The Unintended Burden

by Maia's Pen

One shot. “I clench my jaw; frustration spreads throughout my system like a foul disease as I realize that . . . I may have to watch Balthier Bunansa die.” Brutal Bounty Hunters, Balthier and Basch, ‘nuff said.

The Unintended Burden

By Maia's Pen

Authors Note: I wrote this story in the winter of 2007. After spending a bit of time cleaning it up, decided to give it a chance. I hope you will enjoy it.

Disclaimer: Nope, I don't own Basch or Balthier . . . don't I wish. That'd be yummy.

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I never intended to fall in love, least of all with another man. Since I can remember my hearts only devotion has been to my sovereign and my country. To defend them, come what may. To live long enough to see peace befall Ivalice . . . that is my greatest desire. In my life there has never been freedom for romance. There has never been an occasion to feel affections for another Hume.

Ah, but yet here I am now with the gun barrel pressing into the square of my back. I am being shoved down this corridor, manhandled like an outlaw. I have been seized, taken prisoner -- a gun to my back and I am enduring it all for him. The gods must indulge in my anguish. There is a chance that I will not survive this night, yet I hold nil regrets.

None.

None as long as circumstance grant me knowledge that he is still alive.

Balthier.

Though the pirate knows naught of my sinful yearnings -- and I pray he never will -- I can not amend them. My feelings. Gods know I have prayed for assistance to do so. Only, in this instant, as the threat of Balthier's death is laid bare before me, I can no longer turn a deaf ear to the whispers of my heart. His very life is being threatened, and this threat has twisted itself like a Viper inside me -- coiling about my innards until I shake from the fear. The fear of losing Balthier . . . it is . . . unbearable.

I never should have allowed myself to become attached. I know better. Dammit, Basch, you know better! Throughout my life I have learned not to love. Everyone dies. My family, my comrades. So many brothers-in-arms have fallen before my eyes. Attachments are like a wounded arm -- clinging to the shoulder by only a few thin strings of flesh. 'Tis far wiser to sever attachments. Cut them clean before they can rot or become a burden. One should merely do his duty and move along with honor.

However, I have seen ragged limbs heal to later form a mightier arm than before. I have also learned that mishaps occur, even to the most cautious of men.

From the moment my sight first encountered Balthier -- in the shadows of the Nalbina dungeon -- I knew that he was freeing my body from one prison only to lock my thoughts away in another. He was the first person in years to grant me a morsel of trust. He believed in me when the rest of Ivalice shunned me as a murdering traitor.

With haste Balthier became more than my comrade . . . he became my friend. A friend whose reputation was wrought by both gun and smile. A friend whom I am attracted too. This frightens me.

Frightens ME!

I can annihilate a Malboro Overking without flinching. I can capture a mammoth Esper without hesitation. I can extinguish the terrors of Vayne Solidor without reserve! Fighting is all I have ever known. My feelings for Balthier remain foreign to me. I accept that naught can ever come of them. I knew that his company would only end in disaster for me and it has. In this moment the four bounty hunters halt in the corridor. One proceeds to tighten my chains. The man behind me continues jabbing his gun in my back; another sees need to slap me across the head. I can only sigh at the wisdom in my foresight.

With the chains tightened the bounty hunters continue to push me along. My thoughts also push along . . .

Balthier is everything that I am not. Balthier is charming, outspoken, charismatic; impulsive . . . No matter his destination he attracts others to him like a heat-seeking hand bomb. I consider myself to have a drab personality. I never speak unless I have something important to say. Popularity and worldly riches are not priorities for me. In fact they hold no interest at all. Yet all of these things combine to create the man whose face haunts me in the darkness of the night. All of these things make the insanity of my being HERE make perfect sense after all. I can no longer function without knowledge that he exists.

"I SAID MOVE!"

A low groan escapes me. I have been cracked by a fist to my ribs. Nothing feels broken but my side will be considerably sore for sometime. It would seem that the hunter is irked by my slow pace. Apparently he has no sympathy for a man shackled by both ankle and wrist. As the hunter again assaults my ribs I only grit my teeth. Pain is something I tolerate well. Years of torture will either break a man or make him stronger. Fortunately for me it was the ladder. I'll not allow my captor the satisfaction of seeing me yelp like a beaten wolf. I inhale but say nothing and attempt to quicken my pace.

Things are not going according to plan. I am supposed to be rescuing Balthier right now. Instead my . . . hasty misjudgment of this situation is no doubt leading me to the same fate as Balthier. I fear it is not a dreamy fate either.

