He is clearly trying to impress her. She watches him carry the pitcher of brew back to their table with as much of a disinterested gaze as she can muster. The drink is sloshing over the sides and onto his clothes, but he is concentrating so hard she can't help but hide a small grin behind her fingers. He sets the pitcher down and reaches a hand for her glass, but she stops him with a firm touch to his wrist.
"I think you have me wrong. I prefer spirits to stout."
There is a quick flash of utter embarrassment in the young man's eyes, and she suddenly wishes she could improve her manner of speaking. Eternal honesty was never a fault in the Wood, but here in this world it often caused unpleasantness. But just as soon as the embarrassment is visible it is quickly masked with a confident grin, the alcohol already in his system smoothing things over well enough.
"But you've had so many already, surely you can't even taste it by now?" he asks flirtatiously, moving her hand aside to clumsily fill her glass. She watches him do so, his attention fully focused on the act of pouring. For all that he is trying, he is still but a boy of eighteen and so very overwhelmed by the decisions he's made in the past few months. She understands in a way and allows herself to clink a glass against his. "To us," he continues with a sly wink.
She cannot respond to such a toast and instead merely nods. They drink in silence for a few moments, and she knows he is watching her. He is swaying a bit on his seat, but he wants to keep up. Build up a tolerance. A few nights ago he had mentioned that he'd really not had much opportunity to drink before, especially in his training. The training he'd so recently abandoned, but she still notices the way he carries himself. Like a soldier. He definitely needs her guidance. The transformation from apprentice judge to pirate will be quite difficult, but if there is anything Fran knows for certain, he will work at it obsessively.
Fran watches his hand idly flick at the newest addition to his ear, the first initiation ritual he'd created for himself. He'd begged her not to tell anyone about the tears the piercer's needle inflicted. "So what do you propose we do tomorrow?" she inquires casually, watching his fingers play with the small bauble in his earlobe.
"I'm sick of Balfonheim," he mumbles quietly, "there's something I've been meaning to look into back at…" She waits patiently as he stifles the word "home," and she sees him struggling. "Back in Archades," he finishes, raising his glass to his lips and staring at the table. She wonders how he would be doing if he hadn't tried (and failed) to pickpocket her seven short weeks ago. He is still a child, but she would never insult him by saying so out loud.
"The airship?" she asks.
"Think of it as our first real heist, Fran. None of these little schemes and con games. And we'll gain real transport if we can get it." His voice is very anxious and excited, and she knows she'll have to rein him in. The Archadian air fleet is discarding some prototype ships, and he wants to claim one. She has a small ship at the aerodrome, but the young man wants one of his very own. His snobbery about airships is more endearing than irritating, although she supposes that his innocence is what is truly winning her over.
"Very well. We will take an early flight to Archades at first light. Will you be alright to return so soon, Ffamran?"
He bristles immediately, and she realizes her mistake. He sips his drink again and gives her a warning look. "I am not that boy any longer," he argues pointedly, and she hesitates. Along with the earring and the increased flirtatiousness he feels to be "pirate" traits, he has also chosen a new name in the past week. She is not remotely used to it yet, and she wonders if she will ever address him as such. But he is fairly insistent, even under intoxication. She wishes he would be happy with himself as he is, but there will be no changing him. It is all a charade, but she can think of no alternative. He wants to be someone different entirely, and she remembers the feeling all too well.
"I am sorry, Balthier."
He puts up the new lascivious mask he has been crafting these last few weeks, and it is as if she had not made her verbal misstep. "I love you." She raises an eyebrow and takes a slow sip of her drink. He leans forward and lets his fingers brush over the top of her hand. He is still a boy and the fingers shake a bit. "I really do, you know. If you hadn't…well, I just…"
"Ffamran," she says insistently, pulling her hand back, and he is sour again. "It is late. I suggest we retire if you wish to leave so early." She rises from the table and heads to her own room at the inn alone. Though it has been seven weeks, she knows he isn't entirely lying. And she worries that she is beginning to feel the same way about him.
-----
She is clearly trying to impress him. He watches her clutch the one handed sword in both of hers, and he wishes she would use the shield he had snuck from the barracks for her. Instead she holds the sword at the ready. "You will come at me in a run this time."
"You are not ready."
Her cheeks flush in anger, and he tries to convince himself that she is still but a girl – a girl young enough to be his own daughter, he corrects himself. But the fire in her eyes is stuff a fifteen year old rarely possesses. "I insist, Captain." She is utterly focused, her breathing heavy, and he feels like a sinner for even gazing at her for so long a time.
