(ffxii) the remains of house nabradia
Because I love PS: I Love You and not myself.
A few bangles, gold, her father's locket, and a well-worn bound journal-Ashe can't remember her thoughts as she collected the assortment. She delicately takes each item out, smooths her hands over it, before putting it aside.
The room is tiny and cold. A slow, careful drip of water from some corner counts the minutes faithfully. (Months later, she would count it by the sands and realize this.) As her fingers whisper over the leather of the book. . . She remembers why the knots look familiar. The fleur de lis to Dalmasca and the triad knot to Nabradia, mirrors of one another.
--
Eventually, Ashe cracks the book open. . . And she forgets the sound of falling water until Vossler enters. She could not remember the minutes had passed, and presses the thought of how many months have passed in her cell-Room.
She reads with trepidation, carefully and slowly. Somehow, the thought of Rasler finding her and growing cross looms, despite the fact that she is lost in the web of Lowtown. . . And he was never cross in his life. Ashe hears him reading to him after awhile, when she can read a page at a time. It's obscure with not a clue to when or where it was written-A mystery to anyone but Rasler. She can't tell if he meant to keep his secret's-Nabradia's secrets-carefully hidden, or he didn't care to detail what he would never fail to remember.
The air rushes out of her as she remembers the discrete tinkle of stars and glass that he describes. She feels his hand, warm, around hers as the feeling of foreign metal wrapped around her finger presses in her mind.
Ashe quits the book for a fortnight.
--
Each new page becomes a test. Her fingers slide comfortably over the worn pages, finding where they last left off. Ashe takes a deep breath before continuing on.
The page is left blank, save for a short scrawl at the bottom: At last.
It puzzles and stops her. The tip of her finger traces the writing as she remembers everything-How she couldn't breath due to her dress and anxiety, her father waiting for her outside her chambers, the sun shining so bright, the noise and clamor and people, the thousand small steps that were taken without falter. . . Never without a hand to guide her.
Even when she looks down the promenade that their carriage strode down, whispering those foreign words to herself, "At last," Ashe can't fathom his meaning.
--
Vossler is insistent, wanting to be with his men and his princess. Ashe takes her time, adjusting the sword on her hip, checking her gauntlets for the hundredth time. Tonight, it would be the end.
She pauses as she passes her small collection. The bangles and locket are artfully set aside, never worn in all the years, and the gold has long been used to buy arms. Ashe wordlessly apologizes for, yet again, not being able to wear the locket as her father wished, as her mother wished so he said.
After a moment, Ashe pulls the book from its spot behind the trinkets. A whole half a book is left, blank and bare, until a script appears on the last page: Once again, whoever should come upon this is sworn to burn it, if they are loyal to House Nabradia. . . Though, I fear this.
With another call from Vossler, the book is back in place and Ashe leaves without a word.
--
The morning has a chill since the sun has not yet warmed the desert air. Ashe pulls the shawl closer, leaning against a pillar. With a smile, she turns around at a sleepy yawn, kneeling.
"What is Mother burning?" he asks, rubbing his eyes. Ashe presses a kiss to her son's forehead, trying to smooth the sleep-tousled locks. "Nothing at all," she replies, easily.
A few bangles, gold, her father's locket, and a well-worn bound journal-Ashe can't remember her thoughts as she collected the assortment. She delicately takes each item out, smooths her hands over it, before putting it aside.
The room is tiny and cold. A slow, careful drip of water from some corner counts the minutes faithfully. (Months later, she would count it by the sands and realize this.) As her fingers whisper over the leather of the book. . . She remembers why the knots look familiar. The fleur de lis to Dalmasca and the triad knot to Nabradia, mirrors of one another.
--
Eventually, Ashe cracks the book open. . . And she forgets the sound of falling water until Vossler enters. She could not remember the minutes had passed, and presses the thought of how many months have passed in her cell-Room.
She reads with trepidation, carefully and slowly. Somehow, the thought of Rasler finding her and growing cross looms, despite the fact that she is lost in the web of Lowtown. . . And he was never cross in his life. Ashe hears him reading to him after awhile, when she can read a page at a time. It's obscure with not a clue to when or where it was written-A mystery to anyone but Rasler. She can't tell if he meant to keep his secret's-Nabradia's secrets-carefully hidden, or he didn't care to detail what he would never fail to remember.
The air rushes out of her as she remembers the discrete tinkle of stars and glass that he describes. She feels his hand, warm, around hers as the feeling of foreign metal wrapped around her finger presses in her mind.
Ashe quits the book for a fortnight.
--
Each new page becomes a test. Her fingers slide comfortably over the worn pages, finding where they last left off. Ashe takes a deep breath before continuing on.
The page is left blank, save for a short scrawl at the bottom: At last.
It puzzles and stops her. The tip of her finger traces the writing as she remembers everything-How she couldn't breath due to her dress and anxiety, her father waiting for her outside her chambers, the sun shining so bright, the noise and clamor and people, the thousand small steps that were taken without falter. . . Never without a hand to guide her.
Even when she looks down the promenade that their carriage strode down, whispering those foreign words to herself, "At last," Ashe can't fathom his meaning.
--
Vossler is insistent, wanting to be with his men and his princess. Ashe takes her time, adjusting the sword on her hip, checking her gauntlets for the hundredth time. Tonight, it would be the end.
She pauses as she passes her small collection. The bangles and locket are artfully set aside, never worn in all the years, and the gold has long been used to buy arms. Ashe wordlessly apologizes for, yet again, not being able to wear the locket as her father wished, as her mother wished so he said.
After a moment, Ashe pulls the book from its spot behind the trinkets. A whole half a book is left, blank and bare, until a script appears on the last page: Once again, whoever should come upon this is sworn to burn it, if they are loyal to House Nabradia. . . Though, I fear this.
With another call from Vossler, the book is back in place and Ashe leaves without a word.
--
The morning has a chill since the sun has not yet warmed the desert air. Ashe pulls the shawl closer, leaning against a pillar. With a smile, she turns around at a sleepy yawn, kneeling.
"What is Mother burning?" he asks, rubbing his eyes. Ashe presses a kiss to her son's forehead, trying to smooth the sleep-tousled locks. "Nothing at all," she replies, easily.