Author's Note: Since I didn't before (not formally at least), I'd just like to welcome old and new readers alike. A great big hug to those returning, and also one to those visiting for the first time! And, oh yeah, there's definitely going to be some Basch/Ashe/Balthier goodness up in here. To those BalAshe shippers out there, I've got the rewrite of my old story "Words of Comfort" up, now titled "The Beauty of Being Wrong," and a rewrite of "Thaw This Frost" will be up in a day or two.

Guys, I know this isn't our first run-through, but reviews are greatly appreciated!

And remember, kids: You ski down the K-13, you're gonna have a bad time.

"Bloodway"

Ashe was oblivious to how much time passed before she found the strength to speak. The echo of Vayne's boots had long since faded, and she was deaf to the rats squealing around her feet. Her voice was hoarse, the urge to vomit strong as the sting of blood on her tongue.

"Basch?"

She heard a groan not far from her and, despite her shrieking muscles, pushed herself onto her forearms. Her head felt heavy, her cheek cold from resting against the waterway's floor. Basch was lying on his back, a wide gash spread from one shoulder to the other. Blood seeped from the wound, staining his clothes and pooling around his body. His face was contorted in anguish.

Mouth open in a silent scream, Ashe crawled towards him. The few inches or so took what seemed like eons; her stomach would clench and tighten, and she would hunch over to cough up blood. Collapsing on top of him with her head on his abdomen, she reached gentle fingers to test the depth of his wound. His body convulsed; it was not as bad as it looked. It was painful, but it would take hours before he could die of blood loss. She knew that had been Vayne's intent: a slow, agonizing death. A sick lump formed in her throat, dropping to the pit of her stomach at the thought of Archadia's putrid prince.

"Lady Ashe?" his voice grated her ears, but appeased the beast in her stomach.

Leaning over him, the true dreadfulness of their situation dawned upon her. "They won't expect us back for hours," she told him. Ashe pictured the others, above ground and waiting: Vaan shifting impatiently, Penelo pacing, Balthier fingering the filigree of his pistol and Fran sitting idly nearby – all of them without so much as a bloody handkerchief as a clue.

Knowing they'd both be dead by then, him from blood loss and her from internal bleeding, he nodded grimly. "This is it then." It was odd to hear those words; defeat did not become him. But it was not defeat, she supposed, just acceptance that this time, there really was no escape but death.

Blinking back frustrated tears, she said nothing but lay her head on his chest. She knew they both had a few hours, but they would probably be unconscious long before that. Aware she had little chance of escaping the situation alive, she put panic out of her mind and concentrated on his heartbeat. It was a steady, heavy drumming that helped beat back the paranoia desperately clinging to her heart.

What will death be like? she wondered. Though she had feigned hers years before, she never thought about it. She always entertained the naïve idea that, no matter what the odds, Dalmasca would rise again and conquer Archadia, and she would reign on an ivory throne, as her father had intended. But now, with the skeletal fingers of Lord Death at her throat, she thought of how it might feel to sit on a throne of jet, ruler of no one, servant to the Gods and helplessly staring up at Dalmasca as it fell further into the hands of the Empire.

There was suddenly a grave insignificance to everything she had done, as if a fog had lifted from her mind and let her see the truth. She had gambled so freely her life, ignorant of how heavily the insurgence relied upon it. Would the others continue without her? Without Basch? Would Vaan, the boy who had no idea what he wanted of life, emerge a hero and save their nation? Balthier would turn his head and scoff, Fran with him. Perhaps Penelo would fight, but she was young and inexperienced – she would die. They would all die, just as Ashe was dying now.

There was a great throbbing in her head. Ashe shut her eyes tightly, and when she opened them, she could not remember of what she had been thinking. Basch let out a sharp groan – then the waterway was silent once again.

For some reason, her thoughts flew to her childhood. She remembered being introduced to Basch for the first time when she was six-years-old. He had been twenty-three at the time and quite handsome. She supposed that hadn't changed, even with age. His hair was longer, his face marred by battle and torture. But she could see the same devotion to his country in his eyes, and hear the same loyalty on his tongue when he spoke.

