Just another warning: I've made some pretty big changes to the ending.
XXXV.
Ashe sat in the copilot's seat, displacing Fran for her own fear of otherwise falling asleep in the cabin—though some part of her doubted she could sleep in such a mood. Vaan studied her from behind, afraid to speak. His heart leapt at the prospect of returning home to the city where his journey had begun, but it did not seem the same with the princess dourly staring at the horizon and his sister nervously fiddling with her hair. Even Balthier had fallen silent, and the boy briefly wondered if perhaps all of this anxiety and turmoil might have been avoided had he not stolen the Dusk Shard on the night of the fete so long ago.
However, watching Penelo despondently unknot the mess she had made of her hair, he recalled her words regarding the course of events that had led to their current circumstance. Had he ignored his foolish desires and given heed to her admonitions preceding the fete, Ashe and Basch would both surely remain prisoners of the Empire, and Vayne, with enough deifacted nethicite to rule the world ten times over, would have quashed all Resistance forces long ago—at least, in Vaan's young mind, this seemed the most likely outcome. If nothing else, Vaan would never have left Dalmasca, never formed the friendships that now sustained him. He wished he could bring some cheer to the princess's eyes, but he supposed it would take nothing short of Dalmasca's liberation to achieve that, and he intended to see it through as best he could.
Ashe had risen from her seat and begun to pace now, which seemed to further aggravate the others. Basch watched her closely, but made no attempt to move or speak, his thoughts scattered to many subjects and pondering each one of them deeply. At times during their travels, Vaan had wondered if perhaps Basch felt more than friendship for the princess, but he had ultimately decided that the two behaved far too civilly towards each other to be in love. On the same note, he had also decided against anything questionable taking place between Fran and Balthier; Fran could do much better. Interactions between his sister and Lamont, however, put him on edge, and he most often chose not to think about it. Looking to the princess once more, he hoped she could not guess what he thought about, for he could not adequately explain how his mind wandered terribly under stress, and she would certainly find such musings impertinently trivial in light of the conflict toward which they traveled. He couldn't help it.
But he knew the depth of her discontent, as did all of the others, and strove to ease her burden as best he could—he protected her to the very best of his ability, certainly, but he suspected that his hapless comments and foolish behavior often lifted her spirits far more than she let on. Penelo seemed to think similarly, and had made it her duty to turn Ashe's thoughts from war and subjugation as often as she could. Indeed, the princess had appeared much more at ease when they first set out earlier that morning, for Vaan and Penelo had piloted the Strahl for much of the journey, tormenting Balthier with questions and near mishaps, drawing several lectures from him on the importance and preciousness of his "baby." In truth, the two knew quite well what they did and how to do it, and they only exaggerated their naivety for the sake of spreading cheer.
However, Balthier had taken over once they entered Dalmascan airspace, and although the others had engaged themselves in discussing any and all sorts of things, Ashe had slowly removed herself from the conversation, her gaze distant and her face stoic. She did not dread the upcoming confrontation as much as the others expected, though it did wear heavily on her thoughts. In truth, she worried more for the artificial nethicite, unnerved by her failure to destroy it alongside the deifacted. Surely, she thought, if it came from the source stone, then it could be permanently eliminated somehow. She wondered if Gerun might know something of this, but she dared not entertain the prospect. Thinking of the Occuria, her mind turned to the sword they had given her, and she lamented that the blade borne to rid the world of nethicite had perished with the Sun Cryst, leaving her with only the accursed Occurian sword that had created this atrocious stone weapon in the first place.
Out the cockpit window, the Dalmascan deserts flitted by, a desolate expanse of fine-grained sand, sprinkled with the occasional gathering of the vibrant sand lilies for which Dalmasca earned admiration among foreigners, and even a few herds of wild chocobos, their yellow feathers fluttering in the sun as they galloped. The country's beauty outweighed its barrenness, but none aboard the Strahl currently possessed a willingness to take comfort in such a display.
Presently, Balthier called Fran to her usual seat, pointing out that faint readings had begun to appear on the ship's radar. She reported that they neared Rabanastre, but that two great hordes of airships would most certainly beat them there. In spite of the finality in her words, Balthier picked up the speed.
