This is a chapter about haircuts. And big lies. Oh, and chores.

Also, changed the fic title to These Roles We Play. I have honestly wanted to do this for a while, and I'm not sure why I didn't do it sooner. But the others agree it fits better, and it's a nice callback to Rasler! (cries)


These Roles We Play

7 Chores, Part II

The room they were given, several storeys above the lobby, was indeed a nice one. It looked expensive but not ostentatious, the design and furniture relatively simple but modern—not that Basch would truly know. The lights were bright enough but still warm and the windows were tall and wide, overlooking that wealthy plaza they had just escaped. Basch thought nice a complete understatement, but then he had never stayed in such a lavish place. His quarters during their visits to the Verdpale Palace and the Ondore Estate, perhaps, but those were amenities granted by virtue of his position and out of respect for his liege. What was all this for?

Anya did not give him the opportunity to ask as they entered, though that was perhaps a failing of his own for gawping at the room. She had already strolled past him, dropping her pack on the bed away from the window. But could he be faulted? How long had it been since he had seen a real bed?

"Anya," he finally breathed, looking troubled. "What are we doing here?"

"Getting those knots out of your hair," she said as she whirled, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "And a haircut, of course. You can't very well make your return like... that."

Basch glanced down at his clothes. The old woman at the south bank village, Jocea, had prepared these for him. He felt ungrateful agreeing with Anya, even inwardly.

He shook his head. "It is the manner of my return and not my appearance that will convince the Resistance."

"No. Never underestimate the power of a good entrance. Or an exit," Anya added with a slight chuckle.

He peered at her. "Some tenet of sky piracy?"

"Yes," she said seriously. Before he could ask more, she stood before him, turning him around and gently pushing him in the direction of the bathroom. "Now go and bathe. We'll cut your hair afterward. If you'd rather not change your clothes, we can at least fix your hair."

Basch accepted this compromise, partly due to the fact that he did not mind another bath now that he was here, and partly due to the distraction posed by the warmth of her hands on his arm and on his back, such that he was unable to protest. She returned to the bedroom once he stepped foot inside, and it was then that Basch fon Ronsenburg found himself staring into a mirror for the first time in over two years.

You have grown very thin, Basch.

Idly, his hand reached for his jaw. He could barely feel it beneath his beard, or perhaps the scar cutting across his left brow distracted him. The memory of how he had acquired it was lost to him, for there had been so many scars. So many wounds that had healed, but not this. And his torso, even beneath his new clothes…

Less than a shadow. Less than a man.

He felt the bone without even touching his own skin as he shifted in bewilderment. As some saving grace, there remained some muscle left over from his days as a knight. Some. Little compared to his old strength. It was suddenly no wonder that the others had looked so shocked to watch him fling Vaan over his shoulder during their escape.

"Why haven't you closed—? Oh."

Anya appeared at the bathroom door, her question falling away as she saw his reflection against the wide bathroom mirror. He hadn't noticed the steps leading to a platform by the window or to the large bath atop it, or the toilet or the shower or any of the amenities on the wide counter before him. He'd barely even noticed that the ground beneath his cold feet was all marble.

But he did notice her frown—or thought he did. As soon as it flashed across her mouth, she was smiling again. "I can help you condition your hair, if that's what you're worried about."

"Oh." Once begrudgingly accustomed to such niceties for his rank, Basch now felt completely unsuited to such a comfortable place. The question shamed him further. Did he seem unable to accomplish such a simple task himself? Then again, he thought glumly as he saw the reflection that was the true insult to the man he once was, he had not even realized that he had loosed his hair, leaving it a mess over his shoulders as he set down the band near one of the sinks. "Thank you, Anya. But I will manage."

"I'm sure you can." She leaned against the doorway with her arms crossed, watching him through her mask. "But I give quite the massage, you know."

A massage? Of course Basch knew what that was, but receiving one had never crossed his mind. It seemed to go blank as he imagined her giving it to him. "...Why?"

"Why?" she repeated with the slightest grin. "Sky piracy isn't always about sweeping entrances and dramatic exits, you know. Very often it's research. Scouting. Knowing your mark—or treasure, as it were. All that - even success - is taxing on the body. All of our crew knows how to do it."

"And cutting hair, too?"