Sighing deeply, he withholds one final plea for her to take up the shield, and he removes his sword from his scabbard and readies his attack. It has to be spontaneous – she has insisted as much – but he wonders if he should give her a nod or some sort of signal. He launches himself, closing the distance between them quickly. He sees her hands shaking as he brings the sword down, and he knows almost instantly that she will not be able to block it entirely. It is too late into his swing for him to correct himself, and the metal collides with her sword with a heavy clang. Her grip loosens, and the impact leads his sword to slash at the underside of her left forearm.
She releases a barely audible grunt, and he knows it is more frustration with herself than anything else. "Princess, I am sorry…I cannot begin to apologize…"
"Then please, do not. It is not your fault," she replies, gritting her teeth as her blood begins to trickle. He cannot meet her gaze and stands holding her arm. Her blood is already seeping onto his skin, and he realizes that he could have killed her. The guilt begins to flood through him. There is a stirring behind them and the sound of clanking armor.
"Your Highness!" Vossler's voice rings out across the courtyard, and he inadvertently tightens his grip on her arm. He hears the Princess moan a bit at this, and he drops her arm as Azelas approaches. "Basch, what is the meaning of this?"
Ashelia's eyes flash angrily, and she moves away from the both of them. "I asked him to attack, and I failed to parry successfully. I will see that I am cared for." She runs off clutching her bloody arm, and Basch knows that her pride has been wounded far more.
He cannot meet Vossler's eyes and begins to pick up the discarded sword and shield. "The king has forbidden this, you know as well as I."
Basch lifts the equipment and begins walking to the barracks, Vossler at his heels. "She improves with every session. The king would be proud of her if he knew."
His friend stops him, pulling at his shoulder roughly. "If he knew that you almost killed his sole heir this afternoon, you would be drawn and quartered. What are you thinking? She does not need to know swordcraft."
"You are wrong, Vossler." Reaching the barracks, he cleans Ashelia's spilt blood from his sword. "She should be prepared for anything."
Azelas sits on a bench across from him and crosses his arms. "We are here to protect her, and when she is wed to Lord Rasler, he will assume that duty as well."
"Then you know Ashelia very little. She wishes for this and will not be persuaded otherwise." He realizes that using the Princess' name did not go undetected, and his friend's eyes narrow suspiciously.
The accusation goes unsaid, but he knows that he has been discovered. "It is a dangerous path you tread, Basch."
His exasperation continues to give him away, but he is too upset about harming the Princess that he doesn't care. "I am old enough to be – I only wish for Her Majesty to be safe."
Vossler moves from the bench. He turns back at the door and gives him a concerned glance. "See that these lessons end today…for the Princess' sake and for your own."
He waves his friend off and rubs his temples in exhaustion.
-----
He is late. She finishes her inspection of the engine room, hearing him trudging up the steps as she moves back to the cockpit. Taking her usual seat at his side, she glances over to see what will be a black eye very shortly. "Another married woman?" she inquires casually.
His grin is almost infectious. "Wasn't wearing her ring last night." His eyes focus on the control panel, and he readies the Strahl for lift-off. When they are on their way west, he finally speaks again. "I'm through with this nonsense, Fran."
She's heard this declaration dozens of times, but she nods as if it is the first time. "I see."
He continues on and on, and she watches the clouds part as they coast through the skies. "Maybe I just need a change of scenery."
"Perhaps."
"Balfonheim…there's no challenge there. Even Bhujerba is a growing bore. How do you manage?" he inquires then, and she almost lets her surprise show.
"Manage what exactly?" she replies, knowing precisely what he's going to ask her. She believes the lie so fully at this point that it has become truth.
"Manage to avoid attachments? Viera thing?" His questions are casually thrown about, but she remembers a night three years earlier. A night she had decided to keep things professional before she lost herself completely. She thinks that that was the night that finally transformed Ffamran into Balthier, but she wonders if she has really had that much of an impact on who he is.
The dials on the panel are hypnotizing. "We love differently," she lies, thinking back to the first night she'd brought someone else back. She remembers how he'd responded in kind the following evening, remembers the ache. "I know not how to best explain it. We are no less passionate, but it is just different."
He seems content. They pass much of the remainder of the flight in comfortable silence as they usually do. Their fake identity passes get them past the Archadian security well enough, but she wishes they had come at another time. Balthier's eye is not as purple as she thought it would have turned, but he will not let them begin their caper tonight. He will not risk being captured in less than perfect condition.