"I dreamed a warning from the gods last night," she said, unsurprised and indeed somewhat encouraged by his disregard for her expertise.
"And what was that?" he asked in return.
"That you would do something stupid."
This gleaned a few snickers from Vaan and Penelo, while Basch and Ashe both managed to maintain their amusement. Balthier rolled his eyes at the revelation, however, and spoke with as much Archadian haughtiness as he could muster: "Now, Fran, how am I ever to take these gods of yours seriously when they can scarcely send you dreams of eventualities that any mortal could just as easily foresee?"
"It is invectives like that that endear you to them," she answered with a small smile.
"I thought they hated me."
"I suppose they've taken pity on you."
"Tell them to take it back."
The mood lightened slightly, though all wondered wearily how long it would take for the Archadian and Resistance fleets to come to blows. The desert before them appeared endless, heat wavering above the sand in dancing mirages that endlessly slicked like oil across the horizon, but before long the verdant green oasis of Rabanastre faded into view, two clouds of shining ships nearing it slowly. The greater host rested above the city, while the smaller hesitated just beyond, its assortment of ragtag vessels rearranging cautiously.
Their conversation died down as the Strahl slowed, dawdling from its vantage point just out of the fleets' reach. Ashe stood behind the skypirates, between their seats at the front of the cockpit, her eyes narrowed, straining to distinguish the origin of the Resistance ships. Recognizing one as the great rectangular flagship of Bhujerba's Air Brigade, her heart immediately sunk.
"The Valefore," she said, gesturing to the massive battleship as it hung stationary over the sand, glinting in the sun. "Ondore's flagship."
"Old man's got backbone," Balthier replied. "I'll give him that."
"Looks like no Rozarrians yet," Basch observed.
"But who knows how much longer Al-Mid can hold out for us," Ashe added.
Vaan straightened slightly, trying to steady his voice. "We have to end this fast, right?"
"It would seem that's our only hope," Ashe confirmed.
The Archadian fleets shifted then, and a new ship came into view. The cortege had at first thought that the sheer number of enemy vessels accounted for the density of the gathering, but as they spread out above the lively city, it became evident that something greater lingered there—something larger than any of them had ever seen.
"…What in God's name is that?" Basch asked quietly, studying the formation as Balthier edged the Strahl closer.
The massive ship shone bright and new in the desert sun, its countless guns reflecting light in every direction, its colossal canons waiting in menacing silence to strike. The Resistance force did not appear threatened by the numbers of the fleet or the size of its flagship, however, sending a few vessels out to tempt the Archadians away from Rabanastre.
"The Bahamut," Balthier answered plainly. "They finally got it off the ground."
Ashe's eyes widened. "A docking station?"
He nodded. "To put it mildly. It's built to house an entire fleet."
"So they can outlast us and win without appearing to use unnecessary force," she concluded, shaking her head bitterly.
"They can't fight over Rabanastre," Penelo interrupted childishly. "They'll trash the whole city."
Balthier suppressed a groan. "I'm afraid that's the point."
"They're baiting us," Basch added.
Vaan squinted against the sun, studying the Resistance vessels that flew about carelessly, toying with the steadfast Archadian multitude. "Looks more like we're baited them," he noted.
Basch set his jaw tensely. "We're trying to."
"Halim," Ashe urged in a pleading whisper, "don't fall for it…"
"I would bet he knows damn well what will happen," Balthier assured her.
"Would you bet he has the sense to resist?" Fran replied.
The loitering fleets continued to stare each other down as a Resistance battleship crossed the divide slowly. Pausing for only a moment, it released a bolt of energy that struck an Imperial vessel full force, and at once the two forces collided.
"Damn it!" Ashe flared, gripping the backs of the pirate's seats.
Penelo drew her hands to her mouth, her eyes wide and round with shock. "Oh, my goodness!"
"What do we do?" Vaan asked.
Ashe shook her head. "God, I don't know. Hail the Valefore."