"HUSTLE I SAY!" the hunter belts again, his grumbling voice sounds remarkably like a Seeq but I am certain he is Hume. "MOVE IT!"

I grind my teeth now. I grind so hard that enamel powder is forming a pile on my tongue. This hunter is fortunate that I am stripped of my weapons as well as my magiks. After ripping the axe from my hand the hunters here injected me with a strange drug. I know not what it is, but the serum seems to wholly hinder my ability to cast magiks. Several times now I have attempted to summon a Firaga or Flareand each time the spell fizzles away at my finger tips. At present I am powerless.

I have been traveling down this corridor for quite some time now, it is a long corridor. I see a number of Humes, probably more bounty hunters, gathering before a door at the end of this hall. I believe this is my destination. This is a relief as the heavy shackles are like having twin boulders pinned to my boots -- every step has required tremendous effort.

Per my brothers wishes I have spent the last three years serving and protecting Lord Larsa. I am proud to do my duty. I have no regrets. None albeit the lack of contact I have had with my comrades. I have not seen Her Majesty Ashe, Vaan, Penelo, Balthier or Fran more than once in all of that time. Therefore surprise overwhelmed me when Fran showed up at my home in Archades. Fran, like all Vera, typically displays little emotion. Aside from the occasional sarcastic exchange with Balthier she is as serious a creature as they come. But on that day Fran trembled. The Strahl, she explained, had been hijacked by bounty hunters in Bhujerba. Fran was badly beaten and left for dead, however Balthier, she said, had been taken. She knew naught who the hunters were or where they had taken Balthier. Fran lacked the resources to find or save him alone. She required Larsa's intelligence. She needed help from her friends and came directly to me. I am very glad that she did. Balthier had only been missing for a day, but Fran insisted that immediate action was urgent. She feared that the bounty hunters intended to sell Balthier to his doom.

In Balthier's short years of piracy he had managed to charm or steal many riches from many dangerous individuals. It was no secret that his head was worth many thousands of gil.

I took Fran to see Larsa at once. My second action was to promptly send word for Vaan and the others. According to Fran: the ship which attacked them was a Zalera– an old Nalbina model. Larsa discovered that there were only twenty legally registered Zalera ships left in Ivaliceand all twenty docked in Archades for fuel at least twice a week. Vaan, Penelo, Fran and I decided to individually sneak and stow away on each of these ships during their next docking in Archades. The goal was to learn something –anything about Balthier's whereabouts, to gain a clue as to who took him. We would only be able to sneak aboard four ships at a time; therefore Larsa offered the assistance of sixteen of his best soldiers. We kept in contact via transmitter and reported on whether we discovered any evidence to suggest that Balthier had at one time been on that particular ship.

I suppose that I am just lucky. The chances were one in twenty and I hit the jackpot. The evidence I was looking for discovered me stowed away. I offered the hunters my practiced story: apologizing for boarding the wrong ship. They did not buy it and, unfortunately, these rugged hunters recognized me. Apparently I also have a bounty on my head that they were aware of, although was not.

That scene occurred only several short moments ago. I was overtaken, beaten and stripped my defenses. I am ashamed to admit that I was overtaken far easier than I would have been a few years ago. I should have at once transmitted for assistance, but my pride told me that I could triumph over these hunters. I was mistaken.

The dire news: I may pay for this mistake with my life. The positive: I know for certain that theses hunters must have Balthier as I was referred to as "Bunansa's friend". In addition Vaan and the others knew which ship I was boarding – they know I am here and will soon discover that I am missing and come for me. Being a captive is nothing new for me, I will just have to find a means to survive until they come.

At last I am led into the doorway.

There.

Balthier is in this same room.

Thank the gods, he is alive.

Balthier is kneeling upon the hard flooring. He looks up at me, his hazel sight seizing mine. He is sincerely surprised to see me -- his jaw drops as though his bottom teeth were composed of Magicite. But still he nods in greeting. I can return no such greeting. My face burns hotter than a Fira, rage threatens to devour my wits. I can feel my blood pressure boiling, igniting -- skyrocketing with a fury I have not known before and all because of what I see. Balthier is chained by one ankle to an anchor on the floor. His clothes are tattered and dirtied with blood. He has been beaten. Badly. Repetitively. Balthier is more physically exhausted than I have ever seen him before. His jaw is shaded with stubble, but the hair does not hide the dry blood. The crusty gore clings to his lips and chin. His hair, once the color of a bronze sunrise, is now thick with dirt and mortal fluids. The sleeve of his left arm has been torn free and dozens of bloody dots are scattered about his flesh. Dots . . . that needle I received a moment ago has visited his arm and frequently.

