Author's Note: this is a mostly canon-compliant attempt at a novelisation of Final Fantasy XII. For details about my headcanon, see my profile.
I've planned the entire novelisation, but I originally decided to start at this point by drawing upon writing I had saved from years ago. This is just a trial to see whether I've still got what it takes.
This chapter is set after the party have fled Bhujerba after defeating Judge Ghis, and then spent around a week training together in preparation to travel to the Tomb of Raithwall.
Rating: PG (some mentions of violence, blood, gore; adult themes; light Basch/Vossler shipping)
Chapter 20: Shackles Released, Still Bound by Fate
Morning came over Rabanastre and the party met at Westgate one hour after sunrise, as agreed. Though the number of Imperial Gate Guards had declined to just two, the foot traffic in and out of the Aerodrome had steadily increased of late, most of them overdressed Archadian wayfarers in their multitudes, unaccustomed to the dry heat carried from the westerly squalls, squinting and turning away from the sand that blew at them in a ceaseless flurry.
Ashe stood, unmoving, watching her kingdom being eroded by the many treating it like a menagerie, a place to see where the other half lived, a place to acquire, to exploit, to overrun with Valendian excess, bringing the humid stench of colonial might with them. In her bronzed helm with visor lowered and armour fastened to her person, irrationally overcovered for want of rational protection against the unknown far west, she gripped her staff, breathing in whatever Mist she could summon from the air, reciting the incantations of Dark, Aero, Immobilise, thinking she could take back Rabanastre right now in a grand show of magick and rage.
She stilled her thoughts as Basch, in the iron helm and full chainmail that "Lamont" had gifted, walked up to her as casually as he might dare not to draw attention but without giving her cause to sully him further with her contempt. He held a gladius dagger in his right hand, uncharacteristically small, comically undersized for his gloved hand bearing a ring of tourmaline stuffed onto the betrothal finger, three over from the thumb. He was married to defence, wary of the poisons that beasts may wield, committed to protection. Ashe thought him diving to protect her from a purple spear of magicked poison cast by a faceless silver-clad Imperial, aimed at her heart. She would rather see the poison bury her than let Basch's tourmaline trinket absorb it harmlessly.
Basch stopped himself from kneeling. "Highness, good morning to you."
"Say nothing, Ronsenburg." She snapped. "I'd rather Vossler. You are a poor substitute."
Basch quelled the shard of ice invading his chest and cleared his throat. "Our companions are yet to arrive, I see."
"Yes, that so much is obvious." She turned away and looked around impatiently, lifting her visor. Basch made to raise a hand in caution, as there were still people milling through the Westgate plaza who might recognise their fallen princess, and others who would find the spectacle of a young woman in excessive, somewhat ill-fitting armour worthy of too much attention. He stilled his hand instead. "It is one hour after sunrise, where might Balthier and Fran be? Where did they find lodgings?"
"The Sandsea. I imagine they will arrive using the Moogling service. Vaan and Penelo returned to their bangaa employer's homestead, they should arrive soon, though being still teenage…" Basch trailed off, expecting Ashe to object, as she could still rightly be considered teenage, though she did not. She instead saw Balthier and Fran exit the Aerodrome.
"Where have you been? You are late." She put her hands on her hips. Balthier sauntered over and walked right past.
"Stay your tongue, princess. We were prepared one hour before your arrival." Balthier was wearing a gaudy red cap and an equally crimson brigandine that covered his torso in substitution for his ornate brown vest. "I myself have selected more suitable protectives for the Jagd Yensa region, at no little expense did I acquire them recently. I notice your ensemble sits on your corpus poorly and sticks out preposterously, that heavy Bhujerban armour doing you no favours in the augmentation of your magick and making you vulnerable to the grit of the Westersand. When you searched your Honourable uncle's palace for protectives you might pilfer, ought you have considered something more…" He looked her up and down, Fran raising a derisive eyebrow at her, "…mystic?"
"I am perfectly fine, thank you." She said mildly, enduring his verbal dagger, careful to keep him on side. "Though I doubt you will need such protection in battle when you will be far from the melee with that rifle." Her endurance was limited.
"Discretion is the better part of valour."
Fran interjected, bored, "There is no discretion in the sound of your firearms." She held her killer bow behind her body, a quiver packed with arrows strapped to her upper back. "Where are the young children? Or ought we leave them behind? Faster we might traverse the Sandsea without them."
Basch stepped forward. "They are worthy companions. Do not belittle them so, Fran." She shifted her posture, stretching her neck, tilting her head side to side. She had travelled the length of the Ogir-Yensa and Nam-Yensa Sandseas in the past, recalling the fine sand, finer still than that of the Westersand, that coated her body, infiltrated every sip of water she imbibed from her canteen, and ground away at her armour. She dreaded the litany of complaints that Vaan would submit to any who would hear him.
From the city walls, which just slammed shut on schedule, came a flurry of footsteps scuffing along the ground. "We're here! We're here. Sorry we're late. Vaan," Penelo said, dragging him by the elbow to where the other four were gathered, "is not a morning person. But we're here. Our apologies, Your Majesty." She said the last words softly, bowing gently to Ashe, Vaan following suit.
