Denouement Pt2

A/N: I apologise in advance for the sheer length of this chapter….there was a lot to get through!

Also I know I have said this many times before but I would like to repeat myself and say an enormous thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed not just this story but its two predecessors as well.

While as I appreciate the in put and wonderfully supportive and immensely flattering feedback I have received from everyone I would like to dedicate this story especially to Zaz9-Zaa0 (who reviews so consistently and with so much enthusiasm) to Sapereaude13 (without whom this whole trilogy would not exist as anything other than a disregarded one-shot) and to Cable Fraga (who said she would marry me if she wasn't already married – the first and only proposal I've ever had!)

And I would also like to make honorary mention to Navaratoiel who kept trying to virtually throttle me to death! ;0

P.S gold stars to whoever can spot the less than subtle nod to Shakespeare's Macbeth!

The Temple of Mount Bur-Omisace; main audience chamber

Mishman Margrace had always been a wasteful person. Father had always said so; Father who owned twenty six palaces for his own use and a further nineteen for his wife and his many mistresses.

Father said that a man could only appreciate his wealth if he knew what it was to be without it. Mishman, one of few legitimate children of Iqballa the Great, had never known what it was to be anything but the son of an emperor with all Ivalice at his feet.

Still this moment was one of exquisite, unusual, value that demanded a slow and delicious savouring.

Ensconced in the chair of the Gran Kiltias, his palms caressing the worn gold hand-rests and fingering the jewels worked into the fabulous chair, Mishman awaited the opening of the chamber doors and with a benevolent wave of one indolent hand waved in his 'guests'.

The Archadian Emperor, that wide eyed beardless youth, looked pale and wane as he walked forward to the foot of the dais his metal clad protector Gabranth at his side.

Mishman could feel the smile of pure triumph spreading across his face as, with impeccable timing, his wife Hepzibah stepped into the chamber from an adjoining corridor and stepped up to his side.

Dressed in a white gown of understated elegance with her long, wavy dark hair spilling down her back and her dark, wide set almond eyes blank she looked like a Porcelain doll; lovely and empty.

'Emperor Margrace.' Larsa Solidor's voice did not waver nor tremble for all that he was barely more than a whelp not fit to lick the boots of his elders, let alone address Mishman with barely concealed hatred.

Mishman noted the redness of his eyes and the tightness of the skin drawn across his face as the tell-tale signs of grief still raw upon his visage. With spectacular sadistic timing Hepzibah began to play with the staff he had had made for her.

The six pointed star design, the holy symbol of Faram, had been wrought from the melted down steal of the Dynast relics, taken from the Dynast Queen's cold dead hands.

Mishman could tell by the way that the Archadian cur's eyes flickered to Hepzibah and the staff that he knew precisely how she came by the gift.

'Emperor Solidor.'

Mishman remembered that his father would always make his guests, allies and enemies alike await a response to a greeting simply to demonstrate that any who came before the Emperor of Rozzaria was, and always would be, a supplicant begging an audience.

'You have come to sue for peace?' Mishman purred, 'You would salvage your worthless soul now your little heretic Queen is dead and her issue wiped from the face of Ivalice.'

Larsa Solidor remained still and quiet and Mishman felt something akin to respect for the little brat's fortitude, however he did gain satisfaction from the visible discomfort of his Protector.

'A good and noble woman is dead and her children slain.' Larsa Solidor said solemnly, spearing a glance towards Hepzibah who gazed back at him with vacant eyed placidity, 'Peace is an impossibility. I simply seek to prevent further bloodshed and carnage.'

The Archadian met Mishman's eyes, 'Mark my words, sir, Archadia has the means to crush Rozzaria. You have destroyed your countries infrastructure, crushed her economy and enslaved your own people. You would be utterly defeated in a war with the Archadia make no mistake on that.'

Mishman pursed his lips, unable to control his emotional reaction (father had never had much use for his brash and impulsive youngest legitimate son, instead he had spent years training Al-Cid in the intricacies of diplomacy).

'You speak of mortal might.'

Mishman was almost as surprised as his Solidor enemy and his helmeted helpmeet when Hepzibah spoke.

'Behind my lord-Emperor Faram himself stands, ready to lend his strength to our crusade. No mortal weapon can stand against the gods.'

As always Hepzibah's voice was inflectionless and colourless. She spoke without feeling or energy. His pretty, little doll was only ever infused with passion when acting as the 'gods instrument' she was something of a damp squib in bed too.

Still, without her he would never have thrown down his brother and made himself the conqueror of all Ivalice.

Mishman was about to say something to remind the Solidor infant of his place; to remind him that Mishman was powerful and the victor, that he now controlled Dalmasca and the trading routes from the west to the east of Ivalice that made the miserable desert principality so valuable. That he also held the seat of the Kiltia religion in his sway; however he was halted by the presence of another in the chamber.

Mishman had not seen the man enter and his presence confused him. The man was tall and lean, extravagantly dressed in a tight fitted pair of dark leather hide travelling trousers, an ostentatious vest drowned in green and gold embroidery over a luminous white shirt with a high collar.

The man, lounging against one of the pillars lining the outer edges of the chamber gave Mishman an ironic nod of greeting. Mishman noted the spark of light from the ear-ring that hung from the man's torn right ear.

Mishman frowned, the man seemed familiar to him but he could not quite fathom why. Still the man had not introduced himself as befit the address of the new Emperor of all Ivalice and Mishman opened his mouth the demand an explanation.

It had been swift. The cannon ball had blasted through the side of the wagon and reduced it to tinder wood in an instance. She had not suffered. She had not suffered, little Alfayna, she had simply died; died without even having the opportunity to live. Died hiding under a pile of dirty clothing in a wagon as men and women fought and slaughtered each other all around her.

What was suffering to that? Mishman had almost laughed as he dug the little body out from the litter of wood shards, struggling with the half wagon wheel that had all but crushed her into the oil slicked sands.