They sit at a tavern, and she listens to him complain about the desert heat. He pulls out the floor plan they've obtained at great expense. "Treasury's right here," he mutters, gesturing to the center of the plans. "I bet it'll be pretty lax. All of them will be watching Solidor."
A barmaid brings over a pitcher, and she watches his eyes pass over the woman's bosom. When the young lady departs, she raises an eyebrow. "Just admiring the scenery," he teases. "Don't worry, Fran. I've no plans to meet my next entanglement in this city. Strictly business."
She looks back to the floor plan of the Royal Palace of Rabanastre and resists the urge to call his bluff.
-----
The sun is harsh, but they are making good progress. "Hey Ashe! Can we see what's in that cave down there?" He holds in a smile at Vaan's enthusiasm.
The Princess is far less amused. "An unnecessary risk." The boy's face falls, and they all continue their fairly quiet journey. Only their footfalls on the raised metallic walkways provide stimulation to their ears. A band of sand people ambush them moments later, and though it still strains his woefully neglected muscles, he swings his sword at the front of the group. Vossler stands immediately in front of the Lady Ashe. She does not yet trust him to do so.
One of the Urutan crossbows finds Vossler's chestplate, and the Princess races forward with a loud cry. The little sandsea dweller is dispatched quickly, and they take care of the remainder of the group a short time later. Vossler is unharmed and steps away from Ashe a moment to pull Basch back to guard the rear of the group.
"You were right to teach her, Basch." Vossler's smile and apology are genuine, and he nods in acknowledgment.
"I see that you continued where I left off." Azelas chuckles and for a moment, the events of the past two years are as nothing.
He stays at the back with Vossler, but he notices that Balthier's sleeve is soaked in blood. His hand is just closing around a potion when he sees the Princess walking in step with the sky pirate. They pause, letting the children continue on ahead. He watches Balthier raise his sleeve with some groan of disappointment, more at the damage to a good shirt than at being injured.
The Princess' hand rests on the pirate's bicep, and Basch watches her lips move in a near-silent chant. He notices that Balthier's eyes do not move away from the Princess' face for the entire duration of the spell. From the corner of his eye, he sees that the Viera is also a party to this healing session. Suddenly her ruby eyes move to lock with his, and he turns aside to stare out at the endless dunes.
The Princess finishes the spell, and he hears Balthier mutter some flirtatious version of a thank you. Ashe barely notices the underlying tone in the pirate's voice and walks away. The young man follows after her, rolling his stained sleeve back down. Fran silently turns to continue after them as well.
Vossler is at his elbow. "Even after all these years, Basch? Still?" He is startled by the question and shakes his head.
"You are mistaken," he replies distractedly, seeing the way Balthier seems to be following Ashe like he is her personal guard rather than Vossler or himself.
Azelas says nothing for a while. Another Urutan group attacks shortly thereafter, and he finds himself fighting at the Viera's side. She moves gracefully and strings an arrow, but the Urutan are swift and one gets past Vaan's dagger to aim its crossbow. He steps in front of her, deflecting the bolt with his shield. He receives a nod in thanks, but her eyes seem to focus on her partner, who did not even notice she was under attack. Instead, Balthier is busy loading his gun and standing back to back with the Princess several paces ahead.
Vossler grips his shoulder, and he realizes for the second time that day that he is staring.
-----
A wise, elderly Hume, Dalan, has arranged accommodations for the group for the night. She has the contents of her quiver emptied upon her cot and inspects each arrowhead. Across the room, she hears the slightest tapping of metal on wood and raises her eyes.
Balthier is seated at a desk, a map of the Ozmone Plain unraveled before him. The tapping is the sound of a ring thudding against the wooden surface. She returns her attention to the arrows, but the day's events have troubled her. "How long will we continue down this path, Balthier?"
She hears him shift slightly in his chair. "Well, we have our payment through to Jahara. From there, I haven't decided." She is slightly offended that her interests have not been considered. If she had her way, they'd abandon this fool errand. They'd spent years avoiding politics and now they were in danger of becoming entrenched fully in the affairs of others. She admires the deposed Princess' determination, but it is not their war. And as the days have gone by, she's grown a bit concerned about her partner's true motives.
"Why did you take her ring?"
She can almost sense the tensing of his shoulders and doesn't even have to look up at him. He stops tapping Ashe's wedding band against the desk, the room falling silent save for the muffled noises she can hear through the thin walls.
Fran wonders how long it will take his swift mind to craft a suitable lie. Not very long at all, she discovers. "Real silver, this," he mutters. She raises her eyes to see him inspecting it closely. "Will fetch a good price in the markets. Might be able to replace that gauge that's been bugging me on our nav panel."
