It is the cold that wakes her, the biting wind that is howling through the small portal of the stone structure, and Ashe knows that she has allowed herself to slumber far too long. Rising to her feet quickly, she sees the stubborn rock has been pushed aside just enough for someone rather thin to sneak past. How had she slept through that? Her anger increases as she discovers her pack has been emptied of all the food she'd purchased and the sword and scabbard are missing as well. All the boy has left her is one canteen and her heavy coat, and the coat only because she was sleeping on it. Is there to be no end to her suffering?
She bites back a sob and leans against the cold wall, letting the blustery air from the Uplands blow through her hair and chill her to the bone. She should never have let him stay – he has stranded her rather effectively. No food, no means of defending herself. Of course, she cannot blame him entirely. Loras is desperate and a mere boy, on the run and frightened. Perhaps he will tell the pirates of Balfonheim how he behaved to earn his way into their graces, although he will probably change the tale to leave out the part that she was a woman who had given him food and shelter.
Ashe has to leave. She must get to Balfonheim no matter what. Sitting here accomplishes nothing, and she is surprised she has made it all this way without a major setback. Young Loras has taught her a valuable lesson indeed. Luckily, her pockets still contain the remainder of the jewels she tore from her gown in Archades, and thus she will still be able to obtain shelter and sustenance once she arrives in the port. But until then, she will have to stumble along and pray that no beast or other thieves set their sights upon her.
She rises to her feet and pulls the coat back over her. The canteen is still full, and it will have to sustain her until she finds some wild berries or herbs to eat. She remembers that some of the trees on the Steppe bear fruit and hopes that the winter frost has not claimed all of it. When she moves to the door, her foot crunches on something, and she steps back. Bending down, she discovers that the boy has left his necklace behind – as payment or apology, she doesn't know. She lifts the chain and pendant and wants nothing more than to throw it against the stone wall to shatter it, but it could be a day's food and water. Instead, she adds it to her coat pocket and slips out of the structure.
It is cloudy and cold, but the snows have ceased. The remainder of her day is spent making her way steadily through the lower reaches of the plain. A caravan of Moogles passes through on its way west while she is sitting in the grass eating some near rotten but still edible berries. Instead of running to hide, she continues to sit on the cold ground, keeping her head low as the wagon wheels creak and the happy sounds of the Moogle workers inside warm her. She could beg for food, but Moogles are sharper than Humes and better with faces. The wagon passes her by.
The Steppe is degrees warmer when she arrives the next morning, but the wind is harsher. Although it is not a freezing wind, it is strong and she wonders if Loras has been blown off the edge of a cliff by it. Fiends are in greater number here, and she does her best to take the long way around boulders or through small groves of trees to avoid them. Each diversion takes moments, but added together, they have probably added half a day to her journey already. Fortunately, she is able to find a place to rest in the old windmills that dot the landscape, and there are hard little apples littering the ground near some of the trees. They taste horrible, but she imagines them to be sweet chocolates or savory pastries while she munches on the mealy fruit.
Balfonheim and the sea grow closer, and though she has grown weak and tires quickly, she progresses. A fleet of Tonberry ships buzzes through the air, and she clambers up into one of the fruit trees to hide. She is stranded there for nearly an hour until she is assured that she can no longer hear the engines overhead. Ashe wonders how far the manhunt has extended through Ivalice. Hundreds, possibly thousands have been inconvenienced because they have probably shut down the aerodromes or stepped up security. How many people have been questioned? How many lives interrupted as their homes are searched for some sign of her?
Two more days pass, and her feet are sore and bleeding. The warm breeze from the Naldoan Sea is already reaching her, goading her forward although she feels like she could pass out on the ground at any moment. She ignores propriety entirely and bathes in an icy cold pond nestled in a small clustering of trees. The dirt that comes off her skin is appalling, and she is happy to rinse her shortened hair and clean the sweat and stink from herself. She cleans her filthy clothes, letting them dry on a rock while she dips her toes in the water. There she is – Queen of Dalmasca and Raithwall's heir, naked as the day she was born bathing like some nymph in a forest. She has no lavender or other scented perfume oils and must simply be satisfied that she is clean. If only that damned Loras could see her – perhaps he would steal her clothes as well.