It was not possible to bury the dead in the desert. Scavengers would sniff out the blood and dig up the bodies. So they built a huge bonfire and stacked the bodies upon the kindling. He watched her burn and thought to use his handkerchief against the stench until he remembered that she still had it.

Mishman cried out as the vision – or memory – faded. He lurched forward in his throne, mouth dry and stomach roiling. His eyes sought out the smirking man in the shadows but found no one there.

Mishman shivered. It had been so real; so very vividly real, the stink of burning flesh. The image of the little hand gripping a bracelet and piece of ragged cotton that meant nothing to him, and yet, the strange imagery dredged from the ether to infect his mind, evoked in him feelings whose genesis he did not understand.

Feelings of grief, sorrow and an almost overwhelming guilt; feelings not native to his being.

'Husband, are you well?'

Mishman jerked away like a wounded animal when Hepzibah touched his shoulder. He stared at her mutely before launching himself from his throne to round upon the quiet Archadian Emperor and his protector.

'What manner of foul sorcery is this? What vile Archadian trickery do you invoke on me?'

Uma….Uma…..Uma……

A small girl, with dark hair and huge dark eyes that took up more room in her face than any other feature, cried for her mother. Her cheeks were splotchy with tears and her nose was running freely. With one sniff the string of mucus retracted up her nasal passage only to ooze back down over her trembling lips once more.

Uma…..Uma…Uma

'Enough of this!' Mishman descended the dais and stalked towards the farthest reaches of the audience chamber, sword drawn, advancing on the languid figure of the strange man who watched him coming while brushing imaginary lint from his sleeves.

'You will die for this sorcery you impudent cur.'

Mishman thrust forward with his sword, throwing all his weight behind the blow. He cried out, more in surprise than pain, as his sword scraped against the hard and immovable presence of a pillar, the clashing impact jarring up his wrist.

The man was simply gone, as if he had never been. Mishman spun around with a roar of fury and found the man leaning rakishly against his throne, the chair of the Gran Kiltias, one arm stretched across its carven back.

'Who are you, what manner of man can disappear and re-appear at will?'

Mishman whispered as he raised the sword defensively, oblivious to his wife's pleading with him that he fought with thin air, or the bright, alert, watchful eyes of the Solidor brat and his Judge. His attention was consumed and absorbed completely by the man with the smirk.

'No manner of man at all, your Excellency, merely a figment of your imagination.'

The man demurred in the hated accent of the Arcahdian scum; silky and condescending.

The man smiled at Mishman coldly, 'You killed my wife. I intend to make your every moment a living nightmare.'

Then at that moment the man blinked out of existence, leaving Mishman railing like a madman and striking his own throne with his sword until his own priest-soldiers, ordered by his wife, pulled him away and out of the chamber.

Mishman could feel the eyes of the Solidor cur on him as he left the chamber, but more particularly he could feel the sardonic eyes of the man-that-was-not-there, burning into him from the neverwhere.

The slopes of Mount Bur-Omisace

Ashe's gold gilt metal greaves and boots were exceptionally heavy.

It had never once been voiced five years ago during her mission to restore her Kingdom, not even by Vaan who had the tendency then (which had only slightly abated now he was older) to verbalise every thought that germinated in his mind, but Ashe imagined that they all must have pondered why she wore such heavy and elaborate leg argumentation.

Especially as she wore such a very slight skirt, and yes Ashe had known all about the sly commentary regarding her choice of attire made by many of her companions of the male persuasion (ironically Basch had been the only one to actually broach the subject with her and even then he had been so obsessively deferential that she had barely understood what he meant).

Of course anyone who might have pondered the sense behind her leg ware, had they been present on the gale lashed slopes ascending Mount Bur Omisace, would have found the reason palpably obvious when Ashe's metal booted toe connected with the flank of one half-staved and salivating wolf and sent the unfortunate creature rolling, in a ball of agony, down the slope like an animate snowball.

As to the skirt, well the question was its own master, as she had told Basch much to his dismay during that previously recalled deferential conversation.

Balthier, when had queried the garish skirt much later, response had been to burst out laughing, much to the dismay of the visiting troupe of dramatic players who had been enacting, for the Queen and her new husband's pleasure, a particularly harrowing (though sadly quite scintillatingly dull) re-enactment of the storming of Nalbina.

The diplomatic fallout of Balthier's unfortunate mirth had been well worth it for the delight Ashe had received in seeing Balthier startled out of his usual decorum and beset with uncontrollable belly laughs.

Ashe shook her head to clear it from pointless memories and turned back to the task of decimating the wolf pack encircling her.

'I do not have time for bloody wolves.'

She snarled, appropriating Balthier's favourite curse, as she avoided the jaws of another rapid wolf and stabbed the creature through the eye with her dagger, not deigning to stain the blade of the Sword of Kings with such paltry fare.

Behind her Fran skewered a charging wolf with an arrow loosed from her monstrous bow before landing her own, equally fearsome kick to the last member of the ill-fortuned pack that had accosted the two on their ascent.

Fran joined her at the mouth to the Silverfloe fjord. Both women had confirmed that Balthier had likely gone down through the Silverfloe to ascend to the back of the temple and so had followed in his metaphoric footsteps.

Ashe gnawed at her bottom lip and looked up at the large, pregnant silvered moon rising through the clear, rich blue-black sky.

'Tell me Fran, what business did he have abducting the Gran Kiltias and why take her with him to face Mishman?'

Shaking her long fall of liquid moonlight hair behind her back Fran raised one, seemingly caustic eyebrow at her, 'You believe that is his purpose?'

Ashe did not know if Fran's evasive answers, which posed questions and gave nothing away, were simply in keeping with Fran's natural tendency to be elusive and hoard information like the treasure it was, or if she was protecting her partner's secrets, or even, perhaps, that the Viera was simply displeased with Ashe.

Whatever the reason may be Ashe was in no mood for it.