I want to grab whatever bastard would so brutally assault an unarmed, trapped man and kill him -- snap his head from his body with my bare hands.

I shut my eyes, forcing a deep breath. There is naught that I can do about the wounds Balthier has already received. I have not a single potion on me. Balthier is strong, he has endured this treatment thus far and I fear he will have to continue to do so until Vaan and the others come for us. Despite this fact I still dare his assaulter to try harming him in my company. I shall not be merciful.

Balthier's gaze is inquisitive -- he follows me as the hunter latches my shackles to another anchor across the room. The hunter removes my wrist restrains, but the new weight on my ankle is just as dire. I feel Balthier's sight upon my back. I stiffen and look his way.

A hint of amusement plays in his hazel stare. Balthier now cocks an eyebrow. "My friend. Good to see you," he grins as though we happened upon each other at the market. "I dare hope that this is not your idea of a rescue?"

I exhale shortly, averting his eyes. The guard stands before us and snickers at Balthier's foolish comment.

"Things," I hesitate, "did not go according to plan."

Balthier nods gently. "Yes, well, I could have wagered as much," he dares to tisk at me. "Did you not have faith that I could free myself?"

I say nothing.

Balthier huffs impatiently. "Well, your being here tells me that Fran has endured. For that I am grateful."

Fran. She and Balthier are one of the many, many reasons that I could never openly desire him. Their curious relationship is naught my business and I shall never risk to make it my own.

"So," Balthier continues as casually as one can, given the situation. "I guess we shall be waiting for Vaan then." It is not a question and I pray that he is right.

The guard glares for a moment, his eyes feel like searchlights upon my face but I ignore him. After an uncomfortable moment this guard decides to take his leave and exits the chamber.

The shackle on my ankle was latched far too tightly and I can feel my foot begin to tingle as the circulation becomes scarce. I worry that too sudden a movement will cut through my boot. The floor of this chamber is not carpeted, merely metal. It is cold. I wonder how Balthier fares seeing as his attire rests in shambles. I know him well enough to presume the discomfort he must feel at his appearance. During our travels he shaved and trimmed at his face and head hair daily. Balthier is vain and also materialistic. But after meeting his equally well-groomed father, I wondered if it was more a matter of culture or genetics? On further thought . . . I think that vanity may be the real culprit, no use blaming ones genes. I have never taken joy from my reflection. I would think it a sin. But yet I allow myself to sin all the more by greedily drinking in his image. Even now -- beaten, dirty and bloody -- I find Balthier to be the most desirable creature I have ever seen. He does not need costly garbs to be dashing . . . it is the man I yearn for, not his dressings.

I realize that I am staring at him far too intently, ashamed I pretend to be studying my ankle-bond.

Balthier sighs with loud melodrama. "I fear that a large bounty has been placed upon my head this time."

I nod, still avoiding his gaze. "Vaan and the others know where I am," I say, "they will come."

"Ah, I see," Balthier allows a thoughtful moment of silent. "In case we're being monitored it is best to let me revel in the mystery of your words."

"Aye." He is correct. If these bounty hunters have this room tagged with listening devices we could unwarily blow the cover of our rescuers. I will not breathe a word of how I happened upon this airship to Balthier.

"It has been a while, my friend. How are you, Basch?" he now sounds as weary as he looks. I finally cast him my sight, I do not try to mask my concern. His eyes meet mine intently . . . how I have missed those eyes. "Well, Basch?"

I do not care to discuss myself, instead I ask: "Have you any idea where they will take us?"

Balthier does not press me for personal information. He knows me well. "No," he replies honestly, "I suspect the worst. For us both."

"You can cast no magiks either?"

"No," Balthier confirms what I already know, "the serum they inject," he gestures to his bloody arm. "It dries my magicks."

The door now opens with a loud slam. I startle, but I do not jump. Balthier noticeably stiffens. Two men enter. I presume they are also bounty hunters. These men are armed with guns. I do not recognize either of them from my past assault. Balthier, I wager, does. I watch his throat, his chest . . . he is breathing faster now. Balthier is . . . anxious.

"Well, well," the larger of the two men mocks. "Lord Larsa's guard himself, Basch it is! We shall be getting a mighty fine bounty for you as well."

I know the truth of his words. I do not give him the satisfaction of a response.

"Tell me," the man hisses, looming threateningly close. "How is it that you happened upon our airship?"

"Chance." I answer honestly.

"I would appreciate a much more detailed reply," the man toys with his rifle trigger, he is attempting to threaten me, however I know that I will not be killed for I am worth much more gil alive.

