DISCLAIMER: I don't own Final Fantasy XII, its characters, or any other intellectual property belonging to Square Enix. Nor do I own any other pieces of pop culture that I reference here.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: The following has been rated M for some language and dirty humor, but mostly for adult situations, all of which are in this chapter – ye be warned. It's nothing excessively explicit since this isn't meant to be a lemon, but your mileage may vary.
UPDATE (1/5/17): Originally posted as two long chapters, then split into 15 smaller chapters, and finally reformatted as two long chapters again. This is something I've been meaning to do for some time now. The whole reason I'd split them into smaller chunks in the first place was because I was paranoid about each chapter being overlong. Considering that four out of six chapters of my next story, the Final Fantasy XV story "False Pioneers," topped the 10K mark (with the last one going over 24,000 words), I figured that shouldn't be an issue for this story anymore.
PART I
So drunk in the August sun
And you're the kind of girl I like
Because you're empty and I'm empty
And you can never quarantine the past.
- Pavement, "Gold Soundz"
A CASUAL BUSINESSMAN ON MATTERS OF THE HEART
The pirate's eyes darted to and fro observing the numerals on the doors as he sauntered through the dimly-lit hallway, the old floorboards creaking softly beneath his feet. The latest treasure hunt had been more physically taxing than he'd anticipated, and he was eager to spend the night atop a proper mattress rather than toss and turn for an hour in a cot aboard his airship before finally dozing off. That had become a most irritating nightly ritual.
Any other evening he'd be happy to admire the landscape portraits on the walls, amusing himself by inventing outlandish interpretations of the works when the artists clearly only wished to say, "What a lovely view this is." But this time he saw them as more akin to tourist traps, distractions with no purpose or value beyond delaying his arrival at his intended destination. He fumbled through his pockets for the key as he approached the proper door, slipped it into the keyhole, and gave the surprisingly heavy door a firm push.
He was immediately blinded by the glowing rays of the setting sun. The light flooded the room through a glass doorway on the opposite wall, which lead to a grandiose balcony overlooking the sea. Golden coins littered the floor and paper currency rained down from the ceiling like confetti, floating about in a gentle breeze blowing in through an open window. The whole suite looked remarkably regal, a far cry from the simple designs that defined the rest of the place.
I must remember the name of this inn, he mused. Such impressive décor.
He looked toward the right and spotted a small end table, upon which rested a fancy lamp and, more interestingly, a little jar of what appeared to be maraschino cherries. Strange… he couldn't remember picking up anything of that sort.
Finally he looked straight ahead toward the center of the room. There was a large four-poster bed shrouded in a thin white see-through curtain. A nude young blonde sat on her heels with her back facing him, her right arm jerking up and down as if shaking something obscured from his view. He could hear a faint hissing sound as the girl began spraying herself in strategic locations. Then, when she was done, she turned her head to face him – slowly, presumably to build his anticipation.
Her instantly recognizable face formed a come-hither glance, and she silently beckoned to him with her index finger.
She didn't have to ask twice. He was quick to join her inside the curtain. His clothing did not.
The girl turned to face him as he slowly made his way across the mattress, revealing a can of whipped cream in her hand and wearing lingerie made from its contents. Her eyes met his as she sprayed a little dollop of whipped cream on her tongue and swallowed it, and her soft pink lips formed a thin smile.
"That's a good look for you, Princess," he said, letting her title sound more like a pet name.
"Is that so?" she purred, a tone of voice he'd never heard from her before, and she reached over to brush an imaginary hair behind his ear. "What a shame that it's for your eyes only, then."
And with that, she rolled the can away and pulled him into a deep kiss, one he gladly returned. She draped an arm over his shoulder and cradled the back of his head in her hand. He let his hands explore the soft and smooth skin of her back before cupping her ass and giving it a good squeeze. She giggled against his lips and they opened their mouths a little to let their tongues try to tie each other in knots. Before long she was lying on her back with her head on the pillow, looking up at him, panting softly.
"You know," she whispered, "I think I'd like a little snack before we do anything else."
"Really?" he said. "What did you have in mind?"
"I want you to feed me those cherries."
He looked over toward the end table, where he noticed the jar he'd seen before.
"No, not those cherries," she said, reaching for his chin and guiding his head where she wanted him to look. "Give me these."
There were a couple of cherries buried in the two mounds of whipped cream covering her breasts, and he also noticed the third mound between her legs, and for a moment he wondered how the cherries hadn't fallen off or how the cream hadn't melted away by now. But it was only a fleeting question, and he lightly poked his fingertip in and—
"Ah-ah-ah!" she scolded, wagging her index finger at him as if training a puppy. "No hands. And I want you to lick me clean."
He looked down at her and gave a little chuckle. "I never knew this side of you even existed. I think I like it."
Her smile faded slightly as she met his gaze. "There's a lot about me that you don't know."
He wasn't sure where exactly that came from, but her smile quickly returned so he shrugged it off and went to work. He could tell she was enjoying herself from the ticklish giggles and contented humming noises, and he passed the cherry from his mouth to hers with another kiss. Then he did the same with her other breast and crawled back toward her hips as she chewed the second cherry.
Then, as he licked the third mound, he began to notice a few things. He saw where she'd left the whipped cream can, which made him think about where he'd like to spray some on himself if there came an opportunity for role-reversal. Her earlier humming had given way to heavier panting and some soft oohs and aahs; thankfully, considering the neighbors who would disapprove of him picking this forbidden fruit, she wasn't loud. And third…
"Well, that's odd," he murmured, knowing exactly what had been under his tongue. "This is definitely not a cherry."
And then suddenly she gave a startled cry, rolled away from him, and lifted herself up on all fours, her hip beside his head as he propped himself up on his elbows.
"Is everything all right?" he asked.
"Everything is fine," she assured him, looking back at him. "Why? Do you think there's something wrong?"
He decided to play things more carefully in light of that little outburst. "I think you tricked me," he said.
She cocked her head in confusion.
"You didn't put any cherries down there at all, did you?"
She rolled her eyes and gave a little sigh of what was either exasperation or relief, or maybe something in between. Then she playfully jerked her hip and bopped him on the head.
He started to laugh. At this point, he had no idea how else to react to her sudden mood swings. It was all starting to get rather confusing.
"You liked that?" she asked him, pivoting herself around. "Then how about this?" And with that, she started massaging the side of his head with her ass.
He'd heard of dancing cheek-to-cheek, but never like this.
"Does that feel good?" she teased. "Don't tell me you don't think I know how much you stare."
Had he really been that obvious about it?
"What's gotten into you today?" he finally asked as he felt her rubbing against him a little harder. "You're being unusually frisky."
"Isn't that what you want?" she asked.
And this time she wasn't playing around. Instead she was letting her much more familiar intensity and haughtiness begin to sneak into her voice for the first time.
"Another girl throwing herself at you, only to become another notch in your bedpost?"
Well, that certainly stung. He began to retort – and she immediately interrupted his reply with another bop on his head, because somehow her words had completely distracted him from what she'd been doing, and she started crawling away.
"Of course I'm different, right?" she went on, looking back at him. "Well, perhaps I am. But I'm sure that's what you said to all the others. The only thing that sets me apart is that you might actually remember my name."
It made no sense. Her eyes were telling him to come over, and her body moved as if yearning for his touch, yet her voice was telling him "don't you dare."
But she was right – she was different. How could he have been such a fool? She'd been raised to behave at a higher standard, and to expect better treatment from her peers in return. This was not just some girl he'd met in a tavern who was only looking for a good time. Once upon a time, she had been a heartbeat away from becoming one of the most powerful people in the world.
"What do you really want?" she continued, lying on her side and resting her head on the pillow. "What are you trying to gain from coming with me? If this is your goal, then we can simply finish things up right now. You can get this infatuation out of your system and be on your way, and I can move on to someone who truly cares for me."
Her words were tinged with another unfamiliar tone – was it disappointment? Or sadness, perhaps?
"I'll grant your wish just this once," she said, "but I have too little patience for monomaniacal philanderers to let it go any further."
She rolled over now, turning her back to him so he couldn't see how much he'd upset her.
"Is that how you see me?" he asked. "You honestly don't think I have any other motives or desires?"
"How am I supposed to know," she mumbled, "when you never tell me anything?"
He crawled over to her, lay beside her, and gently embraced her from behind. "I'm sorry," he whispered in her ear. "The only reason I haven't told you is because… because I don't want you despising me any more than you already do."
She turned her head and looked back at him, her blue eyes sparkling like sapphires. "I don't want to despise you," she said softly. "I simply want you to be honest."
"I don't know if I'm ready to tell you yet."
"Promise me you will."
He tightened his embrace as he tried to repress memories of the life he'd left behind in the imperial capital. "When I'm ready to start being honest," he said, "I promise you'll be the first one I tell."
She began to smile again, and he knew that if there was one thing he'd gotten right all night, it was the observation that this really was a good look for her.
And then she said his name in a voice that wasn't hers.
"What was that?" he wondered aloud.
"Come on," she said with her new voice. "It's time to wake up." She sounded strangely gruff, masculine even.
