Renewed shall be a rose that was once broken, finding true love alongside her queen...

Long ago, a fellow bard of Crimea told me a story. At first glance, it was like any other - a narrative of wars and shifting alliances. It was a tale of good triumphing over evil, and a saga of a gathering darkness that threatened to engulf the land once more.

Yet, at the innermost core of the story, termed "Beneath the Skies of Crimea," there was something else. Something that cannot be stifled by darkness and human hatred, no matter how bleak the situation looked. Stripping the story to its barest basics, and it was clear. It was about love. The love between a knight and his queen, and of the same between a count and his childhood love.

It has been many, many years since I've last told this story - my memory, I'm afraid, is not what it once was. I will give you my finest effort - nothing more, nothing less.

So! Sit back, relax, and I shall begin my tale. Please, go right ahead and make yourself comfortable.

Author's notes (06/20/2009): Most likely, I'll have more to add and edit in this little blurb. Beneath Azure Skies is a long ongoing piece featuring the Crimean characters (which are, unfortunately, woefully underused). You could probably guess who's paired with who, though.

The story moves rather slowly, especially at the beginning, but the pace is quickly picking up. There are a ton of references everywhere - from Arthurian myths to Tolkien to even certain works of anime. Keep your eyes open if you're the type who enjoys delving deeply into a story!

P.S. Many thanks go to Yuurei and Misheard for critiquing the initial work, and Manna for proofreading. There are spoilers, as this story is post RD. The story touches on some heavy themes and elements that may not be suitable for the average 10 year old.

Even after all the time she spent there, the Crimean Palace was still a difficult place to navigate. Lucia sighed as she strode across the ancient building, her light footfalls echoing in the gilded hallway. A single lone flame guided her way as she pushed opened a pair of heavy oaken doors. Her soft white robe swished around her ankles as she peered into the faintly illuminated darkness.

Her destination, the "book room", was a favorite hangout of the scholars and mages at court. Hidden away in the north tower, the circular library was paved with black, mirror-like stones from Goldoa. Countless shelves arranged in neat patterns lined the room, their polished wood inviting all who passed to take a quick peek. All manners of subjects, from the arcane arts to more mundane topics such as botany can be found here. During daytime, the fourteen single-panel windows flooded the room with sunlight. In evenings, a thousand candles often lit the room as sages poured over dusty tomes. The royal library was austere and contemplative, its silence a boon for tired souls who went there to escape the chaos that is war.

But now, the room was dark, and completely silent. The hour was late, and no studious mage sat at the long reading tables. The dark recesses of the corners seem almost haunting as the swordmistress scanned through the shelves quickly, searching for a particular book.

Ah, there it is.

Her gaze landed on a loosely bound text as she carefully fished it out from the tightly packed shelf. Yvina, the Lady of the Lion was Lucia's favorite epic poem. Despite her usual demeanor, the young woman underneath the cold mask was more emotional than many would think. She loved to read – especially tender stories or idyllic poetry. There was a certain enchanting quality found only in the chivalric romances, and no other type of fiction could lure her in like they did. On nights when she couldn't sleep, she would often retreat to private corners and engross herself in their world, where she could be immersed in fantasy and momentarily escape from the world.

The more studious mages of the Palace could often find her there early in the morning, dozing contently with a gentle smile on her face and a yet unfinished tale draped across her legs. She always felt a little wary and vulnerable about being discovered in such a state, but she couldn't really help it.

Lucia. You should smile more! She could hear Calill's good-humored voice as she chastised her. The older woman often comes in earlier than the others to watch the sunrise. You're really pretty when you do, you know? Stop being so serious; it'll help with your complexion.

She was always the quiet one, saying little and sticking with only words that are necessary. Little did they know the burdens that she carried would be enough to forever erase joy from many other beings. The truth was, she wasn't sure if she knew how to be happy again. A little piece of her - the piece that was full of joy and hope had vanished forever, broken during the Crimean Civil War.

The chair creaked as she snuggled into her usual seat, its comfortable velvet cushions welcoming her familiar weight. The young woman began reading intently as she hid underneath a bundle of flimsy yet soft silk. Silence enveloped her; it was as if the entire world was asleep.

Tonight, she shall dream once more.

It was not until a few pages in that she noticed that there was something else on the table. Unlike the laguz, she had little night vision. Holding the candle above her head, Lucia noticed a small misplaced tome on the table.

Ooh, some mageling's going to get a lecture from Bastian tomorrow, she thought as she placed the candle back onto the table as she turned the page. Bastian, the Count of Fayre, was a particular stickler for keeping order in the library. A kind man at heart, he was nonetheless strict about things he cared about.