'Fran I do not know his purpose. I have never understood why he does as he does. I have simply learned to accept what he will tell me and what few facets of insight I can glean from his actions and to be content with that.'

Ashe immediately bit down savagely on her bottom lip as she realised just how much of her lingering insecurity regarding Balthier's secrets and Fran's far greater understanding of the father of her children than she would ever wish to tell.

The Viera regarded her curiously. The moonlight that left Ashe blanched and bone white, revealing the deep shadows of exhaustion around her bloodshot eyes, painted Fran's cinnamon skin in a silver glow. Ashe had never loathed her lack of stature so much as she did while standing before the tall, beautifully proportioned, Viera.

For a long moment the two women regarded each other for one long, long moment that could not be defined so much by the passing of time as it was by the weight of things unspoken between them.

'Purpose you say?' Fran cocked her head to the side, resting one hand against her hip.

Ashe did not reply, struck mute by the crushing weight of her very plebeian jealousies.

'You are the purpose.' Fran said after studying Ashe quietly. 'You are not the all and the everything; you are not the will and the reason but you are the purpose. Is that not enough?'

Ashe opened her mouth to speak and found that the icy wind whipping up a blinding spray of snow stole her voice. Her mind was frozen into a blank state. Fran, as implacable, yet strangely mutable as time itself, waited patiently for Ashe's reply.

Ashe straightened her shoulders and tilted her chin, checking the hang of her sword in its scabbard. 'We must hurry. Balthier might have reduced the whole temple to burning rubble before we can stop him at this rate.'

Fran simply nodded and set off ahead, her longer strides and keener senses divining for them a path in hot pursuit.

Ashe hurried in the Viera's wake, forced to trot to keep up with the other woman's brisk pace. Yet for the first time, she felt a lessening of the tight, knotted ball of guilty jealousy that had lodged in her chest from the moment, sometime between Giruvegan and Bahamut, when she had realised that she might be in love with Balthier.

For the first time Ashe realised that she didn't need to know all Balthier's secrets (how he came to meet Fran, where he had acquired the Strahl, what had possessed him to call himself 'Balthier') or to understand the shadows that haunted even his most genuine smile.

She did not need to know how he came by the thin tracery of scars across his back (which she fancied looked like the lash of a whip but could just as easily be from a Viera's sharp claws).

She did not need to know because she already knew the most important facts. She knew he loved her, that he would die for her and more importantly, that he had already given over his future to her and their children.

Catching up with Fran so that she could walk abreast with the other woman the two found the winding, hidden, pathway that led up to the curtain wall and the lych gate of the Temple complex.

Whatever Balthier was up to, whatever temporary insanity had spread, like an airborne contagion, from her to him, for the first time Ashe felt confident that the two of them, she and Fran together, could knock the sense back into him before the arrogant fool did something quite dazzlingly stupid.

The Stilshrine of Miriam

Penelo had not known where else to go.

After battling her way down the slopes of Mount Bur Omisace in the gathering gale and blizzard she had almost subconsciously travelled in the only direction she knew, towards the Stilshrine.

She didn't know what power, mystical or otherwise, affected the outside of the Stilshrine and made it so that the driving gale that ravaged the snow covered treacherous natural bridges and mountain winds leading to the Stilshrine did not breach the cool tranquillity of the ancient shrine.

The cold sun glittered on the water channels running on either side of the main concourse leading to the shrine and Penelo sat quietly on the snow free, paved causeway watching the jewelled reflections of sunlight and clouds on the surface of the still, icy water.

Penelo did not know what she would do next, now that she had abandoned Ashe and already revealed far too much of what she had so foolishly done to Balthier and Vaan both (how would she ever be able to look Vaan in the eye again; he had warned her and she hadn't listened).

She would have to abandon her home and her friends and all the family she had left. She would not be there for Ashe's twins naming ceremony; she would not see the cathedral re-built.

She could never see Larsa again.

The scuff of a flat soled boot on the concourse had Penelo up and on her feet daggers drawn in an instant. She did not put her weapons away when she recognised the Streetear duo, looking frostbitten and even more bedraggled than normal.

'Bloody 'ell, it's colder than a Kiltias tits out 'ere.' Jules announced as a means of greeting and received a hard punch in the arm from Gerty in response.

'What are you doing here?' Penelo demanded still maintaining her fighter's stance.

Jules shrugged, 'We're on a pilgrimage. Me and Gert thought we'd see what all the fuss was about with this religion lark before we 'eaded 'ome.'

Penelo glared at him as did Gerty before the female Streetear turned to Penelo hands raised in a placating gesture.

'We came to see that yer were alright, Miss Penelo. 'is lordship sent us, 'e's right worried about yer.'

Penelo blinked in surprise, 'What? Larsa sent you….but how….I mean….'

She trailed off as her thoughts swirled together in a confused snarl. How did Larsa know the Streetears were at the encampment? What were they still doing on the mountains when they left early yesterday morning?

If Larsa knew about the Streetears, but no he couldn't know about them. If he knew he's do something about them, surely? He'd try to find out what they wanted, which would mean he'd find out that she'd been talking to them and then he'd find out why……….

…..and then he'd know the whole story and he couldn't possibly know, could he? Because if he knew……..

While Penelo tried to disentangle her knotted thoughts twisting and spinning like an Ouroboro devouring itself, another question, sharp like a shard of broken glass, sharp enough to cut through the knot of her confusion, whispered through her mind.

How could Larsa not know that a Streetear was working in the Imperial Palace?

Penelo had wondered that very thing when she had been introduced to Gerty's family ties and true profession but in the excitement and muddle of their intricate plots she had let the question drop.

Now she realised, with all she knew about Larsa and Archades a city run and ruined by the thirst for knowledge and secrets, it was impossible that Larsa did not know that his chambermaid was sister to Archades greatest Streetear, and if he knew and hadn't done anything that meant…….

