The palace floor feels foreign beneath her booted feet, the walls rise on either side of her—seeming to ask what would her father say? What would her brothers?

Ashe tugs her skirt down, winces at the feel of dirt against her fingers. She's a mess still and what she needs is a long bath, a way to—Ashe grits her teeth, digging her nails into the soft flesh of her thigh.

There's no time to think, not when—

"You are young, yet. Great powers trifle with your life. You must decide—shall you be a puppet or shall you fight?"

The pictures on the walls of her family all seem to stare at her, judgmental. What is she? Cast adrift, even by Basch, even by Vaan and Penelo—who would prefer her company over that of the Strahl's, anyway?—she is alone.

"Princess," he'd said with that sardonic grin—was he mocking himself or her? Did it matter?—"You can be assured that I will choose the sky over you."

She opened her mouth to speak, but his deft fingers moved between her thighs. Surely he'd picked locks much harder than the one guarding her heart. Ashe pressed her mouth to his hungrily.

Blood begins to trickle down her leg. This is pointless—they're dead and everyone else is gone. Ashe twists her head to gaze out the window.

"Princess?" One of the elderly servants approaches her—a cook?—and gives a gap-toothed smile. "We'll find you some suitable clothes and re-hire the help."

"Thank you, but I need rest first. I will start rebuilding tomorrow." How is her dream becoming a nightmare? Does she not get even one night to grieve?

The woman gives a sympathetic, if not disappointed, nod. "We'll send dinner up to your room, then," she says, shuffling away with a crone's hobble.

Ashe grimaces. This is not the behavior of royalty but of a commoner.

"If I am less than you," Fran said quietly, "'tis not because of blood or profession. Are you so young—?"

"You speak too much," said Ashe, running her fingers down the soft curve of Fran's hip.

Fran let out a warm chuckle, tilting her head to the side—examinant—and said, "Perhaps, but I am no hypocrite."

She holds her head up high and pulls her hand away from her leg. This is getting ridiculous. It takes more willpower than it should to get to her apartments.

Ashe falls upon the bed—oh gods, it's so much more comfortable than the one on the Strahl but—

It doesn't smell like them.

Fran, Balthier, Basch, Vossler, and, now, even the children have left her. Her pillow, when she pulls it to herself, smells like dust. Tears swim in her eyes and she chokes on the sob trying to escape.

Is this what she fought for? Loneliness?

"How could you just abandon your home?" Ashe asked, "How could you abandon your sisters and your friends?"

Fran shook her head. "You understand so little." Her smile was subtle, a mere glint of teeth.

"So teach me."

Quick as lightning, Fran pressed her mouth to Ashe's neck, lips so warm and soft—a shudder ran down Ashe's spine. "I wanted more," Fran whispered into the sensitive skin.

This time, the shudder was caused by nothing physical.

No—no—for Dalmasca. She fought for Dalmasca—hadn't she… or had it been for herself?

"Even as you write me off as selfish," Balthier pocketed her ring without shame. "I write you off as a hypocrite, Princess."

Ashe stalked out of the Sandsea, anger simmering in the Dalmascan heat.

Vayne was evil and wrong, he'd had to be stopped. His ambition would have destroyed Dalmasca. This is her land, her place; she knows how to run it, how to best help her people. This is what she has been raised to do. He was Archadian, and Dalmasca would have withered under his rule.

Only the Dalmascan ruling family can rule Dalmasca. That was why she had fought. Ashe lies back on her bed, staring at the ceiling. She runs her finger over the forming scab and closes her eyes. This isn't fair.

Fran flicked her tongue, tasting Ashe's growing arousal. Ashe took a shaking breath—how much longer could she last?—and gripped Fran's ears.

It made her stop and meet Ashe's glazed eyes. There was silence before Ashe finally realized and loosened her vice-like grip. "Fran," Ashe said, breathy, control unraveling. "Please, I want—I want—"

Fran's tongue moved inside her again and Ashe let out a moan that was almost a whine. Her grip tightened on Fran's ears, but this time, Fran didn't stop—she continued. When Ashe climaxed with a cry that surely deafened the viera, Fran pulled back, licking her now glistening lips.

Ashe panted and released her ears, allowing Fran to stand. She tilted her face up for a kiss, and tasted herself on Fran's tongue. A moan escaped her lips.

It was only then that Ashe realized Fran was still fully-clothed. She reached up to pull Fran closer, only to be thwarted when Fran took a step away.

"I cannot give you aught but this," said Fran softly.

