The hammer smashes through the heavy stone, and he sighs in relief. The last one before the midday meal, and he is already exhausted from his hours of labor. Hoisting the broken stone in his arms, he sets it in the cart and wheels it over to the foreman. Fran is waiting for him in the meal tent since she is much faster in her work than he will ever be.
He is grateful for a break from the overwhelming sun that blankets the deserts of Dalmasca with its heat. Fran has kindly fixed him a plate already, and he barely has time to register what it is before he is shoveling it into his mouth. She smirks across from him and takes her time with her lunch. Glancing out beyond the tent briefly, he is surprised by how quickly the rebuilding has progressed since they arrived.
They've spent the past two months here in Nalbina working on the damaged fortress for a pittance, and it surprises him that Fran continues to go along with him. The Strahl awaits no more than a day's trek away, faster still from the aerodrome, yet here they remain laboring like common folk.
His partner seeks his attention, going so far as to wave her hand in his face to distract him from his meal. "Did you hear about the visit?" she inquires quietly as other workers set their trays down around them and begin eating.
He's been busy all morning. Nobody's mentioned anything like that. "What visit?"
Fran's eyebrow rises almost imperceptibly. "A royal visit. She's coming to assess the state of the fortress this afternoon."
His grip on the utensil in his hand tightens as he lifts another mouthful to his lips. "I see." Fran awaits his reaction, and he frowns. "We can make for Mosphora after we're done here."
The Viera wrinkles her nose in disappointment but offers no other protest. A rotund Seeq worker sits beside him and ends their discussion. The fellow claps him on the shoulder and grins broadly. "Can you believe the Princess is coming? They say she might even lay a few bricks with her own dainty hands. I'd give a week's wages to see that."
Balthier has lost his appetite. He gives the Seeq a false smile and lifts his tray, dumping it out at the edge of the tent. Fran has followed, as she has these past ten months since they have been dead.
The curtains are drawn in his mother's room, and he tinkers quietly with a model airship at her bedside. The only sounds are the screwdriver on metal and her coughing.
"You still play with toys at your age, Ffamran?" she inquires teasingly between her gasping breaths.
He scowls. "They aren't toys." He holds the little ship up for her inspection. "I like seeing how it all fits together."
She smiles. "Your father does not approve, you know. He keeps telling me that as soon as you graduate from the Akademy he's going to find you a job in the labs."
A sneer of disgust crosses his face. His father didn't see the point in having his son "throw his life away" in the Archadian air guard, but then again, his father stays indoors with his beakers and his formulas. Cid Bunansa doesn't understand why the skies interest him. Luckily, his mother always has.
Her body is thrown
into another fit of coughing, and he can't watch. Instead, he
analyzes the miniature engines and miniature wings. From the corner
of his eye, he spies her handkerchief and sees that she is coughing
up blood again. "You should become a pilot, Ffamran," she mutters
quietly. "The skies are the second greatest adventure."
She has been talking strangely the past few days, and it worries him. Not that he'd let her see that. He's fifteen, not five. "And the first?"
Her pale fingers reach out and take the model ship from his hands, and he is startled by how cold her hands are. He watches her examine the model closely, her eyes sparkling with amusement. "Death."
Fran crosses her arms and frowns. "How insulting," she remarks. "Your stone is bigger."
He snorts and runs his fingers across his own name on the stone. Elysion is the same as it has always been. A seemingly endless field of monuments from generations trying to outdo one another in grandeur. If he was smart, he'd knock the damn thing down or draw an obscene picture on it. But Larsa had gone to great expense to have the stupid things made, so it's best to just leave it.
Besides, he cannot wait to see the look on the little Emperor's face when he discovers that the Archadian treasury funded funeral services and costly monuments for two very much alive sky pirates. He's waited long enough, and Fran has finally gotten fed up with their ghostly existence. Flitting from town to town and doing honest work and mark hunts with a different name at every stop. He's called it truly living freely. She's called it avoidance.
And so here they are on their last stop as members of the dead, the skyscrapers of Archades looming like great giants in the distance. The buildings are so red, so different from the ivory and green of Elysion. He almost wonders what it would be like if such a park was his final resting place. His eyes wander to the grave just to the left, and he knows that she probably hates it.
It is far too lovely a day for such an affair, but Ivalice doesn't stop with the loss of one mere soul. The cleric who never even met her rambles on about her charitable work, her love of literature, and the funds she gave to refurbish the aerodrome. All superficial things – none seem to actually grasp who she was as a person.
He moves to set the model ship down on the top of the casket, and he sees his father's eyes meet his in some mixture of annoyance and embarrassment as he does so. Frankly, he doesn't care. She wouldn't like not being able to see the sky, so he may as well bring the sky to her.
Finally, it is time for the casket to descend, and he steps back. His father's promotion has drawn a lot of big names to the day's event, and he recognizes Lord Gramis' oldest remaining son standing beside his father across the way. Never let it be said that the Solidor family lacks compassion, he muses bitterly. The man is chatting amiably with his father, and he is disgusted by it. Couldn't wait until later? His father has mourned for several days, but as the casket disappears and Vayne's words reach his ears, it seems that he is on the road to recovery.
The crowd disperses and the dirt is shoveled. Solidor presses a hand to his shoulder in sympathy as he passes, and his father walks the other way as his wife vanishes beneath the soil.