The moment that Penelo's heart broke was actually visible. Both Streetear's saw it when the light went out of her hazel eyes and the youth and vitality blanched away to nothingness. The sound of the young woman's heart shattering, her innocence destroyed, was almost audible.

Had the Streetear siblings not sound their shame and humility long ago in order to survive and thrive in a society that wanted to see them brought lower than the filth under foot in the Alley of Muted Sighs, they would have averted their eyes, turned away for some things are too raw to be witnessed.

Penelo dropped her daggers to the floor with a rattling clang and raised shaking hands to her mouth. Tears trembled on the edges of her lashes and her eyes beseeched the two Streetears to deny the knowledge that now filled her with dread.

'He knew……he knew all along.'

Gerty reached out a hand, a genuine gesture of Hume warmth. Penelo reared back, shaking her head so hard her loose bound hair came loose.

'…..don't touch me……leave me alone, just leave me alone.'

In that moment Penelo could have done many things. She could have given in to her pain, her sense of betrayal and dropped to her knees in tears. She could have forgotten all her mother ever told her about never letting the people who had hurt her see her cry and wept broken in the shadow of the Stilshrine.

She could have readied a Scourge spell and unleashed it upon the Streetears, watching her mutely as her world crumbled. She could have watched as their life seeped out of them in one agonising convulsion after another.

But that was not the way Penelo was, for better or worse she could not strike out against her manipulators and in her defence all she could do was turn on her heels, heart constricted with agony, and run as fast as her dancers legs could take her towards the shrine.

She could only hope her enemies did not follow her; she was a puppet with broken strings and had not the heart to dance to their tune any longer.

Ambervale; the grand circle

Mishman did not know whether Al-Cid's silence was to his benefit or not. Certainly Mishman had not expected his brother to rant and wail, Al-Cid had been trained by their father after all, and the pathetic coward had always carried himself with a certain steadiness for all his failings.

The only thing Al-Cid had requested was that his blasted 'birds' be strangled before they were put upon the pyre.

Mishman had wanted to refuse but his advisors in the government Pavilion had advised him that the people would not like to see three women burnt to death.

The people were sick of the burnings and the hangings and the disembowelment according to his Pavilion. Mishman had curled his lip and replied that they should stop mounting rebellions against their anointed Emperor then. They should stop whispering sedition in favour of his doomed brother.

The people's duty was to obey the edicts of their Emperor and an Emperor must always obey his own judgement, chosen by the Gods as the Margrace family had been, to govern over the greatness of Rozzaria.

He would burn a man a day until the people learned their place. Learnt to honour him and his victory as befit his triumph.

The bugle sounded and the condemned were marched, in chains at neck, wrists and ankles, below the raised platform where Mishman sat with his wife demurely at his feet as a wide should be.

The pyre had been built high and in no time, under the silent watchfulness of the crowd, Al-Cid was tied to the stake, his 'birds' laid out at his feet on the bed of kindling, dead and bloodless pale.

Mishman nodded to the executions, their torches lit in anticipation, and the black clad men touched their flaming tapers to the pile of kindling, dry hay and broken wooden furniture mounded high at Al-Cid's feet.

In the dry heat of the Rozzarian late summer the flames caught quickly, leaping joyously to touch the sky, devouring the wood and chasing upwards towards the meat on the stick.

All the while as the flames consumed the bodies of his companions and the silent, cowed spectators, ordered by Imperial mandate to watch the traitors burn, began to murmur and exclaim in weak willed terror and outrage, Al-Cid himself simply stared calmly and steadily into the eyes of his brother.

As Mishman stared transfixed, the flames catching on his brother's legs, the smoke acrid and black, it seemed through the wavering heat haze rising above the dancing tips of flames that his brother's lips moved.

'Farewell brother.' Al-Cid smiled, despite the agony he must have been enduring as the flames swallowed up his body.

'I wish you joy in your victory my brother. May it be everything you dreamed it would be.'

Despite the screams from the rioting crowd demanding that the executioners through more fuel to the fire and speed poor, Lord Al-Cid to his eternal rest as the only mercy that could afford him, Mishman heard every word his brother spoke.

Then the fire roared upward in an inferno of gold and red and orange, a forest of liquid flickering death that finally broke the gaze of brother on brother and stole Al-Cid away from Mishman forever.

The fire burned for some great long while. Mishman watched it until, hours later, the air in the Ceremonial Grand Circle precinct was filled with choking ash and smoke, the stench of cooked meat nauseating.

Mishman watched alone; the crowd having been disbursed when they showed signs of turning on their Emperor and even his wife driven away by the monstrous smell and the stinging soot that floated down and covered everything around with a thick, greasy coating of grey dust.

A tiny flicker of movement in the periphery of his vision caused Mishman to look from the charred remains in their bed of ashes.

Jolting in his chair of state, carried outside of the Palace Margrace by twelve men condemned for execution at some later date, as he recognised the smirking man from before who was presently propping his foot up on the first step up to the platform where Mishman sat, brushing soot and ash from his shiny thigh high boots.

'D'you know,' the man began in insultingly conversational and familiar tones, 'I once surmised that you would end up ruling over a funerary pyre and not an empire. I see now that I was correct. Tell me do you intent to kill everyone in Ivalice or merely those you swore to protect as their Emperor and liege lord?'

Mishman hardened his jaw and refused to meet the laughing eyes of the unreal man who haunted him consistently, dogging his every step.

'Begone phantom I shall not be deterred from my course by a wraith.'

The phantom man laughed, a rich, rolling sound at odds with the terrible circumstances.

'Oh, believe me, your Excellency, I have no desire to divert or deter you. On the contrary, I urge you to go further still. Your enemies are multitude; you cannot waste time watching cooked meat spoil.' The ghost's sharp smile sliced at the very heart of Mishman's fears.