The Viera watches her partner roll the ring back and forth between his thumb and forefinger, his face a neutral mask as it so often is when he is hiding something. She has easily caught him in his lie. "You said you would return it when you find something more valuable. Why do you speak of selling it?"
He says nothing, setting the ring down on the desk. Balthier returns his eyes to the maps in front of him as if she has not raised a pertinent question. "We're going to get soaking wet tomorrow. Best that we pick up some waterproof packs before we set out."
She picks up another of her arrows and inspects it. "Why are you ignoring my question?"
"I'm not. I just don't understand your curiosity. We'll take her to Jahara and be back to Rabanastre in a week or so. We can just mail back the ring when we get to Bervenia. We've been planning that for ages, haven't we?" He does not move his gaze from the map of the plain, and she resists the urge to snap the arrow in half in her hands.
She knows that Jahara cannot and will not be the end of it.
-----
The Stilshrine is frigid, and his teeth are chattering as he keeps his silent watch of the party. For the past dozen nights, he has volunteered for the final watch, and Fran has joined him. The Viera seems unaffected by the chill in the air, and he wonders how such a thing is possible. Her long hair is brushing against his hand where it rests on the stone floor, but he cannot bring himself to move it.
The feeling of a woman's hair against his skin is something he hasn't realized he's been missing. Before Nalbina, before the war, he had been with others. Not a one had hair with the texture and richness of the strands that brush his hand now. The white locks drift over his coarse, calloused skin, and it almost tickles.
She is watching her partner sleep, and he is watching Ashelia sleep. Together, they watch the chill settle over them. He feels his other hand clench into a fist as Balthier's arm unconsciously wraps around the Princess' waist in sleep. Basch senses Fran's discomfort as the Princess seemingly leans back against him. He can see Ashelia's lips move, and he cannot tell if she is speaking in her sleep or if she and Balthier are just feigning their slumber.
Fran's hair moves away from his hand, and she shifts slightly. He hears her crack her knuckles, and the sound distracts him from the sleeping younger people on the hard floor. He doesn't want to ask, but the compulsion is unavoidable.
"What did she say?"
The Viera's ruby eyes turn darker. "Something she won't remember tomorrow."
He tries to put on his protector mask, and he wonders if he can fool her. "It is improper. I do not wish for Her Majesty to be hurt."
Basch turns to face the Viera, and she tilts her head in contemplation. For all his attempts at a stoic front, Fran's face is near impenetrable. He wishes to know what she thinks of the developing situation. He cannot help wondering if she and her partner have a past. It will never be his business.
"He won't hurt her. Not intentionally, at least." The conversation is over, and he knows she will not say another word for the remainder of their watch. He rubs his arms for warmth and can do nothing but watch the inevitable unfold between his charge and the pirate.
-----
Without Reddas, the manse at Balfonheim Port seems empty despite their presence. Fran returns from the aerodrome and is satisfied with the Strahl. The day ahead will be chaotic, but the ship will be in top condition.
As she begins climbing the stairs to the bedrooms, she can hear it. It comes as little surprise, and in a way, she is glad. It may be their last night alive, and they are finding comfort in one another. She has always thought of this type of lovemaking as a desperate, rash action, but as she tries and fails to tune out the creaking bed and the moans, she knows what she feels is envy.
It is seldom a feeling that strikes Viera, but being of the world and not the Wood has led her to feel baser, more primal emotions. She drifts past the room with measured steps, the noise nearly overwhelming her. Some part of her is happy for him and for her as well. But she realizes that she may die tomorrow, and she does not wish to be alone in thought. She longs to forget, to lose herself as Humes do with such greater ease than she knows.
When the Captain opens the door, his eyes bleary from sleep, she realizes that he cannot hear Balthier or Ashelia. She knows that if he could hear them, he would appear far more forlorn. Instead he is stone-faced with the slightest curiosity in his eyes. "Is something wrong, Fran?"
They are all connected. Hume and Viera and man and woman. She never knows how to suggest these things delicately. Courtship and romance have meant little to her these past few years. She almost lost herself in emotions with Balthier, and she does not wish to repeat it. Instead of asking, she brings her lips to his gently, hoping to convey all she feels in a simple gesture.
Neither is the other's first choice, and the look in his eyes when she pulls away makes that abundantly clear. But they respect one another, and they care for one another as equals and as kindred spirits facing similar dilemmas. She knows that he loves the Princess, and she imagines that he can fathom the depth of her emotions towards her partner. This understanding is why she has wandered to his door, and it is what will get them through a long night.
