NOT RELATED TO THE WORLD TRAVELER SERIES.

This first chapter is dedicated to fallacies and ElTangoDeRoxanne who apparently squealed like a little girl when she heard I was doing this. Also, fallacies put so much effort into making a timeline and making sure I understand this that if I did not do this story, I would feel a sorry girl indeed.

The start of this story (the first section between the dividers) is exactly my story Juxtaposition. The rest is different.

I've never played War of the Lions, so if I get something wrong, or if I seem confused, pleaselet me know! However, this chapter will not yet deal with WOL yet, so don't call me out yet, please :D.

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Balthier's Log, page 1

I am not sure what the date is- but what I do know is that it is the year 726 Old Valendian. I am forty-two years old, and Fran reckons I ought to retire from the active life of pirating and settle down. She is right, I think, but I am too proud to ever admit it. I have agreed to take a rest after this last job, and I think I will keep to that promise. The job involves one of my favorite substances- auracite. I assure you that I am joking, however. I wish I could wash my hands of magickal rocks and be done with it, but fate does not seem to be willing to let it rest. This last job is to find the Ensanguined Jewel of the Cache of Glabados. If nothing comes of this, I shall lay down my gun and become a Kiltias.

-B

Balthier lay back in a bed of moss, for once not caring that the wet, feathery tendrils left long, rich green smears on the back of his satin vest. Through a narrow hole where he had a clear view of the high, free sky, dark clouds scuttled across the frame of needles the trees created. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with moist, woody air, shivering as the chill penetrated deep inside him. He was cold, by the Gods, how he was cold— not even the golden sunlight reflecting off his bronzed cheek lent him any heat. It was as if the clouds, dissatisfied with simply attempting to obscure the cerulean blue heavens, decided instead to cast their grey pall into the sunshine, rendering even the most glorious beam lifeless and shallow.

The wind, heartless and bitter but welcome company, stirred the tree branches directly over his head, and fiery red leaves cascaded about his body, brushing against his chest and fingertips—their vibrant colors did not warm him either. The light of the sun that had so briefly filled the leaves with life had been extinguished, snuffed out by the breath of the cruel wind. Now, they scattered, hither and thither, strange, sad little corpses on a foreign battlefield, soon to be trampled underfoot.

One came to rest against a proud, flamboyantly crimson and yellow mushroom, growing from a fallen log. How ironic it was, he mused, that the places of death and decay bore the most nutrients and riches for life. Tiny, late flowers, petals delicate shades of pink, purple, and yellow, nodded their heads at him, showing off their joyous colors.

But not all the log's sorrows had been erased by rebirth. By its roots, a bunch of poisonous berries grew, their red sheen both enticing and warning at the same time. Balthier laughed at nature's twisted sense of humor.

He was interrupted in his mirth by the urgent, aggressive baying of an Imperial Hound close by. In a flash of gold and jade green satin, white silk and brown leather, he was gone, leaving nature to mask the scent of gun smoke, sweat, and metal that he left behind.

"Perhaps you misunderstand, Pirate." The Judge was sealed completely in shell-like armor that reflected his personality- sharp ridges, spiny plates, pointed angles. "You put your trust all too easily in those who are not interested in your reward, but their own."

"No, no, I understand those people perfectly. You, for example, are one such man. Are the Imperial coffers not paying well enough for your tastes? Now let us look at me— I believe in profit and reward at another's expense. We are not too different, but it is not as if I expected any reward from you but a cold, dank prison cell at the end of the road." Balthier smirked, all wit and sparkling charm.

"I admire your impudence, scoundrel, but men like you are well known for… losing their heads in tenuous situations." The threat made a faint whooshing noise as it passed over the pirate's head. He did not care, shrugging as he brushed off the Judge's barb with practiced nonchalance.

"You have the humor of the average household vegetable, your honor—" he pronounced the title with sarcasm dripping off his tongue like poison— "That is to say, none at all. If you wish my head to fall, you'd best get it over with quickly. I am not a patient man— reckless even, one might say…"

The Judge bristles— Balthier's jabs are getting to him, almost like a physical blade sliding through the cracks in his armor. His ire threatens to spill over and he is tempted to separate the pirate's glib tongue from his head right there. The pirate seems to know the inner turmoil he is causing, and stirs the pot even further.