Fran targeted the ship and sent out the query while Balthier piloted the Strahl close enough that the marquis might recognize them. The Resistance began to recede, luring the enemy to follow, but the Imperial fleets had the whole of the brawl surrounded in a matter of minutes, pushing the fight into the air above Rabanastre and then launching a full-scale attack. Raising the Strahl's shields and bracing for battle, Balthier edged forward warily, eyeing the numerous ships that zipped by, preparing to fire if the need arose.
Transparent clouds of Mist collected around the Bahamut as its main canons took aim, and with stunning speed the great airstation unleashed a thick purple column of energy that barreled through the rebel force in a hail of thunder and sparks. Multiple ships dropped from the sky, most crashing down against Rabanastre's invisible paling, and a wave of mute shock overtook the princess and her cortege. The same sentiment seemed to sweep over the Resistance, for the Imperial fleets gained considerable ground in the ensuing moments, but the insurgents fought back, calling up astounding valor, and the Bahamut stewed in Mist-shrouded stillness, dark and heavy, seemingly content to display its power only once for now.
"…We're screwed," Basch groaned at length.
Vaan threw his fists against an empty chair, scowling with rage and futility. "What the hell was that!"
"Artificial nethicite," Balthier answered jadedly, livid eyes betraying his alarm.
"No response," Fran reported.
Ashe's tone bordered on anger. "Again."
The confrontation quickly escalated after the Bahamut's show of dominance, and the Strahl hovered very near the perimeter of the fray now, the momentum of passing ships swaying it slightly, putting each passenger even more ill at ease. Although no one had yet fired on the stray ship, Balthier kept the Strahl's sleek guns raised and monitored the sensors closely for incoming strikes. Unfortunate vessels continued to rain down over Rabanastre, and all knew that the paling could not withstand such a beating for long.
Fran shook her head, her ears swaying gracefully, and turned to Ashelia with sincere melancholy. "I'm sorry, Princess."
Shaking her head as well, Ashe turned from the cockpit window and again took up her frantic pacing, running her delicate hands through her hair, glowering at the floor in thought.
Basch mirrored the expression, but remained stationary behind Balthier, arms crossed and countenance brooding. "I never imagined Ondore would sink to such recklessness…" he said resentfully.
"He's fed up," Vaan offered, his tone more youthful than he had intended. "Happens to the best of us."
"He's a fool," Ashe growled in response.
"Whoa!" Balthier nearly laughed as the ship lurched, dodging a shot of magicite energy and firing to intercept another in transit. He spurred the Strahl forward, counter-blasting a few shots before they could hit, and warned his passengers to hold on as he weaved through the battle to the distant relative safety of the Estersands. As the ship drifted and those aboard steadied themselves, he turned to Ashe and tried not to sound too patronizing. "So? Plan B?"
Suddenly a light flashed on the control board, accompanied by a diminutive tone that rang unenthusiastically at even intervals. All fell silent, recognizing this as a sign that another ship desired contact, and Fran studied the Strahl's informational readout, reporting in a somber tone: "It's the Bahamut."
Ashe hesitated, her eyes trained out the cockpit window. "…Take it." And then, quickly: "But keep quiet."
Fran opened the channel, and the group stood in rapt silence, seeming to sink in unified relief when Monty's voice answered their acceptance.
"Balthier? Is the princess with you?"
"Whether I like it or not," he replied with a smirk.
"Are you alright?" Ashelia asked.
"Of course," he choked quickly. "I—I'm fine. Well, considering."
The princess could think of nothing to say. Her heart wilted at the shiver in his voice, frightened by how small he sounded—and how alone—but she feared any offer she might make to help him would only come across abrasive and condescending. Luckily, Penelo stepped in for her:
"Monty, what's wrong?"
A pause, and he answered with distinct resignation. "I don't know…there's something—not right about Vayne."
"Venat?" Balthier asked.
"Yes. He's getting worse."
"Are you alone?" Ashe added.
"I'm fine, really." The boy's reassurance sounded weak at best. "Gabranth will keep me out of trouble. It's the marquis I'm worried about. I can't stop this—I mean, I can't stop Vayne. He—he wouldn't normally do this. I know I sound ridiculous—"
"It's alright, Lamont," Ashe insisted.
"You can't make your brother's decisions for him," Vaan assured him.