"The books serve you, friends, like faithful hounds to their master. Forsooth! Have the good heart to return them to where they belong, for a good volume is a friend in need, able to keep ye company for many good hours, whether be wintry frost or blazing summer…"

She smiled lightly at the mental image. Elegant, verbose, and talkative to a fault, the master tactician of Crimea could be quite merciless at times. Like a poet reciting poetry, he was nothing like her brother, who was often blunt to the point and stressed all the time. The two men were friends, yet they had radically different outlooks. Ironically, Bastian was the epitome of knightly behavior – or so he claimed. While it was true that he was honorable, chivalrous and acted every inch the proper cavalier, he was really annoying. Come to think of it, he was also extremely persistent – having pursued her romantically for the past…how many years now? She had lost count.

I wish he'd just shut up for once and talk normally.

Brushing aside a locke of stray aquamarine hair, Lucia put the poem aside. As much as she appreciated the attention, sometimes she wondered what exactly it was that he saw in her. Compared to the other ladies at court, she was a tomboy. Her "womanly curves" were almost nonexistent, as they were replaced by slim, well-toned muscles that were more appropriate on a cavalier than a woman. Surely a Count would have much better taste? She, like her brother, was blunt and to the point, often throwing aside veils and disguises in preference for the cold truth. She was nothing like the docilely pretty or mindlessly obedient wives of many of the other members of nobility.

Whether or not it was true that she was beautiful in her unique way, as a good friend often told her, she didn't care much. For one, she didn't exactly see herself as palpable for marriage. She might have been, once, but –

A painful memory flashed across her mind. A haunting, lightless existence.

Pushing the thought away, Lucia decided to distract herself by putting the book away. After all, she came here to put herself at ease, not to be haunted by her past. Holding her candle in her right hand, she picked the small leather-bound volume up and casually peered at the spine.

Nothing. No title, no author, the spine was blank. The cover, except for an elaborately designed buckle was also blank. It was as if the book shouldn't have existed in the royal collection in the first place. The pages of the book were yellow with age and appeared to be quite well-worn.

Puzzled, Lucia opened the cover. With a faint click, the buckle fell aside, revealing the contents underneath. The first page was completely blank except for one singular line, written in flowing calligraphy. Paying it no heed, the swordmistress smiled as she opened to a random page. Perhaps it was the aspiring works of some page, eager to become a skilled storyteller.

The same hand persisted throughout. A series of carefully placed and dated entries resembled a diary.

May 12th. Cloudy, with a silver of sunlight peering out from behind the darkening skies.

…Such is my heart as once again, I was bluntly rejected by her once again. Below, dear journal, I present reason 3,291.

"Sorry, my lord, I've been sharpening my blade, and my hands are covered in grime."

This one is actually rather easy to refute, as I could not care less about what her hands were covered in. Her hands covered in grime? Were they covered in hellfire themselves, still I would take them in my hands! Her long, slender fingers, her beautiful nails, always taken care of and filed to just the perfect length.

Her ability with a sword…ah, dear journal, were you a living being to witness her might! Verily, a comet flashing across the skies! Her hair danced with her supple yet comely body in the winds…

Lucia snorted. Such tripe. She flipped the page.

September 24th. The golden sun smiles at us from the tall heavens; her rays penetrate the deepest of nights.

She's busy today, apparently. Did not see her at all today. Alas, her aloofness is much another sonnet dedicated to her during spare time today. Hope she is doing well – and hoping beyond hopes that she, during offtimes of her duties or training may be thinking of me. There is still yet hope, and…

The rest of the entries were similarly written. The entire diary seemed to be devoted to one, single person as the lovestruck man rambled on and on about her. Yawning, Lucia closed the covers and gently buckled it again as she picked up her candle, her sleeping robe dropping back to her sides.

Lucia thought as she reopened Yvina, sifting through the book as she tried to find her page. If I didn't know better, I swear he sounds like…

She froze. Wait a minute. Something about the woman being described sounded suspiciously familiar. Too familiar, in fact.

Slim, sword-user. Aloof. Constantly rejecting his advances, who is in service of the Queen…

The hind legs of the chair slammed onto the ground as Lucia leapt out and sprinted back to the spot. The leatherbound volume sat on the table innocently; its skin seemed to wink in the candlelight as she opened it again with slightly trembling hands.

October 9th. No time for pleasantries.

I can only hope she is safe…no, what am I saying, she is not safe! She …oh, dear journal, be my muse and counsel in the hour of darkness. I cannot bear the thought of her gone. The beauteous and pure Lucia, captured in the service of her beloved Elincia, true Queen of Crimea! Alas, doth I rue the day! I have known that the traitor Ludveck was planning, but alas, alas!

Her heart raced.

Yet I, being faraway here cannot even lift a finger to protect her. As a man, I am a failure. As a lover, I have dishonored the name of chivalry itself because I, despite all my promises and words, have failed to protect her…

She winced at the painful words Bastian used to describe himself. Apparently, the Count was quite stressed – a facet of him that never appeared in public. A complex emotion swelled up inside of her as she read on. The self-condemnation spanned several more pages before an abrupt change seemed to have occurred. In neat, blocky calligraphy, Bastian had penned these words.