"It's quite all right," Ashe replied, her lips a flat line. "Are you absolutely sure you want to come? I won't mind if you part ways from us. You are not beholden to me, I am owed nothing by you."
Vaan shook his head. "We're all yours, Ashe. We're fighting for Dalmasca, just like you. And," He patted his pockets and a cloth pouch strapped to Penelo's belt, "We're loaded up with potions, phoenix downs, ethers, tents, blankets, rations, water, everything. We've got the lot thanks to Larsa's item shrink magick. Plus I feel guilty giving up the nethicite to Geese, or whatever that guy's name was."
"Judge Ghis." She corrected. "Well, if you insist. Shan't put those purchases to waste. I'm sure your employer appreciated your custom at his store."
"What, Migelo? We got these at cost. He didn't make a single gil off us. But whatever, Penelo does the books, so it's not his problem."
"Less income tax for the empire." Penelo nodded sagely, spinning her metal rod in her fingers. Noticing Balthier's surprised look, she added, "Migelo hates bookkeeping. I'm pretty good at it. It's a perfect match."
"But Penelo's not got much in the way of armour," Vaan said, motioning to his horned hat and ringmail, "We couldn't find anything at Panamis' shop in her size."
Balthier rolled his eyes. "Naturally. How many sixteen-year-old girls take up arms for Dalmasca?" And ignoring Ashe's exclamation, he strode back into the aerodrome, calling out, "Wait here, I will fetch you some suitable raiments."
The five remaining stood awkwardly in a semicircle, none moving in any productive way. The stream of people entering and exiting the aerodrome carried on. Ashe's visor was still open, and though Basch was watching the crowds, waiting for one to recognise her, none did. How disappointing a denouement, he thought to himself, if the empire would cut short their journey, sending them all back to Nalbina, bringing a sword upon his neck, installing Ashe as a marionette monarch, or choosing a scimitar more delicate to strike down on her neck, too.
Vaan broke the silence five minutes into the wait. "So why can't we just teleport to the Tomb? Hasn't anyone been there before? Basch?"
"Not to the Tomb itself." He shook his head. "Apologies. Once I have traversed these lands and possessed active teleportation even beyond it, but that was years hence."
"Teleport status expires after thirty days, one may approximate." Fran added on. "I found them without merit, for the most part, and too expensive by far. Walked I from place to place until meeting Balthier and becoming accustomed to airship travel. On balance, teleport stones are still less dear than the cost to replenish the fuel cells of the Strahl with magicite." She tapped her fingers against her thigh.
"I bet you've got lots of stories to tell," Penelo offered, hoping Fran would acquiesce, but before any anecdote could rise, Balthier returned, holding a carefully folded windbreaker vest and lambent hat in his arms. He passed them to Penelo with the reverence of a seamstress bequeathing a bridal gown unto a blushing bride.
"Darling, try these on, I have had them stored." He said, hands on hips. "Slight in stature you might be, the cut of the windbreaker should suit, and provide resistance against wind magick. Ideal for an aero spell miscast by a too-eager queen-in-waiting." Fran adjusted the hat on Penelo's head.
"There. Much better." She smiled warmly at Penelo, though still with pretention. "So we are ready to depart?"
"At once," Ashe said, lowering her visor briskly and striding without hesitation towards the edge of the desert, where the stone pavers laid by her forefathers blended into the yellow sand, old as time itself, scorching her steel poleyns, embedding itself into every joint and groove of her plate armour. She mentally cursed herself and the armour, then cursed herself for believing, just for a moment, that Balthier might have been right, that he might know better. Basch fell in line, right behind, Vaan and Penelo behind him, and Balthier and Fran somewhere to the rear again.
The Westersand was less treacherous with the six in tow. The training Vaan had received from Basch was somewhat effective in improving his form; his movements more economical, his strikes more precise, though the mythril sword he carried was still an impediment. Basch was much more effective, the gladius dagger scything through the Westersand's beasts effectively. There was no sandstorm to impede them, no Gnoma Entite shimmering in the distance in its glory to discourage their own magick. Ashe, who knew better than to use magick within sight of an Entite, unburdened herself, and aimed elemental black magick at beasts from afar, but with no rhyme or reason, and no great speed of casting, Basch stepping in to shield her from too-eager wolves or too-fast urstrixes, their wingspan wider than Fran was tall. She drained herself of Mist quickly, not even half an hour after departing Westgate, so she exchanged her staff for the main gauche dagger she purchased as an auxiliary armament. Penelo scarcely struck a single foe, instead rendering healing to Vaan time and time again as he thrust himself into battles he couldn't possibly win alone. Basch, to his credit, never raised his voice in frustration as he rushed to the teen's defence, though Balthier and Fran did laugh unkindly more than once when Vaan was trampled by a sleipnir, an armoured equine beast that weighed as much as ten barrels of wine, and Penelo had to kneel at Vaan's side, precisely guiding the magick to stitch together his cracked ribs.