His flesh is muscled and taut, the scars on his back tracing a history of incarceration she suspects he'll keep to himself. As he moves against her, she is able to ignore the sounds drifting through the walls, and all she knows is him. He understands. No words are spoken, merely the sound of exhaled breaths and the bedposts knocking against the wall in an even rhythm. It is comforting and when she loses herself, it evokes sensations and feelings within her she thought she'd given up. She feels her life pulsing in her veins and as he comes to rest his head against her breast, she can hear his heartbeat pounding as Humes hear waves crashing against the seashore.
She has lived for decades, but she knows now that she is alive.
-----
Larsa is thirteen and the party carries on well past midnight. It is the first time he's seen her since Bahamut since they've both been busy. She is outwardly happy as she jokes with Al-Cid Margrace, who has set his sights on her, but Basch knows that she will wait a long time before considering marriage. He longs to speak with her, but as Judge Magister Gabranth, he would have very little to say to her and thus he must stay where he is, standing rigidly behind Larsa's chair.
The evening finally comes to a close, and he notices how the Princess' face has grown pink and how her head bobs slightly. She has let the madhu get to her. Lord Larsa is ready to go to bed, and Basch conceals a grin as the young man stifles a yawn. He's done a very good job matching the adults for the night, but it's time to depart. The emperor thanks his guests for gathering, and everyone begins to vacate the banquet hall for their guest quarters in the palace.
He has just seen Larsa to his chambers when a young woman stops him in the corridor. "Her Majesty wishes to talk to you." It's one of Ashe's girls, and he tries to hide the joy he feels at the thought of getting to speak with her in private. He's missed her a great deal, more than he'd ever admit to anyone. He can almost hear Vossler's voice in his head issuing dozens of warnings.
But they fall on deaf ears. He retires to his own chambers and changes from his armor to more casual attire and walks to Her Majesty's guest rooms. A different maid welcomes him and departs, leaving him alone with her in the dark chamber. Only moonlight and a candle on the bedside table provide any illumination.
"You wanted to see me, Princess?"
Ashe stands at the window with her arms crossed, and he watches her stare out at the Archadian skyscrapers. She says nothing, instead turning away and moving to a table in the center of the room. She sits down and beckons him forward. A fresh bottle of madhu awaits, and she begins to pour a decent amount into two goblets. He moves to sit in the chair beside her, and for the first time in months he is within arm's reach of her.
She raises her glass and finally looks at him. "To absent friends," she mutters, her voice only partially slurred from the drink she's already consumed. He notices that she is still wearing her wedding band, but he wonders if she wears it for Rasler…or for Balthier, who still had the other one with him when the Bahamut crashed. They clink their glasses together, and he takes a long sip, the alcohol burning his throat despite the sweetness of the berry flavor.
He checks the bottle and notices it is of a fine vintage. Basch takes another sip and watches her, her face nearly in complete shadow. "I am sorry I could not be there for the ceremony," he offers gently, and her face remains blank. Two months after the crash, Dalmasca had held a memorial service in honor of Balthier and Fran, and though he'd been in Archades, he had spent almost the entire day in meditation over their losses.
As they sit and drink in silence, he thinks of Fran. The wildness of her flowing hair, the huskiness of her voice, the curve of her hips. He is already reaching for the madhu bottle within minutes, and the Princess holds her own cup for another bit of alcohol. His hand is shaky as he pours, and some spills on her nightshift. He mumbles an apology, but she waves him off and allows the madhu to leave a darkened stain on the silk gown. The Princess looks miserable, and he longs for her. He thought long ago that he'd given her up, and the images of Fran are still fresh in his mind. If he was bold…or stupid, he'd grasp her hand, but it would be a betrayal.
A different tack is required. "My lady, did you know that Balthier couldn't hold his madhu?"
She looks up, a bit of a delayed reaction, but a weak smile eventually crosses her face. "What do you mean?"
The memory is painful. The young pirate had been so full of life, and it had been snuffed out so easily. "In Balfonheim one of those nights. You'd retired early, and he dragged me out. By the third glass, he was face down on the table."
She giggles at the thought, a genuine laugh that he adores since it is so rarely heard. "I don't believe you. Pirates drink all the time."
He smiles and shakes his head. "Everything about that man was a front, my lady. Anything stronger than watered down lager, and he was gone."
Ashe takes another sip and continues her chuckling. "I had no idea." They return to a measure of silence, the new knowledge of her lost lover seeming to bring some comfort to her. He finds his eyes drawn to the paleness of her skin, save for the alcohol-induced flush, and to the delicate fingers of her hand as they hold the wine goblet.