The Strahl is, in a word, filthy. Vaan has clearly eaten a wide array of snacks in the cockpit, and Fran has already informed him about the colony of mice that has just declared independence in the engine room. He expects the boy to chase him all the way to Bervenia, and as soon as he sees him, Vaan will regret being born.
He sighs and leans back in the seat, wondering how he could have gone so long without his ship. Something still feels off about the whole thing, and Fran's using that whole "avoidance" explanation around him again. When the Viera discovered how he'd gone about returning the ring to the Princess, she'd nearly declared mutiny against him.
Now she sits beside him in her usual spot as they sail for the Cache of Glabados. He is amused to see her grumbling uncharacteristically, but it is warranted – she's found crumbs in between the tiny dials and buttons on her console. Perhaps Penelo, too, will face the wrath of the Strahl's owners.
She jams her long nail in between the button and the panel, and he winces. "How come we still flee her?" she inquires.
He chuckles and concentrates on flying. "Fleeing? We're not fleeing. This," he says, waving a hand around in the air. "This is what we do, in case you've forgotten. The skies, the second greatest adventure, all that. We've tried our hand at the first, so let's get back to the second." She says nothing, and he purses his lips at her lack of response. "Fran?"
Finally satisfied that the button is free of junior sky pirate crumbs, she glances across the aisle at him. "Stop running."
The translations are giving him a headache, but he has to finish them tonight. He has a great deal of work to catch up with, and the headmaster will remain kind only so long.
He hears the staff carrying trunks down the stairs, each bang against the steps distracting him from his tasks. Finally, he stands up and stretches. He moves to poke his head out into the hallway and sees his father directing the servants to carry his things. The Jagd Difohr awaits him, which is probably the furthest from Archades that most people could ever go. Even now, an airship waits to take his father from home at the request of House Solidor, and he longs to go with him.
Cid moves back into his office, and he follows. His father is packing several books and barely notices he's entered. "Father?"
"Ffamran, you should be translating."
"I just…before you go, I wanted you to know that I submitted my application."
His father looks over the top of his glasses at him. "I know." The older man shoves a few more books into his satchel. "I've already had it pulled."
"Pulled?" He'd been up every night since the funeral working on the entrance essays and paperwork. "You had them take me out of consideration? Why? I'm not working in the labs with you when I complete my studies, we've already discussed…"
"No, you won't be working in the labs," his father says with a strange look in his eyes. He marches across the room and slams an angry fist down on Cid's desk. "Easy now, son. Lord Vayne has high hopes for you at the magistracy. You'll be the youngest admitted in over a decade."
The judge's magistracy? A helmet and armor for the rest of his days? He sneers and wishes his mother was here to witness this pathetic display. "She would never forgive you."
His father shoulders the bag and moves to depart his study. "Your mother did not know what was best for you…what was best for this family."
Hurrying to stand and blocking his father's exit, he feels his heart racing in his chest. "And you think Lord Vayne does?"
Cid places a warning hand on his shoulder. "You have a responsibility to this House, Ffamran. We'll speak more when I return."
He lets Cid pass and leans against the doorframe in defeat.
Although she was quick to take a swing at him when he arrived, it doesn't really feel like a whole year has passed between them. Her skin is softer than he remembers, but he supposes that she lives a more luxurious lifestyle now. She runs her hands up and down his back, fingers lingering on the scars Bahamut left behind.
That night in Balfonheim was rushed, and this is far more to his liking. He pulls her leg up to wrap it around his back as he moves against her, and he can feel something cool against his back. She's wearing both of those rings, and it makes him laugh. He always knew she was sentimental.
When it's over, she leans an elbow on his chest and simply stares at him until it becomes downright unsettling. "What are you gaping at, hmm? You've seen all this before."
"Not in a long time," she whispers, laying her head down near his heart. "They all thought I was a bit off, thinking you were alive all this time." Her hair tickles his skin, and he runs his fingers through a few strands. Fran was right to tell him to stop running. "You went to Archades?"
He smirks. "I did. Saw quite the display."
"I have the flag," she says in hushed tones. "Larsa wanted me to have it." He sits up then, and she moves aside grumpily with the absence of his presence beneath her. His feet carry him to her vanity, where he immediately recognizes the crimson banner folded in a neat triangle. "Balthier, what are you doing?"
He touches the fabric and shakes his head. "What is this, a shrine to me, Princess?"
She sighs in annoyance and rises from the bed, holding the blanket against herself. "Don't be so self-important."
He begins to unravel the cloth, the Archadian banner unfurling to his feet. "I'm not dead." She tries to hold him back as he marches out onto her balcony.
"Get back inside!" she hisses in embarrassment. "You're naked!"
He turns back to smile at her. "So?" The rains in Giza bring strong gusts of wind to Rabanastre in the evening, and he holds the flag out and the breeze lets it float wildly. He lets it go and surprisingly enough, it floats off through the skies as smoothly as a new airship.
She is beside him then, clutching the blanket for dear life. "I'm going to receive a complaint tomorrow about an Archadian military banner landing in someone's tree."
He tugs her close against him and closes his eyes. "Flag's just off on a little adventure. The second greatest in fact."
She leans against him and sighs. "The second greatest adventure? What's the first?"
"This may sound trite," he says as he leans to kiss her. "But it's living."