Disclaimer: Square Enix owns Final Fantasy XII, not me. I'm just a lowly fan.
Content/Warnings: Mild sexuality in later chapters, minor swearing throughout. This fic does not follow Revenant Wings, and it is set approximately a year after the events of the game.
The streets of Rabanastre are as dusty as Balthier remembers them, much to his distaste. He assumes that Fran must recall them likewise; after all, she nods absently in response to his constant comments (yes, comments, because he is not so low as to complain) on them.
More than that, they're oppressively hot, a dry heat like walking through a kiln. Balthier comments on that several times as well, earning distracted shrugs.
Still, it's not like he minds being back here. Rabanastre fairly glitters in the too-bright sun. She is the capital of the kingdom, and it shows. The colorful flagstones and the intricacies of the elegant, swooping architecture blend into a dizzying impression.
He may not fancy himself an artist, but Balthier has the taste to know what deserves appreciation.
Balthier and Fran, however, are here for more than that. And luckily, their destination (the Sandsea, actually,) isn't too far, because Fran is looking quite tired of Balthier's fourth rendition of, 'precisely why the middle of a desert is a foolish location for a city.'
He is, however, mercifully silenced when they are waylaid in one of Rabanastre's narrower streets.
The distraction comes in the form of a blonde... someone that crosses the street in a blur and a clatter of boots on stone before hurling herself into Balthier's arms.
All things considered, he thinks as he catches the girl (more from reflex than anything else), if he still gets reactions like this, he's not losing his touch, no matter what Jules always insisted.
The young woman latches onto his shirt, shaking like she just might break into pieces. The street is crowded, and heads turn in their direction. He's accustomed to it; he ignores them.
Fran is instantly on the alert, craning to see over the heads of the crowd.
Balthier doesn't look up to see if she's found some kind of threat (it's Fran, it's not like she can't handle it herself), because he's rather occupied. As soon as he looks down and catches sight of those two blonde braids, he knows.
He gently cups the girl's chin in one hand, guiding her to look up at him. Recognition, all right. Her eyes are rimmed in red now, but they're still the same deep brown he remembers.
"Hello, Penelo."
She mumbles his name before dissolving into tears, and he lets her bury his head into his shoulder. He doesn't mind as much as he would have expected.
But then, if he didn't want crying damsels flinging themselves into his arms, he might have chosen a less romanticized occupation. As it is, he is quite accustomed to getting tearstains out of his shirt, so he just lets her sob unrestrainedly for a few moments.
Fran is off the alert now, apparently satisfied that Penelo is the only surprise waiting for them in the streets. They've apparently become something less of a spectacle, too: the populace of Rabanastre has stopped staring, and begin to move off, back to getting heat stroke, or whatever else it is they do for fun around here.
Penelo is still shaking and crying, and it's less awkward than Balthier would have thought to gently stroke her hair while she does.
Once Fran has deemed that Balthier's shirt has taken enough abuse, however, she puts her arms around Penelo and leads her to the shady periphery of the street, where children play and thieves skulk.
His eyes take some time to adjust to the gloom; for now, he is looking at the shadowy outlines and gleaming eyes of his companions.
"What is the matter?" Fran's voice is soft, like always, but more gentle than Balthier has heard it in quite some time.
Penelo takes a moment to collect herself, accepting (another) handkerchief from Balthier.
He peers into the darkness, and her face swims into view. Really, even with the dimness of present surroundings, she looks terrible. Her hair has untwined itself from her twin braids and hangs limply about her neck. Her eyes are puffy, like she hasn't seen a bed in days.
Though, of course, Balthier has had much experience with damsels, and knows better than to voice any of these observations.
She clears her throat, and it sounds like she hasn't spoken in days, either. "Vaan... he's so - so stupid."
Well, yes, that's probably one thing they can all agree on, Balthier decides. "And just what has he done this time? Idiot hasn't left you already, has he?" What does she want him to do, play relationship counselor? Well, that's one thing he hasn't done yet, but no thank you.
Instead, she shakes her head and takes in a gulp of air. "I haven't seen him in... a week."
Fran is all business. "Do you know where he has gone?"
Another shake of her head, loose braids flying akimbo. "I-I've been talking everyone. No one knows..." She looks like she might well start crying again, so Balthier puts what's supposed to be a comforting hand on her shoulder. Instead, it feels like he's using her as an anchor to hold himself in place.
It doesn't work. "You can't possibly want us to go on a neighborhood search." Like he's a lost puppy...
Penelo is apparently used to him by now, because she just looks up at him. While the rest of her is none too polished right now, her eyes are catching the light just right, and Balthier with never understand his own weakness for damsels in distress. "P-please?"
He and Fran exchange another look, one they've shared so many times. Fran is telling him not to do anything idiotic (as if that's advice he really needs), and he is nonverbally swearing that he knows what he's doing.
"...And just where do you propose we start?"
As it turns out, Penelo hasn't a clue, and she's not the only one.
Trust Vaan to go running off with nary a word to his little friends.
She starts by sniffling into Balthier's handkerchief, and then launches into a list of all the people she's interrogated for Vaan's whereabouts.
Balthier's impressed. Shaded by the dark alcove, she looks a little less heartbroken, and he knows he's not just imaging that her voice gets firmer by the second. This is the Penelo he knows.
"Migelo hasn't seen him for the last two weeks. But that's not odd, Vaan always disappears when it's time to clean out the stock rooms. I know Kytes hasn't seen him, since he came to me yesterday and said he was worried. I know a soldier down by South Gate, he's an old friend of Reks, and he says Vaan hasn't been there in a month or more..."
And on and on it goes. By the time she's done, Fran is flicking her ears back and forth in a rarely expressed tic, and Balthier is straightening his cuffs, all while entertaining the notion that Penelo knows the name and address of positively every citizen of Rabanastre.
When she finally stops to draw breath, Balthier is glad he hasn't stopped her list. She looks stronger for having shared it, like she's re-affirmed to herself that she is doing something to help her wayward love.
"So... Is there any place in the entire country that you haven't checked?"
Her answer is immediate, and he is reminded of a tactician commanding troops. "Yes. Lowtown. I was on my way there when I... when we met."
Fran rises elegantly from her seat on a stone outcropping. "If we split up, we will cover the place in a matter of hours."
"Is there somewhere we can agree on meeting?"
Penelo nods. "Migelo's store. I bet you both remember where it is."
"Right. I'll take the North Sprawl. You two split up in the south."
Balthier makes to saunter off in the direction of the Lowtown entrance, just to show how casually he can handle drama like this, but Penelo's hand on his shoulder stops him.
"We will find him... right?"
Fran nods, and clearly expects Balthier to do the same. At least, that's what he assumes is her rationale behind prodding him in the spine with the tip of her bow. Oh, alright.
He gives Penelo's hand a gentle squeeze before slipping away. "Of course," he says, voice gruffer than he intended. "Idiot's probably off picking flowers or something." (He will, of course, remember Vaan's recollections of Galbana lilies to his dying day.)
As he finally gets to the 'coolly setting off for Lowtown' business, Balthier is grateful for one thing at least: his destination is far from this blasted heat.
A/N: Spellcheck firmly believes that Balthier = Blather. I find this terribly amusing.
Anyways, hope you enjoyed reading, and will consider sticking around for further chapters. (Reviews make me a happy author. This is a not-so-subtle hint.)