"No kidding," Penelo added.
A weak laugh sounded on the intercom, barely audible, but enough to reward their efforts.
"The marquis isn't answering our hails," the princess went on. "Can you get us onto the Bahamut?"
A small pause, and for a moment Monty regained his usual composed tone. "…Why?"
"We'll show Vayne that I'm willing to cooperate," she said carefully.
"With all due respect, Princess, do you really expect me to believe that?"
Knowing that he could not see it, Ashe openly grimaced in frustration. "Your brother has every reason to kill you, Lamont," she said flatly. "And I am willing to cooperate. I'll board the Bahamut and you'll board the Strahl."
He mirrored her aggravation. "So I'll be safe and you'll be dead?"
"There is no way I'm letting you go in there alone, Ashe," Basch growled.
"That makes two of us," said Balthier.
"Three," added Vaan.
"Four," Penelo chimed in.
Fran sighed.
"We'll do it together," Lamont offered. "You'll show him your willingness and I'll convince him to accept it."
Ashe clenched her teeth. "You understand we haven't much time…"
Briefly, he sounded his own age: "If it comes down to it, we'll…I don't know. We'll sabotage the ship."
Vaan snickered. "Awesome."
"So are we decided?" asked Balthier.
"I suppose we have to be," Ashe answered.
"I can open up a docking station for you," said Monty, "but you'll have to watch your backs."
"Sounds good to me," Balthier replied.
Monty's voice softened. "One thing, though…"
"Yes?" asked Ashe.
"…You have to promise you won't hurt my brother."
"Lamont…"
"Promise."
"Alright," she sighed, nodding though she knew he could not see it. "I promise."
He, too, nodded in spite of their distance. "Okay. There's an empty dock on the starboard side—fourth floor. I'll have Gabranth call off the guards, but there's not much I can do about all the business going on outside."
"Let me handle that," Balthier replied cockily.
"Basch?" Monty asked.
Basch stepped up behind Ashe expectantly. "Yes?"
"Try to play nice."
"No guarantees," he replied with a gruff laugh.
The transmission ended abruptly, for Lamont had contacted them via a precariously tapped broadcast channel and did not know just how much security his maladroit hotwiring could provide. He stood at a control panel meant for use in emergency situations—when the main operational systems suffered heavy damage—and leaving it functional for too long a time would surely draw attention to the power readout on the bridge. Shutting the device down, he left the vacant room, returning to the dull light of the hallway beyond where Gabranth stood guard.
"Starboard on the fourth," he told him with weary bravado. "And mind your manners." This earned him a quizzical look from the Judge, perceptible even through the imposing metal helmet, and he tried to offer a smile as he finished, knowing it would go unappreciated. "Basch is with them."
Shaking his head disapprovingly, Gabranth strode off with his usual indifference, and Monty headed for the bridge, feeling altogether too little amid the suffocating walls of the magnificent machine on which he rode. He planned to tell Vayne that he felt ill so that he could excuse himself from the bridge without garnering too much consideration—with assurance that Gabranth looked after him, Vayne would not feel obligated to split his attention between his brother and the battle at hand. However, Monty doubted his ability to believably pull this scheme off and dreaded the reproach he would suffer once the emperor discovered his true intent.
Entering the bustling bridge, Monty found his brother collected as ever, gazing out the wide stretch of window and offering only a few commands to his soldiers—he had trained them well, and they needed little direction. Vayne seemed taller somehow, his eyes darker and his voice calmer, and the rest of the room faded around him, causing Monty to fear that he may break down again. Clenching his jaw and drawing back his shoulders, he carefully neared Vayne and struggled to mirror his composure. He wanted to embrace him, but the painful heat of treachery kept him in line.
"Feeling better?" Vayne asked quietly, glancing down as the boy approached.
"Somewhat."
He studied him for a moment, eyes sharp and compassionate, then looked over his shoulder and surveyed the room. "What happened to Gabranth?"
"…He's—cleaning up after me." The rush of color to his face effectively conveyed embarrassment rather than uneasiness, but even this small success did nothing to sooth Lamont's nerves. His recent experiences had made of him a better liar, and he lamented the comfort he took in it.
