A/n: I'd like to take a second to thank everyone that has stuck with me through my often incredibly slow updates and still continue to read my stories. You guys are the best! I've had a lot of unexpected life changes since i began this story, and things have grown far more hectic, to the point that i have very little free time to myself. That being said i do intend to finish this story as well as Underworld, though I will be placing it on the backburner as very few people have read the last few chapter and seem to enjoy this story more. I mostly blame my sporadic writing during Underworld and may eventually do a complete revision, but even so i do feel it has helped better my writing. Anyway, thanks again to those of you still reading this story, and if you enjoy this chapter feel free to review or pm me your thoughts!

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Rain poured onto the streets of Burmecia, splattering off rooftops and running in small streams toward the lower part of the city. In a back alley nestled in the poor district of the city, Zidane fell onto his hands and knees, gasping desperately for air each breath that brought with it sharp stabs of pain. The red cloaked figure he had been chasing was now nowhere to be seen. His head swam with questions he couldn't focus on as it took almost all the energy he had left not to blackout and simply lay a broken mess on the walkway. With resolve that teetered on the edge of breaking, he pushed himself unsteadily to his feet and carefully staggered to a nearby bench.

He sat, or rather collapsed onto the bench; his vision swimming with no blame laid to the ever-persistent rain. The events that had just happened flooded his mind. Had it all been true? Had Freya truly ordered Dagger's murder? The more he tried to focus, the more tinged with shadow his thoughts became. Realizing there was little use fighting it, he let the exhaustion wash over him and faded into unconsciousness.

…

An hour earlier…

"Freya, Wait!" Zidane yelled, as he caught a glimpse of a familiar red cloak in the distance. He started forward but ended up crashing into a young boy carrying a basket of fruit sending fruit scattering in all directions.

"Sorry!" He apologized, and helped the boy pick up the fallen fruit. When he returned his gaze to where he though Freya had previously stood, she was gone.

The streets of Burmecia were more crowded than he had ever remembered. It became immediately apparent that a lot more Burmecians had survived Queen Brahne's maniacal attack that he had believed. Not only that but judging from their attire, many Cleyrans had survived as well and had joined in making this city their home. Many of the buildings still showed some signs of the war, but as a whole, the city had been rebuilt and was larger than it had ever been.

After a while of fruitlessly trying to find her again, he decided that his best bet would be to stop at the pub. Not only was there a decent chance that he could possibly run into her there, but he also at least needed to get some water. He fished in his pocket and eventually pulled out five gil. It wasn't much, but he should at least be able to get some fresh bread. At this point, even that sounded mouthwatering compared to the dried meat he had been eating.

The pub itself wasn't quite as packed as the streets outside, so it wasn't long before Zidane was sitting quietly in the corner with his bread and a mug of beer that the waiter had generously given him. The bread was delicious, but the one mug of beer was more than enough to quench his thirst. He had had more than a few nights of weakness on his way here that he would have gladly drank until nothing else mattered if given the chance, but now that it sat before him, he had no desire to be drunk.

It was hard to explain, it wasn't that those same reasons weren't there, it was more that he wanted to be better… Even if he never had the chance to be with the woman he had fallen helplessly in love with, He would be there for her, whether she knew it or not. Not only that, but maybe if he traveled down the right path and made his own destiny, then one day he could look back and be proud of the person he had been. While it was true he couldn't change who he was, he could work on the things that mattered! Just because everyone saw him as a low life thief it didn't meant he had to-

His thoughts were cut short as a glimpse of red caught his attention from the corner of his eye. "Freya!" Zidane exclaimed happily. He expected her to greet him warmly or with sarcasm as she always had at seeing the tailed thief, but instead she turned and fled. Not wanting to lose her again, he bolted after her knocking over a few barstools in the process. "Freya!" Zidane yelled her name, pushing through the doorway of the pub and onto the street. She had already gained a considerable distance on him, but he was determined to get some answers. Rounding a corner into an alley, he pushed himself harder than he had since his injury.

He was gaining on her. Despite the rain, he rounded each corner without sliding and with each one kept closing the distance between them. He just needed to go a little faster... It didn't take but a few short breaths however, for him to realized that it had been a mistake. Sharp pains shot from his side, white hot in their fury. With a gasp, he stumbled onto the ground. He couldn't lose her now! He had to find out what had happened to her! He chose to ignore the burns of protest from his body and pushed himself up and after Freya again. The chances of catching her now were slim, but if he could just match her pace...

His vision began to blur, and the cries of pain he had tried desperately to ignore had become screams of agony that consumed all thought. This time, as he collapsed onto his hands and knees gasping for breaths that all but refused to come, he knew he wouldn't be catching her anytime soon..

…

When Zidane finally awoke, it became readily apparent that he was no longer in Burmecia. Instead of the wet concrete bench he clearly remembered collapsing on, his face was pressed against something hot and dry. He tried opening his eyes, but quickly closed them as the hot sun burned his vision. The inside of his mouth felt dry as sand. No, it was sand! He hacked and coughed, trying to get it out of his mouth, gods he was thirsty. How long had he been lying here? Forcing his eyes to open despite the sun's burning rays, his vision finally focused onto his surroundings. He was in a desert.

With a groan, he pushed himself into a sitting position. In the distance, shimmering from the heat, he could make out the charred remains of what had once been Cleyra.

"Cleyra?" He asked hoarsely. "How?"

He tried to remember how he might have gotten there, but there was nothing. Looking down at the sand behind him, the meagre contents of his pack lay scattered, clearly having been searched. What had they hoped to find? With a sudden feeling that neared panic, he realized that he didn't see the book he had held so closely since the start of his journey. It wasn't that the book was valuable, though it likely was given its age, it was that it had given him a kind of hope he couldn't quite place. Quickly he dug through the sand all around where his pack lay but just as he was considering giving up looking for it, he spotted the corner of the worn binding jutting out of the sand a few feet nearby.