She recalled meeting him again and again when she went to the training grounds when she was eleven, then twelve, thirteen, and so on. She went more often than was necessary or even proper for a princess. She went until her arms felt like strings, waving lazily at her side, too worn and weak to hold a sword anymore. But she continued to go, even after her father locked her in her room. She found ways out, for she was crafty, and sparred deep into the night, then awoke early in the morning to begin it all again. As such, she was a stronger princess than most, with more muscle than the boys at court found appealing. But such trivial things did not matter; Ashe did not want a court boy, weaned on ambrosia and more adept at wielding a salad fork than a broadsword. She had her young eyes on someone much more worthy.

If it wouldn't have invoked such pain, she would have chuckled at the memory: Captain Basch fon Ronsenburg had been her very first crush.

She remembered the early days of her teens. When she began sneaking off on hunting trips with the captain and his men, her father put his foot down. She was forced to spend more and more time in court, learning the fine arts of etiquette and embroidery. It all seemed horribly tedious, but she found ways of distracting herself, which often resulted in elaborately botched needlepoint peacocks.

Despite her no-nonsense personality, she indulged in idling away the many dull hours at court with fantasies of wedding the captain. She had imagined the many ways he'd proclaim his love for her, a generous amount of the daydreams being melodramatic damsel-in-distress situations (though in half of them, it was she playing the rescuer). It was ridiculous, she knew, but at least she had that sense of teenage normalcy. Other girls did that sort of thing all the time, between chasing chickens or helping their fathers at market – while poor Ashe was stuck inside, learning the difference between a soup spoon and a dessert spoon, and why it was terrible manners to mistake the two.

Then, when she was fifteen, her engagement to Rasler was announced. It came as a shock even to her, but her father looked upon her with warm eyes, as if it was the greatest gift he'd ever given. Ashe had to admit Rasler was not a bad choice: he was an excellent hunter and commanded a great army, and was renown in Nabradia for his archery skills. Perhaps, had she not been so enamored with another military man, she might have fallen for Rasler first.

She did not realize it at the time, but as the wedding loomed nearer, she gradually pushed Basch out of her mind, and thus farther away from her. When she snuck off to hunt, it was with Vossler's party, and it was with him she trained. When the captain invited her for a sparring session, she stuck up her nose and said no, that simply wouldn't do, as she had an urgent lesson in doily-making that couldn't be delayed. Her father thought this was wonderful behavior, overjoyed Ashe was playing the part of the princess, not the page.

But when Rasler did not return from Nalbina, Ashe's quiet snubbings turned to outright hatred. They had been no match, something the entire country knew, just as they knew the captain was at no fault. That didn't seem to matter; when she looked at Basch, she saw only Rasler's face, the face of a man she was finally growing to love. And through that, she saw Basch's apologetic eyes, and more loss than she could bear.

That was when she absorbed herself in politics and forgot entirely about etiquette and table settings. There was war to be waged, revenge to be wrought, and a beast deep within her that thirsted for the blood of her enemies, the justice of her people.

The day her father died and Basch was declared a traitor, the demon howled so loud the moon shook and the boughs of trees bent in fear. She was a woman wronged, a girl grown up too soon, a princess denied love and stripped of trust. With all her love taken from her, Ashe felt only hate, hot in her veins, pumped hard by a heart of stone. What love was left was for her country, but even that was shadowed by her consuming hatred and the blood she yearned to see pour from Archadia's walls as it had poured from her father's chest.

And Basch, she hoped, was still alive, only so that she could find and kill him herself. He was the embodiment of her loyalty, her devotion, her love – she would see him bleed before her while she cried revenge, dark and hateful.

But what did she think of him now? Though she could not bear to look at him, she could feel him beneath her, his breathing heavy. She tried to picture him, lively, but saw him as she knew he looked now: blood speckling his lips, scar stretching across his forehead – but still his face was stern, ageless.

How far they had come, risen, fallen. To think she had once yearned for this, stoked the fire that demanded this man lie torn and dead at her feet. Now she wished for nothing but for him to live, even if she didn't: he could continue the insurgence; without either of them, the rebellion was a lifeless corpse, full of blood but without a heart.

Her heart, beating so slowly, was for once devoid of hate. She thought Basch had killed Rasler, but in reality, he had saved him. He brought his body back to Rabanastre, where he could receive a proper burial and wake attended by those he loved. If nothing else, Basch allowed her late husband those final prayers of respect. In the afterlife, Rasler could look on happily, knowing he had been in the presence of those who adored him and whom he in turn adored. He would not rot in an Archadian cell, or hang from a cage while ravens pecked at his hollowed bones.