Anya laughed, and he turned to watch her do it instead of relying on the mirror. It was that same laugh she had laughed at the village by the river, surprised and loud and genuine, or it was to his mind. "Cutting hair, too, and shaving Balthier in particular."

She was still chuckling. It surprised him how weightless he felt at the sound of her laughter; as though his body was recalling a time before his shame. But was she not a stranger to him, and worse yet, a sky pirate? They were meant to be nothing to him but thieves and bounty hunters. So perhaps it was that he had not heard this sort of laughter in two years, making hers especially warm to him. Just as it was with her touch.

"So, how about it?"

That was the thought at the fore of his mind when she made the offer again. Some time between his capture and his escape, touch—and not even that, oftentimes the mere sound of another's approach—had begun to make him flinch. Contact with her was the first in two years that had not caused him to recoil, just as mirth had been the first without mockery. Was it so strange that he would assent to her offer? It was nothing unseemly.

He found himself nodding.

She smiled. "Good. Now… I would say take a quick shower as you run the bath, and then..." Anya stepped inside and walked past him, toward the shelves on one end of the counter close to the tub. Reading through the labels on each bottle there, she picked a small one, lavender it would say, and handed it to him. "Call for me when you're in the bath. These are for bubbles, if you like." She chuckled for some reason as he accepted the bottle. "Of course, you can also cover yourself with one of the bath towels when I arrive… but in either case, you can rest assured. I won't do anything untoward."

Basch blinked, and felt his mouth twitch in amusement. "I know."

Anya paused, her smile unmoving, and then she nodded, brushing past him and closing the door as she left.

Basch hardly meant to take his time doing as he was told, but he felt languid. Here, in a bathroom utterly strange to him, in the company of an even more bizarre woman, he felt almost free. These were all so divorced from the life he had known and the life he expected after his escape that he thought it could all be a dream.

Some time later, he sat in the bath, bubbles sitting over his chest. The thought of his men seeing their former captain in this state was amusing—was that why Anya had laughed earlier, handing him the bottle?—until he wondered if there was much of the Order left.

"Anya," he called out softly, trying not to dwell on it. He cleared his throat and made his voice louder, a task more difficult than he imagined after two years of making himself small to avoid notice. "Anya?"

"Coming," she called out in return, and gave four knocks, the first slow and the next three quick, before she opened the door. She stood at the doorway again, staring at him in the tub with a sudden smile, but shook her head. "I… did not think this through. Give me a moment."

Anya returned with a chair soon after, her usual arm wraps gone. Setting a towel on her lap and a few bottles at her feet, she sat on the chair behind his head of the tub. Soon her fingers sank into his hair, lathering it with product as she scrubbed at his scalp. The tension loosed from his shoulders as she did, and on occasion she forced him to tilt his head back, whenever he leaned forward and felt ready to doze.

"Sorry it's not very comfortable," she said after a time, when the sound of her rubbing away at his roots had let him drift once more. When he only murmured in response, she continued.

The massage began after she rinsed his hair once and finished undoing the knots in it, as promised. That was a quiet affair, except whenever she remarked on a particularly stubborn knot to herself, but he didn't mind. He rather liked the sound of her voice. And he had forgotten how nice it was to have another stroke his hair back from the top of his head, and from either side. Had he ever even known such pleasure? Her fingers worked their way to his temples, and then again to the top of his head, kneading at his skull before slowly inching back around, down to the nape of his neck.

It was the most relaxing thing he had ever felt in his life, and it was far too soon when she stopped.

"All right," she said, her voice oddly tender. "You can shower now."

He turned his head and felt his slick hair cling to his neck. His voice felt hoarse as he spoke. Strange. "Thank you, Anya."

She smiled, and then headed for the door after hurriedly setting the items she had used back on the counter. There she stopped again. "Rinse that off thoroughly and we can see about that haircut."

Anya nearly flew from the room before he could say more. After another sigh, he rose from the bath himself. Basch spent a little longer in the shower this time, savoring the way the hot water pelted at his skin. It had never been ideal in Dalmasca, but he gave himself the moment and enjoyed it. He could suffer for it later.

The scent of something tangy wafted past him as he emerged from the bathroom. Before the nearby dresser was the chair Anya had used to help him in the bath, and underneath it, paper. The scent came from a table across it in the large room—food. One plate was covered with a cloche embedded with magicite that would keep the food warm, and the other was already uncovered and nearly empty.