They rested for a short time at the edge of the Westersand, where the Strahl's sky anchor was still in place. Balthier purchased a titanium bangle from the Hume merchant there and asked about the empire's activities far west. Lohen was his name, and he mentioned that there were some imperial soldiers stationed nearby, preventing travel beyond Dalmasca's western border, but they had left days ago for Rabanastre. Very few had passed this way since, and none Archadian, but notably a business associate of Lohen's, taking leave from his employment for a fishing expedition, had been through with a friend, both mounted on chocobo.
"We'll keep an eye out for the remains of their bodies, and that of their belongings," Balthier quipped.
"Then what makes you better suited to traversing the Sandsea?" Lohen enquired, his bangaa associate looking on. "Very few make it far."
"Never you mind," Fran said pointedly, glaring, and Ashe gave silent thanks to her for dispensing with the need for an alibi.
The stone marker denoting the edge of the Kingdom of Dalmasca was just one hour further's walk, the heat intensifying, the Mist in the air thickening slightly, and the smell of salt sharp on the nose. Together the six trudged west into terra nullius, Ashelia at the fore, clutching her gifted staff in her right hand, shimmering sand washing over her sandals and pooling at her ankles, caressing her skin with the tender care of silk spun with hemlock. She paused to survey what lay ahead, heated winds batting her face and whipping her hair back.
The rocky cliffs many yards of sand to her left were a rich crimson, much unlike the rusty brown of the Westersand's rocky formations, these ones about twenty feet high and devoid of vegetation, rising monolithically to bar travellers from advancing south. They had been smoothed by centuries of sandblasting, and the tops of the cliffs curved gently away; again, much unlike the chaotic shapes of the Westersand. There were no signs of life flourishing on them: no insects or scorpions as there were in the Westersand; no birds or reptiles resting their eggs in the harsh sunlight, since there were no safe places for their refuge; and no fiends stampeding over the edge, for they would only face the unyielding ground below with naught to cushion their fall.
To her right was a murmuring lagoon of crystalline water, stretching for miles to the north, though so shallow that it would barely rinse the sand from her ankles. If one were to follow this lagoon north, she recalled, one would eventually, after many days, reach the Rozarrian archipelago, a collection of small, volcanic islands with few residents.
Ahead of her, and occluding her passage to the Tomb of the Dynast-King, lay an enormous, rusted construct, all wide cylinders and pulleys and cranes, bearing Rozarrian markings and writings – not in Archadian common tongue – and the stench of crude petroleum about it. A ten-yard-wide, fairly steep, steel ramp allowed them to ascend the construct twenty yards high, though Ashe could not see what lay beyond, and could not remember - or had she not been told? - what would meet her there.
Behind her, gradually catching up, remained the rest of her party. Vaan crouched at the edge of the lagoon as it receded away from him and picked up a handful of the fine sand, watching it slip out of his fingers and glide away on a zephyr, to be deposited on the surface of the water. Entranced, he only rose to his feet and turned to the party when Penelo, standing with Basch equidistant between Ashe and Vaan, called out to him sharply.
Balthier and Fran were twenty yards to their aft, muttering, fiddling with their weapons, showing no inclination for haste.
Ashe exhaled roughly and continued her forward march towards the first ramp. Basch made to follow, almost at a jog, and then Penelo, clutching her mage's metal rod in two hands across her body, and then Vaan, his brother's sword held afore him.
"So where exactly is Raithwall's tomb?" Penelo asked, hesitant, heart pounding not from exertion but from quiet excitement; she would not allow herself to appear so naive as Vaan, because she was supposed to be the reliable one, as Basch had said earlier.
After a pause, Basch replied, voice distorted into a metallic tang through the visor of his helm, "Far to the west. We must first cross this land, the Ogir-Yensa, and then beyond that, the Nam-Yensa, before we reach the tomb." They ascended the ramp and met Ashe at the top; Balthier and Fran were still ambling along behind them, though both now clutching their weapons, ready to strike, and with a more purposeful stance. "A journey of approximately three days, across an expanse of desert larger still than the breadth of all Dalmasca, from the stone marker we passed yonder, to its brother at the edge of the bridge over the Nebra, approaching the Nabradian border." He glanced at her, hoping not to see frustration, and he was rewarded when she looked on in interest, gripping her weapon more tightly. To reassure her, he continued, "We must pace ourselves. If we grow tired, we stop and take rest, though I know not where."
Penelo shook her head lightly. "You don't have to worry about me. I'm tougher than I look."
Basch chuckled once, hollow. "You are at that." She smiled a little.
"I had three brothers. They taught me a thing or two, so I'm not a total novice when it comes to the quarterstaff, and to magick." She twirled the metal pole around a few times.