No, she couldn't hate Basch. Not when she was lying on top of him, dying with him. He who had tried to save her husband and failed. He who had tried to save her father and failed. And now, he had who had tried to save her and failed. She realized that she had no small inkling of how it might feel to be Basch fon Rosenburg, who held duty in such high regard, but whose charges met only death. She knew solely that she did not want him to die a guilty man.

Hesitantly, she raised a hand to his jaw. It was prickly and sharp, but dulled by dried blood. Jerking away in surprise, he glanced down to see it was she what had touched him, expecting perhaps a blade – certainly not the fingers of his lady liege.

"My lady?"

"I forgive you," she told him, her voice a croak of sincerity, "and I thank you."

Basch's eyes grew wide, white saucers against the dull grey of the waterway, but he said nothing – merely nodded. All at once, from the look of relief in his eyes, Ashe felt her long dead crush seep into her, demanding the attention it was deprived in her gawky teenage years. It was a pleasant feeling, like the waters of a hot bath splashing over the demon within her, swelling in her veins and heart. She couldn't help it, strangely nor did she want to – if she were going to die on this night with this man, choking on blood and the stifling stench of regrets… Well, there was one she could cough out before Death's hand closed for good. Perhaps if she didn't, the girl inside would never forgive her, and that just wouldn't do.

Had she a more awakened sense of self, she would have questioned if her motives were born of real emotion or merely the desperation of death. But at the moment, it seemed the farthest concern from her mind – the present one being how on earth she was going to haul herself toward him.

Agonizingly but with resolve, she pulled herself further onto him until her chest rested against his and their eyes met. His look was one of curiosity and confusion. Light bounced off his cheeks, reflected off fresh blood that oozed from a gash in his cheek. A sharp hiss as her hand pressed too hard on his chest; she clumsily mumbled apologies, adjusting herself. Then, without warning, she lowered herself until her lips were flush against his. Her eyes fluttered closed, while his widened in surprise. Her tongue begged entrance; she would taste nothing but the coppery tang of blood, but dismissed it.

To her chagrin, he gripped her shoulders and pushed her back. "Your Highness!"

Ignoring him, she trailed kisses from his jaw down to the nape of his neck, enjoying his scent that slipped through the heady stench of blood. It was all that surrounded her, and as her senses grew hazier (all but the piquant sensations of her lips), it became easier to ignore. Instead she desperately sought his aroma, clinging to it as her lips made a light path to his collarbone.

"Your Highness!" he repeated, scandalized. She was forced to stop when he grasped her shoulders again, despite his pain, and gently shoved her away.

"What?" she breathed.

"Please, you aren't well." She could hear the words crushed out between his teeth, his jaw clenched, his hand splayed over his wound.

Strangely, she felt no sympathy. Rather, she felt as if she might explode. "Pardon me?"

"You've lost a lot of blood," he said, as if she didn't know. "It might affect your judgment."

Aback, Ashe no longer felt as if she was in the Garamsythe Waterway, internal organs betraying her as they slowly drained away her life force; she felt like a little girl laid flat on her back in a sparring session, young squires jeering and mocking from the fence on which they sat.

"Are you daft?" was all she managed to ask.

Basch said nothing, and in the darkness she could see his one cheek not caked in blood turn beet red. It would have been endearing if she weren't so angry.

"Oh, so you assume I'm doing this because I've lost so much blood that it's affecting my mind?" He nodded slowly, and she shoved herself off him in a huff. The demon stood on its haunches, setting the warm water to splash and quake. "You insufferable…"

"My lady…" he began, but was seized by a spasm of pain. She watched helplessly as the hand on his chest tightened, knuckles white beneath the red, clasping desperately, until all motion stopped but the unsteady rise and fall of his chest.

"Basch? Basch!" Ashe called, shaking him. She stopped as she too was claimed by a fit of coughing. Covering her mouth with her hands, she pulled them back to see blood dotting her fingers. She stared in wonderment – so very red, the blood was, against her porcelain skin, drained to white under the city streets – until the hacking resumed, this time more violent as blood ran from her mouth and down her chin, seeping into her clothes and dripping to the ground. She collapsed beside Basch, body rocking in terrible tremors, until her head was too clouded to acknowledge the heavy odor of copper and rat dung.

The world turned from blue to red to black as Ashelia B'nargin Dalmasca faced her greatest fear: a death filled with regrets.