She cannot be mad at him – he was desperate, and she was a fool. The sea air fills her nostrils with its salty scent, relaxing her tired muscles and weary limbs. The sun will set in hours, but if she hurries, she will be in the port by nightfall. The aerodrome will be off limits, although it would be the most logical place to find the Strahl and her owners. Instead, she will have to simply walk the streets. Her initial plan of hiding in wait will not serve her purpose. If she wants to find Balthier and Fran, she must get out and look. And so she has devised a plan that she is not altogether fond of. Her jewels will buy her food, lodgings in a lesser known inn off the beaten path – and it will also buy a darkening dye for her hair. One less recognizable trait – her flaxen hair will be as black as the woolen coat she wears.
Her clothes are finally dry, and she dresses again. Grasping one of the horrible little apples from a low branch, she bites into it and carries on. It has been a week since she departed Archades and though the Empire still hunts the skies, perhaps they think her dead. Perhaps Balthier and Fran think her dead as well? Her steps are more confident as she makes way through the trees and grasses, the scent of flowers and shrubs that still flourish in these wintering months mingling with the smell of the sea.
Finally, she spies the break in the rock that signals the opening to the cove that tucks away the thriving pirate city. She can see dozens of wagons departing full of goods to trade in Archades and the other small villages along the way that she carefully avoided. The scent of fish being fried and the shouts of street vendors greet her as she wanders into the outskirts of town. Men bearing burdens of crates and sacks of grain race to and fro, paying her no mind as she walks the wooden planked passageways. What defines Balfonheim is anonymity – anyone can wander these streets. Only those who draw attention to themselves are at risk; at least that is what Balthier told her when they first arrived two years ago. The place has changed – there are more and more shops and inns since the port has been blessed of late with richer catches of fish and a budding agricultural expansion into the Steppe. The stopping point for pirates of sky and sea alike has become more of a permanent settlement, and Ashe smiles to see how well Reddas' community has grown.
Her first stop is a Viera's stall at the edge of one row of sundry vendors. There are half a dozen other women gathered around, and Ashe is able to trade Loras' necklace for a jar of dye in moments since the Viera is an adept and shrewd businesswoman. The other customers are obsessing over precious stones and makeup and pay Ashe little attention. She pockets the item and makes her way to a more rundown street. She is reminded of Old Archades because of the filth, but the people here are happier and not suffering.
Ashe keeps her face neutral as she hears the gossiping wives beating out rugs, their voices calling to each other from one side of the passageway to the other where they lean halfway out their windows. "Still haven't found her. Some say she ran off to Rozarria, probably to assassinate the Emperor after her game with little Larsa failed!"
"They'll never find her, crazy thing. Thought she was a sweet one, but you saw what happened to Vayne Solidor. Probably caught the same bit of madness," another gossips back, and Ashe clenches her fist within the pocket of her coat. She is thought of as a madwoman in the streets? It shouldn't surprise her, but to be linked with Vayne Solidor makes her stomach turn.
She moves on past the chatty housewives to find an inn in between what look to be competing magick shops. There is a girl behind the counter about Penelo's age and height but with auburn hair and a duller look in her eyes. The young woman eyes her steadily, but otherwise makes no accusations. Ashe reaches in and pulls out another handful of pearls and sets them down. She keeps her head low and watches the girl begin to pick them up one by one and then hears her bite down on a couple of them to ensure that they are real.
A rusty iron key is slapped down on the counter. "You'll be in eight on the top floor," she mutters as Ashe grabs the key. The girl shoves a ledger across to her and points to the next open space. "Name and address, please." Ashe hastily scribbles down the name of her childhood nanny who passed away years before and the address of a weapon seller in Bhujerba. The inn is rather dingy, and Ashe doubts they will be checking up on her name or address.
"Top floor, was it?"