"Aye, I witnessed your skills earlier. You are quite talented for your age, and I expect you will be an asset to our party, and to Her Highness." He looked on as Ashe walked on. She was quite far ahead by now, having walked around the large, painted cylindrical structures using the catwalk connected to the ramp. The structures, still reeking of petroleum, seemed to have been painted with an ore mined from the cliff face to their left, but Basch could not see where, and they had not ascended high enough to see any pit mining. Here, he realised what Vossler had once told him years ago in the Lyceum: they were the remains of Rozarria's oil drilling operations, terminated decades past because of poor yields, the dangers of unpredictable weather and the resident fiends, and the reduced demands for petroleum in the wake of glossair engines' proliferation in the twenty years past. These cylindrical structures were oil tanks, he remembered, each once holding thousands of gallons of crude.
Vaan had walked around the tank the opposite direction and was now walking towards Basch and Penelo, converging on the junction through which Ashe had already passed; she was now crossing over a bridge to the next tank. He asked Basch, "What exactly is this thing we're walking around?"
"A construct to draw oil from the ground; abandoned many years now, it seems." Basch raised his visor for a better view.
Looking around and sniffing at the greasy air, Vaan asked, "Did Dalmascans build this?"
"No, the Rozarrians. Their empire lies far to the west, ever at war with Archadia."
"As long as I can remember." Penelo added, footstep sounds changing as they crossed the bridge. Balthier and Fran were now out of view behind them.
"Heedless of the kingdoms caught in their midst. Dalmasca, Nabradia." More quietly, Basch added, "Landis."
"Landis?"
"'tis the small craft's fate," a familiar voice intruded, "to watch the list of the galleons, and pray for light winds." Vossler appeared from behind them instead of the expected sky pirates. He was clothed in his Royal Dalmascan Army attire, a simple steel helm with feathered wings mounted to the temples and no visor, and chainmail bearing the Dalmascan crest and the Azelas escutcheon – gules two lion ramparts azure, quarterly azure two monoliths gules – wearing a greatsword attached to his back, sweat shining from his forehead. He moved towards them almost silently, and Vaan peered at him, confused, before realising that Vossler was walking on air, a circular halo of wind surrounding his feet, elevating him from the ground. A Float spell, freshly cast, to protect Vossler from the traps that populated the Sandsea. He walked directly past Vaan and Penelo to Basch, clutching Basch's right arm and pulling him in for a brief embrace, businesslike, practiced, routine, charmless.
"Vossler. Why are you here?" Basch said, holding Vossler's shoulder at arm's length, unsmiling.
"Imagine my surprise when upon my return to Bhujerba with Larsa, I found both you and Her Highness the Lady Ashe had vanished." He looked ahead to find Ashe leaning over the catwalk, monitoring the movements of two Alraune plant beasts below. "I thought you above consorting with sky pirates." Said pirates had finally appeared, totally ignoring the other four and walking ahead to the next storage tank in resolute silence. Balthier rolled his eyes as he walked past Vossler.
Watching them move away, Basch tried to keep the peace. "Balthier and Fran are worthy of our trust, and it was the Lady Ashe's decision to quit Bhujerba without seeking the permission of the Marquis. I am merely content to lend my arm and to protect her, and guide Dalmasca's youth." Penelo beamed, while Vaan looked sceptical. Vossler gave a quiet "hm" and folded his arms. Basch continued. "As I could not when Lord Rasler fell, and when her throne was taken. Never again." His voice dropped lower, almost a murmur. "I will defend her this time."
"You walk the knight's path." Vossler casually replied, detatching himself from Basch's group, walking off as the Float spell dissolved into nothingness. "What of the Lady Ashe?" Without waiting for a response, he made to stand aside his charge, who had decided not to engage the Alraunes and instead continued walking on towards what looked like a large parchment map of the refinery and tanks affixed to the next tank.
A few yards away, Fran and Balthier looked to the north, where a buzz of activity had aroused the still desert into a whirl of motion. Fingers tightening on the body of her Killer Bow, Fran murmured, just within earshot of Balthier, "We should leave this place."
Drolly, Balthier replied, "Let me guess: sandstorm?"
"Something far worse," Fran countered, piercing through his ennui. "Behold, the natives." She extended a hand to the flurry, which though fifteen yards below and a hundred away, could start to be heard. A hum of rushing white noise was punctuated by the triumphant howls and cries of the fiends within, which sounded all at once Hume and not-Hume, high-pitched like children but malevolent like mercenaries.
Balthier recognised the unique blend of sounds and blanched, despite the high sun that threatened to burn his fair skin. He ran back to the rest of the party, who were walking more steadily as a party of two-and-three. Ashe had just asked Vossler, "what have you accomplished?", when Balthier interrupted and raised his voice loud enough for all to hear, "We leave at once!"
Ashe made to chastise him for interrupting her but wasn't fast enough to stop Balthier from speaking with aberrant urgency: "This is Urutan-Yensa territory, and they are unfond of visitors."
"So what?" Vaan folded his arms. "'S'not like the Westersand was a friendly place."
"Trust me. I've not seen a more foreboding sight. It looks like we've attracted the wrong sort of attention." Balthier leaned over the railing. "Let's quit this place while we still can. Move!"
