"No!" Bal screamed, suddenly emerging from the dense fog of flee for your life, dropping into a tensed crouch even as Artemicion yanked his hair. "No!"
"It's too late, kupo!" the moogle screamed back, letting go of his grip to be heard. "He's gone!" But Bal was already turning back, face set in wild lines.
He gathered himself, and with a burst of speed flung himself at Bal's unprotected back. The Selkie fell, a sharp sound issuing from him at the surprise. He rolled over to face his attacker, the blood, dirt, and rage covering his face and chest making him all the more inhuman.
"He gave his life for us," Artemicion pressed, so close to Bal's face that his pompom smeared some of the blood on the brigand's forehead. "You can't go back. He's gone."
O-O-O
If Johnny and Coralynx hadn't been passing by, hadn't been two of the kindest people he'd ever met (he could forgive them for sending him flying that one time), Artemicion was sure they'd never have made it out of there. Bal reeked of death. It took them both too long to realize that the blood was his own.
His medallions had vanished, his leggings were torn, and he'd just lost the only father figure he'd ever known, but Bal Dat still shook his head when Johnny offered them a place in Tipa. If nothing else, he had his pride.
"The old man's dead," Bal said flatly, but that didn't stop him from looking over his shoulder expectantly as a somber Johnny helped him into the wagon. Artemicion said nothing; he looked too.
O-O-O
The teacup made a satisfying smash as it missed his moogle companion by a few strands of fur, shards exploding outward as it collided with the wooden wall. Bal sat at the rickety table, slouching over what remained of the small inn's complimentary tea service. He took another swig from the bottle at his hip. It could have been the fifth sip, or the fifteenth of the night. Neither cared or counted. Neither number helped numb the pain.
"What if he was still alive?" Bal asked after several long moments of contemplation. His chest was bare as ever except for the crisscrossing bandages Artemicion helped him change every morning, the linen glaring white in the dimly lit room. No medallions glinted in the shadows of his pectorals and he seemed all the more lessened for it.
One hand on the table for support, his chair scraped the floor as he stood and took another swig, sixth or sixteenth. "What if he was waiting for us to come back, and we didn't?" His red rimmed eyes sought out Artemicion's own lowered gaze. "Damn it all, why didn't you let me go back?"
The old man was already gone. Neither of them said what they'd known the moment they'd stumbled from the camp turned battlefield. He would not be coming back.
Bal Dat very carefully set the bottle down atop the air beside the table. At the second splintering crash to come from their room that night, he uttered a soft, exhausted "Fuck," and stumbled to the room's single bed, his sobs muffled only slightly by the tear soaked sheets.
O-O-O
"Bal?" The fire was burning low in the inn's common room, and in the gathering shadows it was difficult to tell whether the Selkie was feeling contemplative or merely sleeping. One could rarely tell the difference with Bal Dat.
"Yeah?" came the gruff response, and Artemicion knew it was the former. Still, he had to know.
"Why didn't you take the offer?"
He sighed deeply. In the faint glow of embers the cocky thief who scraped the sky with his shoulders and never looked away from the horizon seemed diminished somehow. "If I'd thought it would've brought him back, I would've happily been a farmer in Tipa for the rest of my days."
O-O-O
In time the angry red slashes on his chest scabbed over and slowly flaked off to reveal new, pink skin and fresh scars. Still, Bal shut himself in the tiny bedroom around sunset each day and didn't emerge until well after noon, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
Artemicion quickly learned to say little as well. He had Bal shave his fur in the traditional patterns of mourning, and otherwise asked for nothing else from the Selkie.
He didn't need to. The moogle who made his home in this town and the others who passed through on errands gave him a wide berth, nodding in respect to the loss cut into his fur. Every morning there was some form of food beyond the door. He merely collected the generous offerings and figured out what to put on the table each day, not that Bal would ever notice.
Bal never noticed. He ate what was provided mechanically and excused himself without a word. The door creaked to a close behind him every day, allowing a small glimpse of the set shoulders, the stiff gait, the ramrod spine.
Artemicion never followed. He'd seen this before. Only time would wipe the shadows from beneath his eyes, and only time would bring his friend back to him.
O-O-O
The plans were different now. There were more jobs to split, more care taken in deciding who would be where and then. More preparation was put into each action. It was riskier than ever, but given that they'd always been the capable thieves, perhaps not much more than it had always been.
And it nearly went off without a hitch. Artemicion managed to distract the caravan by startling their papaopamus just as Bal ran in from the side and attached himself to the tail gate like a limpet. In the ensuing chaos, he almost got away with some mythril.
"They saw me," he told the moogle ruefully, rubbing the back of his neck with a hand and wincing as he grazed the lump on his skull. "Don't know how. That sprout sure knew his way around a frying pan."
But he was not as repentant as he should have been, and Artemicion had seen Bal challenge the Lilty in the wagon. He understood. Somehow, it would have been wrong to be too successful without him. Disrespectful, even.
He shook off the thought, and with an eye creasing grin said, "Did you see my fancy flying? Did you?"
Moogles did not mourn in the same way as humans, but they could help mess up burglaries as well as the next grieving Selkie.
O-O-O
Bal cored the apple with a practiced delicacy, flicking the seeds to the springy grass one by one. Perhaps they would grow into new trees, and years later provide them with more delicious apples. One never knew.
Satisfied that no seeds remained in the fruit, he sliced it in thirds and passed the top to Artemicion. With a happy sigh the moogle shoved the entire crisp piece into his mouth, biting down with pleasure. The peel caught in his teeth, he grinned at Bal, who laughed at the strips of red littering his jaw.
Bal cut up his own portion into several pieces, tossing one into the air and catching it in his mouth. "This is the life, eh?" he said, not caring that juice dribbled out of the corner of his mouth. He licked his lips before tossing the next piece in. "Sunny day, blue skies, striped apples... what more could you want?"
"Don't know, boss," Artemicion chirped happily as he took advantage of Bal's distraction, deftly sweeping a piece into his mouth with his pompom. "I can't think of anything."
Bal took another piece, then did a double take as he counted his remaining slices of apple. With a baleful glare and a sigh he let it go, nearly inhaling the rest of his portion. "Who do you think we'll find today?"
"Pretty sure Tipa's due down this road," Artemicion said, waddling in Bal's wake as the man strode away. "Coralynx has a soft spot for me, I know it."
"You have a soft spot in your head," Bal said with a laugh, finding the very idea of the regal Yuke finding his moogle friend attractive hilarious, then realized he still carried the last third of the apple. "Hup, almost forgot." With a careless gesture he lobbed the bottom of the apple into the woods around him.
Once, Artemicion might have chided him for wasting food. Instead he fluttered forward to keep pace with the ranging strides of Bal Dat, ignoring the way the Selkie's eyes had become suspiciously shiny as he described what loot they might steal today.
This, too, was a form of remembrance.