Ashe blinked, her hazy smile fading. "I want you," she said, voice still husky.

"A lie thought true is still but a lie," said Fran as she left, her sharp heels clicking against the floor punctuating Ashe's heartbeat. "I cannot make you free."

Ashe is stronger than this, she knows she is. Damn it, she's Princess, soon to be Queen! She doesn't need her brothers or her father or Vossler or Basch or Vaan or Penelo or Balthier or Fran. But is it so bad to want them?

Balthier reached up, a twisted look on his face—one that might be reserved for her, when had he ever used it with his precious Fran?—and pushed a strand of hair out of her eyes in a gesture of strange intimacy. "Princess, you'll never cry for me. Not when I'm gone."

"Never," she said and laced her arms around his back.

He chuckled then, but there was no merriment in his eyes. Ashe kissed him, so that she didn't have to see.

Somehow, she's sleeping when the servant opens the door with a plate of food. "Princess Ashelia?"

Ashe sits up, reaching for a sword that isn't there. After a moment, she finally sees the plate and takes it gently. It's almost too much trouble to eat with dignity, slowly, with small mouthfuls. She is too used to gobbling it down at the campfire with everyone else, with Vaan taking bites half the size of his head and Fran's graceful etiquette that even Ashe's mother—a decorous witch—would have envied.

"Thank you," she says as an afterthought.

Gods, if she's forgotten even that, then maybe she can't do this. Her hands are too blood-stained, her past too laden with mistakes and people tossed aside to be true royalty any longer. The blood of the Dynast King runs through her veins, but what does that make her? A puppet of the Occuria?

No. She threw that path down with their cursed blade and Reddas's life. So, then, what is she now?

"The only path anyone walks is the one they choose," Fran told her, crossing her legs.

Ashe swallowed, wanting to pull her away from the ledge. Sitting on the edge of Bhujerba didn't seem like the best idea somehow. But, then, she'd never liked heights while Fran obviously had no such qualms.

"That's not true," Ashe protested, "Some people are born with—"

Fran sighed. "Do not give me your excuses. I want no more lies."

"Then how do you stand Balthier?" she asked with, perhaps, more venom in her tone than she'd intended.

"Foolish hume," Fran said, and whether she was referring to Balthier or Ashe, she couldn't decipher. "He gives what he gets. Give him a lie, and you shall receive one. Trust does not come easily for him, and he will not be the first to hang on it."

Choosing a path? What paths are left to choose? Fran and Balthier are dead of their own hypocritical heroism, Basch is gone and Archades will no more accept her than she will accept it. Vaan and Penelo are pirating and Ashe doesn't know how they can even stand to be aboard that ship.

Don't they see Fran and Balthier everywhere they look?

Hell, she sees them wherever she turns and she isn't even on the Strahl!

Ashe hesitantly reached out to unclasp Fran's armor.

Was it so wrong to want to see this woman—so strong, so poised—bared of everything? Fran shifted to make give her more purchase.

"Fran? What do you think I should do?"

"Stop teasing," she growled, "and kiss me."

Ashe blinked, drawing her hand back as though stung. "That's not what I—"

"You speak too much." With an irritated flick of the ear, Fran sat up.

"Fran, stop," Ashe took a deep breath. "I need your help. Please. I don't know what—to do."

Abruptly, Fran stopped, watching Ashe with hungry eyes. "I will not waste my breath."

"But you will waste your sweat and your love?" she asked, accusing.

Fran leaned forward and pressed her mouth to Ashe's, running her tongue over the seam of Ashe's lips. Automatically, Ashe opened her mouth; Fran pulled back with a curving smile. "I shall tell you what you wish to hear, then".

She moved away from Ashe to retrieve her shoes. Placing a hand to her lips, Ashe could still feel the fading heat of Fran's kiss.

"You are Princess Ashelia B'nargin Dalmasca. Your country shall be your cage for the rest of your days. Sky pirates cannot free you, marriage will not save you, and blood will chain your children to the same fate."

Ashe takes a breath and hands the now-empty plate back to the servant. "Thank you," she says again, more quietly this time. "Tomorrow I'll start. Tomorrow, I will build Dalmasca anew, free from the bindings of Archadia and the cage of the Occuria. The scars of this war will heal."

The woman smiles wide. "Welcome back, Princess."

She offers a soft smile in return. She can do this—she can do this alone, without the crutches she has come to rely on. She will succeed because she must.

"You don't know when to quit, do you?" Balthier's lip curled into a cross between a smirk and a grimace.

