Disclaimer: I do not own any of these characters. They all belong to people far richer than I am.
A/N: This is my first work here! I hope you enjoy. As a small note, I do play a little bit with the game's timeline to fit my conception of the story. Nothing major, but I do want to keep you informed. Enjoy!
Balthier sighed, shaking his head as he wandered behind the annoying snap of a boy that guided them through the waterway. Of course it wouldn't be easy. Of all the rotten luck, he had chosen this night to steal the magicite, when the entire Resistance and the Archadian forces occupying Rabanastre decided to duke it out on the city streets. No, the gods were definitely not smiling upon him that night.
The clashing of blades distracted him from his thoughts, his gaze flying up the ledge on the far side of the waterway. A group of soldiers had cornered an insurgent, her sword at the ready. From here he couldn't see much; just a flash of silver blonde hair and what he believed was a rose pink skirt. His eyes narrowed, despite being one for a little flamboyance himself, but even that vibrant hue was a little too bright to manage any sort of stealth.
Without warning, Vaan, that was the boy's name, was running to her, begging her to jump. Balthier cursed under his breath, this was not the time for foolish plays at chivalry. For a moment, her face snapped to them, and Balthier was struck by the fierce beauty of her features. However, he had seen his share of beautiful women, and this particular one came with a whole load of trouble. Before he could stop the would-be thief, the insurgent had jumped, landing into Vaan's arms with a strange sort of grace that was a stark contrast with Vaan's awkward catch. Fran and him exchanged looks, both bristling at the increasingly annoying odds stacking against them, and wandered forward. The woman had pushed herself out of Vaan's arms, and Balthier quickly assessed her with a discerning eye. She wasn't beautiful in the ways he was accustomed to seeing it, with feminine lashes and delicate limbs, like the petals of a flower. She was harsh, unforgiving, taking no prisoners, like the icy rage of a snowstorm or the barren expanse of the desert. The woman, barely more than a girl really, was hardened with muscle and toil, her eyes a deep ebon gray that was empty, void of emotion. It was that last thought that made him shiver and want to run away into the skies, he always did when faced with something he couldn't conquer. He shook the feeling away, furious with her, furious with himself for feeling such. There was nothing to be frightened of. Especially not this foul tempered agent of the Resistance with hard eyes and a rose pink skirt.
Taking her with them was an insane act of charity, and Balthier attributed the lapse to Vaan's endless chattering. The boy seemed rather taken with this Amalia, who answered his questions coolly and with no expression. Though he had to give her credit for when they had been ambushed by the pack of Flans. She was rather skilled with a blade, parrying and feinting with the ease of someone well trained in the art of sword play. Her one weakness was her propensity to leave herself open for attack, and she had used more than one potion to compensate for her minimal defense. Vaan had thrown her some potions as well, much to his chagrin. The blasted woman was about to leave the party anyway, no need to waste good supplies on her. But she had accepted the potions with a graceful bow of her head and a sincere, if too polite, thank you, and suddenly Balthier had a sneaking suspicion that there was much more to this Amalia than she let on.
They marched forward, wandering, and of course, Balthier's bad luck continued with the arrival of Firemane, some horse like creature born from a fiery pit. He and Fran stayed back, letting their ranged weapons have a broader field of fire, while Amalia and Vaan methodically sliced the blazing fiend. The beast struck out, lashing at Amalia with untamed rage, and she flew backwards, her back scraping against the stone floor. Balthier turned to her, his hand grabbing a potion before he could think, but she had already leapt to her feet, launching herself at the creature with a battle cry. He stared for a moment, then realized his fingers were clasped around the potion, and he grunted in annoyance, refocusing his attack on Firemane. There was no point using potions on some insurgent wench that didn't know when to quit. She was utterly infuriating and he had barely known her for half an hour.
Amalia struck the final blow to the creature, its dying wail echoing throughout the chamber. The party turned to continue, but the marching of soldiers halted their advance, the barrels of many guns staring them down. Balthier was gritting his teeth, biting back the scathing retort to the woman at his side about her unfailing ability to get them into trouble, when Vayne Solidor himself slithered into view. Even without knowing her for long, Balthier could feel Amalia tense beside him; hear the thoughts screaming in her head for revenge. Just as she was about to step forward, and likewise get them all killed, instinct took over, and his hand shot out, catching her wrist with his fingers. Her breath caught, her eyes glancing to him in question, but there was something else there, a disbelief, as if she had never known human contact. Her skin was soft beneath his, nearly satin, but the rush of her pulse reminded him that he held not just her wrist, but their lives.
"Now is not the time," he warned, his hand tightening in emphasis.
She paused, her focus darting around the room, taking in the soldiers pouring into the chamber. Her features glimmered in resentment, and Balthier had the uncanny feeling that she was stowing away this defeat into herself, as if she had a collection and this was just the newest piece. She sighed, resignation staining her breath, yet her eyes had a determined glint, promising retribution. Though the moment had passed, her attack put on hold for now, he kept his hand enclosed around her wrist, feeling her heartbeat return to normal beneath his palm. Remembering himself, he let go, his fingertips brushing just slightly, and he glared up at the mocking face of Vayne Solidor, ordering the soldiers to restrain them. The cuffs bit tightly into his wrists, and he glanced at Amalia, chin raised in regal defiance, seemingly untouched by their impending imprisonment. And all he had wanted was a piece of magicite.
Oh yes, the gods truly despised him.