Daily reports came in of insurrection in Dalmasca of the mobilisation and re-militarisation of Archadia, of the peasants and farmers and labourers of Rozzaria who would sooner risk eternal damnation and death on the stake than submit to the will of their rightful ruler.

Mishman shivered in undisguised horror when the phantom jauntily stepped up the stairs and crossed the platform in less time than an eye blink to lean forward and whispered in Mishman's ear.

'Burn them all your Excellency. Proclaim your new order throughout all Ivalice. Let this be a pyrrhic victory in literal truth.'

Temple of Mount Bur-Omisace; Lych Gate

'They are all asleep; how can this be?'

Ashe gently nudged the slumberous Ascendancy foot soldier with the toe of her boot. The man did not so much as stir.

'The Gran Kiltias commands the dreams of men.' Fran murmured meditatively.

Ashe looked up at her sharply and nipped her lip. 'Then Balthier and Marana came this way and recently.'

Fran nodded, 'The cold air within the archway captures and holds his scent in thrall. The scent is warm, no more than an hour has past since he came under the archway.'

'Good, even Balthier cannot have incited over much chaos in such a short expanse of time.' Chewing her lip Ashe considered her own words then looked sharply to Fran. 'We had best hurry.' she amended.

Ashe did not worry over much for stealth, she had never been overly good at remaining inconspicuous, despite her two years spent presumed dead under her own city (had it not been for Vossler's careful minding she would have been captured a thousand times over).

As she and Fran sprinted up the wynds leading up to the Bur-Omisace temple audience chamber, Ashe was at least heartened that Fran (although always light of foot and quiet) did not appear over concerned with softening the clatter of her metal spiked heels on the icy cobbles either.

It took both of them to locate the mechanism to open the huge, towering engraved doors to the temple audience chamber as well as some manual pushing when the mechanism proved itself to be damaged.

Drawing the Sword of Kings Ashe burst into the chamber, his name on her lips, 'Balthier? Balthier where are you?'

As her mind made sense of what her eyes took in she skidded to a clumsy halt in astonishment.

Seated in the chair of the Kiltias was a man in a magnificent, almost obscene suit of cloth of gold and the sky blue of Rozzaria with long, tangled black hair and a face that might have been described as handsome had it not been for the sneer of cruelty and selfishness that had left a permanent mar on his well-proportioned, symmetrical features.

The man, Ashe realised with some shock, was asleep. His head was lolling to one side, mouth loose and lax his body slumped and vulnerable in the grand chair.

At the man's right hand side a Helgas girl, who Ashe belatedly recognised as the missing Marana, stood watching the man sleep, one hand held to his forehead and an almost tender look upon her sharp, long face.

On the man's left side Balthier leant by the throne, his eyes closed and his expression a mask of concentration. Presently his lips moved as if he was speaking in a dream and the man in the chair twitched in response, an expression of fleeting fear passing over him.

'What is the meaning of this?' Ashe demanded of no one and everyone present, finally recognising the man in the chair as the hated Mishman Margrace.

The click of her heels heralded Fran's presence at Ashe's side. The Viera surveyed the scene in silence as the Gran Kiltias Marana turned to face them, opening her yellow eyes.

'Shhh.' The sharp sibilant admonishment was coupled with the childish action of placing her long, bony finger to her lips.

'This night's work is not for you, Dynast Queen. The dreamer and the dreamed of in battle waged brook no interruption lest the dreamer and dreamed in flesh do meet and battle of the wills become battle of the blood.'

Ashe narrowed her eyes, something about the girls stance set warning bells to ringing in her warriors mind and Ashe tightened her grip upon her sword hilt.

'What are you doing to my husband?' she demanded advancing a slow step towards the chair of Kiltias. Marana giggled.

'Not I. Not my will in play is this night's foolery. Not I that would make himself a figment in a madman's dreams. Not I to turn madness to horror and victory to never-ending torment. Not I that would turn a man's triumph to his never waking nightmare.'

Ashe shook her head ignoring the enigmatic babbling she dashed forward to reach out for Balthier to shake him awake and rescue him from whatever spell he was under.

She reached out a hand towards his shoulder and it seemed as though the air did thicken, closing in around her like a net, trapping her in mid step and pressing down upon her with a pressure that drove her to her knees.

Marana held one hand aloft and pointed her index finger at Ashe, her telekinesis freezing Ashe in place with an almost impossible strength. She had never felt a spell to river Marana's strength.

With a flick of her wrist, as Ashe was forced to watch on her knees struggling to find the air to breathe let alone cry out, Marana diverted the course of Fran's loosed arrow and immediately caught the Viera also in a thick and cloying web of magick.

With arms outstretched holding her captives in thrall Marana smiled.

'I have been a-dreaming of this time. I have seen how this night's work shall end. I have seen so many things, a-wandering the dreams of men. I have seen Ivalice in dreams shroud, her secrets revealed in the minds of sleeping fools. I have seen calamity and triumph and the breaking of old ties.'

Again the monstrous child-mage giggled. Her fine hair, finer and paler than Fran's, trembled with her joyous mirth. She leaned her long torso forward and smiled brightly, girlishly, conspiringly towards Ashe.

'I shall tell of my dreams. I have seen you there. I see a city of the dead rising and the natural order reversed.'

Marana dropped her arms and pirouetted delightedly, twirling around on the spot, hair whipping about her. The magick holding Ashe and Fran immobile disbursed but Ashe found herself unable to move, captivated by the girl before her.

'I have seen Golmore Jungle to Balfonheim come. I have seen airships underwater swim and fish too large for the ocean float through clouds. I see a boy and a girl, with destiny unwritten, and the Occuria in their tome. Mehaps I see the dreams of dreams. Mehaps I see tomorrow. Mehaps I shall see you there Ashelia B'Nargin Dalmasca; a widow evermore.'

Ashe opened her mouth to retort, though she knew not what she would say, when from the chair and the man slumped upon it, a high, piteous, keening wail came forth to fill the chamber.