Somewhere along the line, this night had taken a very bizarre turn.
"Not now," he said, closing his eyes.
"Yes, now," came the manly voice, and everything began to shake, and the air grew colder, and the bright suite grew darker as the colorful drywall began changing into drab icy stone…
When Balthier opened his eyes again, everything was blurry and dark and the air of the Paramina Rift still managed to freeze, even despite the heavy blanket draped over him. He tried to move but there was something curled up snugly to his left and a firm hand on his torso shaking him awake. As his vision cleared up he recognized the owner of that hand as none other than Captain Basch fon Ronsenburg of Dalmasca, wrongfully accused of regicide and treason and recently back from the dead and freed from prison, all of which were contrary to Ondore's lies (or however Vaan had put it), and last but certainly not least Princess Ashe's knight in potholder armor.
"All right, all right, I'm up!" he groaned as the captain finally removed his hand. "Bloody hell."
"Sorry to disturb your beauty rest," Basch said, "but it's your turn to keep watch."
"Lucky me," Balthier mumbled, sitting up and rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "The joys of drawing the short straw…"
"One last thing before you go, if you don't mind," Basch said.
"What is it?"
The knight seemed unusually agitated, and something told Balthier it had nothing to do with his sarcasm. He chalked it up to being difficult to wake. He'd once been told by a lovely soldier girl with light brown hair ending in little curls and wearing naught but a patch over her right eye (he never found out if it was for fashion or genuine necessity) that he was such a heavy sleeper he could probably doze his way through the apocalypse.
His hypothesis proved to be untrue.
"Care to explain how you, of all people, ended up sleeping beside Her Majesty?" Basch asked, folding his arms.
The party had found a small snowless alcove in the side of a cliff and managed to cram themselves into a small tent, the only one they could afford with their limited funds. They'd laid a large blanket across the floor so they wouldn't have to sleep on cold ground, then used a second to cover up the whole group and gave a third to whoever sat outside making sure nothing tried to attack them overnight. They had also shuffled themselves around a bit to ensure everyone could find as comfortable of a fit as possible. The final settlement placed Vaan and Penelo beside the tent's walls, Balthier smack in the middle, and Fran and Ashe on either side of him.
This arrangement did not make Her (Former) Royal Highness very happy.
"I am far too exhausted and not nearly stupid enough to try anything untoward," the sky pirate had assured her. "I will swear to the god of your choosing. And if I should somehow break this vow, you have my permission to render me a eunuch."
"What's a eunuch?" Penelo had asked.
"Nothing you would ever need to worry about becoming," Balthier had said.
And true to his word, he'd fallen asleep almost immediately. Not that this explanation, or anything else he would have to say, was ever going to satisfy Ashe's ever-watchful bodyguard. So instead, he decided to have a little fun.
"Ah, funny story about that," he said, recalling a stunt a certain foppish Rozarrian twit had attempted a few nights prior. "I actually gave her a couple glasses of Bhujerban Madhu and started sweet-talking her until visions of peace treaties and Dynast-Queens and my family's lavish horticulture began dancing in her head. And then, as they say, one thing lead to another and—"
"That's not funny," Basch interrupted.
"I've been awake for two minutes, Captain," Balthier said. "Forgive me if I need more time to conjure up the A material." He paused to rub his eyes again and start stretching his arms. "This was simply the best way the five of us could squeeze into a tent designed to fit four."
"Be that as it may, you're a pirate," Basch countered. "You still have a reputation for me to consider."
His six years of pillaging and plundering seemed largely irrelevant in this context, given how little money the party had been able to pool together. The princess also lacked any valuable possessions beyond the wedding ring she'd already given him in exchange for leading her to Jahara to meet with the Garif (a meeting that had proven mostly fruitless, but that was another story). He concluded that Basch must have been referring to his other reputation, one that the knight couldn't have learned about during the two years he spent wasting away in a dungeon. Clearly Basch must have done some research on the other members of their ensemble back at the Sandsea tavern and other locales they were likely to frequent.
Aside from the notoriety he'd earned from his career in piracy, complete with a hefty bounty on his head, Balthier also had a well-known predilection for the fairer sex. Rumors of his numerous conquests, though sometimes greatly exaggerated, had made the rounds among his fellow scoundrels, sky captains and sea dogs alike. He knew this because he would sometimes overhear such talk personally.
"Behold the brilliant Balthier," they'd say amongst themselves, "the bloke who brings every beautiful bachelorette in Balfonheim to his bed and then gives 'em all the boot!"
And while he certainly appreciated some good alliteration as much as the next educated fellow, having such sterling reputations attached to his name tended to give people a nasty case of trust issues when dealing with him, even in his most genuinely helpful moods. Case in point: the good captain.
"Is that so?" he asked Basch. "Do I really strike you as the sort of man who would molest a lady in her sleep just to get my rocks off?"
"One can never be too careful."
The pirate gave an exasperated sigh. "I think you and I need to get to know each other better."
"Some other time, perhaps," Basch said. "Now go take over the watch."
"Aye-aye, Captain," Balthier said, raising his right hand to his brow to offer a mock salute. Then he sharply brought his hand back down – and accidentally spanked Fran. The Viera made a little noise and squirmed around, but fortunately did not wake.
Basch did his best to keep from laughing hard enough to wake the others. For a moment he feared the pirate's head might burst from the rush of blood to his face. Here was a man so unflappable that upon being threatened with decapitation by Judge Ghis aboard the Leviathan a few weeks ago he'd simply held his ground and spat a pithy quip in the Judge's face. And this was all it took to actually shake him?
"That… that was unintentional. And you know it."
"Whatever you say," Basch said, still holding in his laughter. "I left the blanket outside for you. Have fun out there."
Balthier rose to his feet and inched his way between the sleeping women and around the chuckling captain. "Don't you try any funny stuff with Fran when I'm not looking."
"Wouldn't dream of it," Basch said, lying on his back in the newly-vacant spot in the center of the tent. "Touching a woman in her sleep? That's not what a gentleman does."
Balthier rolled his eyes and left the tent, conceding defeat (for now) and content to let the knight sleep. For his part, Basch felt satisfied to have scored a rare victory over the sky pirate in a war of words. Simply entering one with that man was like bringing a sword into battle only to learn the opponent was about to use nethicite. That was an experience with which he'd become all too familiar two years ago, when the Archadian Empire used the Midlight Shard to obliterate Nabudis.
And reflecting on his "victory" inevitably brought him back to the subject matter of their conversation.
When he'd entered the tent to wake Balthier, he was treated to a sight he'd hoped he would not see. Her Majesty had been resting her head on Balthier's shoulder and gently gripping his arm, looking so calm and content – albeit all subconsciously, but it made little difference to Basch. He reasoned that there would still be a period of awkwardness between him and Lady Ashe before she could speak to him again of more personal matters, given that she had spent the past two years being misinformed that he'd murdered her father and betrayed her country. He also knew she needed a friend in the wake of Vossler's betrayal and subsequent death, the latest blows in what had been a long run of personal tragedy for the princess; thus far the sky pirate had proven himself to be surprisingly reliable and trustworthy.
He recalled feeling the same way she did after the fall of his home country of Landis so long ago. It had been conquered by the same gluttonous Empire that would later devour Nabradia and Dalmasca. There had been a period where he'd experienced once-unfathomable anger and sorrow, along with desperation to do whatever it took to restore his country. He had joined the Dalmascan military hoping it would give him a chance, but the kingdom had stayed out of that conflict. His father was already long gone, and he feared the worst for his mother and identical twin brother Noah. Unbeknownst to Basch (until their confrontation in Basch's Nalbina prison cell), Noah had joined the Imperial Army and began his transformation into Judge Magister Gabranth, the real king slayer. The guilt from this choice hung over Basch's head for years. And even after he accepted Landis's fate, he had often found himself longing for a home and a life that he could never have back.
Such was the tragedy of nostalgia.
But there was still something about this situation that didn't sit well with him. The very sight of Lady Ashe snuggling with that man sent a chill down Basch's spine that he knew hadn't come from the cold. Nor was it from jealousy (he saw her more the way a proud uncle might view his niece), but rather from worry. For all of his intelligence and refined aristocratic demeanor, Balthier was still a notorious criminal wanted throughout the world for his various illegal exploits, and a man who preferred to keep his background and motives shrouded in mystery. Even when Basch had politely asked him to explain himself as they were leaving Jahara, the self-proclaimed "leading man" had brushed it off by saying he wanted "to see how the story unfolds."
It certainly didn't help matters that Basch recalled someone else the princess once knew who shared the pirate's gift for wit: the late Rasler Heios Nabradia, her former husband, who had given his life in a failed effort to save his country. The Archadians, being the cunning bastards they were, treated the royal wedding and the allied nations' state of euphoria that surrounded it as a diversion. Within the week, with the festivities just beginning to die down, the Empire attacked the Nabradian capital city of Nabudis. Lord Rasler's death via one well-placed arrow to his heart during the ensuing battle had secured the downfall of his country's monarchy and left his new bride a teenage widow. Basch could still recall how happy they'd both looked during the parade that brought them to the cathedral, and how much the princess had struggled to put on a brave face at the funeral.