The Urutan-Yensa, as he called them, were now in clear view: Hume-like but half the height, with oddly crustacean-like faces, wearing thick, brown robes and hats, and armed with crude bows, stubby little shortswords, and rusted, curved daggers. They were riding enormous swordfish-like animals that dove and swam through the desert as if it were an ocean, and had honed in on the seven. There were at least twenty of them, and they were converging on Ashe and the others.
"They're too close," Balthier breathed.
Basch immediately drew his dagger. "You have done us a great service, warning us of them. They are hell."
"You speak as if you know the threat." Ashe leaned over the railing, watching the creatures aim their bows at them. She hurriedly leaned back. "What course of action do you advise?"
"Wind magick." Basch flicked his dagger around in his hand. "And quickly. I once had to fight their kin outside my homeland. They will not fall easily, though their bodies are fragile."
"Why don't we just run?" Vaan unsheathed his brother's blade, assuming the battle stance Basch had taught him. "They can't reach us if we hide behind a tank and make a break for it."
"Because they run faster than even the fastest Humes," Fran replied, summoning the scant Mist around her to her hand. "Prepare yourself."
Vossler and Ashe did the same; the three of them standing in a row, each clutching a small whirl of excited air into their right hands as the Mist whirled around them. Balthier loaded his Sirius firearm and prepared to fire. Vaan held out his blade and shield, watching them intently. "Step back, Pen."
"I don't think so!" Penelo stepped forward, clutching her rod and casting a Protect spell on herself.
"On my mark, Princess, Captain." Fran said.
Five Urutan-Yensa raised their bows.
"Surely not," Balthier aimed the muzzle of his firearm down.
Five arrows launched.
Fran cried, "Fire!", and released her Aero magick, alongside Ashe and Vossler, who gave a loud grunt with the flick of his wrist.
The three spells blasted down, expelling a downburst of wind that knocked the ascending arrows back towards their archers. The other Urutan-Yensa whooped in response and scattered, some casting magicks in return, peppering the rusted catwalk with fireballs and shards of crystalline ice.
"Penelo, Shell!" Basch shouted, tracking their foes as they split into two hastily-organised groups that were moving to the nearest ramp on either side. Penelo swallowed and began to weave chartreuse protective spells over them, one at a time, whoever was in reach.
Once Penelo's magick had settled on him, Vaan ran after Basch, back towards the way they came. Balthier remained in place beside Penelo, firing a burst at whatever enemy he could sight. Each of them collapsed upon being hit, not rising again. Callously, the Urutan-Yensa did not raise or heal their allies, instead leaving them to bleed a curious green blood, and rot in the shifting sands.
Fran dashed a few paces to their left, loosing another packet of wind magick, which rapidly curved and struck at another four Urutan-Yensa as they ran. They also did not rise. Vossler and Ashe continued casting identical spells at whatever foes they could see, and after another furious minute, there was no activity on the ground.
Despite not having lifted a finger in offense, Penelo was anxious, darting from side to side, in contrast to Fran, who effortlessly hung her bow and quiver on her belt and smoothed over her travelling coat.
"Can I get you an ether, a potion? Are you hurt?" Penelo asked nervously. "Highness? Captain?"
"We are fine." Vossler said brusquely. "The passing Mists will replenish us. What has become of Basch and the other boy?"
"You mean Vaan? They ran off that way-" Penelo whirled around to see Vaan and Basch walk back towards them along the catwalk, both spattered in green ichor, Vaan grinning and Basch resolutely stoic.
"That was so gross but so cool. That Dark magick is wicked," Vaan gushed, "it just rips them apart. Messy, though, and I could do with an ether."
"Don't waste our limited stores," Ashe said sharply. "You ought gather your own sundries along the way."
"Relax," Vaan wiped his nose and then the green off his face. Vossler choked on Vaan's impudent tone. "Larsa gave Penelo ten grand, so I bought twenty ethers when we got back to Rabanastre. We've only gone through two. That gives us, uh-"
"Eighteen ethers," Basch took out a handkerchief from his pants and dabbed at his face. "An ample supply for a one week journey. Quite sensible, Vaan."
"Larsa Solidor gave you ten thousand gil? As a gift?" Vossler shook his head. "Unbelievable. Emperor Gramis' golden child is just as gilded as Vayne. The elder buys influence, the younger buys the fawning attention of Dalmascan orphan girls."
Penelo's jaw dropped, insulted.
"Hey, just what are you saying?" Vaan said hotly. "Larsa was nothing but nice to her."
"He doesn't mean anything by it," Ashe's tone changed to something ameliorating, walking towards Vaan.
"Of course he doesn't," Balthier uttered sarcastically. "Princess, continue, the tomb awaits."
The seven advanced, Basch at point, a fuming Vaan and a miffed Penelo after, Vossler and Ashe a fair way behind, and Balthier and Fran at the rear. In a low voice, Vossler recalled his movements of the last few days: after Ashe had absconded from Bhujerba in the Strahl and taken Basch and the rest with her, Vossler stayed in Ondore's estate a few days more. He then teleported to Rabanastre, correctly guessing Ashe would make to claim the Dawn Shard at the Tomb of the Dynast-King, and took leave from the Resistance's Rabanastre hideout in pursuit of his princess.