The Stilshrine of Miriam

She was exactly where the Streetears said she would be. To Larsa Penelo looked like a goddess, or a nymph, quiet and serene, yet perpetually sad, gazing at the waters flickering in the cold breeze of the pre-dawn darkness huddled in the doorway of the Stilshrine against the biting cold.

Walking forward and seeing her startled upward gaze turn to one of guarded coldness barely concealing a terrible pain, was the hardest thing Larsa had ever had to do in a life of hard made choices.

'Penelo.'

He could think of nothing more profound to say than her own name, but then that name held its own associated magick to him.

'Larsa,' Her response in kind sounded like a stranger with her familiar voice.

He had always loved her voice not because she was possessed of a particularly fine voice but because she wasn't.

Penelo's voice was prosaically ordinary and that was its beauty. With such a simple voice nothing could diminish the loveliness of the thoughts that voice gave substance to.

'Have you remained outside all this time?' Larsa asked concerned when he saw her bow her shoulders under the thickness of her wolf fur coat.

Penelo looked at him with vacant eyes; she was no longer engaged behind her eyes, no longer with him in spirit.

'No, I went inside the Stilshrine but the bats were too noisy so I came out here. It's really not that cold, not like the first time we were here.'

Silence stretched between them, taut and thrumming with things unsaid and unmentionable. Larsa licked his lips and regretted the nervous gesture when the cold prickled over his dampened lips, pinching the sensitive skin.

On the way here he had gone over and over the things he would say. How he would explain to her what must seem inexplicable and inexcusable; face to face, able to see the tear tracks on her tan cheeks he realised that there was no explanation, no reason that could justify what he had done.

'I am sorry Penelo. I simply wanted to find you to tell you that I am truly sorry for what I have put you through. It was never my intent to cause you pain but that does not really matter for I have done so anyway.'

Looking down at her fur lined heavy snow boots Penelo said nothing and did not meet his eyes.

Larsa nodded in understanding. The silence between them was littered with broken promise and the ghosts of so many glorious might-have-beens. The wonders that could have been had he been a stronger man……or any man at all…..instead of the frightened boy he was.

How did he explain to her, of all people, she who had lost so much and never once given in to bitterness or cynicism, what it was to be him; how did he justify and explain a lifetime, an entire upbringing, wherein the greatest lesson he had learned was how to twist and bend and subtly manipulate every occurrence, every opportunity, and everybody around him to his will and his way?

How did he tell this strong, honest, courageous woman before him who freely gave her friendship and her love to the son and brother of the two men most responsible for the destruction of her family and the occupation of her homeland?

How did he find the courage to admit to her that he had not the bravery in his soul to accept the gift of her love if he could not control it?

'F-farewell Penelo.' His voice cracked on the one thing he had the courage to say. 'I wish you only happiness and health for all your days to come.'

…..and I loved you the way a plant loves the sun for your warmth and your radiance and your absolute faith given unstintingly and unconditionally, and gods damn me, I wanted to keep you always near me. I have only ever felt safe in the embrace of your smile.

Larsa turned on his heel and began to walk away back into the biting snow storm that left the shrine in peace. He walked towards the darkness as behind Penelo the morning sun rose.

'You won't even tell me why?' Her voice stopped him in his tracks and slowly, almost reluctantly Larsa turned to face her.

Penelo had left the shadowed enclosure of the shrine and now stood with her back proud and straight to the rising sun, facing the darkness unafraid.

'Anything I say would only be facile justification. I respect you too much for that, Penelo.'

Penelo had been wringing her hands together nervously and realising this she stopped and lowered her tight fists to either side. 'You used me.'

Larsa nodded, 'Yes.' He whispered.

'Why?' she demanded and anyone but she would have shouted, cried, or snarled but Penelo did not, always Penelo held her power and her passion hidden behind her sweet façade.

Larsa could not meet her eyes. He had stared down his entire senate, men many decades his senior, he had commanded battalions and addressed millions of people but he could not meet the simple gaze of one woman when he most needed to.

Mutely he shook his head; there were no words.

'I have a right to know.' Penelo pressed her voice growing stronger.

Larsa looked up at her for a moment trapped by the simplicity of honest justice. She did have a right to know and it was cowardice on his part to want to conceal the true rationale behind his actions.

'All I can tell you is this. I did it because the senators are too powerful and without a means to break their monopoly on the economy and monitory system in Archadia I cannot bring about the abolition of the Chops system or reform the franchise. Dr Ned is the means of breaking the other senators' control and granting the Vulgars the franchise.'

'No, Larsa,' Penelo shook her head, her hair, loose and golden like a wheat field under a midday sun, rippled down past her shoulders, 'that's not what I meant. I understand about Dr Ned. I don't understand why you used me.'

'Because there was no one else I trusted. Because I hoped that you would feel as I do and understand why the current system will only hold Archadia back.'

One large, crystallised tear rolled down her cheek and she shook her head slowly, confusedly. 'But why didn't you just ask me, Larsa?'

Larsa flinched. The question, so simple, so purely Penelo, cut him to the quick. It had never occurred to him to simply ask her for her help. That was not how things were done. He was Emperor, he was Solidor; he had never asked anyone who help.

He had argued and debated. He had offered proposals and posited suggestions, but he had never simply asked anyone for help. The idea was almost beyond his comprehension that he could have simply told her everything and asked her to help him without pretence and incentive.

Penelo was watching him as she wiped at her tear stained, wind blown face, like a child. 'I love you Larsa; if you'd ask me I would have helped you, don't you know that?'

Something inside Larsa Solidor broke at that moment. Something fundamental, a belief or a delusion he held about himself and the life he led was irreparably damaged by that one, tear stained question.

For only the second time in his life Larsa solidor felt himself begin to cry; a single sluggish tear that seemed to freeze across his skin, the cold still air of the Shrine stinging and icy against the track of salty moisture.

