The Darkest Night

Prologue

It all happened in less than a minute.

She saw it coming; the flare and light and the air becoming heavier with the feel of dark magicks. Almost on instinct she began casting shellga and praying desperately that she would be in time; that the haste and faith spells would last as the frantic chant fell from her lips. And she knew just as instinctively that she would not be.

She was still chanting the spell when the creature that had once been separately Vayne and Venat’s had finished. Too fast it happened too fast. She saw flashes of recognition in the eyes of her comrades, her spell wasn’t finished and she was screaming in her mind at the gods for making magick so complex that she could not simply think it and have it at her fingertips.

Vaan and Penelo were closest to the beast. They were engulfed, Vaan making a last desperate attempt to protect Penelo, turning to shield her smaller body with his own, and failing. The world went mute and time seemed to slow around her. She saw Penelo scream, saw Vaan’s last smile, saw the tears falling from Penelo’s eyes; then they were both lost in the miasma of the spell. No, please no. Stop this, please! Please, pleasepleasepleaseplease. Balthier was next, grabbing Fran by the arm and flinging her from him and away from the spell. She saw his mouth move and even though she could hear nothing above the white noise in her mind she knew what he was saying. She watched Fran, the shock of Balthier’s last actions and words on her face, reach for his still out-stretched hand as it was consumed. Nononononononono. Not now, please not now, we’ve come so far please.

She watched with horror as her own spell took effect retroactively, pale blue light flaring in front of their half-bodies. She hadn’t even noticed how close the spell had come to consuming her as it had her allies until she felt the weight against her body. They were falling, he was between her and the spell, his sword arm behind him as threw the weapon from himself. To protect her, he was protecting her, he was always protecting her. The spell licked at the outstretched arm, devouring hand and wrist and coiling around it, racing up the length of it; there was pain in his eyes but he did not cry out. Nonono, not him, too. Please no more, I can’t take anymore.

She screamed and his name was the first thing she had heard since it had begun.

But the light was flaring around him now, too and she knew that his arm was lost but he would be saved from the worst of the spell and so would she. They hit the ground hard and the burn of the spell washed over them. The world had returned to its mute state and she couldn’t hear her own cry of pain. But the pain was followed almost immediately by a wave of healing magick and the feel of clawed hands tugging and pulling her to her feet, a task made harder by her refusal to relinquish the hold she had on her fallen knight.

She was pulled from the battleground by her hold on Basch. Fran had taken hold of his other side and was dragging them both along at a run. She found herself struggling to keep up between her wounds and the dead weight of the man they carried. She felt nothing and thought of nothing as she caught the first sight of Larsa, leading them out of the hall. She didn’t care for where they were going or how they were able to escape. We failed. My friends… I’m sorry. Dalmasca…

She awoke as she had every night for the past week; throat aching from silent screams and the tattered blankets she had been using as a pillow wet with her tears. She lay on the dirty floor of their temporary base for a long time, tears still falling despite her best efforts to stop them. When she finally regained control of herself, she threw off her blankets and stood. Brushing aside the dirty sheet used as a means of separating the small building into rooms, she moved into the ‘main room.’ Fran was sitting there, watching her small sleeping space with knowing eyes. They shared a look as she walked past the other woman.

I’m sorry.

I couldn’t…

I know.

She hadn’t seen Fran cry once since it had happened but she realised with startling clarity that she didn’t need to see Fran cry to know that the Viera suffered. She showed it in other ways, that a person accustomed to Fran’s personality could easily see. She spoke much less than she had, she never offered information without it being demanded of her, and then she only did so with great reluctance. She couldn’t help but wonder if this was because Fran blamed what had happened on her willingness to share her years of knowledge with her Hume companions. It was even apparent in her movements; they lacked some of the animal grace she had once displayed, had become slower and a little less even.

And it was easy enough to see the burden of loss in her eyes without ever having known her a day.

She passed the small sleeping spaces Al-Cid and Larsa used, Larsa’s was unoccupied. He had taken to sleeping next to the older man at night, she would never admit it but she understood the boy’s need to be comforted and sheltered, even if it was just for a short time. She was more surprised by Al-Cid’s presence than by Larsa seeking comfort. He had met up with them two days beforehand, in one of the poorest parts of Rozzaria. He said he was a fugitive and nothing more. They needed nothing else, anyway. They were aware of what Vayne-Venat had done to the Rozzarian capital and the rest of the royal family. Al-Cid’s survival alone was a miracle, one that she was able to take little joy in… but little joy was better than none at all.

Her destination was the only actual bedroom in the broken little building. The decision was made unanimously and without words that the bed would belong to Basch. She, Fran, and Larsa had all received wounds but they had, for the most part, been minor and easily healed. Basch’s had been more serious. He had been mostly covering her when the spell overtook them and had taken the brunt of the damage from it. Before that fatal attack he had been one of the ones closest to the beast and had been the recipient of many an attack. And still before that, Gabranth had focused his wrath on his brother. Basch had taken the vast majority of the damage dealt out in those final battles and it was taking its toll on him now.

He had only awoken thrice since that day, never for very long. His weakened body had easily been taken by illness in the filthy streets of the poor town they were hiding in. He was healing, he would survive (Fran had told her this at least thrice a day everyday since their escape from the Bahamut) but his recovery would take time.

She knelt at the side of the dirty little bed he was lying on and just watched his chest rise and fall. This was her comfort; he had not died protecting her, that blow had not been dealt to her heart.

Delicately, she traced the curves and planes of his too warm face; mind filling with the past, eyes filling with tears. Her fingers glided over the scar on his face, across his forehead and down his cheek. They brushed gently against his neck and over his shoulder down to the scar on what was left of his right arm. He shifted then and she jerked her hand away; afraid that she had disturbed him or he would awaken to find her touching him, she didn’t know.

When she was sure he had settled, she took his left hand in both of hers and held it gently against her cheek.

Ashe’s tears began once more.

All was lost.

Author's Note: Yeah. I killed half the party and broke the other half. But I'm not done yet.