The aerial brawl had intensified considerably since he left, the Resistance sustaining heavy losses while the Empire continually called ships into the Bahamut for repairs. Vayne had allowed for a small number of casualties so that he could later claim a hesitation to employ the wrath of the nethicite canons when it seemed more logical for the rebels to back down. Monty knew well enough that once the mêlée had inflicted enough carnage on Rabanastre, he would put the Resistance down quickly—supposedly in the city's defense. If all went according to plan, when the dust settled this day, the people of Dalmasca would have no choice but to hail their supposed savior as their undisputed emperor.
The Strahl had successfully dodged its way through the battle, taking only a minor scrape that Balthier blamed on Fran's gods, and found the docking station on the Bahamut's fourth floor open and welcoming. However, the passengers had barely disembarked when Rabanastre's paling at last gave out, momentarily flickering in a hail of fragile colors—much like the skin of a bubble—before finally withdrawing completely into the numerous magicite-powered engines posted at the city's walls. As she left the Strahl, Penelo witnessed the crashing of a few ships amidst the wildly bustling markets, marring the streets with the first of what would soon become many piles of fiery wreckage.
"The paling's gone…" she whimpered, gesturing out over the docking platform.
The others gathered to see, their expressions uniformly grave. Ashe's eyes radiated a crystalline blue against the afternoon sky, but she shook her head insistently at the sight, turning away and calling the others to follow. "We have to keep moving."
As they left the Strahl's shadow, however, they met Gabranth near the ship's entrance, looking to them expectantly, nodding a subtle bow to Ashelia.
"Princess…" He grew still for a moment, his expression hidden beneath the dreadful helm, his intent indiscernible. "I don't suppose an apology will be nearly enough…"
"No…" she answered warily, studying him with callous hope. "…But getting us in will be a start."
This seemed to effectively end the confrontation, for neither wished to waste any time, but the pressure of the awkwardness weighed on them all as the Judge led them through the twisting tunnels of the Bahamut, taking the dimmer, quieter, less-trodden paths for the sake of secrecy. The lights flickered only once, when some poor fool dared to strike the airstation, and the distant zapping of defense rays pinged from outside, fading as they traveled farther into the belly of the grand ship. Its engines thrummed drearily in their strained minds, and its innards reeked of technology—low walls of silvery steel, bluish in some patches, not so shiny that the magicite-powered lights gleamed blindingly, but not so dull that darkness enveloped the snaking passageways. The great airstation seemed much like the underground burrow of some elusive animal—safe, extensive, and utterly impenetrable.
Ashe walked near Gabranth's side, slightly behind him and allowing a fair distance between them—as much as the cramped tunnels provided—and Basch stuck close at her back, poised to draw his sword on the slightest impulse. Half a step behind Basch, Vaan strode heatedly, glaring at the Judge, hoping he could sense his ire. Ashe knew that her guardians meant only to ensure her safety, but her thoughts drifted with each step, and before long she wished they would put aside their quarrels with Gabranth and focus on the task at hand.
And yet she herself could scarcely manage this, for she thought with increasing frequency of her own roiling anger. She had decided with firm resolve to model her own attitude after Basch's—to consider Gabranth's decisions and the choices forced upon him, and to at the very least try to put herself in his place. Vaan's words at the lighthouse had also struck her deeply, and she had pondered the purpose of brooding over past events for quite some time, concluding that it fostered only wrath and despair. It proved a rarity in Landisian culture to mention the past. They spoke of it only when it urgently mattered—not because they refused to acknowledge it, but simply because they felt that the past belonged in the past, and that its only purpose in the present or future was to prevent it from repeating itself. This seemed reasonable to her, but she wondered if Gabranth dwelt on his deeds at all. Regretting past actions certainly could not change them, but she felt as though his own remorse could satisfy her thirst for vengeance—if only she could know for sure that he regretted it.
The tension mounted as they continued, but their trek proved considerably shorter than it had seemed; they arrived at an unoccupied conference room quite shortly, and Balthier appeared far from impressed with the appointments. Only a drab metal table surrounded by similarly built chairs greeted them, all bolted to the floor to accommodate the shifts and pitches of flight.