"I know this is a difficult time, my lady," Vossler had instructed her (and not for the first time), "but you must stay strong for your country. And this time, also for his."
The prince's wordplay wasn't quite as sharp (nor was it nearly as ribald) as Balthier's, but it had been one of Lady Ashe's favorite things about him. Basch wondered if she'd detected this similarity, or if there had been other things that drew her to this man who had bounty hunters breathing down his neck on a routine basis. Indeed, there was something oddly familiar about the sky pirate that Basch couldn't quite put his finger on, and it wasn't from any wanted posters, which could be notoriously inaccurate.
He tried to think of any Archadian noblemen matching Balthier's age and appearance that the princess may have met in the years preceding the invasion. The closest that came to mind was a young Judge that she'd met while tagging along with her father for some international summit about six or seven years ago. In fact that boy, who seemed to absolutely hate his job ("I feel like a bat in hell whenever I wear this whole getup," he'd told Her Majesty), had soon become her first serious crush. But the memory had almost faded away entirely, and the odds that this boy had traded the Judiciary for a life of piracy only to cross paths with her again in the present were infinitesimally slim.
Whether any of this meant she was finally beginning to move on or if she was simply searching for a second Rasler, Basch couldn't say. He had even less of a clue as to Balthier's intentions. But he'd spotted her gazing at him on several occasions only to look away if she sensed that anyone had seen her doing it. He'd observed the pirate admiring her figure, usually from behind, only for him to strike up a conversation with Fran before Basch could confront him about it. He hadn't paid attention until he overheard the princess and pirate chatting one morning en route to Jahara – something involving his reasoning for taking her wedding ring, though Basch couldn't make out much of what they said – before emerging from their tent to strategically interrupt.
A small part of Basch had felt rotten about doing that. After all, Lady Ashe was no longer the little girl he'd been hired to babysit all those years ago; she had proven beyond a shadow of a doubt that she could take care of herself. On top of that he felt he owed the pirate for helping him escape prison, and Balthier had done nothing to suggest he harbored any ill intent toward Lady Ashe. Still, it was Basch's job to look after her and so he believed that it was for the best. Barring some miraculous act of redemptive heroism on Balthier's part, he doubted that either of them could prove to society at large that he was worthy of her hand. The man was an Archadian sky pirate, so there were two massive strikes against him already; the only way his credentials could get much worse would have been if he turned out to be Vayne Solidor's long-lost cousin or some such. Indeed, he could foresee no way such a relationship could ever end well. And he was fairly certain both pirate and princess would agree. They were stubborn enough to convince themselves that it was possible, but they were also smart enough to realize that it most likely wasn't.
But perhaps he was simply over-thinking things. It wouldn't have been the first time, and it likely wouldn't be the last. A man with Balthier's reputation would surely have made a more assertive advance toward the princess by now if he were truly that interested. With that relaxing thought in mind, Basch promised himself to keep a more cautious eye open, just in case, and drifted off to sleep.
If he'd taken a moment to sit up and observe the princess once more he would have seen her lying on her back, anxiously clutching her share of the blanket, her head tilted toward Penelo with a troubled look upon her face.
There were two things that Balthier hated about keeping the last watch. First and foremost was the sudden interruption of much-needed sleep. The second was the utter lack of anything to do except for getting lost in his thoughts.
He had taken over the watch a few hours ago, but within the first twenty minutes or so he'd concluded that once again he was the only living thing within a hundred-mile radius that was still conscious at this hour. Such an observation wouldn't have been an issue were he still back in Balfonheim, often in the company of the best-looking girl he'd met at whichever tavern he'd deemed worthy of his patronage for the night. But the icy terrain and bone-chilling winds didn't seem to make the Paramina Rift a haven for nocturnal creatures, and thus far he'd seen absolutely nothing to dispel that notion. So there he sat on a chilly stone slab, roasting by the small campfire as much as possible without actually throwing himself in it, wrapped in the heavy blanket Basch had left him, trying in vain to find ways to amuse himself.
And all of this with only his trusty Betelgeuse shotgun for companionship. That made three things he hated about the watch.
Despite having been awake these past few hours, he still felt under-rested and exhausted. He figured this was the sort of thing that happened when you spent the day trudging through a snowy mountain range carrying packs full of supplies and fighting off whatever monsters felt like having you for lunch. When was the last time he'd been this physically drained? He could only think of one other time at all, and it was an incident that had actually worn him out even worse.
About six months ago the Pirate King Reddas, to whom Balthier had owed a favor, brought him and Fran along with his usual crew on a hunt for a golden idol hidden within an ancient temple built to honor an earth goddess. Upon entering they'd been faced with three trials. The first was the guardian wyrm waiting for them inside the entrance hall rather than outside. Presumably, Reddas theorized, this was to give thieves a false sense of security when they arrived. The trick had certainly worked on them. Reddas's first mate Rikken had taken an especially rough beating, and Fran had needed to use nearly all of her white magick just to get him back in action.
After the guardian's defeat it left behind a key for the second trial, a wade across an ever-deepening pool of mud to fetch the next key, which had raised all sorts of unanswered questions as to how the builders had ensured the continued irrigation of the chamber. One member of Reddas's crew, a barely-dressed golden brunette named Elza, had been all too happy to volunteer for that. "It's good for my skin," she'd explained, though anyone who knew her well enough knew how much she loved the dirty jobs. Balthier himself could barely stand to soil his cuffs and thus was happy to step aside.
Finally, and most grueling of all, he, Fran, and Reddas had to make a long climb to the idol's display that was arranged as a giant puzzle. The puzzle called for stone blocks to be pushed and pulled around to create a path to the summit. Every now and then they would be attacked by tall red-eyed sheep-like guardians walking on their hind legs and wearing Hume clothing. As they got closer to the idol the air had become increasingly hallucinogenic, giving them all visions of a vaguely feminine demon about ten stories tall with fiery eyes, blonde hair arranged in spirals, and a wide-open mouth with two rows of razor-sharp fangs. The imaginary monster had burst from the ground and chased them all the way up.
He'd lost sleep thanks to that experience as well, but for entirely different reasons. From then on, though he maintained his respect for the Pirate King, he preferred to keep his business as separate from Reddas's as possible.
About halfway through his shift on the watch Balthier found a small twig lying on the ground, one that had no doubt escaped becoming campfire kindling, and killed some time making rudimentary sketches with it as best he could in the frozen soil. It had been a favorite hobby of his as a child; as a teenager his father had perverted that hobby into a chore, forcing him to help design new weaponry and even a massive sky fortress named after the mythical king of dragons. He had let art fall out of his favor over the first year or so after leaving home, but began taking it up again after deciding he wouldn't let the old man's memory taint something he'd once loved.
Over the ensuing years he learned that drawing was a skill where one might be surprised by how much it could come in handy.
"Well, this is unorthodox," a girl had told Balthier about four months ago while lying on her side in bed, propping her head up on her hand, and letting the colorful beads around her neck tap and rattle as they fell into place. "Nobody's ever asked me to pose for a portrait before."
"I find that hard to believe," he said, and he could see her violet lips form a flattered smirk as he began sketching the initial outline of her impressive curves. "But perhaps the others considered themselves incapable of doing you justice."
"And you can with a pad and pastel, can you?" she teased. It was the latest showcase of the sharp deadpan tongue that had kept him riveted from the moment he'd met her. "Careful now – I might start expecting a masterpiece."
He laughed softly as he adjusted the lighting and resumed sketching. "I'm a bit out of practice," he said, "but I shall do my best."
As opposed to his usual custom of meeting girls at night in the local watering hole of whatever town he happened to be visiting, he'd first met this girl some time after noon on a Friday earlier that year at Quayside Magickery. She was an accomplished mark hunter and more notably a devoted student of black magick, one who loved her craft enough to visit the pirates' paradise of Balfonheim in search of more scrolls; she planned to spend the night and then fly back home on Saturday. He'd been in the shop to sell a bronze mace he'd found on his most recent treasure hunt, but had also thought it prudent to browse around for any useful spells that might have been available on discount. She mistook him for an employee and asked where she could find Flare magick.
When he'd first come to Balfonheim six years ago he had taken some odd jobs in various shops around town, including Quayside Magickery, so he could raise funds toward repairing and modifying his airship, the Strahl. The owner hadn't altered the layout of his shop since, which was good news for Balthier whenever Fran was otherwise occupied and couldn't buy a scroll herself; he liked to call the favor his "one good deed for the day." So he helped the girl find her scroll and spent the rest of the day showing her around town, treating her to dinner and drinks at day's end. They'd parted ways for the night, met again around noon on Saturday at the magick shop, and then picked up where they left off until it came time for her flight back home.
