trousers and a heavy woolen coat with threadbare elbows, but a sturdy hood. The Archadian Emperor's gardening crew must be prepared to trim hedges in all sorts of weather, she imagines. She slips out of her gown and petticoats and stuffs them less than gracefully into a large canvas sack that is littered with scattered grass clippings. She keeps her jewels on and ties the bag closed. She must hurry to the servants' exit before the palace goes into lockdown – only a few minutes, she wagers.

Ashe sighs and looks at a pair of trimmers left out on the work table. Her hair has grown considerably in the past two years in her life of luxury, and it must go. The clippers aren't much larger than a pair of sewing shears, and she grips a handful of hair and brings the grass-stained blades to it. Ashe chops at it haphazardly, strands of her straw-colored hair falling to mingle with the mud on the floor. She's sheared it to her chin, not much different from the way she'd cut it when she lived beneath her streets – days when she had little time to care for long tresses with ribbons.

She doesn't waste time mourning the loss of her locks and pulls the hood up over her face. There is some potting soil in a small satchel on a shelf, and Ashe rolls her eyes. Thrusting her hands into the pouch, she smears some of it on her nose and cheeks, dirtying herself like a proper gardener. Feeling the bits of soil under her fingernails repulses her, but she'll blend in with Old Archades far better with chapped, filthy hands.

Her transformation complete, she hoists the sack of her clothes onto her back and hopes that she won't look too strange emerging from the gardening shed. If her father could see her now, he would have ensured that Dalmasca would have changed to a republic rather than continue as a monarchy upon his death. Ashe opens the door and sees that there are still no groups of soldiers racing around the grounds shouting that she has escaped – she needs only make it to the gate just beyond the next hedge.

There is a guard here, looking bored and rather cold despite the heavy plate armor. Ashe is grateful for the heavy coat she obtained, and as she approaches, she hopes that the guard will be less than attentive to his duties. Of course, Ashe would never hire guards that lacked the ability to do their jobs, but in this case, she prays that Larsa's hiring staff has erred greatly.

The man sees her approach and opens the gate. "That you Madgie?" he calls out, and Ashe has to keep walking although his loud voice has nearly frozen her in place. She has never been able to successfully imitate the sound of the Archadians, the clipped accent and impertinent tones that they all seem to possess. Even kindhearted Larsa could sound like an obnoxious prat at times, and she didn't even dare ponder the arrogance implicit in every word Balthier uttered. Instead, Ashe chooses her mother's tones, the softer and more exotic sounds of Dorstonis. Though she speaks no more than a schoolgirl's Bhujerban, the accent is more easily recalled.

"She sent me to fetch her potting soil," Ashe lies, praying that the guard will not hear Dalmasca in her words and that the lie is suitable enough to get her through the gate. How can sky pirates like Balthier and Fran do this sort of thing day in and day out? She keeps her hood up as she comes face to metal with the cold, sterile soldier's helmet.

He moves aside and waves her ahead. "Using the Emperor's garden supplies for her own shrubs now, eh?" The guard's chuckles are muffled by the helmet, but Ashe breathes as evenly as she can to disguise the joy that is suffusing her whole person. "Definitely sounds like Madgie. Off you go!"

Ashe nods in thanks and sees only the narrow passageway from the servants' exit. Only one more gate awaits her at the bottom of the hill. Rather than chance a sky cab at the front of the palace grounds, Ashe feels the servants' paths to the less affluent reaches of Archades will serve her purpose better. The gate is only a few hundred paces away, and from there she can reach the outskirts of Nilbasse within the hour if she keeps to the back alleyways. There will be more ardents running about there begging for bits of information, and she will blend in.

She hears the gate close behind her, and she quickens her pace a bit. The more ground she can put between herself and the palace once they discover her missing, the better. The soldier at the second gate also confuses her with this Madgie, and the potting soil excuse is good enough as well. Whenever she regains her place and the world is set to rights once more, Ashe will be sure to enlighten Larsa regarding the security issues on the grounds of his palace.

The wind is much more biting in the narrow stone alleyways that line the back of the higher class reaches of the capital. On either side of the walls lie the grand mansions of aristocrats, theatres and opera houses, and the Akademies that educate the wealthiest few of the Empire. But Ashe walks in between, her feet dodging piles of trash and those homeless dozens that have managed to sneak away from Old Archades to live off of the scraps thrown out by the city's elite.

Her gowns weigh heavily on her back, and she wonders if she'd be better off tearing the jewels from the bodice of the dress now. She'd be able to move faster and would look less suspicious. She turns a corner and can only see a few sleeping poor huddled in the distance. Ashe crouches down and takes out the beautiful dress, one of the few heavier ones she owns since Dalmasca is not the place for it. The cuffs are sewn with pearls, and she yanks them off, sending a few of them scattering down the alleyway.

She stuffs them into the pockets of the coat and attends to the pearls in the other cuff. Surely the palace has been alerted now – will the guards mention the young gardener who departed the premises only minutes ago? Ashe quickens her pace, pulling the silk-laden bodice onto her knees. She tugs on the shining emeralds and rubies with her filthy fingers, shoving the jewels into her pockets hastily. When she has torn as many as she thinks she needs, she stuffs the gown back into the sack and considers her options.

She has the trousers and coat, and underneath the coat, she has only a thin shift. If anything, she will not be very warm and might catch cold on her journey to Balfonheim. She lets her eyes drift over the petticoats and other things in the sack and decides that a runny nose is more bearable than life in a dungeon. Ashe rises to her feet and shoulders the sack briefly, only to set it down in a large metal bin filled with trash from a theatre. Fliers advertising the latest play now mingle with the Queen of Dalmasca's garments as the Queen herself shoves her hands into her pockets for warmth and lets her fingers flit over pearls and jewels. She keeps walking.