He knew the chances of him ever being a king were unrealistic and farfetched, but he had found comfort in the fact that, according to the book at least, a person's blood hadn't always determined their worth. More than that, it gave him the hope that sometimes simply doing what you knew was right was enough. Despite his disorientation and thirst from waking up in the desert, he could remember one passage clearly as though it had been burned into his mind.

Passing of the Grain

The drought had been particularly harsh that year. Most of the crops had already withered away and I feared that we too would meet the same fate. As a new king with little experience in matters such as the structure of the economy or the hierarchy of the nobles, facing a drought in the first year seemed to surely be a bad omen. Had I accepted the crown only to watch the people, my people, starve? It sickened me that down below in the streets of the poor, a single loaf of bread was a high commodity most could not afford and yet, there we sat high in our castle with a feast laid out before us.

The council had still not taken kindly to my ascension to the throne, and even less kindly to many of my ideals. I have no doubt their disapproval deepened when I began to refuse their lavish meals and demand that they instead be delivered to the city.

Throughout the city, there was a mixture of surprise and confusion at first as it was something that had never been done before. I knew that they would be grateful for the food, but what I hadn't expected was the level of comradery and compassion from the people that even my advisors scarce believed. There were of course nobles that continued to hoard their wealth and food stores for themselves, but the vast majority began to share their grain with one another. Many that would have surely died during that drought, received nourishment enough to survive.

To my dying day, I will never forget the magnitude in which one's single act of kindness can change the lives of many.

Zidane picked himself up from the sand, and even though his knees shook under his weight, they held. He had to find water, that's just all there was to it. Judging from his surroundings, the only place nearby that had a chance of having any was Cleyra. With conviction, he walked toward the charred remains of the giant tree trunk

…

A few hours later…

He wiped the sweat from his forehead again and continued digging into the sand with his bare hands. Dammit what he wouldn't give for a shovel! He had been digging at the bottom of what was left of the tree truck for a little while now, and both arms were burning from the exertion but with each scoop the sand was getting progressively wetter. Encouraged by a tiny amount of water collecting at the bottom of the hole, he dug with renewed vigor until the hole was big enough to sip the water once it filled. The water that seeped through the sand was anything but clear, however, that didn't make it any less refreshing to the tired thief.

Resting his head back against the wall of the trunk, he closed his eyes and listened to the sound of the wind blowing through the holes in the wood.

"Help…"

His eyes jerked open, and he pushed himself back up, looking around. Had he imagined that? There wasn't anyone else around that he could see. There might have still been caves he had never found, but could someone have fallen in a hole or something?

"Hello?" Zidane called loudly but heard only his echo in return. He had to have imagined it. It was dark outside now, only the moons pale light gave shape to his surroundings. Shaking his head, he realized he must have fallen asleep and been dreaming.

"Please!…"

This time, he knew he couldn't have imagined it. The voice had been faint, but it had come from below him. He couldn't see any door or tunnel nearby, only the broken and charred walls of the tree. With a start, he felt the ground begin to shake and a mound of sand started to rise from the center of the trunk.

As something metal began to appear from beneath the sand, he decided to err on the side of caution and duck behind a piece of the broken trunk, peeking around the edge. It was the entrance to a tunnel! So that's where the voices had come from…

"I swear this job is the pits!" A Burmecian Soldier exclaimed as he stepped out of the entrance.

"That's because it is the pit." A second soldier commented, his voice heavy with sarcasm.

"How in the hell did we get stuck with this job in the first place?" The first one complained, planting the end of his lance in the ground and looking around.

"Damned if I know, but now I have blood on my fur. Do you have any idea how hard it gonna be to get it out once it dries?" The second whined, shaking his leg uselessly.

"You're the one that decided to kick worthless clod instead of using your lance!" The first cackled, walking away from the entrance and looking up at the moon. "Sure is nice to be back outside. I wish we could just kill them all, then we wouldn't have to go back down there in that filth."

Zidane watched as the other soldier joined his friend, wondering if he'd have time to sneak into the entrance before they turned around. He had to know who was down there. No matter who it was they didn't deserve what these guards had obviously been doing to them. Deciding not to waste any more time thinking about it, he quietly slipped past them and into the metal doorway.

The smell that hit him was atrocious and could only be described as death. Thankfully growing up poor with Tantalus had hardened his stomach and for the most part was able to ignore it as he climbed his way down the ladder of the dimly lit tunnel. How long had this place been here buried beneath the sand? As his feet stepped firmly onto the concrete floor of the bottom, ahead of him through a narrow-arched corridor, he could now clearly hear crying and groans of misery.

He felt sick with pity as he walked down the rows of jail cells and saw the condition of the prisoners within. Many had obviously been beaten and tortured, while others looked so starved that he wondered how they were still alive. He wasn't a fool; he knew all kingdoms had jails and torture chambers where they imprisoned spies, traitors, and even thieves like him, but many of these prisoners were women and children!

"Help us.." A woman crawled toward the bars weakly. "Even If you can't help me… Please… Save my little boy." She choked, breaking down into sobs. "They threw us in here… said they didn't want… didn't want our kind dirtying up the streets! Please… my little boy is starving…"

"I'll help you." Zidane replied, locking eyes with the sobbing woman then turning to look at the others, I'll help all of you! Together we can-" His voice broke and he felt he might lose his balance as he turned toward the last cell.

Though tattered and unconscious, In the middle of the stone floor lay a woman dressed in a familiar red cloak.