'….you would….?' Inarticulate and uncomprehending Larsa's world seemed to end. Only one question needed to be asked.

'But why?' It was barely more than a whisper. 'Why would you risk so much for me, Penelo, when you have nothing to gain?'

He had hoped that if Penelo realised the plight of the Vulgars her natural compassion and sense of justice would impel her to do whatever she could to assist the Streetears and Dr Ned.

'I already told you Larsa; because I love you and you are my friend. That's what friends do. They help each other. It's just that simple.'

The plan had been sound. Penelo would believe herself acting of her own volition and he, as the Emperor, could not be implicated in a plot to deliberately undermine the power of the semi-autonomous senate.

More importantly and the heart of the betrayal Larsa had perpetrated on Penelo was the assertion he had held that if Penelo embroiled herself (of her own free will or so she believed) in Archadian politics he would have the means to bind her irrevocably to him.

Larsa had always feared one day becoming his brother. Today he realised he was far worse than Vayne, who had been a tool of the machinations of other, greater minds, twisted by ambition and destroyed by past deeds committed for love of family and Empire.

Today Larsa realised that he had become his own father. A man who had manipulated one son to kill two others and died at the hands of the monster he had created. Today Larsa had stepped into the shadow of his father and he hated it.

Larsa met Penelo's soft hazel eyes, gentle eyes that concealed a strong and indomitable will. 'I am so sorry Penelo.'

She nodded, 'And I forgive you.' A tiny smile broke free to dance briefly across her face, 'After all, you clearly didn't know any better.'

Larsa did not so much as breath, 'You forgive me?'

It did not seem quite plausible that she would, despite the fact that Penelo had already forgiven him his family and his nationality.

'Why?'

Penelo shrugged, 'Because I can.'

The simplicity of that one statement, alien to Larsa's entire way of thinking, the ways of Solidor and Archadia, dropped down upon him like an executioners axe and just as the axe separates the soul from the mortal body, so to did Penelo's forgiveness go someway to cutting Larsa free from the traps of his familial past.

Larsa closed his eyes tightly and swallowed convulsively. He did not deserve nor want her forgiveness. In forgiving him his betrayal so readily she lessened herself. She devalued herself by accepting that he had used her so easily and he wished more fervently than he had every wished for anything that he possessed the power to refuse her forgiveness for her sake.

He opened his eyes when he felt her step up to him, the scent of spring flowers clinging to her, as she threaded her arms through his.

'I mean, I'm not saying I'm just letting you off the hook about all this.'

She added cheerfully turning him around and leading him along the concourse away from the shrine. The rising sun sweeping across the smooth paved walkway rolled ahead of them like a carpet of light leading their way.

'I'm going to want a tiara with jewels and a really big wedding, and Ashe's babies will be in my wedding train, though they will probably need to be carried by one of my other bridesmaids and we have to have Star fruit in the wedding banquet. In fact I want my cake made with Star fruit; Migelo knows how to make a really good star fruit cobbler.'

Larsa blinked owlishly, almost stumbling as he turned to stare at her in incomprehension. 'Penelo….I am not sure I entirely understand you?'

Penelo grinned at him for a moment reminding him forcibly of Vaan, 'You owe me Larsa. You owe me big time. So I guess you've got to marry me, because you've had everything else from me already.'

Larsa struggled with the less than characteristic desire to say 'umm?' and blinked dazedly in rapid succession, 'Y-you would marry me? You wish to be wed?'

They stopped at the end of the concourse turning to face each other. Penelo smiled at him and the sun painted her in gold and silver resplendence.

'I'm going to make an honest man out of you, Larsa Solidor, even if it takes the rest of both our lives.' She told him stoutly.

There was nothing Larsa could do except drop down on one knee in the snow that mounded at the edges of the concourse and clasp her hand in his to raise that hand to his mouth in one reverential kiss.

'Thank you.' He whispered.

The sun finally crested the picturesque roof of the shrine and lit the jagged edges of the mountains in gold gilt and sparkling sun. The sight was magnificent and breathtaking and Larsa paid it no heed whatsoever, for at the same moment Penelo smiled.

'You're welcome.'

Temple of Mount Bur-Omisace; audience chamber

It had been swift. The cannon ball had blasted through the side of the wagon and reduced it to tinder wood in an instance. She had not suffered. She had not suffered, little Alfayna, she had simply died; died without even having the opportunity to live. Died hiding under a pile of dirty clothing in a wagon as men and women fought and slaughtered each other all around her.

What was suffering to that? Mishman had almost laughed as he dug the little body out from the litter of wood shards, struggling with the half wagon wheel that had all but crushed her into the oil slicked sands.

It was not possible to bury the dead in the desert. Scavengers would sniff out the blood and dig up the bodies. So they built a huge bonfire and stacked the bodies upon the kindling. He watched her burn and thought to use his handkerchief against the stench until he remembered that she still had it.

Mishman Margrace exploded out of the persistent nightmare and found himself once more in the safe surroundings of his throne room in his new palace of Bur-Omisace. As he acclimatised himself to his surroundings he thought he heard a scream from somewhere else in the former temple but paid it little mind.

He was accustomed to screams and terrified men and women begging for mercy. It was the music of his victory fanfare and the fabric of his endless days.

'What was that scream?' he asked one of his loitering Ascendancy soldiers.

'The Empress Hepzibah, my Emperor, your wife is dead.'

Mishman nodded vaguely waving the red cowled man away into the blood tinged shadows.

'Ah, Hepzibah, if not here then in the hereafter, my love, our candles burn bright but brief.'

Mishman was not surprised to see his personal haunt and tormenter step out of the ether with smirk in place.

'Sad tidings, your Excellency. My condolences on the death of your wife which is more than I ever received from you when you murdered my wife and butchered my babes.'

'Begone spirit no mere wraith will be the death of me.' Mishman had not the energy to do more than wave his hand in vacant dismissal.

