They had been climbing for hours, going at a crawl up the side of the mountain, treading on rocks that seemed to scorch the soles more and more with every arduous pace. Warm beads of sweat ran down the side of Freya's face, going unnoticed until they ran to the touch of her jaw line and dropped on to the parched path they were walking. She strode ahead up front, kept the brim of her dragoon hat lowered over her eyes so as not to give anything away. If she wiped the sweat away with the sleeve of her jacket he'd know, and that was the last thing she wanted.
He managed his bulk in effortless silence behind her, padding quietly over the rocks like a bear on snow. He took it slow and with nonchalant grace, stopping now and then to look behind him. He always seemed to be doing that; it was something Freya had picked up on. Perhaps it was his instinct – the nature of the thief, to be cool but cautious; to never let their guard down.
He had to have one. Had to. How could he find this so easy? This moody loner with personal vendettas, more concerned with his own esteem than the task at hand, not even sure why he was doing any of this. Freya was driven—for Burmecia, for everyone, for Fratley. She had drive but it was still just so difficult. And he? He took it like a walk down the street.
"You're tired," he said in his almost inaudibly low rumble.
She took another step. "No."
Several minutes later the path betrayed her, and she tripped when a stone shifted suddenly under her feet. She fell, but pushed herself right back up, didn't groan or even brush the dust from her coat. She kept on, and then, again: "You're tired."
"I'm not tired," she replied, irritably. "Why? Do you want a rest?"
"I'm fine. I just don't want you droppin' dead on me when we reach the summit."
She spun around and glared at him, forgetting to hold her breathing, exposing her drenched forehead, smudged with white ash-dust, her dirtied jacket and the grey-purple rings softening the skin around her eyes. But her face was hard like stone from the mountainside. "Just shut up," she barked. In truth, she didn't really know how to reply. Wit seemed superfluous now, so she kept it to the point, and walked further.
After another hour, when the dusk was creeping up on them, Amarant spoke again. "We're not going to reach it tonight... so we might as well break now."
"Sure, if you want." But he let that one slide; pretended he didn't hear.
As she began clearing a patch in the gravel he wandered away, and she couldn't think why. Perhaps he just had an affinity for loneliness, and as that word came into her mind it reminded her of Fratley, and the day that he left her, and part of her even thought that maybe he'd walked this mountainside in his world travels, and left his footprints in the dust for her to find.
Later they sat in the dust together, staring idly into space, feeling the fresh breeze turn their faces cold with the sweat that dried into their skin, sticking to their hair. They sat for a lifetime, not talking, and then at last Freya stood up and said:
"Excuse me."
And she walked away. She walked away where he could not see her, behind a large, jagged boulder, and lay down there to sleep. In her dream she thought of Amarant. She did not dream of him – she dreamt of Fratley, of course – but in her dream she thought of Amarant whilst with Fratley, sheltering from the rain in Burmecia when she was still young. She was thinking of Amarant wandering listlessly in the rain for no reason, those long, muscular arms, like an ape, hanging by his sides, but her thoughts broke when Fratley asked:
"Do you love me, Freya?"
Then she cried, or kissed him, or loved him, or something else before she woke up with the first touch of dawn on her face, the sun peering over the distant horizon. She walked back to where she'd left Amarant to find him standing, facing away from her, hunched forward with slightly bent legs.
"Long time," he said, vaguely, but didn't keep up the challenge. "Better get going."
She couldn't work him out, this laconic, green-skinned, long-armed man with the flaming red hair. She couldn't see through him in the same way that she could see through others. She could see the fear wrestling with quiet determination in Vivi; she could see the guilt and confusion in Princess Garnet; she could see the doubt behind Zidane's optimism. But Amarant she couldn't see; she couldn't understand.
Amarant was in front when Freya asked: "Why do you travel with us?"
And he answered, without looking back: "Got nothing better to do."
"There must be a reason. You're risking your life coming with us—to stop Kuja."
"I've risked my life for much pettier matters." He paused for a considerably long time. "Why are you here?"
"I'm here for the things that I care about. Burmecia, Cleyra – Kuja ruined them both. I can't let him do that again. I'm here for the people that I care about." For the first time she stopped walking, looked up instead of at the ground at that broad, muscular back. "Is there anyone that you care about?"
He took another step and stopped with no sudden movements; it was as if he could gradually wind his body down to a halt in a single pace. He was silent with his head arched downwards, as if he was giving Freya time to think about the nature of her digression in such an important time. And she did; she thought of how silly it was, and how unlike her. She knew the task at hand was more important than understanding Amarant, but with every step that they took along the dusty-ash path that seemed to become less true.
"The only person I care about is myself," he said in his deep, husky voice, full of indifference. "Maybe it was different a long time ago... but that doesn't matter." He began to walk forward again, slow, silent, smooth – graceful in his enormity. And as he walked he muttered: "It's none of your business anyway."
So they climbed towards the summit, and at some point Freya overtook him without acknowledgement as the cave entrance came into view. They walked in one after the other, Freya in front with aching limbs, exhausted from the climb. She turned around.
"Well, that was easy. It must have been a disappointment for you."
He could sense the dryness in her voice but didn't respond, choosing instead to take a sweeping glance around the cavern. Suddenly Freya stumbled forward, just about catching herself from falling, and he walked forward to her, placing his un-clawed, calloused giant's hand on her shoulder as she stood doubled over, breathing deeply. She looked at him and could see for the first time through that mass of flaming red and into the sparkling, beady-dark eyes below his defined and protruding brow.
"Are you OK?" he asked (voice of indifference).
"Yeah," she replied. "I'm just—"
She stopped and stood up again as he drew back his hand.
"Nothing." She turned and walked away in search of the mirror. "I'm fine."