Every couple of weeks after that first encounter, she would come back in search of another scroll to study. On some occasions when they both happened to be in town they would run into each other again and spend another weekend wandering about, having lengthy conversations and making the rounds at local hot spots. The routine had gone on for a few months by this point. This time they'd enjoyed each other's company to the point where she ended up missing her flight and couldn't make another reservation at the inn, so he offered a bed aboard the Strahl. He would have flown her back himself had he not planned to leave for another treasure hunt the following afternoon.
Sharing his bunk that night had been her idea. She had acquired the last scroll Quayside Magickery had to offer that she didn't already own, and she wanted to "make this visit special." It was only fair – after all, the first few times they'd had "special visits" had been in her bed at the inn, and also in her shower, and even on her balcony late at night when no one was awake to see them.
"Should I let my hair down?" she asked. She pointed to the black bun atop her head from which several black braids extended down to about her navel.
"You can keep it up," he answered. Then he glanced toward her legs and observed her abundant collection of belts. "Those belts may take a while, though."
"I could always take everything off," came her husky reply as she sat up.
He looked her over for the umpteenth time, admiring both the contrast of her pale skin with her low-cut black dress and also the ample bosom that was on the perpetual brink of escaping that dress's confines. It had felt good to watch her initially cold and distant personality defrost, first to the point of friendly quip-trading banter, then to more intimate conversation, and finally to this. Her fiancé had died in an accident during a mark hunt two years prior and she'd been orphaned at a young age; she was reluctant to discuss such matters at first, but the more time they spent conversing the more refreshingly open she had become. This in turn inspired him to share a few stories about life as an expatriate sky pirate – especially his more memorable close calls. Although he hadn't revealed more than he was comfortable with (nothing about his father's work or the job the old man forced him into), at least he could still talk about himself to someone not named Fran or Reddas for a change.
No, there was no way he could hope to do this girl justice. She had changed something in him. And about two months after that, when he would learn she'd begun seeing another man ("I wanted to see you again, but you never came," she would say, and he would never forget the disappointment in her eyes or the sadness in her voice), he would kick himself for letting "Black Magick Woman" become just another girl he ran away from.
"Leave the beads," he told her.
The snapping of his makeshift pencil against the cold hard ground brought Balthier back to the present, and he unceremoniously chucked the twig's remains into the campfire.
So much for that pastime. Now what was he to do?
Outside the snowstorm that had forced them to prematurely end yesterday's travels continued to coat the ground with fresh powdery flakes, just as it had all through the night. It had certainly been worse when they'd elected to find shelter, and Balthier was sure the rest of the party would be pleased to learn that it had climaxed early. The bad news was that thanks to the storm's persistence he wouldn't be able to peek outside to stargaze. He supposed he wouldn't have been able to see as much of the sky as he would have liked anyway, what with the Rift being a range of mountains, and so the view likely wouldn't have been as breathtaking as the starry nights in the Ozmone Plains.
Once he'd ruled out that activity he tried thinking of music, but at the moment he could only think of two songs. The first was from a distant childhood memory that had inexplicably crept back into consciousness over the last few weeks. Strangely, he'd found himself able to recall more and more of it as his journey with Her Royal Haughtiness and her little band of misfits progressed. It was a merry marching band tune that his mother had taught him to play on the piano before she got sick; she had told him the title of the piece and where she'd first heard it, but those details now remained obscure. As he tried to reproduce the melody he immediately noticed that several notes were off-key.
Rather than driving himself mad trying to think of how it was supposed to go, he shifted focus to the second song. This was something that had been stuck in his head for some time now and he could pinpoint exactly when and how it got there. It was immediately after Vossler's betrayal and the Dawn Shard's destruction of the Archadian Eighth Fleet. The princess had been showering aboard the Strahl, where the pirates had agreed to let the party rest to save money on lodging. He'd gone to knock on the restroom door and tell her they'd finished gathering all of their loot and would set off to sell it in the Rabanastre market once she was dressed (Fran was in one of the bunks waking Ashe's friendly neighborhood bodyguard). Then he paused for a moment when he heard her humming to herself, presumably to help her relax a little after the day's hectic events. The tune was unfamiliar, but then she continued with lyrics: "Melodies of life, to the sky beyond the flying birds..."
It went something like that, anyhow. It seemed to be the only part she remembered.
But thinking of that song soon caused him to ponder the young woman who'd been its source, just as it did any other time the tune popped into his head. Then he would remember what she'd been doing at the time and begin picturing her nude, dripping wet and mostly covered in soap bubbles, asking him to help lather up her hard-to-reach spots and offering to return the favor. Such thoughts would then lead to dreams like the one he'd had tonight. The only difference this time was that her actual personality showed up and overpowered the fantasy version. The usual outcome involved her head bobbing up and down with her hair tickling his upper inner thigh while he felt her warm breath and soft lips and wet tongue on his skin, and/or the two of them reveling in the rhythm of her perfect ass slapping hard against his pelvis, or—
Damn it all, he thought, have you learned nothing from that dream?
Indeed, the dream's central concept of lusting after Her Majesty had not been any sort of revelation. He'd considered Ashe beautiful from the moment he first saw her in the Garamsythe Waterway, striking an iconic pose atop a ledge with sword in hand before leaping off into Vaan's arms (the lucky little bastard). Anyone with a functioning pair of eyes would have reached the same conclusion. Seemed a bit snobbish, and those anger issues were in dire need of working out, but she was a pretty girl nevertheless. Then came that day aboard the Strahl, after which his hormones had really started going ballistic.
And it damn near drove him mad.
Was he so starved for attention from the opposite sex that he'd begun casting the least attainable woman he'd ever met in his fantasies? Could he really not last two months without wanting to pounce on the first pretty pair of X chromosomes that laid eyes on him?
Good lord, had it already been two months since his last night with a woman, or had he simply lost track of time?
The part that disgusted him most of all was how unquestionably correct Dream-Ashe had been about everything she'd said. His proverbial little black book had accumulated plenty of names over the past six years, but only two girls had spent more than a single night in his company. Of those two only one dwelled within Balfonheim's city limits, and even then their trysts had been scattered across the calendar and short-lived like fireworks in the night sky. As for the others, he could remember the faces, and he could remember the stories attached to those faces, but most of their names had been lost among the flock of one-night wonders.
There was the mild-mannered blonde schoolteacher who'd given him quite a scare when she pulled out a pair of handcuffs, chained him to the bedpost, and casually strolled into the restroom. For a moment he feared that he'd been trapped by some sort of undercover law enforcement official who knew him from the wanted posters. He'd breathed a big sigh of relief when she emerged from the restroom minutes later clad in skintight leather and confidently brandishing a whip. She broke character shortly after that, apologizing profusely for the big cut her whip had left across his torso. He'd told her to simply wrap the wound and keep going; he'd suffered worse injuries before and would again in the future. He'd forgotten her name years ago, but for some reason he still knew her safe word was "Diablo."
There was another girl with short blonde hair who wore a pinkish-purple robe that left so much of her chest, midriff, and right thigh exposed that he assumed the weaver had left it unfinished and she'd put it on anyway. She was an aspiring singer who only pursued him in hopes of making another man jealous. But her self-centered bravado belied a surprising kindness that proved her just as eager to give as to receive. They'd spent a sizeable chunk of their time together trading full-body massages, and they'd laughed whenever parts of her body slipped through his hands because the skin was still slick with oil.
Then there were the two girls who wore matching tattoos and spoke with accents he couldn't place, a brunette tomboy and her perky redhead companion. The worries in the back of his mind about which he'd choose at the end of the night had been assuaged when they invited him to help with "an experiment." It was never about him choosing, but rather about them sharing him. But even before they'd gotten things underway, though both girls proved to be vigorous and eager partners ("How's this for a love triangle?" the brunette quipped from her perch above his mouth while the redhead rode him), he suspected that they were more interested in each other than in him. His suspicions were confirmed the next morning when the redhead's moaning woke him up; the first thing he saw was a close-up view of the tattoo on her hip and the brunette's head tucked between her legs.
"Thanks for indulging our curiosity," the brunette said once he was about to leave. "We needed to spice things up a bit, you know?"
"I'm not so sure," he said. "There are those who would kill to share with someone else what you two already have."
"Are you one of those?" she asked, cocking her head with a playful grin.
"I haven't decided yet."
"Well, I hope you find it," the redhead said, resting her head against the brunette's shoulder. "This is the best feeling in the world."
"When would you say you knew you'd found it?" he asked, a question he'd never gotten to ask his parents.
"I think it's different for everyone," the brunette said. "But at some point I realized there was nothing I wouldn't do to keep her around and make her happy." She started twirling one of the redhead's pigtails in her fingers. "I would tear down the sky for this girl."
There had been plenty more where those came from, but only a couple up to now had come close to making him feel that way. The first had been "Black Magick Woman," the one he'd let get away because she was from out of town and he'd heard about all sorts of long-distance relationships with unhappy endings. He'd given her the nickname so he could pretend she was just another girl whose real name didn't endure in his memory, but still it lurked in the back of his mind, and she followed suit. The ensuing pangs of regret taught him that just because a woman was distant didn't mean she couldn't be part of his life, a lesson he'd learned too late in her case but would not soon forget.
