Author's Notes: Every story starts with a Prologue. This one starts with an Epilogue: it's a short one-shot that follows another one I am currently improving before updating it, though both stories can be read independently or else I would not be uploading it :)

A big, heartfelt thanks to the very talented writer and friend Landis Icelilly, for all her precious help in beta-ing and improving my writing :)) - please, go check her stories, they are amazing! :) I also want to thank the "BaschxAshe League of Extraordinaire Gentlewomen" that I met here and so wonderfully support me along the way; and finally I also wish to thank the awesome artist and writer Maudiebeans, for a breathtaking illustration she made for this story! :) As I cannot post links here, I put it on my profile ("Notes" section). I tell you, it's lovely! :)

Basch is perhaps the most challenging character to write about, so this drabble was quite a test to me, as it is pratically written in his POV. I tried my best to make him stay IC here.

The current rating is posted accordingly to the other one-shot that goes before this one, because per se, this short drabble is rated M just because of the implication. And the whole purpose for this fic is to reply to a prompt in the Spring Kinkfest Livejournal:

"Basch/Ashe: Loyalty – when you finally fly away, I'll be hoping that I served you well."

I tried to go according to the prompt, and I hope I succeeded... (though I know I did not succeed in the deadline, sorry); either way, this is the result, I hope you like it and, as always, reviews are much appreciated! Please, be constructive and mature, ok? :) Thank you :)

Summary: In the aftermath of their meeting, he remembers. Though for her, he is willing to forget, but she does not allow him to. BaschxAshe. Set after the reunion with Ondore in Bhujerba.

His Forbidden Queen

The sudden bright light cast upon the room catches Basch unaware; ruthlessly stinging his pupils as he flutters open his eyes. He grimaces, feeling all his body aching despite being laid down comfortably in a bed - for the first time in two years - bringing his left hand to his forehead in a vain attempt to ease an abrupt splitting throb.

Like a lighting strike, unforgiving and merciless, the memories arrive and prowl his mind.

He spares a glance to his right side – feeling the ache in his head shifting painfully - only to find it empty. This does not surprise him: truth be told, he does not even know if, for her, this had held any meaning at all. So why would she be laid at his side, sleeping serenely, when she has no reason to? Plus, more than anyone else, he is well aware of her current quandary, and moreover, his very presence at her side again surely caused long forgotten memories to resurface from within her heart. He cannot blame her for her absence, therefore he cannot censure her if she wants to just forget this either.

And perhaps he should forget it all too.

He rests a hesitant – and cold - hand on the soft white sheets at his right side. They are wrinkled and still hold warmth beneath his calloused palm, accusing evidence of her former presence at his side, and the pillow lays crumpled where her head had stood a few moments earlier. The scent of Nebra water-lilies lingers in the air, it is the scent her hair had released when he stroked it as he kissed her, and it is most overwhelming: he closes his eyes, breathes deeply, and the throbbing inside his head seems to fade.

He then recalls how he – they – got here in the first place.

Back at the Ondore Residence, and after their meeting with the Marquis, he had wondered where she could have gone. He had noticed how clearly upset she had been by her uncle's refusal to heed her plight, and he had set off later that evening in search for her while the others dined. When he finally found her on the pirates' airship trying to fly away, she refused to trust him.

Furthermore, she had seemed most willing to kill him.

He managed to avert her from doing so, only to find himself moments later fully engrossed with her into a most ardent kiss and wild -

Ashe.

Her scent, her taste, had tantalised him and he now misses it. With his mouth closed, he runs his tongue across his lower lip: it is still lingering there, her alluring, enticing flavour, and he tries to grasp more of it. His fingers stir as they recall the velvet touch of her pale, flawless skin, and the strong pounding of her heart rippling her skin beneath his fingers and her mouth, racing as fast as his own.

Then he closes his eyes, berates, punishes himself, for thinking of her in this condemnable way, for neither being able to hold his longing for her nor putting a halt to her advances back then, and for shamefully recognizing he craved for more of her now. The memory of her gentle yet teasing smile plagues his mind, as he remembers how she accused him of wanting this as much as she, and it was so true: it disquiets him how easily she had read his hunger for her before stripping him of his clothes, of his control.

The stream of memories keep rushing his mind: he feels her soft lips on his neck, her lukewarm breath on his ear, the arch of her body against him, the moans, the warmth, the flesh, the rocking, the tide, the flame, the release; he remembers her beautiful, enrapturing face as she, panting and glowing, smiled at him in the end and they kissed, tenderly yet passionately, like lovers who had just met again after two years of loneliness in cold cages and empty rooms.

Yet she was… his liege. His unreachable Princess. His forbidden Queen. And he, he is nothing but one of her few remaining knights – and there again, he is no longer a knight but a king slayer - who had vowed to protect her.

With a shake of his head he heaves the memories away.

Reluctantly, he pushes his way into reality and looks around to take in his bearings. And then, he fails to breathe, as he remembers exactly where he is and where they have been during the last couple of hours.

The Strahl.

Troubled, he jolts up into a sitting position, tossing aside the sheet covering his bare body and wonders to whom of the pirates this bed belongs to. The allusion of it belonging to the Viera woman – he tries to recall her name, an uncommon name for a Viera, Fran – disturbs him, for her finely acute senses would certainly grasp the faintest scent of this feral lovemaking and the unusual aroma of Nebra lilies merged with Black Watch mist.