Eventually conversation drifts to other memories of their journey. Vaan's impulsive mark hunts that disrupted them, Penelo's songs by the light of the campfire, Fran's tales from the Viera, and Balthier's raunchy jokes. The madhu bottle is empty, and he finds his mind fuzzy as the Princess tips the bottle upside down and tries to smack the bottom to get the last drops of liquor from it. She sets the bottle down in a huff. "I think we could use some more."
Ashe moves to get up, but she stumbles. He's shaky but out of his chair to catch her. His hand is around her bare forearm, and he lets his thumb drag over the scar he knows is still there. It has faded some in time, but the day in the courtyard has not left his thoughts in all these years. He knows it is wrong to hold onto her like this, and the way her voice has caught in her throat makes him nervous. "I am sorry for this, Princess," he mumbles, his voice unsteady from drink. Warning bells are sounding, but he ignores them as she brings her eyes to his.
Her gaze is far away, and he knows this is wrong. Very wrong. But he leans down and brushes his lips against hers, breaching every oath he's sworn for one chance to taste her. There is nothing exotic about Ashe's lips, their texture a bit softer than Fran's had been. But for all her strength, the Princess weakens in his arms, her legs barely holding her up. She murmurs against his lips. "My knight, my knight," she whispers and from anyone else it would sound ridiculous, but from his Princess it is all he's ever wanted to hear her say.
She is intoxicated. He is taking advantage. He should be thrown to the dogs, but she is gripping the fabric of his shirt and responding. Perhaps after all this time she has had feelings? He stumbles after her as she pulls him towards her bed, and he knows that this is getting out of hand way too quickly. Her eyes are barely open as she begins to tug on his trousers, taking short breaks to reach for his face and to touch his lips with her fingers.
She touches him, and he can't conceal the groan. Ashe pulls him down on top of her, moving her knees apart to let him rest in between them. They have ceased speaking at this point as he pulls on the nightshift and for the first time feels the soft skin of her thighs. This isn't the reasoned, methodical sensuality he'd experienced in Fran's arms. It is fumbling and quick, her hands moving up and down his back as she pushes her hips up frantically to urge him to join with her.
He brushes a few kisses across her temple and releases a shuddering breath. How long had he thought of this? His mind is crying out to stop, but she is evoking a primal need, and he feels like he has to comply. He closes his eyes and pushes, and she lets out a gasp followed by some muttering, but he can't even hear her since his ears are roaring with the drink he's consumed and the reality of what he is doing.
It is hasty and rushed, and the way she holds onto him is stiff. He does not even pause to wonder if he is hurting her, something that even five minutes before he would have sooner died than done to her. He brings his lips to her cheeks and mouth, mumbling her name and her title and then some drunken combination of both as he moves against her. She feels so tiny since he has only the memories of Fran to remind him, and her whimpering grows quieter. He listens to the bed creak and his own breathing and sees finally that there are tears streaming down her face. He wants to stop, but he can't. Not yet, not when it feels so wonderful, and he knows he will have to find some way to punish himself for this grossly inappropriate conduct.
He gets selfish. He grips her leg tightly and drives harder, raising a loud cry from her, and it propels him closer to madness and release. She clings to him and lets out a moan. "Balthier!" he hears her cry, and he pretends he didn't hear it. He only pushes against her faster.
"Balthier, please!"
Ignorance is impossible. She does not love him. He crashes once more against her almost violently and then releases her leg. He moves off of her and to the foot of the bed and begins pulling his trousers on with as much haste as he can manage. His entire body is quaking, and he can hear her sobbing into the pillow behind him. He cannot turn around to face her. He's ruined everything.
He finds his shoes and stumbles across the darkened room. He hears her call his name when he is at the door, but he doesn't look back. He is furious with himself as he stalks down the corridors of the palace. The other guards barely acknowledge him despite his fumbling steps and palpable anger. He's never loathed himself this much. Not even when he hung in that damned cage for all that time. This is a shame that shakes him to his very core.
In his room he finds a flask of some harsh whisky, and he's emptied it in minutes. He crashes through his cabinets and finds another bottle and tucks it under his arm. He is acting crazy, but he wants to forget. He'll have the rest of his life to live with the decisions he's made that night, but for now he longs to banish the memory of the way Ashe had cried out for Balthier. The mournful screams of pleasure and pain, of loss and regret.