"No, I don't," she muttered, trying to will the blush from her cheeks and ears even as she hunted for her lost shirt. "I never have. I'm not like you—I don't run."

Lightning quick, he grabbed her wrist, grip almost bruising. She met his smoldering eyes and waited. After a long pause, he finally asked, "Looking for this?"

With his other hand, he held up her shirt. Somehow, she was certain he had been about to say something else. What was it Fran had said… he gave what he got?

Ashe took the shirt and then shrugged it on.

"We should get going," she told him, standing to leave.

His grip on her tightened. "Princ—Ashe." It was enough to stop her short. "You're just as bad as I am. You've been running all along, haven't you? From your duties and the war… your husband's death." Balthier's sardonic smile crept onto his lips again. "What will you do when you reclaim your crown, hm? You can't keep running then."

She jerked her hand from his. "I know what I'm doing. I don't need your help."

That was the first time she ever heard Balthier laugh so cruelly. Ashe sincerely hoped it would be the last.

She sits down on her bed, staring out the window, at the clouds. If it had turned out differently, would she be wondering if they were there?

Would she be wondering why they hadn't come to steal her yet?

Or would she already know?

Brasher than she had ever felt, before or since, Ashe knocked.

Fran opened the door and Ashe caught her breath. Every time they had… made love—had sex—fucked, Fran had never taken her armor off. But now she opened the door clad in nothing, save Balthier's trim hands encircling her waist.

"Yes?" Fran asked calmly, seemingly immune to Balthier's lips on her neck.

"I apologize." Ashe swallowed, trying somewhat desperately to keep her eyes on Fran's. "I merely... It can wait."

She turned to flee, the images of Fran's small smile, her perfect breasts, and the silver curls hiding Fran's most private parts, burned fresh in her mind.

This was what Fran hid from her, what Balthier withheld from her—

Intimacy.

It was in the way Balthier's finger had run perfect circles around her navel, in the precise placement of his lips on the curve of her neck—it was as though he knew her body as well as he knew his own. Fran—gods Fran—had stood there and let Balthier in, let Balthier rid her of the armor she wore always, whether or not she was clothed.

Ashe heard the door close, and looked down at the ceiling.

She had wanted—she was always wanting, wasn't she?—sex but, somehow, that seemed unlikely to happen. As Ashe started walking again, trying to ignore the rising heat from deep inside her, it occurred to her: she had slept with both of them before, what would be so different in sleeping with them both now, at the same time?

Almost assured, she went to turn back. Then she reconsidered.

This wasn't for her.

Fran and Balthier obviously didn't want her involved, or with his usual libido, Balthier would have called her back. Also, Fran had seen—had to have seen—Ashe's wandering eyes. They would have invited her if they wanted her.

Ashe bit her lip and went back to her own bunk.

Abruptly, Ashe turns her face from the window. It makes sense—they were partners long before either of them met her, of course they would love each other more than her. If they had ever loved her at all.

Either way, they're gone now, so what does it matter? She curls up on the bed, and has to use a Sleep spell before rest will carry her away.

With her single-minded focus, Ashe turns to rebuilding her country. Every day, as she works on restoring the economy and hammering out treaties with Rozzaria and Archadia—there is a part of her that is disappointed that Basch never attends these talks—she sends out a squad of soldiers to dig through the remains of the Bahamut.

For weeks, all they find are half-dead Imperials that they ship back to Archades. Once weeks turn to months, Ashe finally calls the searches off.

There is no way they could still be alive, even if they managed to survive initial impact.

It's a month after that when, as is their way, they prove her wrong.

She's at her desk on that Thursday, pouring over a book on the Urutan-Yensa, when she hears high heels clicking against the stone. Her breath catches in her throat.

"You look well," and gods, it's Fran's voice, as exotic and clear as she remembers.

How could she have ever believed that a creature of the sky would dare take their lives?

"Hello, Fran," Ashe manages, keeping her eyes firmly on the blurring text before her. "I am well. And you?"

Part of her expects the response to be 'dead'. "I am recovering," is what Fran says instead.

"And Balthier?" She resists the urge to turn; if she turns, Fran might not be there. If she turns, she might realize that this is all a dream—or that she's crazy.

"In the Sandsea," Fran says, her voice steady and so close, "resting."

Ashe takes a deep, shaking breath—god damn it all; she thought she was done crying—and closes the book. What does she say? What can she say? If this is an illusion, why speak to it? If it isn't, what do you say to someone who's been dead to you for nearly half a year? Suddenly, it pushes forth, and what else can she say?

"You left me."