Anya was sitting on the bed she had taken, masked gaze to the floor. In thought, perhaps? But she was no less mindful and turned at the sound of his footsteps.

"Ah. How do you feel?" she asked with a smile.

It was a novel question to his ears. The depth of his true answer was too great even for him to fathom, and so he only nodded. "Good. Thank you."

"Good." She launched herself off the bed with a levity that seemed all her own. "Here's lunch. I hope you don't mind that I ate ahead. We're on a schedule, after all—no, no, not yet."

Basch had begun for the table, eager to eat with his towel slung over his shoulder, but she took his arm and led him toward the dresser instead. He had barely gotten out a word in protest when she sat him down before it, a warm hand on his shoulder. His towel was gone, tossed into a heap on a nearby sofa.

"But—"

Her hands ran across his scalp again, stroking his hair back, and his own relaxed sigh silenced him. When he realized it, Basch cleared his throat. Anya said nothing, busy combing through his damp hair. He found no reason to complain. Instead his eyes looked to her in the dresser, which made her stop, though he could not see through her mask. He lowered his gaze to the dresser countertop. There lay a comb, a pair of scissors, a folded piece of cloth, and other materials.

"So," she began. "Hair length, hairstyle. I say we cut all of it, to say nothing of the beard. Old allies will remember you, and those who saw you only in passing can never be too certain. What do you think?"

"No." Basch stared at her in the mirror. "I… wish for it to look as it did before."

Anya took the brush and began to comb his hair, the fingers of her free hand holding his head steady. "Really?"

"I wish to have something from… a time before all this," he admitted. Basch had not known this desire himself until he articulated it. She stopped combing, tilting her head at him.

"You're still you," she said softly. "Hairstyle be damned."

He lowered his gaze. "...Regardless."

A pause, and then her hand rested on his shoulder. "Very well."

Taking the folded piece of cloth from the countertop, Anya held it on one end and whipped it out to unfurl it, tying it over his neck to cover his body. Basch watched her comb his hair again. He thought he should ask if she really was certain she could do this, but there was no more chance for it - the scissors were in her hand and she was snipping away all of a sudden.

He was unable to watch the progress. In most instances she had parted or pinned some of his hair over his face or at the very least, his eyes, and when his face began to itch at the touch of it, Basch elected to close his eyes instead. Somewhere in between, in the rare times he might be able to see, she had begun to shave him. Then her hands were all over his face and hers was far too close for him not to feel strangely hyperaware of himself, and so his eyes remained shut.

Eventually, Anya was drying his hair, combing through it under the heat, until finally he could see again.

And better yet, he thought as she finally stopped, he could see himself.

Anya unpinned the cloth from his neck and whipped it away in a sort of reveal. "What do you think? Basch fon Ronsenburg enough for you?"

"I…" Basch swallowed, cleared his throat, and stared at himself in the mirror. It felt strange, but he was... smiling. Shallow breaths escaped him, and he realized he was chuckling, if soundlessly. "I thank you, Anya."

She was smiling too, wider than her usual one. Toothy, not the smirk far too similar to Balthier's. Genuine. "I'm glad you like it, even if I disagree with the decision."

He was still smiling. It strained at his cheeks, but it was not uncomfortable. Basch stood and stepped forward, away from his chair toward Anya as she beckoned, careful not to step over the clumps of hair left on the pieces of paper she had set down. He began, "I will dispose of these—"

"Don't," she said as she often did, already pushing past him to do the job herself. After a moment Anya noticed he was still watching her and clicked her tongue in reproach. She jerked her head in the direction of the table. "Your food will stay hot for a while yet, but wouldn't you rather eat already?"

"Anya, may I… ask you a question?"

She turned back to her work, silent until she had everything folded together, and stuffed it all into the tiny bin by the dresser. Then Anya got to her feet and clapped her hands together, dusting them. "What is it?"

He didn't realize it, but his face had already fallen. He was considering all she had done for him. "Why are you helping me?"

A pause, and then her pirate's smirk returned. "Is a woman forbidden from helping a man out of the goodness of her heart?"

