No Sky for Pirates
By Crysty
Chapter One
The battle was done, the world was saved, and in the end, the victors wondered that they did not feel more joy.
Victory is only as sweet as the sacrifices made to find her.
~Memoirs of the Duke of Landis
They had considered a funeral, but Ashelia refused.
They were not dead.
It had only been three weeks. Neither body had been found; a search through any and all corners, quarters and closets of the Bahamut merely yielded a discarded, oil-bespeckled vest that had seen much better days, and a snapped bow.
There was blood on the bow, but not much.
There was blood where it had been found, too. A lot of it.
But, optimists argued, there were bloody footprints and gravitational drops leading away from the meter-in-diameter pool, which meant that the wounded had been carried away. To safety and medical attention, it was hoped.
Further searches of nearby Cockatrice nests yielded a discarded tourniquet; formerly a pristine white handkerchief, it had been torn, soaked in blood, then left to dry and curl in the desert heat. It could have been anybody's makeshift bandage, skeptics whispered, but Ashelia took it as impetus to continue the searches.
The search now spanned one hundred kilometers around the Bahamut.
It had been two weeks since anything new had been found.
It was time to call off the search.
It was time to shed the shadow of the past, settle with the present, and look to the future.
"She cannot stay here," the woman repeated sternly, emotionlessly.
As if the woman who was suffering in pain before her had not been raised with her. Had not been of their world. Had not been a close friend and confidante.
The sentry's lips remained sealed in a firm, unsympathetic line. Her gaze remain fixed on his own; she would not look at the fallen warrior in his arms.
She had no shred of compassion for pain or suffering. She did not feel the urgency of the situation.
Xenophobic bitches.
Perhaps it'd been in his delivery, but there was not a word in "She's dying, she needs your help" that he felt was hard to understand. Balthier shoved his dirty blood-stained hand through his spiky, crusty hair, emotion a heavy weight in his throat as he repeated his plea in as controlled a tone as he could muster. The words were slow, quiet, and barely made their way out of bleeding, cracked lips. "She's dying. She needs help. Please. I beg you."
The woman shook her head once again, but this time revealed agitation as she retreated amongst her tribe, seeking resolve in numbers. Balthier extended a hand to snatch at her, but reined his temper in immediately, biting back epithets and curses. It would solve nothing. He had no time for this. "Well, then."
He clutched the limp frame of his fallen friend and turned to leave the village.
The mountain was resplendent in the sunlight. The air was supersaturated with cries of joy, elation, reverence. Festive garlands of brightly colored flowers drooped over shoulders of celebrants, over any spare awning, balustrade. Children bumped and pushed their way through forests of legs to get to the front with toy drums, laughing as they irreverently tapped along with the long solemn thuds of the ceremonial drums.
Pilgrims of all economic classes, all nationalities crowded the streets, singing, yelling, drowsing in an occasional quiet corner. Embroidered silks brushed against wilted, threadbare rags. The raucous soprano of youth mingled with the patient hushed baritones of old age.
A sudden swell of cries rent through the air as the gong was finally hit; the Conclave was over, the new Gran Kiltias had been chosen. With it, the month-long mourning of the old Gran Kiltias was concluded, and a new era was commenced.
From his tent at the top of the mountain, right outside the temple doors, Larsa Ferrinas Solidor turned to his judge magisters.
"It took long enough," Zargabaath grumbled quietly to himself. It had been a wearying five days' wait, making him feel more than tired, more than his sixty-seven years. He needed to be home, he needed a bath, and he needed to be curled up on an armchair with his granddaughter, reading to her about princesses and unlucky amulets.
Some needs, however, were greater.
Larsa Solidor had not slept more than four hours a night for the past three weeks. The search parties, the emergency Senate meetings, the funerals for his father and brother, the interminable wait outside the Temple for the new Gran Kiltias to be declared so that he could obtain his ascension blessing...each sadness, worry, each responsibility carved another grim line into the young would-be emperor's pointed jaw, faded those bright young eyes just a bit.
The boy should not have been forced to grow up so quickly.
Zargabaath suspected that sadly, this coming-of-age was just beginning.
Zargabaath turned to Gabranth, who stood. "Shall we flip a coin to see who goes first?" he asked conversationally, gesturing across the courtyard, where Ashelia waited with her entourage.
Larsa gave a soft smile, the light of delicate fondness in his gaze. "No. Ladies first."
It was cold sitting there, but he took comfort in the feeling of openness. The wild, voracious cold wind of the Paramina Rift whipped through his wolf-hide coat and layers of sweaters and shirts, puncturing his skin, seizing his bones. His involuntary shivers did not, to him, signify discomfort, but rather, a reassuring sign of life.
It was cold sitting there, but he far preferred the violence of winter storm around him to the cave where he'd spent the majority of the day in. To the scene of his best friend suffering, writhing in pain, and him without the power to do a thing to cure her.
At first, he'd been optimistic. He'd set up camp in one of their old hideouts, and buried her in silks and furs. One day, he'd come back from hunting to discover a clay jar of herbal soup, Treant root for medicinal tea, and small pot of Eukalyptus salve and Flosswood leaf bandages: ancient holistic treatments of the Viera.
It was good that he hadn't called them xenophobic bitches to their faces.
Fran had rested well for two nights, but it soon became apparent that she was beyond herbs and Wood-born remedies now.
Her eyes grew darker, glassier with every day. Her color was high, her breathing shallower. Her wounds would not seal, despite perpetual incantations of healing spells. Rather, they were continuing to swell, erupting blood, as blossoms of unnatural color appeared below the surface of her now translucent skin. Her temperature was high, her body so sweaty her long white strands wrapped around her, stuck to her skin.
She was starting to cough blood.
She needed a body scan, a surgery, and hospitalization.
He'd been selfish to hide them. It'd been pride and naïveté at first; he and Fran had always managed on their own just fine. They'd neither of them needed assistance, not from his father, not from The Wood, not from anybody. They'd been in worse scrapes than this, and they'd pulled through.
But she'd never looked so close to death.
Balthier gritted his teeth as he contemplated the distant mountain, he knew where he had to go next.
He'd heard the chatter of the passing pilgrims. The new Gran Kiltias would be chosen soon. With that, two important tasks had to be accomplished immediately: the ascension of Larsa Solidor, and the coronation of Ashelia Dalmasca.
They were at Bur-Omisace.
A moan had Balthier turning back into the cave, pulling off his wolf-hide coat, wrapping it around the trembling body. "Hush, friend. Sleep." He said the word slowly, mesmerizingly, trying to once more induce slumber.
"You go for assistance," she speculated, as the spell made her eyelids heavier, her breathing slower. The musical cadence of her voice had been lost in her efforts to communicate at all.
"Yes. I will return," Balthier combed trembling fingers through the natty strands of her hair, cupping her chin. "And you will live."
He wondered, as she looked at him, did she really see him?
He could not waste time with such ponderings. He had to seek assistance.