The young woman nods. "And curfew is sundown now, with the soldiers in town and all." Ashe is confused by this, and the girl is suspicious. "Must be new in town. With that Queen on the run, they're out in the streets every night looking for her. Aerodrome's a bit of trouble if you're looking to fly somewhere." She nods in thanks and moves to the rickety staircase, gripping the key until her knuckles have turned white.
She will be stuck here all night and won't be able to look for Balthier or Fran in earnest until the morning. Glancing out one of the dirty windows as she moves upstairs, she sees that darkness has already fallen on Balfonheim. Room number eight is at the end of the hall four flights up, and her legs ache. Locking the door behind her, she is grateful to slip off the heavy boots and coat. The mattress is hard and stained, and she only finds a thin blanket and a pillow set aside for her use. Still, it is an improvement from the nights she has spent in windmills or on cave floors.
Ashe removes the jar of dye she obtained from the Viera's stand and eyes it warily. She's never colored her hair, although she has seen people in the streets of every city with hair in every color of the rainbow. The sink's water is clean enough, although there is a bit of a smell from the pipes when she turns it on. She'll have to do this quickly so she can wash the dye from her hands since she lacks gloves.
The dye is almost blue it is so black in the little jar, and it feels cool against her scalp as she begins to work it in. The mirror in the room is cracked, slicing her image near in half, but she does her best to make sure the dye is applied evenly through her shorter locks. The Viera had given her brief instructions, and she must sit with the smelly stuff in her hair for half an hour. It smells so much that she opens a window to let in some fresh air. The time passes slowly, and she watches the near empty streets with a frown. Every few minutes a pair of Archadian soldiers passes by the building on their patrol, and she wonders how well the citizens of the city accept their presence in town.
She washes the stuff from her hair, watching the color turn the water the color of a starless night. Ashe scrubs her hands until they are red and raw, but the dye is gone and she examines herself in the mirror. Her light hair is gone and her skin appears pale as death since the color is so strikingly different. There are dark circles under her eyes from her restless nights, and she is startled by how different she looks now. Her horrible circumstances have only aided in making her look more like a refugee and anything but royal. Her fingers grasp the damp strands of hair, and she wonders if she must erase her entire identity.
The same girl is reading a ratty book when she comes downstairs to inquire about food. The girl says nothing about her colored hair and merely points to a side table in the foyer that has a pot of stew and bread waiting. A few other people in the inn are helping themselves, and she falls into line behind them. None are in a much better state than she is, and their clothes are even more ragged than hers. The eyes that she works to avoid are near empty, only concerned with satisfying hunger and then getting rest, and she doesn't feel so different from them.
The stew is thin, but it is the best meal she's had since the breakfast the day she fled Archades. As she sits alone in a corner next to a ticking grandfather clock, she wonders how Basch is doing. She hopes he has not faced much punishment for allowing her to escape. What she cannot shake from her mind is the disappointed look in his eyes when he told her to reconsider her actions. She spent years hating him and then took her time warming up to him once more, and when their roles were reversed he didn't slap or curse her. He pitied her and wished to help her. But what choice did she have? Her thoughts have led her to lose her appetite, and she eats the bread only because she knows she must.
The uncomfortable mattress keeps her awake when she returns to the room, and she cannot escape all of the horrible things she has done, even though she still has no recollection of them. Why have the Occuria left her now? They stole eight days of her life, but she hasn't had so much as a headache in over a week. Is it all a test of sorts? Would they rather see if she'll be driven to suicide by their destruction of her life and all that she has worked for? They are mistaken if they think they have succeeded in breaking her. Ashe has lost everything before – she knows the ache, but she knows that she must right the wrongs. When she lost all in years past, it wasn't her fault, yet she fought to free Dalmasca. This time she bears the blame – she must fight even harder. She cannot surrender.
Tomorrow she will walk the planks of Balfonheim. She must return to Giruvegan, and she must reclaim everything that has been stolen from her.