Basch pressed his lips together. "It is rather that you… you seemed as disinterested in me as the others, and yet you sought me out in Lowtown. Helped me. I am grateful, but you are a sky pirate, and I…"

Anya stared at him, and he wished he could put it better than he was at the moment. Basch was not an arrogant man, he thought, but he had always known what to say. It dawned on him now that this was because he once knew where he stood with all those he encountered, even in passing. To a captain surrounded by the fires of war, sky pirates were only an unfathomable annoyance. To a traitor who had earned his freedom thanks to their efforts, they were… an enigma. He wanted to trust them, but his old self demanded a reason.

She only hummed. "I see. So you think I want something in return for all this."

He nodded slowly. "In so many words. And I would repay you, make no doubt of it."

"Oh?" asked Anya, her sudden pique obvious in the curl of her lip. She drew closer. Closer than they had before, standing together like this, until her soft fingers brushed his exposed abdomen. Basch felt his stomach clench, felt something inside him flutter as she touched him even more gently than before. "Is that so?" Her finger dragged shamelessly beneath his navel, and yet he felt it was not enough. His body ached to respond, though he begged it not to. "And what have you to offer me, Basch?"

Her voice was lower, sensuous when she posed her question, turned his name over on her tongue. He liked it. Basch swallowed, tried to steady his suddenly shallow breaths, but his mouth was still dry, and he couldn't take her eyes off her. Her eyes were concealed as always, and yet the way her mouth grinned seemed all the proposition his body needed. The heat gathered in his face, betraying him, and similarly pooled somewhere beneath his stomach, stirred by the spark of her touch. "I did not mean…"

As quickly as she had neared him, Anya pulled back, that expression on her mouth gone. An easy smile replaced it. "I jest."

His nostrils flared as he continued to regain his composure. The flutter in his chest began to calm as she stepped away, gesturing rather formally toward the table. "Please eat, Basch. You need it."

"Please," he repeated, still unable to look away. "Tell me why you helped me."

Anya sighed, tilting her head back. Now he was certain she rolled her eyes. When she looked to him again, she clicked her tongue. "You're never going to let this go, are you?"

"If I can help it."

Another scoff, and then another sigh. "...I am going to regret this."


Finding Basch had not been difficult in the least. Anya followed the trail of locals and travelers utterly bewildered by the sight of a man so disheveled that his state was almost indecent to their senses—and yet, they all said, he bore a pair of strangely piercing blue eyes. Tracking him within Lowtown after that was so easy it seemed absurd. She had watched him for a few minutes after she caught him wandering about, unable to decide whether to make himself small or attempt to stand out.

And she had very nearly turned and left for the Sandsea, too, until she saw a few men equidistant from him signal one another. She couldn't allow them to capture him while he looked like that, could she? They were strangers, and yet—though it meant nothing to a sky pirate, he was once ready to lay down his life for this kingdom. He still was. The Captain deserved more, said the dead woman in the far reaches of her mind, than to be taken in by the Resistance in such a state.

"Anya, you fool," she had muttered to herself then, right before sweeping up next to him and taking his arm, surprising those men enough that they would surely fall back to assess her identity. She was only lucky that Basch was still so unused to company that he could barely speak until they emerged from Lowtown.

They were not free from royalist eyes even then; it was why she took him to the Imperial district, where those who looked anything less than Archadian, or those without deeper pockets, would be turned away by the guards on sight. And they had tried even then.

To their fortune, again, that boutique inn had been nearby. The Strahl's crew had stayed there once after a particularly lucrative adventure, and she had remembered liking it. Apparently enough to spend nearly all of her share from their job immediately prior to the disaster that had been the fete on a room and a meal now.

The room was nice, but it was the service that made the pay worth it. The receptionist was very accommodating, considering the unusual nature of her request—supplies to turn their room, essentially, into a salon, but she supposed the man had seen to more interesting demands.

She ushered Basch quickly inside the bathroom, because Anya wanted the whole matter done with. After all, was not all this done only in memory of a dead woman and her misplaced attraction? Anya was a worldly woman compared to some brat in a palace, and she cared little for whether the accommodations impressed an old captain or not. Never mind that she had only ordered the heartiest and most expensive meal for him available to the inn's guests.