"As much as I hate waiting for the blow to fall, your master would be displeased if you did something horrible to me. He wants to question me about the parcel doesn't he? I suppose I can see what this delay is about then, and it certainly is not for my amusement." Balthier shifted his weight onto one leg as he lounged against the tall columns of the waiting room.

"It's to remind you of your place, thief. That he holds your life in his hands, and can choose to drop you any moment he likes!" the Judge exploded. "You had best keep a civil tongue in your head when you talk to him!" He is fast losing his temper, if he has not already, and when the pirate is finally ushered into the throne room to meet with his employer, the cheeky rogue gives him a jaunty wave with cuffed hands.

"I'll keep that in mind; thanks for the tip."

His employer is a rich lord, and his room is like a cavern; a high, vaulted ceiling vanishes into the darkness, supported by a forest of carved, black marble columns. The lord waits in a straight-backed throne made of stone, also black, an imposing thing covered in red velvet. For a moment, a log covered in flowers and red, poisonous berries flashes through the pirate's mind. This man, he thinks, is like the berries, surrounded by beauty but rotten to the core. But, if this man is the toxic fruit of society's rich, heady flowers, he will find that Balthier is a serpent whose venom is of an even more treacherous stock. And that serpent is now coiled, waiting for its chance to strike, hidden beneath the flowers.

The lord, sitting in his chair, smiles, turning a blood red gem over and over in his hands. They are like greedy spiders, not worthy of touching such a thing, the pirate muses, and decides he must once again liberate the jewel, just as he did before. But for now, he waits— this serpent's fangs are not close enough. Not quite yet.

Balthier lay back in a bed of hay, shifting slightly to dislodge the ragged points of the dry quills that jabbed into his back, neck and shoulders like tiny spears. A new brand burned on his chest, outlined thickly in black ink and treated by the prison doctor, no longer wept blood and puss, but twinged painfully if he moved too much. Turning his head to the side, he could look out a barred window and see the sky, where clouds grey as the iron bars caging him stretched from one end of the horizon to the other, not even allowing him one ray of sympathetic, freezing sunshine.

It was unbearably hot, and the thick stone walls shut out the cool wind that might relieve him with its caress. Pain tugged at his breast again, scattering his thoughts and throwing them into stagnant air of his cell, and he struggled to bring them back. He would have had an easier time catching butterflies in this condition than he would the fragmented pieces of his fraying psyche. Deep within him, Mateus chuckled cruelly at his host's absentmindedness, while Zodiark simply made a sound that expressed his worry. Zodiark was such a sweet child, cursed by the gods to remain as such for all eternity. Balthier did his best to maintain what was left of the creature's innocence. Sometimes, he forgot it was over one thousand years old.

Balthier wondered how many more spiritual bodies his own could handle before it exploded— three entities: his own, Zodiark's, and Mateus's, barely seemed to fit. His mind wandered again.

He was grounded, a fierce eagle who had scraped his bronze wingtips against the sky and was promptly flung back to earth for his sin, wings torn and shredded. Reduced to a venomous serpent, low and out of sight but— he smiled obtusely as the brand on his chest seared with pain, screaming heretic! He was still dangerous, nonetheless. Heretic! Heretic! the brand screamed.

In the process of rolling over into a more comfortable position, a few stray lances of straw stabbed into his face, and he blew them away, scattering them across the cell like his thoughts scattered into the air, with a noise like the rattle of dry bones. Was it his bones rattling across the floor?

Concentrate, Ffamran. You are delirious. The doctor has not treated you well, Zodiark whispered. Mateus cackled again. Balthier forced himself to focus on the path of the straw. They piled in the darkest, dankest corner, by a ghostly white mushroom. Even in the deepest sea of neglect, this privateer of death and misfortune stood as proud as its counterpart in the sunlit forest. He nodded to the mushroom, fancying it nodded back, showering it with the green and gold of his own person, the loud colors just as alluring and dangerous as poison red. Mateus shrieked with laughter.

In the company of a toxic mushroom, a serpent readied its fangs beneath flowers of pink, purple, and yellow, preparing to strike at those who would reap the beauty of the petals for themselves and leave dry spears in the place of moist tendrils and feather softness. When the guards approached to bring him to his second audience with the red-enthroned lord, his fangs were positively dripping venom.

Mateus the Corrupt no longer screamed his cold, high-pitched laugh— he purred with pleasure at his host's thoughts. Zodiark shifted again, whimpering.

