A/N: An expansion on one of my existing fics. This version's darker, and ends on a less friendly note. Because in my world, the princess is a bitch.
Spica Major
The Hawk was lovely in the night; her wings of stars were terrible.
Her fiery eyes wept for those long dead, her beak rending flesh to avenge.
And then, the sun rose...
-- From the Song of Constellations, Ch. XIV
As Balthier watched Ashe move away from him down the beach, he felt the weight of Rasler's wedding band in his breast pocket.
"I'll give it back to you . . . Once I find something more valuable."
He'd intended to hold onto it only until she smiled at him. She was too young, and too lovely, to be spending all of her time glaring at him. If she grew comfortable enough with him to smile – just once – he would turn Rasler's ring over to her immediately, with the knowledge they were allies at last. But she had yet to smile at him, clinging to her prejudice against him for his accent and profession.
But now she was thrown off the scent. Now she knew why he'd agreed to aid her in the first place, knew his ties to the Empire, knew his politics and his past. Would her attitude toward him change, now that she knew so much of him? Indeed, he mused, she knew all but his name.
For a moment he wondered what his given name sounded like in a Dalmascan accent, panted in the heat of passion. A smirk flicked the corner of his mouth for an instant; then he sighed in disgust at himself and kicked a scrap of driftwood out of his path.
That thinking is hardly befitting of a leading man.
* * *
That night, Balthier opted to sleep under the stars. The sea air soothed him, and the surf was a cadence that nicely drowned out unpleasant memories. Now that he was doomed to face his past, he'd rather not do so in his sleep. Fran hadn't objected to his need to be alone; when they all had spent a night in Golmore, she too had become reclusive. She detested getting sand in her clothes, besides, and so had decided to sleep in their tent to afford Balthier his privacy.
Balthier scanned the sky, looking for the old familiar constellations he'd been taught to recognize as a boy. The crossbow of Athlan-Farr, in the North; The warrioress Tsenna to the southeast. Spica Major was his favorite; the falcon soared directly to the west over the sea.
He traced the contour of the bird's head with one finger, and began counting stars in the left wing, whispering the myth that went along with her.
"The Hawk flew west, bright sun in her wake.
She, with terrible wings unfurled,
Cried fevered . . ."
A scream.
He stopped short and propped up on his elbow, looking South toward the camp. Basch's figure was the only thing visible, thrown into sharp relief by the light of a large lantern. He stood in the doorway of the princess' tent, bent slightly to look in on her.
"A nightmare, Princess?" Balthier whispered to himself.
He heard a snatch of muffled, clipped conversation, and a moment later, Ashe emerged from the tent. Balthier couldn't make her out clearly, since she was a fair two hundred meters away, but she was moving jerkily, as though anxious to be away from the others. Then he watched as Basch blew out the lantern, and the princess moved away from the camp, alone in the dark.
He frowned and lay down once again. Perhaps she was walking down the strand to clear her head? He cushioned his head on his arm and watched her shadowed form pick across the sand, arching an eyebrow as her course led her straight to him.
When she stopped about a meter away, he stood up and blinked at her. Her tear-streaked face was hard with anger, but there was something else in the lay of her eyes that he couldn't read. Opting to bide his time, Balthier nodded deferentially.
"Princess."
She glared at him. He blinked, waited. Her glare intensified, as though fighting the urge to strike him; he narrowed his eyes slightly.
"I don't know what I've done, but your intention is plain. Go on; hit me."
In one quick, frustrated movement she was kissing him. Kissing –
She smelled like clay that had been spotted with rain, fine white soap, and Galbana lilies. Her lips were small and firm, and her slender body was tense to the bone. He pulled away, offended, lips bruised, and already with a tightening in his groin; damn her.
"What's this nonsense?"
She narrowed her eyes at him. "Is this not what you want from me?"
He didn't know how to answer this, and decided not to.