On another enormous tank, Basch seized a parchment map affixed to it and held it out.
"Ambervale Petroleum Holdings Ogir-Yensa Refinery Complex," Basch read. "Quite convenient. It is dated 664 Old Valendian."
"That's over 40 years old. Do you think it's still good?" Penelo looked on.
"We are here," Basch pointed at the marker inscribed on the parchment, "and there are two western exits, each with a salvation crystal, that leads to the Nam-Yensa Sandsea. With luck, we will reach the crystal of our choosing before sundown, and we can make camp in relative safety."
"Fine by me," Vaan said. "Then what, another two days to the tomb?"
"Aye."
"Let me take the map. I can make myself useful." Penelo shot a dirty look at Vossler. "I'm no gil girl, I'm the reliable one with eighteen damn ethers in my pockets and a metal rod in my hands and not up my ass, unlike someone I recently met."
Basch held in his laughter and walked on, lowering his helm's visor. Ashe soon grew tired of muttering to Vossler and broke away from him. The seven proceeded, picking off beasts one by one, finding remnants of battles fought before them; a leather gorget that fit snugly around Ashe's neck, fitting awkwardly between her helm and breastplate, embedded with magicite that enhanced her magick; magick spell scrolls for a vanishing spell that Balthier took, quickly teaching himself to shimmer into nothingness so long as he made no sudden moves, and for a Mist-stealing spell that Vossler taught himself, sucking the Mist from an Urutan-Yensa that dared to tried to blind him with magick; and potions, ethers, and other sundries that Vaan found scattered along the way and added to his pouch. Along the platforms and walkways, there were ample crates and barrels that Vaan prised open, but there were few useful treasures inside, excepting some dried chillies that Vossler said would be entirely too spicy for the party's taste.
"How do you know that?" Vaan asked, stopping to empty his shoes of sand.
Imperiously, Vossler said, "I am of Rozarrian blood on my father's side. I know Rozarrian cuisine well, and I like it not."
"Where did you grow up?" Penelo twirled her metal rod, shielding her eyes from the blinding sun.
Ashe responded, "Dalmasca. Vossler is from the noble house Azelas, his mother being a relation of my lord father, may he rest in peace." She glared at Basch as she finished that sentence. He could not, however, apologise for the thousandth time, as more Urutan-Yensa approached them, a pack of five.
"At the ready!" Vossler barked, raising his greatsword to ox position, held up high, just above his eyes, unrelenting blade facing forward. Ashe strode to stand at his right, staff held up across her body. Basch stood to the left, dagger and shield at hand. Penelo cast Protect magick on Vossler, and he cricked his neck as the blue cloak of Mist enveloped him, barely visible in the light. The four charged forward, Vossler and Basch slicing through the bodies of two Urutan-Yensa, while Ashe slammed a packet of air into the belly of a third, knocking it back twenty paces. Penelo took a good swing at a fourth with her metal rod, but the fifth outpaced them, rolling to the side, then quickly, like a flash, casting a magick spell that emerged as a whirl of five sparks whizzing around Basch's head, stunning him, and causing him to fall to the ground, asleep like an infant dressed in steely swaddling clothes. His helm made an awful clanging noise as it hit the metal of the catwalk. Penelo knelt at his side while Vossler ran after the Urutan-Yensa knocked away by Ashe's spell, while Ashe swung at the one that cast the Sleep spell and knocked it into the wall. Balthier caught up and shot a cloud of gunpowder right in its face, leaving another revolting pile of green ichor and brown fabric smeared along the wall. Fran looked on with distaste.
"Captain?" Penelo raised his visor and shook Basch's shoulders as he remained unconscious. "Captain Ronsenburg! Wake up!" She looked up, worry in her eyes, seeking guidance from Fran, who stared at her. "Can you Raise him, Fran?"
"No need." She replied bluntly. "He is not defeated, only stunned. Utilise Libra, soon you will learn."
"But I don't have Libra," Penelo said. "What do we do to wake him up?"
"An Esuna spell, of course, as costly in Mist as they are." Balthier said smoothly, adjusting his cuffs. "I'm sure Fran will acquiesce."
"Oh?" Fran said. "How wasteful. The Captain will arise in a few moments and I shall not have spent my Mist in vain." She took a drink from her canteen.
Penelo rested on her heels, still uneasy, holding her ankles. "So… how long are we supposed to wait?" Vossler and Ashe returned from ahead, while Vaan finally caught up, shoes emptied of sand for now.
"What has happened?" Ashe asked pointedly. "Why isn't anyone waking him up?"
"Well," Penelo walked around to Basch's other side, "Fran said we can just wait a while."
"We shall not wait." Vossler strapped his sword to his back with a magnetic clang, then pulled a small glass phial from his left shorts pocket, deep green in colour, bulbous and round, with an indentation of human lips stamped on it. The phial was stoppered with a small cork, then sealed with blood-red wax. He expertly ripped the cork out and poured the contents of the phial onto his right index finger, an oily, green liquor, the excess dripping onto the ground, droplets sizzling on the metal. He then rubbed his lips with the liquid, like a courtesan applying cosmetics to her visage, knelt down, and kissed Basch full on the lips, their helms clinking slightly as they touched.