There a more footsteps behind her, until she can feel Fran's heat radiating behind her. Out of the corner of her eye, she glances back, and sees a familiar hip, supple and smooth. Silence blankets them for a long moment before Fran says, quietly, "We did. I apologize."

Ashe turns fully then, out of the chair faster than she can realize it's falling to the ground. Carefully—what if this is a dream and trying to touch makes it shatter into a million pieces?—she reaches up and cups Fran's cheek.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have… Thank you for saving my country and my people."

She looks Fran up and down, keeping her hand on Fran's face. All in all, she looks worse for wear. Her hands are bandaged so tightly that she probably can't feel how many fingers she has, new scars—still puckered and shiny—crisscross her once unblemished torso and legs, and—Ashe sucks a breath in—her right hip is awkward, misshapen, as though it had broken into many, many pieces and been put back together by someone who didn't know what they were doing.

Suddenly, Ashe remembers the uneven tempo of Fran's footsteps. With wide eyes, she meets Fran's red ones. There is a sudden understanding—fear?—behind Fran's eyes, and she leans down to kiss Ashe.

Her lips are warm as Ashe remembers, but rough from desert heat and dehydration. Ashe kisses like a drowning woman and Fran does too, exploring every crevice as though this is the first time.

Maybe it is.

Awkwardly—so clumsy with her wrapped hands—Fran pulls Ashe closer, so they are toe to toe and chest to chest.

Ashe cranes her neck to look up at Fran. "I loved you… and Balthier. I still… I still love…" After all this time, the words still won't come from her; she still can't say what she wants. But like hell she'll give up.

"I knew… I knew it was pointless. Our paths were different—you were pirates and I was princess… But I always thought things would go differently, that we would have been able to…" she trails off, and presses her mouth into the solid sanctuary of Fran's collarbone. "I wished you and Balthier would come and steal me," she murmurs into Fran's skin, as though somehow that makes the confession less shameful.

"I know."

"There were so many things I thought I wanted." She can't seem to stop this word vomit. Where has her control gone? Where are the walls she's been building since they left? "But I know what I want know."

She looks Fran firmly in the eye, and says, "Fran… take me with you. I want you and Balthier."

There is silence, long and prolonged, for an instant, she fears Fran will say that neither of them want her.

"Next time. We must heal first and reclaim our wings," she says instead with a shake of her head.

Tightening her hold on Fran, Ashe asks, "When will there be a next time?"

"Worry not," Fran lets a smile twist her mouth for the barest instant. "We shall free you."

It's all the assurance Ashe needs. Anyone may rule Dalmasca, so long as they are chosen by herself and not the Occuria, and she will be free, as Fran and Balthier are. The two of them could leave behind family and home, why can't she? A crown is no more binding than a crazy father, is no more binding than an intangible Green Word. Someone will fill her place, someone without the Dynast blood in her veins.

The blood so easily controlled by the fell Occuria. She winces to remember how close they came to controlling her, how close she came to destroying Archadia for vengeance at their behest.

Never again. She'll soar—she'll not be caged by duty as Basch is, nor as Rasler was, to be controlled even after death.

Ashe pushes her mouth to Fran's, hard and demanding. Damn it, she's never wanted anyone as much as she wants Fran right now, but even she as runs her greedy hands over Fran's new scars and feels the plushness of Fran's tail, the knowledge of Balthier hangs between them like a curtain.

He's sitting alone in the Sandsea, and, even if Fran doesn't show it, she's anxious to be back with her partner.

Ashe can wait, gods know, she's been waiting for nearly half a year already.

"You promise you'll come back for me?" Frankly, she doesn't know why she asks—last time she'd had someone make this promise, he'd come back dead in Basch's arms.

Fran doesn't answer, but kisses her instead, hard enough that Ashe can taste blood.

It's as solid a promise as she'll ever get, one made with blood, but it doesn't make it any easier when Fran turns to leave. "If you're not back for me in two years, I'm coming to find you."

"You have changed," is all Fran says.

It sounds like approval, but also a challenge. Ashe grins and manages to resist the urge to run and bury her face in Fran's silken hair.

There will be time enough for that later. She'll make sure of it.

Her last view of Fran, before she turns the corner, is the sun glinting of her magnificent hair and the limp that's becoming more pronounced the farther from her Fran goes.

Ashe grimaces. Who knows where the future will lead them? All she knows is that, for now, her country needs her. She'll simply have to trust them to come back, whole.

Wetness gathers in her eyes and it's all she can do to not go running after Fran.

Ashe has more dignity than that.