'Oh, but it is not death I want to offer you, your Excellency.' The smirking man purred coming to sit comfortably on the highest step of the throne dais.

'You seem in ill spirits, have you grown fatigued with all the barbarism, hmm?'

'Begone.' Mishman repeated listlessly.

'Oh, I will, shortly.' The man replied pulling at his shirt sleeves, 'but first I am beholden to offer you a chance at redemption. You can end this nightmare right now if you wish.'

Mishman frowned distrustfully but could not rouse more than a fraction of his once omnipresent anger. 'What nonsense do you speak, spirit? This is no nightmare. I am awake already.'

The man grinned at him sharp and bright, 'Are you so certain of that?'

Mishman glared but still could not muster the energy to strike out at the spirit with his sword discarded on the dais floor by his feet.

'I am Emperor of all I survey. This is my victory and my triumph.'

'Uh-hmm and your lifelong dream; can you see a pattern here, your Excellency? Your dream has become a perpetual nightmare and I offer you, most generously I might add, all things considered, the chance to awaken from this dream turned nightmare. All you need do is accept that none of this is real and you will wake.'

'Begone!'

Mishman roared grabbing his sword and in one violent motion and bringing it down painfully hard upon the empty air and the stone of the Dais where the smirking man had never been mere seconds before.

'Well if that is your final answer, I suppose I have tarried here long enough.' The smirking man demurred slyly. He then faded, for the final time, into nothingness and left Mishman Margrace alone to his victory.

For the first time Mishman wondered if he had quite right; was the smirking man the phantom or was it he who was all but dead?

The Temple of Bur-Omisace; audience chamber

Ashe watched uncomprehending and mildly horrified as the man in the Kiltias chair, Mishman Margrace, dissolute and broken in his slumber, finally stopped screaming and thrashing like a fish out of water and collapsed like a puppet with broken strings to slide bonelessly from the Kiltias chair.

His eyes were open and dead even though Ashe could hear the rattle of his rapid breathing.

'It is over.' Marana sighed like a girl. 'He chose a dream within a nightmare over the death of that dream. How very odd. How very Hume.'

Daintily she stepped over the living dead body of the Rozzarian Emperor and settled comfortably in her chair absently she placed her feet onto his torso like a footrest and closed her eyes to enter her own dreams.

Ashe turned to Fran with a look of utter befuddlement. She opened her eyes to attempt to give some voice to her confusion when a moan and a jaw cracking yawn from the throne stopped her dead.

'Well hello, Highness, Fran, is it morning already?

Balthier rose slowly to his feet, still yawning and stretching, 'Gods who would have thought a dream could be so tiring?' he murmured to himself.

Ashe stopped herself from going to him with a wary eye on Marana and the fallen Margrace.

'Balthier what have you done?' It ended up something of a shriek.

With a lazy smirk her husband stepped over the body of Mishman Margrace without sparing him a glance.

'I have done exactly as you wished Ashe, no more, no less. Now we shall not have to worry what to do with Margrace for the Kiltia shall care for him as they do all their other comatose victims.' Balthier then winked impishly at Marana who giggled in her sleep.

When Ashe and Fran just stared at him Balthier sighed with exaggerated patience, 'Really Highness, I would think you would be pleased. We have a universal victory on our hands. Margrace has his victory, though admittedly it only exists within his mind, and we are now free to return to Dalmasca.'

Balthier snaked an arm around her waist in an uncharacteristic public display of affection his Archadian upbringing usually did not allow him, stifled another huge yawn, and instead kissed her on the cheek.

As he did so he whispered in her ear, 'be happy Ashe. We have won. We are free and soon, very soon, you shall hold our children again. Surely you don't need to know anymore than that?'

Ashe sucked in her breath sharply at the mention of her children and the constant, deep ache in her soul that absence from them had created.

Quite abruptly, with Balthier's arm slung around her waist guiding her gently but inescapably towards the audience chamber doors, Ashe realised that she no longer cared for Mishman Margrace or the Ascendancy. All she wanted was to end this nightmare and hold her children.

Fran fell into step on Balthier's other side as they stepped up to the door; for a moment Ashe turned around to look to Marana grinning with macabre innocence, her eyes closed and posture relaxed. Ashe could not suppress a shiver of pure foreboding as Marana's enigmatic prophecy whispered through her memory.

Balthier had stopped with her and threw an unconcerned glance over his shoulder at Marana and Mishman Margrace at her feet. He arched an eyebrow with some amusement.

'Hmm, she is a fearsome little Narcoleptic, isn't she?'

'Yes, yes she is.' Ashe admitted as they stepped out of the Kiltia temple and into the rising sun. She did not ask any further questions. She did not want to know the answers.

It was over and today was a brand new day.

Temple of Bur-Omisace; audience chamber

Once the doors thudded slowly closed with a resounding boom of ancient hinges and heavy golden doors behind the retreating figures of Balthier, Ashe and Fran, Marana opened her eyes with a delicate, anticipatory smile.

From the folds of her bell shaped full length sleeve she withdrew the burnt and singed orange shaded Cryst sliver that she carried always with her.

Gently she ran the pad of her thumb over the surface of one multi-faceted side of the jagged shard. A sharp splinter sliced the meat of her thumb and she sucked in a startled breath before raising her thumb to her mouth.

Marana smiled down on the Cryst shard in her lap lovingly.

'Age of Stones is past; age of gods soon follows. Soon, it will be soon.'

Giggling girlishly Marana leapt to her feet and stepped upon the soulless husk of Mishman Margrace holding the Cryst shard to the light to create rainbow prisms through the air.

She smiled enormously, triumphantly, sharp white teeth glittering in the reflected lights of the Cryst.

'History in the hands of man; it begins.'

And then, witnessed only by the vacant eyes of the dream trapped Mishman Margrace, Marana laughed and sang and danced for joy and in anticipation of tomorrow and what only she knew would come of it.

Fini……?