The miserable have naught save hope. True hope is swift, and flies with swallow's wings.

Nodding a little to herself, she turned the page.

… My only hope lies in Sir Ike, the marvelous hero who has agreed to watch her from afar, and pray to Ashera who listeneth to her faithful that they succeed in their endeavor. If Sir Ike doth succeed, I hereby swear to donate a large sum to her temple in Melior…

So it was…that's how…Bastian never told her this…how it actually…she had thought! No, this was-

… I shall not worry myself, nor pace about futilely in my current locale. But yet, O, life, why go on without her? She is altogether lovely and wondrous. To me, she is worth more than all the treasures of Tellius itself! Her sweet eyes doth tell of her unquenchable spirit, speaking of a purity that can only be matched by the queen herself. She speaks no lies, tells the truth always, and ah, dear journal, I cannot stress enough about how much of a boon she is when there is naught light on the side…

The more of his diary Lucia read, the more her heart fluttered. All that time…

All that time, he had felt …like this? He really did feel this way? She had thought he was only acting. But no, it was no act. Why would a count be interested in a simple bodyguard, otherwise? Sure, they grew up together, but that was …

And yet, every bit she read shook Lucia to the core. Bastian, being the meticulous record keeper he was, always managed to sneak in something about her. It didn't matter what they were – even her slightest comments or ideas were mentioned. Not a single day passed where she wasn't in his own thoughts in some way, and when they were apart, he wrote little snippets of new praise, or kind words, or things designed to cheer her up or make her smile. It was only now that she began to understand the extent of his feelings for her.

And how painful must it have been…to be rejected time after time?

Yet, the writings themselves showed no signs of him growing tired of her. Rather, the flowing praises continued and only grew in subtlety and complexity. He had noticed so many small details, positive ones that she didn't even know she had. Even the smallest bit of attention she paid him…a casual smile or word of concern brightened his day considerably. Reading them brought genuine smiles to her lips, and occasionally flushed cheeks as she mused. She was especially intrigued by the constant reference to her purity, and how she was like a little angel, with a smile as radiant as the dawn.

How curious, that Bastian would think of her as a pure little angel, a –

Like a bolt of thunder, a particular scene flashed again in her mind. The chains, the damp prison cell; lecherous faces, the –

Lucia slumped to her knees, overwhelmed by her own emotions. He…he didn't quite know. And …Aah…the…

"My lady Lucia, wouldst the spring be as fair as thee, a white flower amidst the darkened earth!"

With a clatter, the diary fell to the floor as Lucia spun around like a startled doe. Dressed in a simple black sleeping gown, with a ridiculously floppy sleeping cap, the Count of Fayre stood behind her. His genial smile only made her feel worse about herself as he carefully picked up the diary and dusted it off.

" Ah, my angel, it is most unfortunate that you had to busy yourself with my petty works. 'Tis of no importance, really. What is worthy of thy attention are the sonnets and lines your most humble Bastian has composed in your lovely name…"

"No, I…"

Bastian's smile quickly dropped from his face as Lucia struggled to her feet, her eyes brimming with tears. She had misunderstood him for too long. She needed time to think, time to rethink, and also, she needed … she needed something to …cleanse her, of the …

The images return. She was once again back in that tiny cell, where they tried to break her. She tried to resist, but the fear persisted. It seemed to engulf her, taking her in its gaping jaws. A desolate darkness. A lightless, damp dungeon. Heavy iron chains. Agony filled her body; pain lanced into her core. She heard her own haggard gasping as her defilers returned to torment her, repeating their vile deeds again and again until she could no longer remember daylight, nor did time pass for her anymore. She only wanted it to stop.

Closing her eyes, the swordmistress shook involuntarily. It was one of the rare times where she felt so…helpless and afraid. And now, faced with the man who had loved her for so long, she was wordless. She wanted to reciprocate, she wanted to tell him that she, after all this time, did appreciate – no, does appreciate; but she couldn't…She wasn't …She…she couldn't…no, she… she had to…she couldn't stand the thought of lying – he has always been nothing but faithful to her, she –

Most importantly, she couldn't bear to hurt him. Not after all this time…and the truth would. The truth would.

"Heavens, my dear Lucia! What heavy thing, what dark worry, is on your mind? Pray, and do tell -"

He was looking at her with a rather shocked expression on his face. For once in her life, Lucia was glad that Bastian could not intuitively guess at what she was thinking.

"I…I am no longer the angel you think I am," she whispered as she drew her robe around her. A long moment passed as she seemed to struggle with something, tears freely falling down her shapely face.

"Please, Bastian… I…Forget about me."

Then, turning with a small cry, she fled the room. The sounds of her footfalls quickly disappeared as a bewildered Bastian was left standing alone in the midnight air.