"I know funding's always been tight," he noted, "but you'd think they could have at least sprung for a touch of paint."
"I guess even Archadia slums it sometimes," Vaan replied.
Their comments went unheard, for all surveyed the room with growing suspicion, and Gabranth at last voiced their unified concern:
"…Monty?"
Indeed, the boy did not await them as planned. They had docked a few minutes later than they intended, allowing time to fly the safest route to the station, yet they had somehow arrived first, and none entertained for even a moment the possibility that Monty could be running late.
Balthier folded his arms, though his tone sounded more perturbed than disgruntled. "Little runt can't go ten minutes without giving someone grief, can he?"
"He wouldn't screw this up," Gabranth replied, shaking his head slightly.
"Vayne?" Penelo's voice quavered with the name, and Gabranth nodded.
"My best guess."
"We need to find him," said Ashe.
"Before Vayne does," Vaan added.
Gabranth did not appear amused by their show of alarm, speaking sternly, though yet with a hint of apologetic respect for the princess. "This ship is swarming with soldiers. I'd hardly be doing my job if I let you run loose."
"We'll be fine," Balthier groaned. "You take the public places, we'll see how deep we can dig."
Ashe briefly closed her eyes to keep from rolling them. "Balthier…" Turning to the Judge and straightening her expression, she continued: "We'll wait here as long as we can, but we're returning to our ship at the first sign of trouble."
"Understandable," he answered with a short nod. "Just be careful. Vayne will crush Dalmasca if you're caught."
She shot him a glare that appeared simultaneously a challenge and an admonition, and he calmly made his exit, leaving the small party of intruders to their own devices. Ashe knew that staying would likely prove unwise, but she wanted so badly to have faith in Lamont that she resisted her urge to take her cortege and flee while the chance presented.
"We should leave," Basch said stonily.
"I know," she replied. "…But I don't…I suppose I'm not sure."
Fran shifted her weight, her tail wiggling somewhat. "This hasn't the feel of a trap…" she noted.
"Monty would never do that to us!" Penelo snapped quickly.
"Unless the poor brat went and got himself caught," Balthier added disinterestedly. "Maybe Vayne's already taken care of him."
Ashe tilted her head in thought. "We don't have time to wait," she insisted. "This ship can eliminate the entire Resistance whenever it wants to—assuming the Rozarrians don't make a mess of things sooner."
"That's probably what Vayne's waiting for," Basch agreed.
"What Lamont said earlier…" she went on. "About sabotaging the ship…"
A subtle silence descended upon the room, and Vaan grinned slyly. "…You serious?" he asked.
"Our goal wasn't to negotiate with Vayne," she confirmed. "It was to stop this battle."
"Now you're thinking like a queen," Balthier replied.
Penelo shook her head childishly, blonde hair swaying at her back. "But what about Monty! We can't just leave him!"
"I'm afraid we have no choice but to assume the worst for him," Ashe explained unhappily. "He wanted to end the violence; if he's failed, then that duty falls to us."
"But we'll look for him, won't we?" she pleaded, eyes large and somehow rounder than usual. "We have to at least try…"
"Of course," the princess assured her. "We won't abandon him. But we don't have much time; the paling's already fallen."
Vaan laid a hand on his sister's shoulder, trying to smile. "Don't worry, Penelo. Monty can take it as well as he can dish it."
"I know," she sighed. "Let's go, then. Rabanastre doesn't have long…"
With a confident smirk, Ashe led her cortege out of the dingy conference room and into the monotone halls beyond, calling on Balthier to lead them to the airstation's vitals. He seemed all too eager to bring the ship down, slowing only to ensure that each had sufficiently memorized their escape route, but a twinge of guilt gnawed at Ashe's mind. Assuming the poor boy still lived, they could not possibly hope to find him amid the numerous levels of the Bahamut. Indeed, it seemed unlikely that all of them would survive this excursion, and she hesitated at the thought of leading her dearest friends to their deaths, but she knew that freedom did not await them aboard the Strahl—they would remain fugitives all their lives if they abandoned this mission, and for that it seemed all the more acceptable to meet death in the struggle for success or the plight of failure.