And then there was Elza, the one who kept coming back even though she didn't want to stay.
Elza, the girl from Reddas's crew, was the most heavily dog-eared page in Balthier's little black book. It was a page he'd turned to frequently in the two years he'd known her. Things between them had somehow seemed to reach a point where if one started flirting with the other, the question was not if they would end up in bed together, but when. By now he knew her body like the back of his hand – and vice versa – because their friendship came with such benefits. And she loved to reap those benefits. He'd never met another girl with such a ravenous libido.
In his experience there were three kinds of nights with Elza. First there was the kind where he was about to go off on a major treasure hunt and she'd sleep with him for superstitious purposes. Then there was the kind where he'd come back from a major treasure hunt, and she would ask him how everything went, and then she'd sleep with him to either celebrate his good fortune or console him for his lack thereof. Then there were the Elza encounters of the third kind, where one would pursue the other because it was a day that ended in Y.
They'd both grown increasingly fond of that last one.
Yet for all the time they'd spent together, their relationship status became something of a question mark. Fran had asked him about it on numerous occasions, often in between rebuffs of Elza's advances towards her. ("Come on," Elza would plead, "I'm only one Viera away from winning Bedroom Bingo!") Then he'd have to explain again how they were only keeping things casual. Then Fran would counter by asking why they kept going back to each other if things were never going to get more serious. Then Balthier would answer, "Because it's fun." And that would be the end of the discussion for the time being, only for it to repeat itself later on.
It wasn't as though Elza had ever wanted to leave anything in doubt. The first time she'd ever seduced him they'd had a few drinks and danced and talked for just under an hour, and then she sat on his lap and simply said, "I'm not going to mince words anymore: I want you."
Later that night she'd leaned in close and whispered her one rule in his ear: "You can do whatever you want with my body, but my heart is off limits. Okay?"
He agreed to it, of course. Hard to say no when the most attractive girl in Balfonheim was wrapping her legs around him and kissing his neck. And harder still to regret that decision whenever she dangled her bare breasts mere inches above his mouth, gently swaying them to and fro as if beckoning him to choose which perky pink nipple he wanted to taste first. (He usually started with her right one.)
This rule had matched his philosophy in dealing with numerous other women. But the more they kept pursuing each other "just for fun," the murkier everything seemed to become. And it didn't help that she'd stonewall him every time he tried learning more about her, although he tried to probe as gently as he could.
"So why did you choose a life of piracy?" he asked her once while having drinks at the Whitecap tavern.
"Because the farm got boring," she said, and licked her lip, a gesture he recognized from playing cards against her and the rest of Reddas's crew. It was a nervous tic signaling that she'd been dealt an unfortunate hand, which made calling her bluff that much easier.
He could tell she didn't want to talk about it, so he didn't press the issue; he knew that wouldn't lead anywhere positive. Instead, most of Balthier's conversations with Elza had been sparked by random musings.
"You ever wonder why they spell 'magick' with a K?" she had asked him another time as they walked through Balfonheim, watching patrons enter and exit Quayside Magickery. "Because I wonder about that a lot. I mean, it's just so redundant. What's the point?"
"I have no idea," he confessed. "Hell, I'm still trying to suss out the origin of 'technicks.'"
"Oh really?" she teased. "So much smarter than me, but you can't answer a simple question about language!"
He put on a flirtatious smirk as he made his reply. "Darling, you should know better than anyone that there isn't a more cunning linguist in all of Ivalice than I."
"I think there are lots of poets and playwrights who'd disagree," she scoffed, genuinely missing his innuendo.
It hadn't been the first or the last time a joke had gone over her head. The two of them simply had very different concepts of humor. Sometimes they would meet somewhere in between, though this was less often than not. (That being said, her tongue was capable of incredible things when used in certain different contexts.)
If there was one thing he admired about her above all else, it was the sheer confidence with which she carried herself about 95 percent of the time. Anyone with her sense of fashion clearly must have had an abundance of the stuff. She would wear a red coat that came down to her navel and was only fastened a few inches above it, baring her midriff and showcasing her cleavage and a pink brassiere. The bandanna and flower she put in her hair made for slightly less material than she typically wore over her bottom half. She walked around in stiletto heels with one knee sock (she claimed to have lost its partner), which made her footrace hobby a needlessly difficult pursuit. Most notably, she liked wearing tiny black shorts that were barely enough to cover her crotch and not enough to cover her ass, and anyone who cared to look would learn that she wore nothing underneath.
"Why can't you just buy a new pair?" Fran asked at the Whitecap one evening after seeing her pull her shorts up yet again.
"The same reason you go around in a metal thong all day," Elza slurred, reaching down and giving her a love tap.
"Because your pants are traditional Viera attire?"
"No, but I like your answer better."
She would later start wearing a little pink thong over her shorts in response to Fran's concerns as some sort of warped compromise.
Shame didn't appear to be a word that existed in Elza's vocabulary. Her lifestyle was based around thinking first and foremost of seeking pleasure, the objections of others be damned. If she wanted to swim naked in the harbor in broad daylight and during business hours, she would do it. If she wanted to climb Reddas's manse after a night of drinking, she would do it – or rather she would try it before someone who still had their wits about them plucked her off the wall. If she wanted to strip down to her underwear and ride a hog through town, then by the gods, nobody would stop her. It was the sort of thing that would make Balthier cringe in the moment and laugh later after he acknowledged that it made for an amusing anecdote.
"I'm a pirate, aren't I?" she would always rationalize. "My whole livelihood spits in the face of law and order. You mean to tell me I can go burglarizing and grave-robbing to my heart's content, but this is crossing the line?"
And Reddas would simply shake his head and sigh like a flustered parent.
Balthier didn't understand her much, though it wasn't for lack of trying. Their treasure hunts would sometimes keep them apart for extended periods of time. She had a knack for saying things that simultaneously made no sense and perfect sense. And she simply didn't like to talk about herself. Nor would she let him tell her much about himself. It made their whole quasi-relationship all the more confusing.
She'd told him once that she viewed Reddas as the father she wished she had instead of the one she actually had, but nothing more on that subject. The most he knew of the rest of her family he had learned about nine months ago while discussing her thoughts on childbirth, of all things. He could only vaguely remember how they'd gotten on the topic. They were in the Whitecap at the time, and he'd mentioned something about how remarkable it was that alcohol used to be used as an anesthetic. (To which she'd responded, "What do you mean, 'it used to be'?")
"The idea of that surgery frightens me," she'd said, her mouth full with a bite of a sandwich. "Just thinking about being knocked out so the doctors can slice me open and pull this living thing out of my gut… well, I'd rather not."
He didn't reply, so she stuffed the last bit of her sandwich in her mouth.
"I suppose it's just as well," she said. "I'd make an awful mother anyway. Not that it matters, because I'm not even sure if I can have children." She laughed at the very thought of it. "After all, I should have popped out a couple of yours by now, don't you think?"
They were usually quite careful to avoid such outcomes, but she did have a point.
"We have been lucky in that regard, haven't we?" he said. "So I take it you would prefer the old-fashioned way."
"My mother had surgery with my two sisters because she had me the old-fashioned way," she said. "She told me it felt like taking a crap the size of a watermelon." There was a small hint of sadness in her ensuing snickering. "Excuse my language."
As she gulped down the rest of her ale, Balthier sat thinking about what she'd told him. He pictured himself pacing back and forth in a hallway, waiting for the doctors to finish the surgery, sipping from a bottle of wine to settle his nerves. Then he wondered how he would feel if he'd ever have to watch a woman he loved suffer through the agony of "old-fashioned" delivery, or if he'd have to receive any bad news about the child or its mother. Would he blame himself for planting the seed in the first place? And how had his own father felt all those years ago, back when he still gave a damn about such matters?
Just thinking of his father was enough to then bring him to perhaps the most difficult question of all, a question he'd long avoided but could no longer ignore: was he really a better man than Cid, or was he not? His grudge against Cid had been borne of the mad scientist's abandonment of his family, yet had he not turned his own back on them when he fled for Balfonheim? Cid eventually neglected his children born within wedlock; Balthier didn't even know if he had spawned any bastards of his own thanks to his numerous bedroom escapades with women he would never see or hear from again. And at least Cid had been a loving and attentive parent once; Balthier had no way to know what sort he'd be. Perhaps this was the ultimate test to determine the answer to that question: which man had better treated those who loved him most?
He didn't have a chance to answer these questions. Elza had pounded her mug on the bar and burped loud enough to snap him out of his reverie. "Excuse that too!" she said, laughing.
But despite all of her uncouth habits and lowbrow sense of humor, when it came time to get to work she did her job with admirable gusto. That, he figured, was the biggest reason why Reddas had been keen enough on her to let her join his crew.
Three months ago, not long after he'd spent his last night with "Black Magick Woman," Balthier had borrowed Elza from Reddas for an undercover jewel theft during a fancy party at a mansion somewhere in Rozarria (he'd needed a female partner to pose as his fiancée and be his lookout, and Fran was too conspicuous). In the weeks leading up to that burglary they'd found a tailor to customize a red cocktail dress; it fit her like another layer of skin and exposed plenty of the cleavage she was always so eager to show off. He'd also given her a crash course in etiquette and ballroom dancing to help her get into character. She took to it surprisingly well for someone he'd seen drunkenly making angels in mud the night he'd first asked her to help; he'd made sure to ask again the next day once she sobered up.