Or why, before she could even think about the words escaping her traitorous mouth as she witnessed his pitiful dismay at his own appearance, she had suddenly offered to wash his hair. Not once, but twice! She gave herself a good groan about that when she heard the water start to run. And when he called her name from the bath, she came to him.

It was meant to be a quiet affair. After conditioning and tugging away the tangles in that mop of golden hair and removing all those dead strands, her plan was to give him the massage and leave him to bathe. She would then cut his hair, he would eat, and her duty to this memory would be done. Contrary to his behavior in the past two days, however, he was anything but silent. The moment her fingers began to knead at his temples, the man was moaning.

And not only that. He made all manner of sounds that made her stomach flutter with an anticipation she desperately tried to ignore. Sighs, groans, gravelly murmurs in approval that a dead woman had daydreamed to lull herself to sleep some nights after he had saved her life—they echoed in the bathroom, reverberated in their intensity, and she did her best not to hear it. She resisted the way the thrum of his voice made her core twist with sudden longing.

"All right," she inhaled, forcing herself to settle. For the life of her, she could not feign the unruffled confidence that marked their crew. "You can shower now."

It was worse when he thanked her with that hoarse voice. She had retreated then, putting on a grin and urging him to shower before escaping the heat of the bathroom. She had very nearly thrown a glass of ice water on her own face.

By the time she finished eating, Anya had finally remembered herself. Worldly sky pirate, generous bounty, unstirred by the mere sounds of an unfairly disgraced captain. He would not make of her a young woman first awoken to her desires, infatuated with an older man of whom she knew so little past his title and his lost kingdom of origin. That spoiled brat had not known him; Anya, even less. When she was finished with this business, she would wash her hands of him completely. For in truth, she did not care for him.

So why had his smile upon the mirror brought her such warmth—

"Why are you helping me?"

—and why had such a sensible question felt like a slap in the face?

"Is a woman forbidden from helping a man out of the goodness of her heart?"

He tried to explain himself without giving offense, but she had already taken it. The rational part of her agreed with his suspicions. Why would a sky pirate, concerned only with her crew, spend so much gil to help a stranger, and a fugitive at that? But the rest of her was already bristling.

"I see. So you think I want something in return for all this."

"In so many words. And I would repay you, make no doubt of it."

"Oh?" She didn't notice the curl of her lip. How was it that he could make her feel so small so easily? She took pride in her work. She had learned more skills, known more people, learned even more languages than some dead woman ever would in her self-indulgent lifetime, had she lived; and yet she felt exactly as that woman had, bidding the Captain goodbye as he left to launch that ill-fated counter-attack on the Empire: devastatingly aware of her own insignificance.

Anya would not permit him to render her immobile, or worse yet, humble. This was not a mark of their crew. She approached him, pretending that the mere brush of her fingers against his skin did not electrify her. "Is that so? And what have you to offer me, Basch?"

That look on his face was familiar to her. Not because she had ever seen him make it, but because it was so common to men from whom she had sought information. She felt that same satisfaction as his face flushed, but Anya found she liked the expression on those parted lips the most out of any man she had ever seen by leagues. Especially the way his throat moved as he swallowed.

"I did not mean…"

And then he spoke. Stammered. Just like a few of those men—but this was Captain Ronsenburg, who had tried to protect a prince before he fell. Who had brought his body home, mourned him, saved her, tried to protect her uncle, only to be framed, imprisoned for two years, could not apologize enough for a crime he did not commit—

Anya withdrew as the guilt came in droves. "I jest," she smiled, trying not to see the cruelty she had inflicted upon him as he worked to regain his composure. He deserved more than this treatment. "Please eat, Basch. You need it."

"Please," he said, still staring at her. "Tell me why you helped me."

Anya tilted her head back, all the ways she could escape this situation running through her mind. "You're never going to let this go, are you?"

"If I can help it."

A certain Captain Geir, Faram bring his soul peace, had once praised this man's dogged determination. She should have realized that to suffer it would be a nightmare.

"...I am going to regret this."

He didn't relent. Neither would she. "At least start eating," she sighed, gesturing to the table once more. When he sat, she sat across him in front of her empty plate. "All right. Have I given you reason to doubt my selfless intentions, apart from my sky piracy?"

The question appeared to surprise Basch, who had lifted the cloche from his plate and stared at his meal in pleasant surprise. Pursing his lips, he paused to look at her. "I may have said no, had you not known my exact appearance two years past."

