-Prologue-
Draklor, 708 O.V., Autumn
The routine of any given day, no matter how ironic, no longer wears on Balthier's nerves. Rows of parchment are brought to his desk semi-hourly, abstractions of plans, blueprints, proposals. Slender spectacles sit reluctantly at the bridge of his nose as he scratches his increasingly tedious signature over each page (HH Msr. Ffamran M. Bunansa) until, his fingertips smudged with ink and wax, he leaves his office on Draklor's sixty-eighth floor. Perhaps he is needed in the machinist's lab to provide an extra set of hands, or the perfect arithmetic; perhaps he is summoned to the observatory, for conversation with nervously moneyed clientele; perhaps he travels – if reluctant - to the senate's roundtable, to offer magisterial opinion upon military strategy. He is loved by his employees, loathed by the senate, fiercely defended as brother-in-arms by Gabranth.
In absence of these luxuriant chores he is free to return to his ship, or to his loft above the aerodrome, where Fran waits with glad report from Balfonheim. She speaks in quiet tones of Vaan and Mjrn, of anarchy, of chosen family blossoming in the warmth of Reddas' legacy. Even as Balthier whines about the state of the empire, floating as she is in the narcotic haze of a peace she did nothing to earn, she loves him still, enduring his indolent annoyance with a sort of fond bemusement.
Balthier knew all the time that his place was here, using his cleverness for constructive aims. His father dead, his country at the threshold of new society, his actions pardoned, he thinks perhaps he knows the fabric of his past. He refuses to wear the medals rewarded him upon his return to Draklor, for he is no war hero. The drama of his piratical career was dazzling, as it lasted, but the spotlight is dimmed now, and turned upon other men; the strain of acting the almighty rogue has passed. Balthier is a lauded intellectual again. He is loved for his innovation, praised for his sense of right. If an Archadian's wealth is his intellect, it is said in the streets, then Judge Magister Bunansa is the richest man in Ivalice.
But the red leather book hidden in his desk whispers You are a child and a fool, Balthier - you are wrong; you know nothing at all.