Even so, once they had infiltrated the party he'd started asking himself if taking her along had been the right idea. Not because she was any sort of threat to blow their cover, but because she was so obviously intimidated. She enjoyed herself on the dance floor, but whenever it came time to converse with the other party guests their very presence had been enough to neutralize her natural charisma. She was the last person he ever would have expected to let that happen, but there she was, clinging to him during conversations, hoping she wouldn't have to say anything. It made him briefly wonder if her usual carefree demeanor had in fact been a well-constructed façade all along, that there was some deep-rooted insecurity or secret that she deemed too painful to discuss. He was quick to dismiss the possibility and chalked her behavior that night up to nerves, scolding himself for projecting his own hang-ups about the past onto her.
As nervous as she'd been, she only slipped once during this "blending in" phase. They'd been swept up into a discussion with a group of nobles and he was happy to handle most of the talking, but he soon found himself needing a drink. He went off in search of a server he'd seen carrying a tray of wine glasses, assuring Elza he'd return soon as she collected appetizers from another tray, but the task took longer than he'd anticipated. He'd almost made it back when he heard a loud belching sound coming from their group, and by the time he rejoined the group the poor girl looked utterly mortified as an especially snobby noblewoman mocked her for her rudeness.
And then, to make matters worse, the noblewoman turned her attention to him.
"I must say, good sir, I'm beginning to question your taste in women," she declared in the haughtiest Rozarrian accent she could muster. "She's a lovely girl, but she has the personality of a mannequin and the table manners of starving livestock."
The others laughed, but Balthier wasn't amused. "Madam, that's quite enough."
"You should have seen her," the noblewoman continued, "gorging herself on the hors d'oeurves the way she did. And you plan to marry such an uncivilized girl?"
"Indeed I do," he answered, gently pulling the still-embarrassed Elza closer to his side. "But I'm afraid I've missed the part where that was any of your concern."
"Well," the noblewoman countered, now more agitated than before, "all I wish to say is that perhaps you ought to train her better the next time you let her out in public."
"And perhaps you ought to keep your husband on a leash before he runs off with her," Balthier fired back. As he spoke he gestured toward the woman's husband, whom he'd caught admiring Elza's bosom as discreetly as possible. "Not that any of us could blame him for trying. And now we bid you all good night."
With that he led Elza away from the group by the small of her back, ignoring the faces of the nobles he'd just stunned into silence.
"I'm sorry," she blurted out. "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. But I've had nothing to eat since breakfast, and I was starving, and—"
"Settle down," he whispered in her ear. "Everything is fine. In fact, I daresay you gave us an out. If that snobby old bat had kept her trap shut I would have told them the food gave you an upset stomach or some such."
"I just hope I haven't blown our cover," she whispered.
"How? By eating too much?" He leaned closer and lowered his voice even more. "Nobody suspected a thing. If they did, then we are in the company of history's greatest psychics. Not exactly a plausible scenario."
"I don't even understand what I'm doing here," she said, looking forlornly at the floor. "This isn't me. I don't belong at such a swank affair, wearing this ridiculous dress. It looks stupid on me anyway."
"What?" he said with a little chuckle, shaking his head in disbelief. "Elza, you look beautiful."
She seemed rather taken aback as if frightened by the word, or perhaps as if she'd never heard that word before, at least not from someone who meant it. "What did you say?"
"You look beautiful. Like a prim and proper young lady."
She gave a little snort and looked away. "I'm not a proper lady," she said. "I'm a pig wearing lipstick."
"No need to dwell on one minor faux pas," he said. "You're doing fine." He gave her ass a firm but affectionate slap. She made a startled little squeal, but the familiar flirtatious confidence started returning to her face. "Now let's finish this job and get out of here, shall we?"
"We shall," she said with a smile.
"That's the spirit," he said, and kissed her cheek. He then noticed the blush on her face but couldn't recall her putting on that much makeup.
And then she surprised him with a kiss befitting a fiancée.
She'd continued acting differently aboard the Strahl after they left that party. The typical fierceness and hunger that had become her trademarks somehow felt different that time, as if she was still playing the woman he'd chosen to marry. The conversation they had on the flight back to Balfonheim; the way she thanked him for choosing her and dancing with her and defending her; the way she ran her fingers through his hair; the sweet smile she flashed as she lay naked on her side atop his cot; the soft kisses she'd left all over his face and down his torso; the way she draped her arm over his chest and her leg over his, holding him after they'd finished instead of sleeping with her back to him like usual (though he would often wake up to find her happily snuggling with him, clearly pretending to be asleep) – it all felt as though a different girl was inhabiting her body. Yet it was still the most satisfying night they'd ever spent together. He'd often heard people speak of the difference between "having sex" and "making love," but that was only the second time Balthier felt as though he understood what they meant ("Black Magick Woman" being the first).
He woke up alone the next morning.
Usually Elza would stick around long enough to join him in the shower before they got dressed and parted ways, but not that time. Instead she'd seen fit to steal his pants and lead him on a wild goose chase all over town in his shirt, shoes, and underwear. He finally found her in a stable, occupying a vacant chocobo stall with his pants hanging over the door. She had him on his back in a clean pile of straw within minutes.
And that was how Balthier had learned that he suffered from hay fever.
Still, even though the morning after had gone awry, he'd felt like it was the sort of night that would mark a turning point in their… arrangement? Relationship? He wasn't sure what to call it anymore, but something told him that whatever it was, it would be different from then on.
He was right about that, but not in the way he'd hoped. Over the next month she grew increasingly distant, and he figured his globetrotting treasure hunts and her various commitments to Reddas had played a part in that. But even when he saw her in the Whitecap, she wouldn't pursue him. And if he pursued her, she wouldn't flirt back. All of this had only left him feeling even more confused than he'd been before.
Then, two weeks before the night he left to pilfer Dalmasca's Royal Treasury and two months before the current camping trip in the Paramina Rift, he spent one more night with her. Despite all the time that had passed since the undercover theft, she very obviously enjoyed her long-awaited return to his bed. At least one of them was having a good time.
Unlike the pure affection of their previous encounter or the heated passion of the numerous nights they'd shared before that, this felt like he was going through the motions. And it wasn't because she wanted to go on top and do most of the work this time; it wasn't even close to the first time she'd wanted that. It seemed strange how easily they could still fall for each other's charms after barely speaking for a month. It was stranger still that he'd seen her a few times in the Whitecap flirting with someone else and felt jealous, even though their arrangement had left them both free to pursue whoever they damn well pleased.
What confused him most of all was how, instead of rolling off of him when they finished as per her custom, she laid down on top of him and embraced him, her breasts pressing hard against his torso and her legs intertwined with his. It was as if she hadn't just spent a month trying to push him away.
"I really missed you," she cooed into his ear, and she kissed his cheek.
"You did?" he mumbled, gently stroking her ass. She started giggling. She always loved it when he did that.
"Of course I did," she replied between kisses. "You're my favorite."
You're my favorite. Not I love you. Never I love you.
This was how things had always been, wasn't it? She viewed him the way a child would a treasured toy. Every now and then she'd pluck him out of the box, play with him for a few hours, and then put him back in the box until she wanted him again.
And Balthier had treated her the same way. He wondered if any of the forgotten paramours in his little black book had felt used when they woke up alone or realized down the road that they'd probably never see or hear from him again. He couldn't resent Elza for her ways; they'd had far too much fun together for him to ever do that, and it wasn't as though he'd been a shining beacon of monogamy himself. But he sensed that most of the other girls despised him now.
Sometimes he wondered if "Black Magick Woman" was one of those girls that felt that way, and he couldn't pinpoint exactly why this possibility continued to disturb him. She'd told him to look her up if he ever found himself in her neck of the woods, and by the time he finally got around to it she had moved on to someone else. Other women had been better in bed. Still others were of comparable beauty. Hell, the naked girl lying on top of him at that very moment ticked both of those boxes. So in the weeks since meeting "Black Magick Woman," he would often ask himself: what made her so goddamned special?
And then, for the first time, the answer came to him: everything else.
It was the way they'd managed to turn a simple misunderstanding at the magick shop into an unofficial first date through the simple power of good conversation. It was the way she'd laughed at his jokes and responded with her own sharpened wit. It was how startled she'd been by the chilly sea water tickling her feet. It was her self-deprecating laughter when she realized she missed her flight back home and would have to spend the night in Balfonheim. It was her honesty about the unfortunate fate her fiancé had met. It was her smile from across the dinner table, her acceptance of a kiss with which he'd interrupted her view of the sunset, and the look on her face that night when he showed her the finished sketch. It was how she came out of the shower the next morning to give him a dripping-wet embrace from behind and whispered in his ear while he brushed his teeth. And it was that last kiss she'd given him before they finally parted ways for good; an aerodrome staffer had to step in and remind her that she was about to miss another flight.