"You see what you want to see." Her voice was too firm, too certain. "I know your game. Sidle up and smile, pay your dues, slither along on your belly and wait for your moment to strike. But I will not yield. I'll have you, first. I'll show you how wrong you are about me."
He had no idea she could be so blunt, and so inscrutably frustrating. Furious, he moved in and crushed her mouth with a kiss, taking her head firmly in both hands. What are you trying to prove?
She bit his lip in retaliation. He winced, grabbed a fistful of her hair, began to devour her. Never mind that he didn't want the complication, and certainly didn't think a tumble would solve a damn thing. If she was going to be stupid enough to bait him with her anger, he'd bite. She wanted to believe he was horrible, insensitive, blackhearted, cruel? He'd demonstrate his capacity – and she would like it.
Her hands seemed to move of their own accord. She ran her palms hungrily over his vest, and he reached for the strings at the back impatiently. When he was divulged of its weight, she skimmed her hands beneath the folds of his shirt, pulled it over his head, and trailed her lips down the side of his throat with surprising hunger. When she touched the neckline of her nightgown with trembling fingers, he pushed her hand aside, untying the fastenings without ceremony.
She was petite, and eerily pale in the half-light. He had grown accustomed to Fran's sprawling limbs and earthen complexion, and had forgotten how a hume woman's skin could shine in the dark. His teeth scraped her collarbone indelicately; she tasted like saltwater.
She shivered triumphantly under his mouth, and so he bit her again, and again, pressing his mouth to her neck, then her breast, then her thigh, then...
She gave a strangled oath, startling and delighting him at once. He raised his head and laid his trigger finger to her lips.
"If you insist on raping me, you should at least attempt to be quiet about it, Princess."
He smirked cruelly; she glared and bit down on her bottom lip, But then the corner of her mouth twitched in return. Balthier nearly laughed. Malice for malice, blow for blow. Amalia, you witch – you think you can play me. He pressed his hand against the slick pink heat of her and gave a small noise of approval. She shuddered and reached for his belt.
He was throbbing and white-hot, his head swimming with the smell of salt air and Galbanas. When her hand closed around him, he closed his eyes and moaned softly to himself, drunken with her scent and her anger. She stroked him awkwardly, but then he caught her gaze and she grew bolder. Lust rose in her eyes, and she began to breathe thickly, running her free hand across his chest.
"You're enjoying this? You've more sin in you than I would have... thought," he whispered, blinking at her through a haze of white sparks.
"I have a pulse," she retorted, her tone thick with indignation.
And then he was in her mouth, her jaw stretched to its limit around his girth. He nearly cried out, but shuddered an oath into her hair instead. "Bitch."
Irrationally, he thought of Rasler; had the prince taught her to move so slowly and mercilessly over a man, working fervently to unhinge him, as she was now? She drew back and studied him, hesitating, weighing her options. leaning in to take him into her mouth once more but stopping short. Balthier throbbed painfully; he almost wished he believed in gods, so that he could curse them for making the woman so sinfully cruel.
He tilted her chin roughly and looked into her eyes. "If you're going to be that way, I'll have to tell the Captain what you've been up to."
In a flash she drew back and hit him full across the face. Unfazed, he grabbed her arms and shoved her to the bedroll. Her arms would bruise. He could have cared less.
"Yield," he snarled.
She didn't blink. "I'd rather die."
"You do realize that Fran already knows what's going on? I'm stunned she hasn't come running with an arrow for your heart."
She glared. "You're bluffing. She can't hear us."
"Don't make me laugh."
She spread her thighs.
He laid himself over the length of her and pressed her lips to his throat. He wanted to bite down until he drew blood, but she jerked away from him before her could leave a mark. He pressed his mouth to her breast again, took his sweet time. She squirmed.
"Stop that this instant. I won't... Skirting the point of the... Damn you, get on with it."
Ah, that's better, Balthier thought, meeting her eyes with a dark smirk. "Yield," he said again.