The rest of the party were stunned into silence for a moment.
"…Yes, that is a viable alternative, my good Captain." Balthier remarked. Basch blinked into consciousness, and, shocking the party just a little more, started kissing Vossler back and reached his hand out to pull Vossler closer, until Vossler stood up brusquely and wiped his lips with the back of a furred hand. Basch almost seemed hurt, leaning up from the ground, one arm lamely outstretched in an aborted moment of intimacy. He collected himself quickly, stood up, and rubbed the oil from his lips a little.
"What was that?" Vaan asked, scandalised. Penelo's eyes darted between Vossler, who was deliberately not facing anyone, Basch, who seemed sheepish, and Ashe, who had no expression at all.
"You didn't know?" Balthier responded, superior, all-knowing. "Captains Ronsenburg and Azelas are partners."
"In and out of armour." Fran added. "It is no secret amongst those who know."
"Well, that wouldn't make it a secret then!" Vaan exclaimed. "So what, they're married or something?"
Penelo grabbed a handkerchief from Vaan's pouch and handed it to Basch, who rubbed the last of the Prince's Kiss from his lips, and handed it to Vossler, who ignored the stained cloth in Basch's gloved hand, the tourmaline ring scuffed with dirt. "It's not legal in Dalmasca, I don't think. I don't even know of any men marrying men in Rabanastre."
"Indeed, it is not legal." Vossler finally said, curtly. "The men of the Royal Dalmascan Army are not to wed other men, especially other men in that Army. His Majesty King Raminas once put forth a decree to overturn it for our sake seven years hence, but the Council rejected it. And now he is gone." Basch rubbed the dirt and gore off his armour and lowered his visor. A curious dilemma Basch now faced: spare himself further embarrassment about his relationship with Vossler and walk on, or spare himself the embarrassment of being insubordinate to Ashe's sovereign orders by staying put. He frankly would rather stay unconscious.
"Then why not just quit the army so you can get married and live happily ever after?" Penelo swung her metal rod around nervously.
"They swore an oath to Dalmasca," Ashe proclaimed, "to defend her, its people, its lands, and its sovereign. They do not leave." Left unsaid, Basch thought, they – I, he corrected – swore to sacrifice their own desires. Many a military man nursing a broken heart, the injury of a dream unfulfilled, the wound of unhealed trauma. Such the life of a swordarm.
"Oh." Vaan swallowed. "Well, at least Basch is better now. Vossler, got any more of those kiss potions?"
"Captain Azelas." Vossler reproached. "I do not allow commoners, let alone gutter churl, to address me in such a familiar tone."
Balthier felt a wave of heat well up from inside his gut. Not certain whether it was to protect Vaan, who despite being without any rank or wealth, was still not without honour, or whether it was in defiance of the preening, holier-than-thou Captain in a military that didn't exist and a now-leader of a tinpot insurgence, he didn't know. Mayhap Fran would analyse this event later and tell him precisely what he did wrong, but Balthier never found success in overthinking his passions. So with no small amount of venom, he jeered, "Oh, get over yourself, Azelas."
Vossler strode over hotly and jabbed a finger in Balthier's face. "Go to hell, sky pirate."
"I'll likely see you there," Balthier taunted. "Insult me further and Fran and I will leave with our airship, leaving you without any means of combating the empire's burgeoning fleet."
This left Vossler and Ashe silent. Basch clinked closer, tentatively. Vaan and Penelo stood off to one side.
"Well, we certainly do not want that," she said mildly. "Vossler, give Vaan the phials of Prince's Kiss. Let us continue." And she walked on. Penelo let out the breath she didn't realise she was holding. Twenty further minutes of exceedingly awkward silence ensued. In that time, Basch did not raise his visor once, Balthier and Fran did not offer a potion or healing magick to Vossler, and the cortege of seven splintered into five-and-two.
Ashe bravely led Penelo and Basch, her plate armour baking her from inside out, dirt and sand, blasted sand, grinding away at the metal. Penelo stood behind her and to the left, with Basch on her right, forming a V, Vaan somewhere to the rear, Vossler further behind again, and Balthier and Fran walked twenty paces behind them all.
They were now in a section marked, "East Junction", in the north-east part of the complex. With the map in her hands, Penelo was able to advise the party which routes to take to navigate through it without delay or confusion. Ashe aggressively shot bursts of wind magick from afar at the Urutan-Yensa gallivanting over the pathways and catwalks, knocking them onto the sand twenty yards below or knocking them unconscious with her staff. Basch slit their throats quickly to prevent them from rising in a counterattack, while Penelo kept Protect and Shell barriers over them, limiting the potential for harm, and reducing the chance of their status magick from successfully blinding or stunning them.
After watching the fourth sleep spell fail to land on Basch in half an hour, and replaying Vossler's disciplined – dispassionate – potion-slick kiss on Basch's lips in her mind, she could stay silent no longer.
