Antiquity's End
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Chapter One
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Her skin is the shade of buttermilk caramel and Balthier knows this is wrong—oh so very, very wrong—because it is usually the tint of warm cocoa. He figures he has a divine right to hold this discernment; after all, he has only been staring at her for the last six years.
And as her chest rises and falls, each breath drawn in with great effort and deliberate determination, he is also able to note her lips are the wrong color, too. They are chapped like burnt cappuccino, and he is the only one capable of making this analogy because he is the only one alive who has ever experienced the beverage.
('Father, what on tarnation could you possibly be doing now?' 'Why, I have created a new drink my lad! Cappuccinos! Mark my words, boy, they'll be selling this stuff in every tavern all over Ivalice in the months to come!' 'Father, that is preposterous. It has the appearance of bodily excrements; it will never catch on.')
And it never did.
Balthier sometimes wonders, had his father's beverage been a success, if he would not have turned to Nethecite in the years after.
Imagine. Sanity abandoned all because of one too many failed experiments and a lack of interest in caffeinated beverages.
He tries not to ponder such things.
"Fran," he partitions, barely audible for he can not tell if she is sleeping. "Fran, my dear." One eye opens ever so slightly, a hint of ruby red spilling forth in the flickering candle light, and the sky pirate kneels down next to his comrade's cot of lush foliage and straw.
"I will be disembarking soon, but I will come back, love, you have my word."
Fran parts her lips and tries to get something out, but Balthier quiets her with the aid of a finger.
"Shh, hush now. That's an order."
Her one eye glares vehemently.
It would have been amusing had she not been dying.
"You are safe here. Just sleep and rest and I will return soon."
More vitriolic glares.
Then nothing.
She has returned from the realm whence she came. This relieves Balthier somewhat, for he knows slumber is the only place where the ill viera can find solace.
"Just listen to the Spirit of the Wood...or whatever nonsense your deranged sisters expel at all hours of the day."
Fran's nose scrunches up disdainfully, and Balthier is sure she would have cuffed him had she the strength.
"Try not to die while I am gone, understood? That is an order as well."
Fran's breath—while shallow—is steady and rythmatic, and Balthier knows she has fallen asleep once again.
He leaves the humid room silently, drawing the pelted flap over the entryway leading into the hallowed out quarter situated in the musky confines of an ancient tree trunk.
Amusing, it is, that for a man who possesses a silver tongue and spills forth formal vernacular like warm marmalade and maple syrup, he can find scarcely little to talk about while conversing with the dead. He handles it better than most males, of this he is certain, but even his carefully constructed walls can not hold out the rank stench of death. It lingers and it hovers and it looms on the distant horizon, just out of his grasp, elusive and ethereal, and he knows the delicate balance of life rests squarely on his shoulders.
It is a daunting task to say the least.
He passes Jote in his hasty departure, all short breaths and flushed skin and a flurry of wind tossed cloth, and seethes accordingly.
"I meant what I said," he warns, his voice deeper and more impending than he can ever recall it being. "Take care of her or my Altair will find permanent residency in your rectum."
Jote does not flinch. She has never flinched.
"This is not our way."
Balthier pauses at that, and turns to increase his proximity, probably stepping the closest to a Viera any man has ever had the pleasure of experiencing.
"Make it your way," he threatens, planting the barrel of his gun firmly in her chest. "Or I will send your sodden soul straight to hell where it belongs."
He is taking his life in his hands and he knows it, for Jote could disembowel him then and there without so much as a second's thought if she so desired. Yet, she refrains, and Balthier likes to pretend it is because she harbors a soft spot for her ailing sister, her past transgressions notwithstanding.
"Be quick about it," she orders, voice laden with the warning of dire consequences. "I will not house this traitor for long."
"Traitor?" Balthier repeats in tones of incredulity, scoffing at the absurdity of her previous declaration. "She left a village, not attacked it. Why you persist with this ludicrous is beyond me. Personally, I think Fran is the most intelligent out of all of you—for she had the gumption to actually take leave."
Jote began to smolder in the man's ever audacious wake.
"And what she saw in you will never be evident."
Balthier smiles sardonically. "...and who is the one going out to save her, I wonder?"
The wry man then retracts his weapon in one fluid, practiced motion.
"Now go worship your tree trunk," he scoffs in afterthought, his breath once again labored and strained, for he detested leaving his partner but he detested leaving his partner with Jote even more. Though any abhorrence he harbored for the current situation was increased ten fold by Fran, of this he was sure.
As he swaggers out of the Eruyt village, high on adrenaline and testosterone, he hears the faint resonance of a voice behind him.
"She does not have long."
Balthier turns to see Jote planted behind him, face exuding a sort of forlonging he was not aware Viera were capable of feeling.
"I know," he replies, trepidation radiating off his very words. "I know."
There is nothing more to say. There is nothing more that needs to be said.
With that, he turns and exits the sacred village of the Viera, head uncharacteristically bent down ('...don't ever walk with your head down son, it is unbecoming. And besides, you will run into a great many things that way...') and mouth set in a firm line of resolution.
Jote emits a strangled sigh as his countenance disappears into the Golomore Jungle.
"Foolish hume," she breaths, voice vacant and low like the hallowed out husk of corn. "You can not cheat death."
With that, she resigns to her quarters and tends to her terminally ill sister the rest of the night.
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Author's Note
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Eeep. The prologue is complete! I can't help but feel I could do more with this scene, so much more, so any constructive criticism will earn you a cookie. In fact, any comment whatsoever will earn you a cookie. If you feel the need to specify raisin, chocolate chip, or organic (aka: cardboard) please leave a note attached to your impending review. I will try to comply adequately.
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Dedication
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This should have been stated in the beginning, but oh well, when was I a stickler for conventional means and preordained social norms? In all of my eccentric and erratic behavior, I have decided to put the dedication at the end of this chapter. Does one really have to explain originality nowadays? (Cough. More like forgetfulness. Cough.)
o-o-o-o-supersaiyanprincess-o-o-o-o
This is for you :)