Anya nearly knocked her own head against the table. Of course. But she remained upright, only cocking her head. "You were a famous man."

"Not that famous. Are you Dalmascan?" he asked. "Were you?"

She gave it some thought. "Almost."

His brow furrowed for a beat as he began to eat, and Anya did not rush him. She was attempting to predict where he would take this interrogation. Eventually, his eyes widened as he swallowed his food. "You are Nabradian. You knew the existence of the Barheim Passage… and you called me Geir. The former captain of Nabradia's own Order." He lowered his gaze at the thought, though Anya said nothing, sitting almost perfectly still. "But your accent is Dalmascan."

"Dalmascan and Nabradian are very nearly the same anyway."

"I can tell the difference."

"I have a penchant for accents," she said, reverting to a more obvious Nabradian one. The differences were often too subtle to notice. "Even Fran, who knows the most languages of our crew, cannot tell with me."

Basch peered at her. Not with suspicion, but curiosity. Anya wondered which was more dangerous to her at present. "Is this why you wished to help me?"

She found herself at a crossroads. There was that desire to reach out that she had felt in the Garamsythe, when she was no longer so stunned by the sight of Amalia; the very same desire to which she had surrendered by bringing him here—but she could give no further than she already had. Anya would not do it, even as she found that she could not lie to Basch fon Ronsenburg.

At least, not entirely.

"Yes," she admitted. "You once aided a woman very important to me."

"...I see."

The pity was clear in his downcast eyes. He seemed content to leave it at that—but she was not.

"It was Lady Amiria."

His gaze snapped back to hers. "What?"

Anya shrugged, wrapping that veneer of nonchalance about herself. "I was raised in the palace. A playmate to the prince and princess, though I was always closer to her, being the same age. She and I remained friends for a very long time."

"Verdpale Palace," Basch reflected. "How did you escape the fall of Nabudis?"

Anya was prepared. "After Lord Rasler's wedding, my uncle served the king as ambassador to Nabradia. I stayed with him abroad, and we escaped its ruin. My parents were not so fortunate."

"I am sorry," Basch murmured, right before blinking at her again. "You—you were Lord Harthas's niece?"

"You knew him?"

"Of course. He mentioned you, but… Wh—" he sighed, anticipating the answer before he even gave the question. "What became of him?"

Anya simply shook her head.

"I am sorry..."

She did not tell him not to apologize, for a dead woman also grieved him. But she continued, now that he appeared to believe her. "Well, she told me about you. About the day of Prince Rasler's funeral."

"You were there?"

"After you saved her. She had been inconsolable until then."

Basch closed his eyes. "I should have been able to do more. For her and Lord Rasler both."

It was Anya's turn for confusion. The prince she understood, but the princess? They had barely known one another, though she did not deny the warmth that his regret gave her. Warmth and guilt that she ignored.

"The princess never blamed you for his death. She only ever said you were a good man." Anya found herself nearly glancing away in embarrassment, even with a mask on. There was an ugly vanity to her words, but she couldn't stop now. "With the little hope she had left, she believed in you, Basch."

He now stared at her with an unreadable expression. Disbelief, she saw. Regret. Guilt—but why? "She did?" He sounded afraid to know the answer.

Unsure what to make of it, Anya shrugged. "It's half of why I so easily believed you."

"...and the other half?"

"Why," she grinned, that confidence returned, "I'm a good judge of character myself, of course. Or do you disagree?"

Basch's lips parted, and then formed a small smile. "No, I thank you. Really."

Anya's smile softened, reflecting his gentle mirth. She could see countless questions in those steel blue eyes, but she could not bear to sit before him any longer. "I tell you this in confidence, you understand. And I would rather not say more."

"Of course. Yes, I understand."

Anya nodded. And then she rose abruptly, feigning a stretch that belied the knots in the back of her neck all of a sudden. This conversation was more taxing than their escape. "I'm going to wash up. When you finish—and take your time—we can find your Resistance."

"Thank you. Truly, I intend to repay you."

"Worry about that later." Without another look at him, she headed for the bathroom.

Anya couldn't escape him or leap into the shower quickly enough. It was the longest she had ever engaged in the memories of a dead woman. Engaged, reminisced, even enjoyed—and the woman missed them. She missed them, wanted them back more than the dead could ever miss another person, another time. Another people.