Then, something at his side diverts his attention. He glances sideways, and he sees it; a white parchment barely discernible on the pillow, and he questions how he hasn't noticed it sooner. He recognises at once her graceful handwriting standing out in black ink from the parchment.

Basch,

I'm off to borrow this airship,

Ashe.

He frowns, disbelieving the word "borrow" that she had written; he reads it again, turning over the sheet to see if she had left something more. But nothing else had been added further from this wilfulness of flying away from Bhujerba to seek the Dawn Shard, and these matter-of-factly words disconcerts him deeply. He would, undeniably, follow her to the Tomb, follow her anywhere, follow her to the edge of Ivalice – legends say it is called Ridorana - if needed. After all, he was nothing more but a mere guardian who vowed to shield her with his life, however, he still feels that she intentionally omitted something in this letter.

Then again, she certainly wishes to forget. And for her, he will do just the same.

Not surprisingly, this trail of thoughts makes him wonder – and he feels somewhat appalled by the thought – what if she believes he had loved her because she required him to do so?

He remembers her whisper well...

"You will have me," she breathed in his ear, words dripping desire, clouding his own good judgement and shattering his resolve to refuse, to deny, to flee, to do anything but take her into his arms and love her as she requested – no, as he yearned to.

He could never confess to her that it had happen because he had truly desired it: it was not his place. His place is but to serve her, and he can only hope – though the simple mention of it was extremely awkward - he had served her well. She had felt no love, just lust. She had felt no devotion, just attraction. Bearing the conviction that she holds no feelings for him, he sighs and guarantees to never ever allow his own to transpire. He holds her in the highest respect and esteem and cannot allow himself – and her – to heed their most raw impulses and tread these dangerous, forbidden paths again.

He will forget... For her.

The ship has been too quiet – he somewhat guesses she would be long into unravelling the art of flying an airship, as Balthier would put it - but all of a sudden, the sound of muffled voices reach him from a distance, hers rising above any of the others.

He promptly slides his way off the bed, slips on his clothes, and walks out of the room.

He crosses the small lobby when he catches her voice again, from across the cockpit and the corridor, and he is now able to hear her clearly: she is pleading for the sky pirate to kidnap her. And as Balthier reflects about King Raithwall's legacy, Ashe's eyes flicker at her protector's direction when she acknowledges him. She seems relieved; her eyes ask for his aid, she quietly pleads for his support and he is more than willing to do so, but not before casting an intimidating glare and a few warning words to the sky pirate as he passes by.

Her eyes follow him as he dismisses Balthier's mocking reply about bounties, goes before her and offers – as the guardian he is – to escort her. However, it is not wise to trade further words now, not when the sky pirate is looking interestedly at them and the boy – Vaan, he recalls, Reks brother - is certainly questioning why Ashe is not quarrelling with the knight again, but blushing instead while acknowledging his words with a single nod.

And then they set off, as soon as the Viera and the young girl – Penelo, Vaan's girlfriend he thinks – arrive. The dawn sky, the Dawn shard awaits them. Balthier flies, Fran guides, Vaan learns, Penelo smiles, and Ashe does not say a word, yet he catches her – more than once – looking sideways to steal a glance at him.

He does everything in his power to not acknowledge it.

But then, it is impossible to ignore her eyes when she seems to grow tired of stealing glances and shifts slightly her position to cast a proper, blatant glance at him, her neck crooked, and her eyes scrutinizing his own. His back is firmly sunk in the back of his chair, and he would backtrack further if he could. Yet, he cannot, he cannot help but watch her in mild curiosity when he catches a glimpse of a gentle smile playing on her lips. He then holds fast her gaze on his own, for he is not one to break eye-contact, and he notices, dreadfully apprehensive, how she catches her breath, while his heart skips a beat.

He realises then what she wants and, alarmingly enough, it is what he wants to, when he watches, helplessly, her left arm falling to her side, hanging off, a silent invitation for him to touch her. Because she is forbidden, he fights to not move and fails: he feels drawn to her as he slightly bends forward on his seat, and his eyes are still locked with hers when his hand reaches silken skin. He takes it into his for a moment, his fingers brushing the back and the balmy palm of her hand, before sliding up the soft texture of her wrist and inner arm.

Then he stops midway, not because he wants to, not because she commands him to, but because her upper arm protections stood in the way.

Unexpectedly, and without a word, she leaves his touch, she leaves him mesmerised, and turns forward on her seat again. Yet soon enough he catches the metallic clink of her seatbelt being unclasped - and those memories resurface again - and gets up on her feet. And no one but him notices the crimson hue that has emerged to her cheeks – and the heat to his own neck – as she excuses herself, before motioning outwards from the cockpit. She says she needs fresh air; he realises he needs a cold shower.

He straightens on his seat and tries to concentrate on the outside view, on the instrumental panel, on the exchange between pilot and navigator, on the chat between the kids, on anything but her, and again, he fails. Under his spellbound gaze she approaches the threshold that leads to the corridor but then, she stops right under it. She looks sideways, craning her neck down to meet his eyes. He berates himself, for this was one of the few times he should have broken the contact; he is convinced she can sense the turmoil in his mind and the erratic pace of his heart just by peering into his eyes.

She smiles. She is gazing upon a man who led a thousand battles for her, yet in this one she only asks him to -

"Follow me," she whispers, and it does not seem a command, nor a request but an enticement. And into the corridor she vanishes, flying away from his sight.

He stares at the void left by her former presence.

Mind or heart, lead or follow.

One of them spoke louder.