-----
Her confidence is begin to wane. Three days have passed in Balfonheim port, and she has still seen no sign of Balthier's confident swagger or Fran's long white locks. She keeps her hands in her pockets and her hood over her head as she walks the planks. An Archadian soldier looked her straight in the eye the day before and did nothing. She's become truly invisible. With her darkened hair, stained clothes, and exhausted gait, there is little of the proud and regal bearing she's always clung to. Walking about with airs will get her noticed, and she shuffles along, the heavy boots doing a fine job of slowing her pace.
She is just about to head back to the inn for her midday meal when she sees him. He is haggling a vendor of ammunition down, his arms crossed and his head cocked to the side in his usual arrogant fashion. Ashe stops several paces away and pretends to be examining some vegetables, but she watches from the corner of her eye to confirm it is him. Her only link to him for the past fortnight or so has been the vial of water, and she takes it from her coat pocket and squeezes it for courage.
He looks the same as always, his face giving away nothing and his voice full of bravado as he argues about some bags of shot. Balthier's voice has a tendency to carry, simply because it is the most conceited voice she has ever heard in her life, and probably because he prefers to be the center of attention. She closes her eyes and lets the meaningless haggling enter her ears and has not been so happy to hear him speak since his voice had carried over the radio from the falling Bahamut.
"Are you paying for those or dreaming about them, miss?" the impatient vendor interrupts then, and she is startled.
She blushes and mutters an apology, not even trying to mask her Dalmascan voice. She's found him now and will not have to lurk in the shadows for much longer. Balthier completes his transaction and hands over some gil. She cannot see any Viera ears around, so Fran must be with the Strahl or elsewhere in the city. The sky pirate departs the stall and continues walking in his usual manner. Apparently, knowing his friend is on the run affects him very little – at least outwardly. But Balthier has always masked his emotions, and she hopes that he's been somewhat concerned. Although she cannot understand why it would hurt her so much to learn if he's ignored all the mayhem she's caused across Ivalice in so short a time.
Ashe trails him, staying back far enough to hopefully appear as just another customer in the markets. His gait remains steady, and he stops briefly to peruse some bows with a keen gaze. She waits at a jewelry stand, doing her best to conceal a grin at the thought of Balthier shopping for his partner. She's learned that Fran is very particular about the weapons she chooses, and Balthier seems to recall this as well for he is off again in moments.
He moves away from the market stalls and heads uphill away from the docks. Perhaps there is a gambling house or other sordid pirate lair he is heading to. She grips the vial of water and keeps following, and she isn't sure why her heart is pounding. What if he wants nothing to do with her? He and Fran would do very well to turn her over to the authorities – not out of cruelty, but to "help" her as Basch had wished to do.
Balthier turns a corner then, and she wonders if she should just call out his name. Ashe shakes her head at her nerves. Whatever Balthier and Fran decide, she must abide by it. Once they speak, she will make for Giruvegan with or without their assistance. She is halfway around the corner when a hand nearly tugs her arm from its socket and shoves her hard against the wall, stealing the breath from her and leading her to drop the vial on the ground in her shock.
"I don't particularly like being followed so why don't you…"
Ashe is still stunned from hitting the alley wall so hard, and she can only stare up into Balthier's angry eyes as he holds her against the brick, a dagger she didn't know he carried on him pressed against the hollow of her throat. He'd known she was stalking behind him all this time, and she thinks of his gift of Paramina snow now mingling with the filthy, grimy wood planks at her feet. The blade is gone as quickly as it was brought against her skin, and his eyes immediately soften.
"Ashe?"
She nods, glancing quickly to see that no one else has followed them into this darkened passage. He removes his hands from her, and she takes down the hood to show him her face in what light shines down into this twisting alleyway. All the words she's practiced, all the greetings she's gone over in all this time, and she can barely breathe. She can smell the gunpowder and shot he's purchased and cannot meet his eyes now that she is near him. She feels ashamed suddenly, and she doesn't know why.
Ashe remembers his dirty boots on her duvet, the impish look in his eyes when he handed over the vial that now lays broken at her feet. Her long days on the road have exhausted her mentally and physically and now that she has someone close, someone she knows to be a friend, she feels like she can finally give in to the emotions she's had to suppress. Her face is already wet, and she cannot bear to look at him. Instead, she crouches down and tries to pick up the shards of glass on the dirty wooden boards.