"Tell me, what do you know of this jewel?" the lord on his black and red throne holds the crimson gem up to the light, admiring the rich color that seems to swallow the sunlight.

"It is red like the arcane blood shed for its creation. It holds power of the like to destroy the world three times over in an inferno of licking flame and rolling shadow. It is terrible and beautiful— and it was a pain to steal." Balthier shrugged, lowering his eyes in a submissive manner. The chains about his hands and feet rattled when he lowered himself to his knees. Balthier forced himself to think that it was his leathers, stiff from filth, creaking, and not his knees. He really was too old to be cavorting about dungeons and stealing wildly powerful treasures.

Smiling, the lord sucked in the faked respect and rose to his feet, crossing the room with his long stride in order to stand before his prisoner. What did he have to fear? The pirate had withered away after weeks— or months— in a dark prison cell. His cheeks are pale and hollow, and his vest, which had once fit snuggly to his well muscled sides, scrapes against scrawny ribs and dirty flesh.

"Look me in the eye, little brigand. Tell me why you ran, why we found you league upon league upon league from Bervenia in the Salikawood. If you had come like we agreed, you would have spared yourself all this nastiness." His warm spider hand danced by the pirate's ear, where a multitude of silver earrings hung, and the thief's breath hitched at the repulsive touch.

"I am such a scoundrel, aren't I?" he purred for lack of a better answer— one that the lord would want to hear, at any rate. Balthier glanced toward the lord's face with sunken eyes glazed with exhaustion and neglect. The lord's expression changed from condescending aloofness to livid rage in a heartbeat, his face flushing red as his ill begotten jewel— his fingers close about an earring, a thin silver twist, and yank. The pirate flinched, blood spattering his face, running down his neck. The lord's hand moved to finger a gold hoop earring, brushing the torn lobe, before scratching at a nick on the ridge of his ear. The old scar reawakens under the persistent worry of the lord's fingers, blood coagulating in his ear, joining the thin stream trickling down his neck. He shifted his position slightly, his knees— no, his leathers, his leathers!— creaking.

In his rage, the lord missed the dangerous glint in the blackguard's eye. It is quickly suppressed, buried under a blanket of feigned languidness. "You would be wise not to try me. I am of a mind to execute you for breaking our deal. The only reward you will get from me is a length of rope or an iron sword screwed into your filthy guts!" the lord snarled, spittle flying from his lips. Balthier merely bowed his head, shaking it in refusal.

"No thank you— I would rather have a different reward. One of more value." His voice is smooth as silk and dark as night.

"And what might that be?" the lord stoops to the pirate's level, grabbing a fistful of filthy, golden hair and forcing him to meet his infuriated gaze.

"Your life, and the jewel," is the simple reply— and Balthier's hands are around the lord's throat, squeezing, squeezing, squeezing, and under his fingers he can feel the thick sluggish pulse, the wellspring of life he is choking with this treacherous serpents coils. He leaned forward, close enough to smear blood, red as poisonous berries, against the lord's cheek. "Thank you for your patronage, my lord," he breathed. To his great consternation, the lord smiled, saying in a voice not his own—

Nay, thank you for your work. The guards roughly jerked Balthier off him, and the lord rose to his feet, massaging his throat, wiping off blood, and straightening his crumpled suit. You want the jewel? Take it, please, for what need have I for the ensanguined jewel from the Cache of Glabados? He pulled the gem from his pocket, attached to a golden chain, and fastened it about Balthier's neck. The lord turned toward a steward standing in the corner. Bring our little pirate friend his affects, he at least needs a fighting chance where he is going. Send his vest to his partner. She at least ought to have some reconciliation.

"So you really are going to execute me. Took you long enough to make up your mind." Balthier spat as a guard roughly tossed the straps to his gun and hip pouches over his head.

Death lies at the end of all roads. We have no more use for you, but the Espers you house within your body are much more lucrative business partners. It is a shame you cannot be separated with the technology we have today, but perhaps in the future… the lord settled himself back upon his blood red throne, folding his spider hands across his lap. Do it.

Balthier barely had time to turn before there was the loud report of gunshots that rang through the high vaulted cavern, and pain lanced through his aching chest. All turned to white light and silver glass, shattering around him, as the red jewel of the Cache of Glabados burned at the pit of his throat.

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