She writhed. "I'll scream rape."
"Who's raping who? You're panting for it." He tilted her chin again and looked deep into her eyes. "You want me to do this. You demanded this. You want a lying traitorous basilisk to ravage you until you can't think. But I'm entirely bored; I could drag this out until dawn. Say it."
She caught his mouth in a kiss that was not a kiss; he softened his mouth until she moaned. She pulled his hips closer to her; he stilled, ran his thumbs over her hipbones in feather-light torment. She wrapped her thighs around him; he held perfectly still, hovering, sweating and throbbing and - damn it -hungry as hell for her...
"It's one word," he said. "Just say it."
"Mercy," she groaned, and he plunged.
She was tight, alarmingly tight, and liquid-soft. The fingers of her left hand were tangled in his hair; the other she pressed quickly over her mouth as he moved deeper.
"I'm not who you think I am," he hissed in her ear. "I won't hurt you. But I won't bow and scrape, either. Ronsenburg can worship you all he likes; I see you for what you are. You're stupid. You're a child."
"Please," she said, limp and soft and shaking beneath him. "Please."
He moved in her relentlessly, carefully, listening to her breath, drowning in white fire. She pressed her cheek to his chest – how small and fierce she was – then threw her head back and gave a low, throaty cry of triumph as she broke around him at last.
"Bal…Balthier."
The sound destroyed the last of his resolve, and he shattered.
* * *
The Hawk flew west, bright sun in her wake.
She, with terrible wings unfurled,
Cried fevered fury to the sea;
Then faded she, trembling, unto dawn.
* * *
When he woke at daybreak, Ashe was gone. His head felt like it was in a vise. He knew he'd dreamt of a number of unpleasant things, but mercifully he couldn't remember a single one of them. He had too much else to think about.
Balthier cracked his neck painfully and moved down the beach toward the camp; Vaan, Penelo, Fran, and the good captain were occupied building a fire. The princess' tent was dark. Vaan was the first to look up from his breakfast; he was trying to split open a coconut, with varying degrees of near-success.
"Hey Balthier, where were you last night? You look like hell."
Balthier arched his eyebrows. "A man can't sleep under the stars?"
Fran blinked at him. "Apparently not." Her eyes bore it plain; she'd heard everything and was less than impressed.
Basch speared a piece of fish on the end of an arrow, held it over the fire as it cracked to life. "It would seem few of us did. Lady Ashe informs me she's feeling ill."
Penelo tilted her head in concern. "Is she going to be all right?"
Balthier thought he heard Fran sniff in indignation, but when he glanced at her she was focused intently on digging the flesh from the inside of the coconut with an arrowhead.
Basch frowned. "Something troubles her, this much is certain, but I trust all will be revealed in good time."
Only if she sees fit to have me killed,Balthier thought, and speared a piece of fish for himself.
After a few moments, Ashe emerged from the tent, looking pale and drawn, unsteady on her feet. Basch rose and gave a half-salute; She waved him off delicately. "As you were, Basch."
Vaan frowned openly at her. "Woah, are you OK?"
Ashe sniffed. "I'll be quite all right, thank you."
Fran looked over at the princess, her eyes inscrutable. "You have not slept."
Ashe didn't look at her; her already pale face blanched further. "Balthier," she said at last, her eyes on the fire.
Balthier made a point of not looking up from the fire either. "Yes, Princess?"
"I thank you for your counsel this last eve; you have clarified a great deal for me. You will lead us to Archades?"
Rasler's ring weighed heavily in the pirate's pocket. Anger and games and sex and bruises; Counsel. Right, then.
"Of course," Balthier said, meeting her eyes without smiling. "Pray don't mention it. I am at your service."
They would never speak of it again. It was only the merciful thing to do.
Sweet Spica, hear and mark our cries,
For we have known your tears and talons all.
Come unto us, O beautiful vengeance,
And rest you now your terrible wings.