"Ashe," he says again, less surprise and more fear in his voice now. He's used her given name twice in only a few moments, and she can hardly recall him addressing her as anything but Princess. His hand is firm on the top of her head, and his fingers tangle slightly in her shorter hair. "Stand up."
She obeys him, not that she would normally do so at anyone's command, but simply because she needs him. He hasn't hauled her up and started dragging her away yet and that helps her to keep breathing, even though it comes in large gulps now as she stands with the broken pieces of glass in her hand. He sighs and tugs her palm towards him. He pulls the glass away from her and tosses it to the ground. When he is satisfied that she has stopped being foolish, he clears his throat. "Look at me."
She does so. His face is still cautious, but his eyes are not unkind. Balthier releases her palm, and she lets it fall to her side. "I am sorry for following you like that," she says quietly, not knowing exactly how to ask him to help her. "I didn't want to draw attention to myself."
Balthier's mouth sets in a thin frown, and he brings his hand to her head again, examining the black strands cautiously. "You've changed your hair."
"And my wardrobe," she replies, shrugging her shoulders in the heavy coat. He is standing so close that she can smell him and hopes that she does not stink to the heavens.
"Understandably," he remarks then. Which one of them will broach the topic first? She can barely stay standing, wondering how he will judge her – one of the only friends she has left. The brick behind her keeps her upright and she wishes she could stop trembling. She has broken out of Archades and traversed the wintry plains, yet words are near impossible. She loathes her weakness, hating the tears that still trickle from her eyes.
"Balthier, I…"
He stills her then, pressing a finger to her lips to silence her. The pad of his finger is warm but insistent, and she feels her heartbeat racing. There is the sound of footfalls in the passage beside them, the familiar metallic sound of Archadian soldiers. "Put your hood up," he hisses, moving to do so before she even gets a chance. Balthier grabs her elbow and pulls her down the alley so that their backs are to the soldiers when they pass. He has his arm around her shoulder casually like they are out for a stroll – a strange pair, truly, since he is dressed in his usual finery, and she is clad in men's gardening attire.
When he is satisfied that they have eluded the attention of the Archadians, he releases her once more and crosses his arms. "Let's make this quick, Princess," he says, the tender voice he had when he first discovered her now businesslike, almost reminding her of the way he'd spoken to her the day he took Rasler's ring. "You're in a bit of trouble."
She rubs the tears from her eyes and nods, resisting the urge to scowl at his understatement. Seeing how quickly he reacted to the soldiers has given her a sliver of hope that he will try to assist her, but she doesn't want to be hasty. "I have something to ask…"
"And I have an idea what that is," he responds tersely, effectively cutting her off. After his initial gentleness, she isn't terribly surprised that he would revert to this way of speaking around her. Balthier is a tough bargainer, and she'd had to nearly beg him to "steal" her before. Perhaps he is expecting such a request again and is already thinking of ways to decline.
This time she has no treasure to offer him, no prize of the Dynast-King. She is a fugitive and a criminal, and after what has happened in Rabanastre, she is probably the greatest threat to Ivalice since Vayne Solidor. The gossiping housewives were not entirely wrong, were they? Even Balthier, who robs the living and dead alike, is wary of her.
He seems to be pondering his next course of action, his fingers tapping against the sleeve of his shirt. She watches his carefully constructed leading man front crack slightly, his frown growing wider and his forehead crinkling in thought. "Fran and I have lodgings near the Whitecap. What about you?"
This is not the question she expected, but at least it is one she has a ready response to. "Some rundown inn…I am not tied to it." She is reminded of the pirate-to-be Loras and the way he had insinuated a need of lodgings. Ashe is no less desperate now.
Balthier pinches the bridge of his nose, seeming to realize the great risk he is taking in even speaking to her. "Keep your hood up and follow me as you did before." He grasps her hand and places a thin key in it. "The building I enter…wait ten minutes and you'll find me on the third floor, end of the hall. Room twenty-seven."
He is already away from her before she can even thank him.