It was each of those things individually, and all of them at once. And it had been within his grasp, but he had butterfingers.
So now there Balthier was, back in the arms of a girl who'd shown herself capable of the same things but still chose not to commit herself to anyone. Sometimes he supposed it was just as well that he didn't pursue anything more serious than this with anyone else. He was a sky pirate, after all, and perhaps people like "Black Magick Woman" or the dominatrix schoolteacher or the one-eyed soldier girl were better off without being dragged into his criminal underworld. Perhaps that was part of the reason why he kept going back to Elza; she was already down there with him and thus was used to that lifestyle. But these days he found himself craving evolution and being denied it by psychology.
"Elza," he suddenly murmured, "where is this going?"
"What do you mean?" she asked.
"What is our status?"
"We're friends with benefits," she stated plainly. "That's what we've always been."
"Right," he said. "Of course."
She loosened her grip on him a bit. "Is something wrong?"
Yes, there was. He had been unreasonable with her. He wanted something more from her than she felt prepared to give. And he had always known where she stood on that issue, even on the night of the undercover theft. She was so afraid to yield on that position that she'd immediately distanced herself from him, just as she had every other time he started getting too close for comfort. He just wished he could understand why all she wanted was instant gratification that instantly faded away.
But how could he say all of that without upsetting her?
"I don't know what I want anymore," he finally said.
Her face fell slightly, and he immediately knew that he'd failed. "I think I know where this is going," she mumbled, and she rolled off of him, sat up, and started collecting her clothes.
"Wait," he said, and she froze as he put his hand on her hip. "For once in your life, just talk to me. What are you so afraid of?"
Elza rested on her side and twisted around to look at him. "Nothing," she said, and she licked her lips. "I just want to have fun, that's all."
Mindless fun. Was that really all she ever cared about? What did it matter? Even if it wasn't, she had successfully convinced him otherwise. But he couldn't settle for that anymore. There was far too much history between them at this point for them to understand so little about each other aside from the most sensitive parts of their bodies. And even that was nothing a well-trained acupuncturist or masseuse couldn't figure out within an hour.
So he finally decided to break down their barriers. It probably wouldn't work, but so what? It wasn't as though any progress would be made if they stayed the course.
"Let me tell you something," he said. "Before I came to Balfonheim, I used to live in Archades. My father is the head scientist at—"
"Why are you telling me this?"
"I left because he forced me to—"
"Don't do this," she said. "You never had any issue with our boundaries before."
"How long did you think we could maintain that status quo?"
"Not nearly as long as we have."
"Then why did you keep coming back?"
"The same reason you did," she said. "Because it was fun." She licked her lip again.
"Has it never occurred to you," he argued, "that perhaps one of us might eventually strive for something more?"
"Of course it did," she said. "Why do you think I wanted to keep things casual? Nobody's holding a gun to your head and forcing you to waste any more time on me."
"What are you talking about? That's not what I meant."
"I never wanted things to be complicated," she said. "I just wanted—"
"The fun parts, I know," he finished. "But there must be something else that you want out of this life."
She let out a long sigh and rolled on her back, her skin still glistening with sweat. She tried to stay calm and fixed her eyes upon the ceiling, leaving her facial expression as blank as possible.
"You know, Balthier," she said, "sometimes I think other animals have it right. They see someone attractive and think, 'Come over here and mount me.' And that's all there is. None of the drama, none of the baggage… just a moment of fun, and then they're done."
She got out of bed this time and started putting her clothes back on, oddly with the pink thong first this time instead of her shorts. As she spoke she pulled up her shorts as far as they could go and sat back on the bed to put on the shoes that she typically saved for last.
"Nobody worries about commitment, or financial security, or getting along with relatives, or who's leading on who, or anything like that."
She began sticking her arms through the sleeves of her coat and gave a frustrated sigh as she realized she'd forgotten to put her brassiere on first. Then she looked back at him, and he could see her shaking a little as if about to reveal something painful.
"And when they leave their young to fend for themselves," she went on, "nobody's feelings ever get hurt because that's just how things are." She gave a little sniff. "Everyone's always on the same page."
He sat up, scooted over a bit, and looked into her eyes as he reached over to gently touch her. "We're not animals, Elza," he said.
Her face fell even more – eyes shut, head tilted downward, frown growing even bigger, and teeth gritted. And he realized that for once it was her words that had completely gone over his head.
"Of course we are," she said. "We're just more pretentious than the others."
She leaned over and gave him one more kiss. It was a tender parting token of affection from her lips to his.
"I'll see you around," she said. And then she was gone, leaving an uncomfortable air in her wake. The rest was is-this-it silence, the kind heard between the last flurry of explosions and the first traces of applause signaling the end of a fireworks display.
XXXXXXXXXXXX
Turn back, pleaded every part of Elza's body as she forced herself forward through the cool Balfonheim night toward her room at Reddas's manse. Every part, that is, except her brain, which was a mess of swirling fears and confusion and a lot of self-directed insults: Idiot. Coward. So disgusting. You are a walking disaster.
What in the world was she doing? How could she be running away from him again? Anyone else would have given up on her and all her ridiculous games a long time ago, and she'd grown all too accustomed to people giving up on her, yet Balthier had persisted. And that night there he was, seemingly making an offer she didn't want to refuse, and she ran anyway. Now whatever they'd had was most likely irreparable, and it was all her fault. It didn't help that every possible solution she could think of wouldn't solve anything. She could have gone back to the Whitecap to drink herself into a numbing stupor, but that wouldn't have made this mess – or the ever-growing ache in her heart – go away. She could have spent the rest of the night with someone else, but she knew she'd be thinking of him the whole time, just as she did whenever she ended up with anyone not named Balthier. It was why she had grown much less promiscuous ever since she'd first met him. Why spend a night with someone else while secretly wishing to be with him when she could just have the genuine article?
At least something about her was different from the day she'd first arrived in Balfonheim. Yet it was times like these where she wondered if coming out there had really been worth everything she'd left behind, all the damaged relationships and missed opportunities. Her life had changed, but Elza herself had barely changed at all; she got the adventurous life she'd craved, but being in Balfonheim had encouraged her to indulge even more in her worst habits and most harmful vices. When she lived on the farm she always passed out in the pigpen after another night of excessive drinking with her friends (a habit she picked up after one night when her father mistook her for an intruder), and while she always got a head start on her chores it left her family frustrated with and baffled by her behavior - and that was before they learned of her "I'll try anything once" approach to life in general and sex in particular, or her choice to take up piracy. In Balfonheim she spent more mornings than she wanted to admit sneaking out of strangers' bedrooms or recalling something stupid she'd done or washing toilet water out of her hair, and even if she wasn't doing that she was usually broke from too much drinking and gambling. Aside from Reddas's enduring faith in her, it wasn't much of an upgrade.
But Balthier was, and that made her cowardice even more enraging. As much as he may have considered himself a scoundrel, she could tell what his heart was really made of. He could be a cad at times, and he was all too often confused by her actions like everyone else, but he treated her with affection, tried getting to know her better, and respected her wishes. He made her feel beautiful. He made her happy, and seemed to enjoy her company in return. She missed him whenever he was absent, whether she was treasure hunting with Reddas or flirting with someone less captivating. And if she spotted him across the room with another girl she would quietly yearn to trade places with that girl, or selfishly want the other girl to go away, or even hope the other girl might let her join them. The fact that he was far and away the most handsome man she'd ever met was the icing on the cake. And even if he was utterly clueless in bed – which he absolutely was not, and she had countless ecstatic memories to prove it – that would have been enough to keep her coming back for more.
Finally Elza made it back to the manse and quietly made her way to her room. There was no worry about waking Reddas or the rest of his crew, and certainly none about anyone thinking she was breaking and entering (no pirate would dare cross Reddas). She climbed into her bed without pulling back the blankets and rolled on her side to look out her window in the general direction of the aerodrome, wishing she was still there, lying naked in Balthier's arms as if nothing had ever happened.
Perhaps he was still awake. Maybe there was still time to go back and fix everything. She could go there and knock on his door and apologize profusely for every time she'd run from him and promise to never do it again. And if he would let her she would crawl back into bed with him and pull him into a deep and passionate kiss, the kind they usually shared in the morning when she would roll on top of him while he rubbed her ass and played with her hair. And then they could make love again, better than ever before, maybe with her on top, or maybe with her head on the pillow and her ass in the air, or sitting upright with her straddling him and facing him with her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist, or some new position they hadn't even tried yet. And in the morning they could do it again like always, and then lie in bed for a while talking about whatever like always. Then they could squeeze into that shower of his like always, and she could let him lather her up from the neck down like always, basking in the feeling of his soapy hands cupping her breasts and slapping her ass and caressing her stomach and thighs like always, and he'd let her return the favor like always. And then they'd get to one of the three usual outcomes: a) him lifting her against the wall and thrusting hard inside her; b) her gradually dropping to her knees, leaving a trail of kisses all the way down his front, and finally taking as much of him into her mouth as she could fit; or c) her pressing her back against him, purring a euphemism into his ear about how "the back door's open if you want to come in," bending over and beckoning him to choose what to do next, and smiling lustfully as he reached for a nearby bottle of lubricant with one hand and slipped the other around her waist and between her legs. And she would love every second of it all because she knew it would be good, because she trusted him, and most of all because she was in—
There you go again, came the nagging voice inside Elza's head, interrupting her fantasy, making it all about the fun stuff. And if he really forgives you that easily you'll just fall back into the same old pattern because you're too scared to ever change.