"Easy, Chante," Balthier addresses the man by name. "The good knight does not take kindly to threats."

Chante's eyes narrow into slits. I get the immediate impression that he has been the source of Balthier's suffering.

My suspicions are now confirmed. Chante raises the butt of his raffle and pounds Balthier in the chest. Hard. Balthier raises his arms in a futile attempt to shield himself. One strike does not satisfy Chante and he pounds his chest once more.

Balthier grunts as the metal rams his chest like two Tyrant's butting heads. He gags as a terrible coughing frenzy seizes him. It sounds like there is liquid inside of his lungs. I wonder how long he has been bleeding inside? My blood pressure reaches dangerous levels as I witness the crimson fluid dribble from Balthier's lips. He is in desperate need of healing. I have heard such coughing many times before as my comrades fell around my feet. A damaged lung goes from bad to worse in very little time.

Balthier collapses like a ball of crumpled paper. He is gagging fiercely, struggling in vain to rid is lungs of the suffocating fluid. Chante and his companion seem oblivious to the severity of Balthier's wounds. I steady my breathing and remain calm. My heart is aching as I watch him suffer alone across the room. Balthier is a proud man. I know he must feel shame at my seeing him rendered so helpless. I stifle a sudden urge to try and rip the chain from my ankle and strangle Chante with it. I know such an attempt will only land us both in graver danger.

"You see," Chante scoffs in my direction. "You are only on this ship for a few hours more. I suggest being quite unless you are addressed for the duration of that time." It would seem Chante has forgotten his earlier question to me and he begins a new topic: "We are soon landing in Turalima." I have never been to Turalima, it is a small city east of Raithwall's tomb. I know little about it other than that.

Balthier's interest is peaked; stifling another gag he looks up and awards full attention upon Chante's words. "There we deposit you both for our bounty." That being said Chante goes on about how we had better be on our best manners when landing and then he takes his leave. We are alone again.

Balthier is oddly silent for several moments, but then decides to speak: "I know who put this bounty on my head," he exhales, expression uncustomarily blank. I remain quiet, encouraging his words onward. "Her name is Rutana. Years ago I . . . courted her . . . then stole millions worth of jewels from her family."

I stiffen. "I take it the jewels were not the only thing you stole, Balthier."

"She is going to steal my heart now. I do not say this figuratively, my friend.

Why Rutana is now, after years, offering a bounty for my head I can not begin to wonder. But the wrath of this woman can not be well for either of us."

So Balthier's scandalous past has finally caught up with him. I have ventured all this way to save him from his former lovers scorn.

"Do you think that you can talk her out of this?" I ask him, my tone is biting.

Balthier hesitates, surprised by my gruffness but answers: "Oh, I-I sincerely doubt it . . ." he coughs now and blood trickles from his mouth as though he'd just bitten into a juicy red fruit. Balthier looks as though he wants to say more, that some clever quip is just yearning to fling from his lips, but he can not. He lacks the strength. His damaged lung will wholly fail him very soon and then there will naught that even a Hi-potioncan do for him. I clench my jaw, frustration spreading throughout my system like a foul disease as I realize that . . . I may have to watch Balthier Bunansa die. I have seen countless men die, many in far more gruesome ways than this, yet this frightens me.

"I made a mistake, Basch," Balthier's voice has gone thin. He has shifted from his knees to a more relaxed position against the wall.

I can think of nearly a dozen mistakes that he has made forthright, but I do not speak them, instead I ask: "How so?"

"Rutana," he sighs a bitterly heart-wrenching sigh -- as though the fate of the world had been entrusted to him and he had failed. "I deserve what comes. I suspect she plans to kill me herself. Of course, she may be disappointed to find me dead already once this ship d-docks." He coughs again and again and again. The blood continues to drip from his lips; it is no longer red, but dark and thick like tar. I can not believe he is even able to speak.

I do not bother to comfort him with empty words of encouragement. He also knows that his lung is failing. If Vann were here he would tell Balthier to hang in there, that help is on the way and that he is going to make it. I am not confident that any of those words will be true so I do not say them. Vann will come, I know. But listening to the severity of Balthier's cough I know that help is probably going to be too late.

Balthier's breath becomes further burdened, he wheezes as though a tremendous weight has been placed upon his chest. I watch as his eyes close and his head droops to the side, very gradually, like the blossom of a wilting plant. His consciousness has been lost . . .

. . . stolen by a sudden thief.

Stolen by the mighty grip of Slumber.

Even the strongest warrior can not always struggle free from a tightly clenched fist.