"So you and Captain Azelas…" she trailed off. Basch didn't quite turn to her, but even with his visor closed, she felt his eyes on her.
Basch cleared his throat. He has given this explanation too many times and it still felt like inching towards the edge of a cliff, where the chasm below was consequences too unfair. "We are partners. When I fled Landis at the age of 15 and arrived at Rabanastre's Eastgate, Vossler was a freshly commissioned Gate Guard, and he found me and brought me in. I lived with his family for many years and was a Ward of the Crown until I joined the Royal Dalmascan Army as a Private at the age of 17. Vossler and I…" He realised Vossler was far behind him but would not betray himself by daring to turn away from Ashe. "We lived together. We fought together. We… I… love him- loved him." He corrected himself. "Apologies. I loved him until Marquis Ondore sentenced me to death and I withered away in Nalbina, tortured by Judge Gabranth."
Penelo dragged her metal rod along the ground, liking the rattling sound it made on the corrugations. Ashe whirled around abruptly and fixed her gaze at Penelo, shaking her head in annoyance, never lifting her visor. Penelo desisted, sheepish.
"But you're out now. You can be together again."
"It's not the same. I rather think," Basch opened his visor and looked at Penelo, "he believes me a wholly different man than who I was two years hence, not the Basch he once knew." Now there's the Basch I remember, Vossler said in Lowtown a week ago, after he had finished helping Basch wash, groom, and dress himself in the dank glow of two tallow-fat candles and a dying fire magicite stone in the bathroom of Balzac's hovel. A pleasant lie. Memories are too easily corrupted. "He already mourned my death. My arrival at the Resistance hideout in Lowtown must have been like he witnessed a ghost."
Penelo smiled sadly. "Some days I wish I could see Reks again, right in front of me, even if he was a ghost."
Basch didn't respond for a moment, processing. "But Reks was-"
"Vaan's brother, yeah, but we were engaged for a few weeks. To be married, I mean. But then he ran off to join the Army, and…" She made a defeated gesture, as if to say, Oh well.
"I am sorry," Basch replied automatically.
Penelo sniffed and shook her head. A chill ran through her body despite the heat. "It's okay. I've had time to get over his death. But if he knocked on my bedroom door, alive and well, I'd jump right into his arms. I loved him. He loved me. If death didn't stand in our way, we'd still be together. So I don't think it's fair that Vossler can just turn on you like that." Would he spit angrily at Penelo for using his given name, like he did at Vaan? Penelo didn't quite care right now.
"I am used to self-denial in service to the Crown. It is the oath I swore." Basch concluded, disinclined to have Penelo dissect his wounds further. They walked on. Ashe drank an ether and waited for Penelo and Basch to pass her by.
"So they let you join the Army even though you can't use magick?" Penelo pried, leaning forward. "How does that work?"
"I cannot be sure. None of the people of Landis have facility with magick. It is a point of national pride." Ashe cast a Blind spell at a bagoly fiend ahead, its owl-like head shaking back and forth as it tried to rid itself of the cloud of black veiling its eyes. Basch ran forward to strike at it, severing its two wings, then let Ashe use Quake to summon rocks from below them and slam into its legs, leaving it to die of its injuries. "My superior officers and tutors in the Army expounded significant effort to coax magick out of me, to no avail. They were highly disappointed. They were almost successful in discharging me until I demonstrated my inherently high resistance to magick. Then that became my…" He spent some time looking for the right words, "…bargaining chip. My foes were never able to harm me with magick, at least not directly. I saved many soldiers with what they called my 'party trick'." Pride was an unfamiliar feeling to Basch. If he had imbibed a few pints of lager, he might have enjoyed telling this anecdote and then spent the next hour daring people to fry him with Thunder spells, only to watch them sizzle over his body, stand his hair on end, leaving no trace behind, and no injury to mark their existence. Somehow he didn't think Penelo would want to try.
"Well, I've seen kids as young as five learn basic magick and technicks. I'm sure you can do it!"
"No, I cannot." Basch set his lips in a thin line. "I have tried for over twenty years. Forgive me, Penelo, but learned magi and warlocks with five times your age and ten times your power have failed to see me draw magick into my body, let alone cast spells. I know the four break technicks and the libra technick, that was sufficient."
Penelo cast Protect again on Ashe. "Well, you haven't tried me. If I can get Kytes to wash his own clothes with magick, I can get you to use a Cure spell. Come on, let's try," she concluded, all den mother, beaming.
Her smile faded quickly. Basch simply could not draw the Mist into his body after a quarter-hour of Penelo showing him how to sense the Mist in the air, the hand and finger movements to summon it, the breathing needed, the memories and feelings you should draw upon to cast healing magick, and the incantation. Nothing. Basch apologised over and over, and Penelo's voice crept higher and higher, "It's fine, let's try again", "No need to worry, you'll get it", "It's okay, really", until she mercifully said, "Okay, let's stop for now. Plus, I think Vaan's gone off the path."
Next is Chapter 21: Luck Will Not Save You from Weakness