By the gods, how she hoped that voice would just shut up and go away. But it didn't.
What are you so afraid of? the voice continued. Come on, admit it. Answer without any half-assed metaphors this time. And you know you can, because you know what that answer is.
Yes. She did know what that answer was. The whole reason she'd taken to running from people was because she didn't want people running away from her anymore. But for the first time she realized that it didn't help her feel any better and it kept hurting Balthier and everyone else. How she wished to fight that fear, to free herself from it, to show and tell him the truth: that she had broken her one rule! And to do it this time without any stupid mind games or jokes or pranks or anything like that. Just pour her heart out and let him figure out what to do with it.
But who am I kidding? Elza thought as she sat up in bed hugging her pillow after what felt like hours of tossing and turning and thinking. In the end, I'll probably run away again… just like always. And I'll keep doing it because I'm an idiot and a coward.
Her eyes began to sting and her heart continued to ache as she lowered her head toward the pillow.
He deserves better, she lamented, and I deserve this.
Upon reaching this conclusion she buried her face in her pillow, and she made no effort to fight the tears when they finally came.
XXXXXXXXXXXX
Balthier would see her sparingly around town after that night, but something seemed off about her. It made him think of how she'd been at the party – quiet, reserved, and downtrodden, with no sign of her usual bursts of energy and color. She didn't want to talk much, certainly didn't want to flirt with anyone. She was instead content taking up more footraces, trying to teach herself new magick spells, and going to the Whitecap to dance alone and sip some old-fashioned anesthetic. When he wasn't looking she would sometimes gaze longingly in his general direction from across the room but would not approach him, her mood worsening the longer her inaction continued.
"No need to worry," Fran assured him a week before their trip to Dalmasca. "I think she's simply trying to fall in love with herself. There are deep regrets eating at her that she hasn't forgiven herself for yet, in particular some powerful feeling that she wanted to share but remained unspoken. But I'm sure she will recover eventually."
"And then she'll go right back to flirting with you," Balthier teased, acting unconcerned though he knew Fran could tell otherwise.
"Don't mock me like that," she scolded, rolling her eyes. "Or her, for that matter. She always wanted you most of all."
His last night with Elza had been the last he'd spent with any woman. Two weeks later he and Fran left town in hopes of sacking the Royal Treasury of Dalmasca. Once they made it inside, they found Vaan with the Dusk Shard in his hand. Not long after that, they met Ashe in the Garamsythe Waterway.
The rest, as the old man likely would have said, was just the latest lengthy thread within history's weave.
A swift icy breeze rushed through the party's makeshift shelter in the Paramina Rift and sent a jolt through Balthier's body just as he was about to doze off. He supposed he should have been thankful for it, considering the scolding he would certainly receive should anyone catch him asleep on the job. But mostly it made him appreciate the blanket wrapped around him all the more.
Even after all these hours, he was still finding it difficult to maintain consciousness. He knew his brain had just been overloaded with thoughts and memories, but he had never thought himself capable of such mental burnout. As he tightened the blanket around him he thought he heard a soft rustling and yawning from inside the tent, but nobody came out, so he thought nothing more of it.
He looked outside for a weather update and found that even though the sky was still shrouded in snow-bearing clouds it was at least brightening a bit, signifying that the night had reached its waning hours. It also meant that soon the others would awaken and they could finally quit this godforsaken place. The storm had slowed down to a more manageable level, so with any luck they'd be able to reach their destination by the day's end.
The Stilshrine of Miriam was that destination, and home to the Sword of Kings. The party had been en route to retrieving the sword, as instructed by the Gran Kiltias back at Mount Bur-Omisace, before the snowstorm had sidetracked them. For his part Balthier couldn't wait to get to the damned place; he'd follow Ashe and her entourage into the depths of hell itself if it meant getting out of this cold. Still, though he knew little of the Stilshrine itself, he vaguely remembered reading myths about its namesake in a literature course during his school days in Archades. Miriam was an ancient war goddess, and if she was anything like the relatively more recent god of war who channeled his ceaseless rage through a pair of blades chained to his wrists, the Stilshrine would make King Raithwall's tomb look like a frolic in the bloody park.
But it was the Sword of Kings itself that captured his interest more, and not because it was almost certainly worth a small fortune. The Sword of Kings was a blade capable of destroying nethicite, stones with the rare ability to absorb Mist, the source of all magick. And when that Mist was released, the results had proven to be catastrophic.
Balthier only knew where to find three shards of nethicite, all of which had accumulated centuries' worth of Mist since being cut by Ashe's ancestor, the Dynast-King Raithwall. One was the Dawn Shard, the now-empty stone that singlehandedly blasted the Eighth Fleet out of the sky and which Penelo now kept in her pocket under the delusion that it was some sort of lucky charm. The second was the Midlight Shard, which the Empire had used to conquer Nabradia by leveling its capital city and thus was also powerless. The third was the Dusk Shard, which Vaan had beaten him to stealing from the Dalmascan Royal Treasury, was given to Judge Ghis upon their capture in the Rabanastre sewers, and by now had no doubt made its way back to Draklor Laboratory.
In other words, the only remaining shard of nethicite that still had any potential use as a weapon had fallen into his father's hands. And if there were any man in Ivalice who knew what to do with it, Dr. Cid was that man.
To make matters worse, the old man was a master manipulator whose work with nethicite had caused a descent into madness and amorality. Who knew what Cid truly wanted with the stuff – or with Ashe, for that matter? Just what the hell were those voices in his head telling him to do, anyway? Balthier certainly didn't know, but if it involved using any more nethicite as a weapon he knew he had to help stop it somehow if he could. And if that meant trying to convince the princess not to use it, then it was worth sticking with her.
Of course, it didn't hurt that this meant he'd be following a beautiful girl to the ends of the earth. Every job had its perks.
His latest train of thought was promptly derailed by a louder rustling from inside the tent. There was no doubt about it this time – someone inside was awake. Judging from the other noises he could hear, that someone was definitely female. Indeed, as soon as that thought crossed his mind a feminine hand pushed open the tent flap and out stepped a very sleepy Princess Ashelia B'Nargin Dalmasca.
Well, well, well, Balthier thought. Speak of the devil, and she shall appear.
AUTHOR'S NOTE
The title of Part I comes from "Dr. L'Ling" by Minus The Bear - coincidentally enough, their first album was called Highly Refined Pirates.
Spot the Cameo: Balthier's assorted paramours are all characters from other Final Fantasy games. In order of appearance: Beatrix (IX), Lulu (X), Quistis (VIII), Leblanc (X-2), and Fang and Vanille (XIII).
Beyond the Flying Birds: The song Balthier hears Ashe singing aboard the Strahl is "Melodies Of Life" from IX, which happens to be another story about a skirt-chasing thief and a princess who asks him to kidnap her. There's another reason I chose to include it, but that'll come up later.
Stray Sheep: The scene with the climbing puzzles and the demon with spiraling blonde hair refers to a boss encounter in Catherine.
Ascended Extra: Why cast someone who was such a minor character in the game in such a major role here, enough to include her in character tags? Well, for starters, it's because Elza was a minor character – I could construct her personality from scratch to suit the story. It gave me an outlet for the goofier side of my sense of humor, as opposed to the dryer side that dominates this. It also let me hold up a mirror to Balthier, make him realize what it's like dealing with someone as secretive as he is and who runs from things when they get too difficult or painful, and show him what happens when you value total freedom a little too much.
Unresolved Anger Issues: The "angry god with blades chained to his wrists" refers to Kratos from God of War, whose quest for power and vengeance against the gods of Olympus ends up completely wrecking the world he lives in, and it gives him no sense of peace or satisfaction to boot. In other words, a worst-case scenario for a certain deposed princess...
Soundtrack: The 15-chapter version of this story contained chapter titles from the following songs, in order: "Nude" by Radiohead ("You'll go to hell for what your dirty mind is thinking"); "C'Mere" by Interpol ("locked inside ourselves"); "Black Magic Woman" by Fleetwood Mac, though Santana's version is the best known ("she's trying to make a devil out of me"); "Tired Of Sex" by Weezer ("I know I'm a sinner but I can't say no"); "Don't Think Twice, It's All Right" by Bob Dylan ("I gave her my heart, but she wanted my soul"); and "Make It Wit Chu" by Queens Of The Stone Age ("how one becomes two").
Closing Thoughts: While magick is in fact an arcane spelling of magic, as far as I can make out technick was a word invented by the creators of Final Fantasy XII to keep that "redundant K" thing consistent.