He nearly tumbles down the stairs into the palace armory and finds a sword. He stalks into the silent training courtyard, the remaining logical part of his mind knowing that the barracks' soundproofing will muffle his noise. He tears the cap off of the bottle and takes a long sip of the harsh liquor, the burning seeming to be a fitting punishment for his sins. With the bottle in his left and the sword in his right, Basch attacks a straw target. It shreds and shreds until it is naught more than a pile of coarse material at his feet. His arm aches from the erratic swings his intoxication induces, and another sip of drink numbs it.
He hears their voices cursing him. Raminas. Vossler. Fran. They all loathe him. A second target and then a third are cleaved apart again and again in his madness, and he barely notices the bottle slip from his grip and shatter against the rough paving stones of the courtyard. His sword waveringly finds the target until he remembers nothing else.
-----
Word has reached them from Dalmasca. Ashe would be crowned Queen in a month. Fran sighs and reaches for the water glass on the bedside table. Moving to a sitting position, she wonders how long she has been asleep. The flight to Rabanastre is four hours by the overcrowded airships of the East Ivalice Company, and he will make it back in half that time in the Strahl.
She wonders if he will go through with it. Eleven months had come and gone, and he has only journeyed to her capital a few times. He has never spoken of what he's done when he visited Rabanastre, but the despondent expression that always crossed his features upon his return was a sign that he had not shown his face at the palace.
The door slams downstairs, and from the sounds of his footfalls in the entryway of their lodgings, she knows this trip to Rabanastre is the same as the others. He hasn't gone to see her. He hasn't told her that they are alive. A knock at the door, and she bids him enter. He stumbles in, and she is saddened to see the bottle in his hand. With the chronic pain he feels in his side now since the crash, he's turned more and more to the comforts of drink. She wonders if he flew all the way back to Bervenia intoxicated.
"How is our ship?" she inquires softly as he drags over a chair and sits beside the bed. He takes a long sip from the opened bottle and smirks.
His voice is not as slurred as she expects it to be, and she thanks the gods for tiny favors. "Better than expected. I suspect that's Pen's doing, not Vaan's."
"Any trouble stealing it back?"
Balthier smiles broadly. "None whatsoever. Even had time to take care of some outstanding business." The smile fades into a neutral expression as she catches him rubbing a now empty place on one of his fingers. She is too far to reach out a hand for his shoulder and can only watch him stare down at his hands and the floor.
"I see."
"Told the kids they could come look us up one of these days. Too quiet here. And we'll need some help if we're ever going to find that cache." He takes another swig of the alcohol, and she wishes he would stop. She is of no use to him. Her leg was rendered useless despite the best efforts of doctors in Rabanastre, in Rozarria, and here in Bervenia. Moving from the bed to anywhere else takes a dozen minutes, yet he still speaks as if they'll be plundering the Glabados tomb together. She is a partner now only out of respect for their years together and because they will never say out loud that she is helpless. That she will never walk again.
She wants to ask about the Princess. But he is still examining his fingers, as if he has lost a part of himself in giving the ring back. For the months of their journey, he'd kept it inside his vest. When he worked on the Bahamut's glossair rings, he'd switched it to his finger for the first time. And for eleven months, he'd worn it. Now it is in Rabanastre with its owner. "Any other news from Dalmasca?" She decides it is best to not ask him outright.
He leans back in the chair and closes his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. He is twenty-three but if she didn't know him, she'd swear he was as old as she.
"As I said, Fran. I took care of some outstanding business."
"In person?"
He breathes in and exhales slowly, the sound of his breath full of exhaustion. "No."
"Why not? Surely you had the time." She is treading into dangerous territory. He barely mentions Ashe by name now. She only hears him mumbling for her in his sleep, and she often ponders if he knows he has done so.
"Some other time. She's a bit busy to be seeing criminals," he mutters dismissively, and he's out of the seat then. He takes the near-empty pitcher from her bedside table and moves to the bathroom to refill it with fresh water. When he returns, he has another glass and he pours for each of them.
Fran sips slowly, studying him. Though the time they've known each other has only taken up a fraction of her life, it has been the most meaningful fraction. Which is what makes what she needs to tell him so difficult. She's dreaded it for a week, but it is what he needs. "I received a letter from my sister." With days spent restless in her bed, she's taken up letter writing. She was pleasantly surprised that Jote deigned to send a message in return.
"And?" His inquiry is cautious. The bottle of alcohol remains on the floor beside his chair, and his grip is fairly tight around the water glass.
She lets her eyes drift about the room then, away from him finally. "Jote says that I could be of some use in the village. Since I left before, I would have to remain at the edges, but there are tasks I could assist with even in my state."
He shifts in the chair, and she does not wish to keep lying to him. Jote has made it perfectly clear that she was not welcome in Eruyt again. But since Fran never lies to Balthier, she knows he will believe her. "Is that so?" he remarks. There is an edge in his voice that she has only heard once before directed at her – the night she decided to keep their relationship strictly professional. She tells herself that this is for his own good. She cannot weigh him down. Fran is not exactly sure where she will head, but this farce of a partnership he still clings to will only hurt him. There is no such thing as partners when only one can walk and pillage and stir up trouble and the other is a useless invalid. Things are out of balance.
"Yes," she responds evenly, surprised at how outwardly calm she is. Inside she is screaming as if her veins are being overrun with Mist. "I have had Shia book me passage on a freighter that stops at Bur-Omisace. I can have one of the Kiltias assist me from there." He has just gotten his ship back – she will not let him use it as a medical transport.
"You're not going anywhere, Fran." She knows that if she looks over at him, she will see that his eyes are reddening. The next thing he says would be unheard by Hume ears. But she has been blessed and cursed when it comes to listening. "I need you."
She decides to pretend she didn't hear his desperation. It cuts her like a knife, but if she loves him, she has no other choice. He needs to be free. He can't be her nursemaid forever when there is so much of Ivalice left for him to explore. The words have tumbled from her lips before and he hadn't listened. This time she would see to it that he did. "Hadn't you best be off…"
"Fran, don't..."
"That's what a sky pirate does. You fly." Beneath her blanket, she has her sheets clutched tightly in her fists. "I cannot fly with you. Not this time."
"Please, don't do this to me." The twenty-three year old is now a boy again. And she will treat him as such.
"Ffamran." She says it with finality, and she keeps her eyes shut as the bottle of alcohol smashes into the wall with a ferocity that few others will ever see from him. If she could rise from the bed and embrace him, she would. But since she cannot, she lets him leave the room. And if Shia, the girl at the inn down the road, has kept her word, Fran will not be around when he returns.
She tells herself over and over again as the first tears in decades descend her cheeks. She tells herself that it is for the best.
-----
The pirate has gone to great lengths to break into his private chambers, but he supposes that a man alone is more reckless without someone to hold him back. Basch pours him a drink and then one for himself. The Judge Magister knows precisely why he has come to Archadia. But if he knows Balthier as well as he thinks, the true meaning of his visit will not surface in conversation for some time yet. He has always been a gentleman and one willing to exchange pleasantries.
There is an icy calm in his face that Basch understands all too well. They have both lost much. They converse about the weather, about Archadian politics and backstabbing and then briefly about Vaan and Penelo's recent discovery of a fantastic treasure in the heart of a Rozarrian tomb. Basch knows that Balthier has been with Ashelia. Though the pirate will say nothing of it since it must be hidden, there is no mistaking the tanned skin of one who has been spending time in Rabanastre. Basch is glad that they have been able to regain some measure of happiness, and if Ashe's letters to Larsa are any indication, the Queen herself is doing well. But it is clear that Balthier has love but remains incomplete.
Almost an hour's reminiscences pass before the sky pirate asks the question Basch has been expecting. "Has she been here, Captain?"
Basch pours the pirate another few fingers of drink and shakes his head. "No."
Balthier's shoulders slump in defeat, and he downs the drink with a quickness that Basch knows will be leading to a bad hangover in the hours to come. Balthier has always been a lightweight.
The conversation shifts then, and Balthier does not inquire after Fran again. They chat about his inheritance and the Bunansa estates left to him. Basch imagines that he will marry Ashe one day and is planning ahead for the inevitable uphill battle that undertaking will be. When they've exhausted the topic, Balthier rises unsteadily from his chair.
"Thanks for the drink. It has been good to catch up with you."
Basch escorts the pirate to a secret passage so he has an easier way back to the aerodrome. He wants nothing more than to ask about Ashelia, but as her name forms on his lips, he thinks better of it and keeps his mouth shut. He bids Balthier farewell and shuts the passage door with a sigh.
He puts the bottle of alcohol away and changes for bed. He shuffles into his bedchamber and throws the lock. She is facing the wall, and Basch knows that she's heard every word he's spoken with Balthier.
Basch brushes a kiss to her temple and strokes her cheek. She is able to shift in the bed, her leg growing slightly stronger with each passing day. She will never run, but Basch is hopeful that she might be able to walk again someday.
She presses a kiss against his palm and pulls him into the bed beside her. Neither has the one that might truly make them whole, but they have one another. It is enough.