"Rest peacefully, my friend," my words are feeble, no more than a dying breath. I know Balthier did not hear them.

But now. . . I hear something . . .

An eruption of such robust power it wracks me to my very core! A series of lesser explosions follow and instinct tells me that Vaan is the source. As expected, the budding sky pirate has come.

"Balthier!" I call to him but he does not stir.

What are Dread, Panic, Alarm and Fear? They are but words, yet they cram agony into ones mind – into ones very being. They are but mortal emotions – the experience of an unbearable mental weight. They do naught but churn your mind within a terrible glue, sticking you in place, preventing advancement in any direction. I dread Dread. I am alarmed by Alarm. Panic causes Panic, and I desperately fear Fear. Each singular emotion is gut-reeling, but combined -- right now, -- they feel like a Thundaga has been cast upon my breast!

I feel my mouth moving and words begin tumbling out like slippery pebbles: "Balthier, listen well! Please! I suspect Vaan will be with us soon! Please. . ."

Balthier's face is haunting . . . still, pale and flawless as though he has been carved from precious stone. He is far too fair a creature to be composed of mortal flesh and bone. He is now peaceful . . . experiencing a tranquility that I have never known but I have hungered for it. Watching him now -- the embodiment of Calm – I understand that: although Balthier is my opposite he is also my reflection. I have come to rely on his presence in my life. I do not need to revel in his company; I just need to know that he is out there, somewhere, being the man that I would never think of being myself. If I did not have an opposite then I would be flawed. If I did not possess a reflection then I would not exist. I do not need to be with Balthier to sustain – intimately or otherwise -- I just need to know that he is Balthier. Without this knowledge my existence will be plagued by the four emotions which I loath.

The crackling of casting magicks echoes in the corridor outside.

"Balthier, Vaan has come! In a fleeting moment he will be here. Be alert or . . ." I hesitate ". . . or I shall have to carry you out of here myself! We both know that Vaan can not lift you and such a scene might be an embarrassment for us both . . ."

The battle between the bounty hunters and Vaan's party does now wage just outside of our prison door. Blinding light flares between the hinges. Familiar voices find my ears, calling our names.

My lips part . . . I need to call out to Vaan -- alert him that Balthier and I are in here! I do not want him to pass by this door! Calling to Vaan is a dire necessity! Oh, but what horrid emotions have crippled my lips and stunned my voice? What abrupt spell has wronged me? Why can I not triumph against my emotional foes?

"In here! Vaan, we are in here!"

Wait. . . that was not my voice . . .

I chance a look at Balthier. The pirate is sitting upright, though woozy, and he dares to grin at me with the gusto of a man who has just robbed a king.

Balthier shakes his head, he is weary but vigilant, "Was I napping, Basch? How terribly rude of me. I have not seen you in months and then I go and snooze at this opportune time to catch up. My apologies . . . though, you could add a bit more stimulation to the conversation next time. "

Even with Death stalking him Balthier dares to jest. I say nothing for I have nothing to say. Balthier is still alive. He pried himself free of slumbers fist. That is enough, I am eternally thankful to the gods.

I tear my sight from him and fix my attention upon the door. The metal frame is glowing and a halo of crimson begins bleeding through the metal, melting it like candle wax. Vaan and the others will be with us in mere moments. If I know Penelo she will have a substantial stash of Hi-Potionson her person. Balthier will endure. I wonder: will he learn not to thieve women of their hearts?

Will he return mine?

I doubt both questions. Ever the expert, Balthier robbed me without any knowledge or guilt of his crime. His robbery was effortless, unplanned, unknown. I can not expect him to return what he did not freely take – what he knows naught is in his possession.

Balthier speaks to me: "I am not certain that I-I can stand. Basch, is your offer to carry me still on the table?"

I stiffen . . . he heard my frantic words.

Balthier continues to flaunt his confident grin; his eyes are glowing with hazel amusement. Perhaps it is my flaw, but I can not understand how anyone in our current situation -- especially a dying man -- can smile. Nevertheless it is this unwavering smile – this confidence -- which makes Balthier, Balthier.

I will carry him.

Although I will never confess the secret yearnings of my heart, I will continue to carry them also . . . even if the consequence yields no reflection.

"Does dead-silence mean 'yes'?" Balthier asks, cocking an eyebrow just as Vaan's boots appears in the melted doorway.

I nod. I will carry him. He is an unintentional burden, but one that I need.

I willingly hold him as he unwillingly holds my beating heart.

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Authors Note: Thank you for reading. Reviews are very much appreciated as this was a BEASTIE to write! Best, Maia's Pen