"You may regret it. You will, sometimes."

Balthier had warned her, but she hadn't really understood until she saw ghosts with her own two eyes. Until she had spoken with them, touched them and seen how they had grown angrier, in the case of a sister, or withered and waned, in the case of the captain, for clinging to an old life, to old loyalties. The antithesis of she who had chosen freedom. Until the question she had evaded all this time sank its teeth into her heart.

Could Amiria have stopped all this?

There was no telling, for Amiria was dead. She would never know.

Beneath the solitude of the water's din, Anya wept.


The Sandsea was filled to the brim with the scent of good food, spirits, and an unhealthy amount of individuals running afoul of Imperial law. If the city guard took issue with it, they would have to bring it up with the tavern itself and discover why exactly so many of its regulars continued to go free. Of course, there were several patrons without bounties on their heads, mostly hunters from Clan Centurio, and tourists and citizens who knew nothing of the local climate and came only for the cuisine.

But among the vagabonds and even the guard it was understood that whatever quarrel without was abandoned within, and all were free to enjoy the ambiance. (The day of the fete had been an exception too—everyone was on edge, then, their crew for an entirely different reason.) Well lit enough to see one's companions and partake of their company, and just dim enough that each party would keep to itself.

Home, sweet home to a man like Balthier.

Well, perhaps not. But it was one of their crew's favorite spots, and he could hardly complain when that was the case.

He took a sip of his wine. Vaan had just departed, back on his search for that girl Penelo. "...I thought that business would never end."

Sitting back across the table from him, Fran nodded. "It may not have, were it our first gaol break."

"I would like to avoid another brush with the law for the next… oh, I don't know. Thirty years?"

Fran's grin was hidden behind her glass as she drank herself. "I believe you would grow bored."

"With you? Never."

Fran made a noise similar to a snort. "You know I am immune to your flattery."

"Flattery?" he feigned indignation. "I speak only from the heart."

"Then it is a lover of fiction."

"You wound me!" Balthier half-laughed, half-scoffed, but he did not relent. "Last I recall, I unleashed the Empire's most wanted fugitive for your sake."

Fran hummed doubtfully. "To my memory, 'twas I who dropped the lever."

"And I invited him to come along."

"Was it not Anya who chose to release him from his binds?"

"I suppose, but…"

That last bit made them both turn toward each other. It unnerved Balthier, that it appeared not to sink in for Fran until then either.

He cleared his throat. "Regardless," he smiled, idly reaching for her hand on the table, "I hardly misspoke. I'm a simple man with simple needs—not to say that you are—"

"What you need to do is go to the Bhujerba mines!"

Balthier turned an irate brow toward that familiar guttural panic. Its owner had marched up the stairs of the Sandsea and plodded his way to their table by the balcony, his blue snout formed into a decided frown. The last time they had met, Balthier was an indistinct (if that were possible) Rabanastran, grateful to him for the chance to work at the fete. Apart from Anya's business here, he saw no reason to maintain the pretense now that its purpose had led only to disaster—but the look on the man's face said he would not fall for the charade again, at any rate.

"Migelo," he greeted. "What a surprise."

The greeting did not calm him. The merchant huffed. "Imagine mine when I discovered that Adela's 'poor friend' was not a friend in need, but a sky pirate! Was she involved in this as well?"

Fran sat up straight, leveling the hysterical man with a cold stare. "Is there a problem?"

Migelo paused, appearing to recognize the danger in her eyes, but he shook his head. His purpose clearly worried him more than she did, and that gave Balthier pause. "This was all your doing, Balthier!"

The two pirates exchanged glances. When they turned to Migelo again, Balthier withdrew his hand from Fran's and sighed. "Would you care to explain?"

As the bangaa began his story, Balthier felt himself slump just a little in his chair. He could only hope that Anya was doing better than them—and staying out of trouble.


It's me again, unnamed member! I promise I don't have a secret haircut kink. This was mostly about Anya pampering Basch, and I got carried away writing it. Unfortunately, he's too astute to let things slide and take a damn favor, so. We'll have fun untangling that web later. (Anya will not.)

Sorry about the wait, but thank you for reading this chapter! Let me know what you think in a review c: