"Balthier, no!"
The man was smiling, laughing even, that sly twinkle in his eye still shining despite the blood dripping over his brow.
"Forget it, Fran." He stated dryly, only a hint of stressed pain in his tone. "I've made up my mind."
"What are you doing!?"
The tomb was on the offensive; the idiot pirates who'd followed them in had tripped the defenses. Doors were slamming shut, bridges retracting, halls caving in. They'd been running for their lives, treasure left behind, looking only for the way out.
"Jump, quickly!" Fran thrust her hand out over the divide, reaching towards Balthier who was growing steadily further and further away. She was on the ground just before the door, almost to freedom; having been shoved there by Balthier, knocked away just as the bridge began to pull away.
It was no good; the door behind the bridge had shut, and the stone was pulling into it and would soon leave nothing on which to stand. Each moment he delayed he came closer to his death.
"Fran," His debonair smirk melted into something softer, fond. "You know better than to try and change my mind when it's made up."
"What are you…"
Her beloved, her companion, was of his own accord trapped on the receding bridge, still bleeding from the bullet wound in his chest, a gift of the pirates who'd chased them. Kneeling upon the ground, chest heaving from the attempt to breath, Balthier sent a haggard grin her way.
Wintry terror pierced her chest and stole the breath from her. "Balthier… Balthier, no!" She cried. "I can save you, please –" She threw her hand out again.
He laughed and sputtered, and the action sent his life's blood spilling over his lips. "If not now, when?" Shocked into silence, Fran listened with growing horror as he continued. "When age and time have stolen my purpose and reason? Shall I wither away in a hospice bed, already dead but for the slow beating of my pulse? Or perhaps whiling away the last years of my life in maddening revelry, until I grow so obsessed with my own end I rise up to tear down the sky in my misery?"
"You are not your father."
"Am I – am I not?" Something fragile made it into his eyes, the flicker of upward movement in his pale lips. "And what would I do, with the age of fifty just round the corner for me, the age when Dr. Cid began bargaining with gods and mumbling to himself in dark laboratories. What will I do? I imagine, you could save me." He admitted. "Whisk me away to a healer, save my life but not repair it to strength."
"So this is it." Fran mumbled quietly as her long nailed fingers clenched and cut into the skin of her palms. "For fear of losing the life of a pirate, you choose to die as one."
"Fitting, isn't it?" He laughed again, hollowly. "You've always said my mulish temper would get me killed."
"I meant it as warning, not prophecy!"
Balthier's eyes darted down; Fran followed the motion, and somehow the fear she'd been feeling managed to heighten infinitely. "Balthier – please, jump to me!"
There was less than a foot left of stone, and perhaps not even leaping to his feet and taking to the air then would save him. Balthier looked back up, met her eyes with his bright amber gaze, gave her one last warm, affectionate smile.
"Thank you, Fran." The pirate sighed subdued. "Of all the adventures and wonders of my life, you were the best."
The bridge retracted, and Balthier fell.
"Fran? Fran!"
Awake instantly, Fran sat up so quickly Penelo had to dash out of the way to avoid being hit. "What is it, a nightmare?"
Fran, sweat-laden and hyperventilating, leaned back on her hands on the bed and let out a weary sigh. "No," She answered finally. "I only wish it were."
The next ten years blew past in a hypnagogic cloud, a great long never ending dream of traveling Dalmasca's dunes, drinking to celebrate quests in the tavern, having meals with the Queen. It was a life meant for stories: the two women warriors and lovers, cavorting amongst the rich and poor, the most significant and least, taking on the enemies no one could fight, becoming enveloped in intrigue and wars.
Assassinations failed at their interference, royalty was born in their presence, and they were honored guests at the courts of dozens of kingdoms. Being knighted by Dalmasca's queen went quite a ways towards making friends for them in every nation, and everywhere they went their talents were in need.
Starry nighttime skies were their blankets on long journeys through wilderness; the sun, their guiding light as the mapped their way through uncharted lands. Their conquests could fill books and made great tales as word of mouth spread their glory through Balfonheim to Bhujerba.
But the world spins, and every season makes way for the next to come, the trees shed their leaves to prepare for winter. New youths are born as the previous generations fade into twilight, their lives slowing to a halt, their existences entering past tense.
"So, where to next?" Penelo asked at morning's dawn, as they began preparing for the day. "We could head north. I heard there's a new village being built, but the villagers are having trouble keeping the buildings in tack with all the creatures causing havoc amongst the construction. Sounds like they don't like the idea of humes moving in." Chuckling, Penelo continued to brush her hair, looking down into the river as she styled it. "There's just not enough space, the way the cities are now. Archades has been overcrowded for decades, but now even the old city's full up."
Fran, behind her, poured water over the fire and began tucking their cooking ware away. "We'll need to restock first; we haven't enough supplies to make the journey northward."
Nodding thoughtfully, Penelo lowered her brush and began cleaning stray hairs from it. "We can take a detour someplace between here and there. Nalbina isn't far, not that I'm very… fond…"
Fran kept packing, until Penelo's odd silence bid her speak. "Penelo?" Fran sat up, concerned. "Are you –"
"I'm fine!" The woman leapt to her feet, walking back to her pack. "Just… lost my train of thought."
Fran watched as she knelled and tucked her brush away; the viera glanced back to the river and her keen eyes caught the glint of sunlight against a long, pale grey strand of hair.
Three more years passed in the same manner; but the mood of adventurous freedom, of the bright future stretching ahead of them, beckoning them forward, faded to nothingness. They were no longer in the prime of the journey, setting out to see the world; Fran knew the downward spiral was coming.
It took longer to get Penelo up and ready in the morning, and she went to sleep earlier. Wounds which had made Penelo laugh and the woman had insisted she work through them, now had her bedridden for days. Daring feats which had been risky before were downright impossible for the younger woman, and she knew it. She did not take the lead quite so often as before.
"I don't know why you hang around." Penelo had spat one day, surprisingly vicious. It did not faze Fran. "You could go anywhere you want and not be hampered by this old fool."
Fran nudged her arm, tucked their hands together and squeezed. "There is no one else I'd rather have beside me." No matter how old she grew, those declarations always made the woman blush and smile.
Still, they completed tasks worthy of legend and took down beasts no one else could fell. Chilled mountain ranges were no feat for them to cross, though Penelo could not stand the cold nights the way she used to. Rediscovered treasures were brought to the world by them, (and sold for a profit); Queens and Kings were put into their debts.
Then, one summer's eve after a long trek through the Cerobi Steppe, the duo stopped in a small village. Penelo collapsed into a tired heap into their motel bed, asleep almost instantly, and kept sleeping until noon the next day. When she awoke and joined Fran for tea on the balcony outside their room, she seemed distant, almost forlorn.
"I think I'd like to stay here." She admitted quietly. "I won't hold it against you if you'd like to move on, but… I think my journeying days are over."
Fran stared, dark eyes impossibly wide, watching as her lover fidgeted and glanced away, clearly flustered. The viera leapt to her feet, crossed the space between them, and knelt to hug Penelo to her tightly.
"Fran! What -!"
"Thank you," She mumbled quietly, not bothering to fight the tears burning her eyes.
"You're thanking me?"
"Yes!" Fran leaned away, gripping Penelo's shoulders tight. "I am thanking you for doing what other humes cannot; accepting the limits life has bound you to, and not fearing them past the point of acceptance." Almost too moved to speak, Fran faltered. "And… if you'll have me, I will stay."
Penelo's fear melted and her face became star-like, golden and full of life. "Yes, yes a thousand times." It was the younger who embraced Fran next. "I would have you with me forever."
They built a home themselves in that town, made roots, and they were warmly welcomed, their exploits already well known by most of the villagers. Penelo's stories became renowned, and she was the best friend of every child eager for a tale to be told. Both were asked to assist in the defenses of the town, to help build suitable structures to keep beasts and invaders out, to train soldiers. Penelo was often brought in to consult, while Fran was eventually made head of the guard.
Years were spent in the lovely peace of a homely village, where the dragons and monsters of legend, the great wars and the countries which warred them, were far removed. Most of the children had never seen a viera until Fran, as most of the villagers were either Humes or Bangaas. It was the definition of quaint, and after many decades of conflict, Fran found it suited her.
Penelo took to it quite well, too. She found her joy in the children; teaching became her passion. There was no formal school, but Penelo put together a room in their home set aside for the kids, where the great tomes and maps they'd collected upon their journeys were stored. She taught farm children who might never see past the borders of their home the capitals of the world's Empires, the geography of their country, how to spell and read and write, and do so in many languages. Not all the children chose to learn, or wanted to; but there were enough as the years went by to keep Penelo very busy.
Fran was occupied with the safety of the town, which while important was hardly stressful compared to the tasks she'd been given in years past. The village's worse challenges were natural disasters, livestock being eaten by wolves, or children getting lost in the woods.
It was a tranquil life, not as exciting as their youth but no less good or fulfilling for it. They took late mornings lounging in bed, and watched the sun set from their back porch, leaning upon on another in comfortable silence.
The little things changed: Fran paced herself while walking to keep beside Penelo. Illness and weakness befell her lover more often, and Fran always took care of her gladly. Yet nothing dimmed the bond bred in years of struggle, in decades of confidence and companionship.
Others in the village sometimes questioned their relationship, secretively or openly. The difference in age and ability was often brought before them, in jest or serious questioning. Neither woman was ever bothered by it; they had come to understand what they were to each other years before, and did not suspect or doubt anymore.
A surprise kiss upon the forehead startled Fran from her packing. Even without hearing Penelo's pleased giggles she would have known those lips.
Penelo's graceful stature had diminished in late years; her thin frame thinner, pale blonde hair silvery grey such as it seemed moonlight had been woven into the locks. She sagged beneath the weight of the years she'd lived, crossed by wrinkles and scars; but a girlish laugh and cheerful smile and Fran saw the sixteen year old standing shyly in the back of the Strahl, watching the world flash by outside.
"About to head out?"
Swinging her bag onto her back, Fran followed Penelo out of the bedroom to the kitchen. "It will be a five day journey, at most. I will return to you before the moon rises in full." She stopped by the door, warmth filling her as Penelo approached, hands clasped in front of her and a smile on her face.
"Well, be careful." Reaching out, Fran took Penelo's hands in hers, lovingly caressing the calloused, wrinkled palms.
""You know I shall."
"You're not allowed to die before me." Penelo chided jokingly. "If I find out you have, I'll never forgive you!"
Fran's reply was equally sardonic. "I'll be sure to remember."
Some humes tell of omens, of feelings and senses disturbed when loved ones are in danger; of lovers knowing , with a sick realization, the fates of their beloveds; parents driven mad by fear, by a gut clenching truth they felt and, when convinced of its reality, were brought to their knees by the hurt of it.
Fran had no such warning when she returned to the village. Not until her gaze fell upon the ashen faces of the guards at the gate, the eyes of which would not met hers. Need for air would not force Fran to part her lips; she pursed them tight as she leapt from her chocobo.
There were people outside her house, the door opened, and neighbors were trying to stand in front of her, hands held up to hold her back, but none of them were a match for a Veira's strength.
Fran tore through the home to her bedroom, their bedroom, threw the door open –
Penelo's body, limp and deathly pale, lay upon their bed; relaxed, peaceful, and cold.
Fran never slept in the house again.
She contacted those she knew would want to know; a list that had been cut short by the passing of years.
Basch fon Rosenburg, loyal and steadfast to the end, had been killed by illness a decade earlier.
Queen Ashelia B'nargin of Dalmasca, beloved sovereign hero and savoir of her country, had died in an airship crash along with her husband. The sorrow lingering in their absence had managed what their marriage could not; uniting the two countries.
Lord Larsa of Arcadia had been assassinated not long after Basch's tragic wound cost him his knightly duties. (The Kingdom, though, did not fall into disarray; as the Lord was succeeded by one of his many children.)
The sky pirate Vaan, well, no one was really sure. His exploits were well known, but had long since become tales of times passed, not modern recollections. Whether he had been killed, lost, or simply vanished, no one could say.
Who was left for there to tell?
Fran took Penelo back to Rabanastre.
There was a cemetery in the lower parts of the city, tucked away into an empty warehouse that had once been the impoverished home of Rabanastre's orphans. Penelo had shown her the place; described how cold it had been at night, how the long grey walls had almost been comforting by how they cut off the rest of the world. It had been her home, before Migelo. When they'd turned it into a cemetery years later, Penelo had been pleased.
"Place that chilly and dank, making it a cemetery is about the only thing you can do with it." She'd said idly, distracted by polishing her sword. She'd been so beautiful then, the epitome of a Dalmascan warrior, tanned skin dotted with scars and blemishes, youthful face easy to prompt to smile. Fran had loved those smiles.
The owner of the cemetery, once he realized the identity of both the Viera and the body wrapped in blankets in her cart, was more than glad to give a place of honor to Penelo. She was given a raised coffin, a stone vault into which she was to lay for all time.
As he placed her in, the grave keeper moved to take the blankets away. "No!" Fran snapped quickly, startling the hume. "No. Leave them." So she will not be kept in cold grey silence for all time, with no comfort.
He entombed Penelo then left Fran to her misery.
It was a nice tomb, all things considered. Fran did not really know enough of hume funeral rights and burials to say if it was good or not. Viera had no such things. Their dead were returned to the wood, to become part of the trees and grass, to give life. They were not locked away from the earth in stone, to never rejoined the cycle of life.
Yet, somehow, Fran could not bring herself to give Penelo over to the cycle, anyhow.
Footsteps pulled Fran out of her mind, her hand jumping to the sword at her waist. Rabanastre might have been vastly improved, but it was still dangerous in parts of Lowtown. Fran spun round, pulled her dagger, and came face to face with a familiar hume, dressed in royal finery.
"A – Ashe!?"
Ashe chuckled. "Not quite, though I have been told I look much like her." The stranger continued. "I would not know. She died many years ago."
Slowly, Fran's sword hand lowered, and she returned her weapon to it's sheathe. "Then you are her heir."
"Roshellia." The hume curtsied. "At your service." She clasped her hands in front of her, and approached Penelo's tomb, coming to stand beside Fran. "When news of your arrival came to my ears, and what you carried with you, I realized what must've happened." Somber eyes rose to meet Fran's. "I met very few of my mother's friends, but when she lived, she told me all sorts of stories about them. I am sorry to hear one of those great heroes is gone."
"Not one." Fran mumbled distantly. "All of them save me."
Silence came over their conversation, and the rows of stones and statues made to seem as if they were forever weeping did not do much to prompt further discussion. Sobriety and pain colored the mood, and Fran found it very difficult to say anything at all.
"It must be hard." Roshellia finally replied in a quiet, timid voice that did not suite a queen. "To be so long lived, among species whose lives flare and fade away so quickly. I do not think I could be so strong."
"Strong?" Fran chuckled dryly. "It is not strength. If I were stronger, I could live my life alone, without any company, but I am too weak for that. I need the comfort of companionship, of a bed shared with lovers and a home built with others. I am too lonely to be strong."
"Well… I'm not in a place to comment, I suppose." The royal replied. "I have never been alone." There was a bitterness to that kind of life, too, and Fran knew something of it; of living in a community where solitude was rare and the freedom to make your own choices about your life even rarer.
"What will you do, now that they're all gone?" Roshellia asked. "Will you return to your homeland?"
"My home?" Fran laughed heartily, too strongly for the situation, a forced laugh that covered up pain. "My home is buried in that tomb in front of you." Fran waved towards it. "But, no; I will not return to the wood."
"Even after all this suffering? After living amongst mortals has caused you so much pain?"
"Life is pain." Fran retorted. "Life is pain, and the change of time, the passing of years. Where I come from, there are no such things. Seasons turn and the wood grows but does not alter itself; the viera do as they have always done, observing the same rites, defending their lands, following their codes. There is no life there, only a mockery of it, as viera are born, raised to complete their duties, and made to complete them again, and again, until the end of time."
Fran was pacing, the hotness of her tone translating into her body's movements. "I grew tired of living a life not worth living; and so I cast it aside, and found in all the places I've been to the most fabulous things. I have found cities where the turning of one year could bring about marvelous differences. Two years alone did Dalmasca change from a conquered country to a free nation, pushing the tyrants back!"
"Viera may exist long past the other races of Ivalice, but they will never know the brightness and brilliance of their lives, hidden away in that forest as they are." Fran declared. "So I suffer by staying here, but I live also. Though we may by the seasons be divided, I will never regret those years with Penelo, and I will never forget them."
Roshellia stood watching Fran's passionate explanation with raised eyebrows and a surprised smile, still the demure royal but for the tone of her voice. "I repeat what I said before, and I will elaborate upon it." She began. "You are a very strong person, Fran once-of-the-Wood; and a marvelous one. You will always be welcome in my country, and my home." The queen gave one last bow, then turned and sauntered from the cemetery, rejoining the guards awaiting her outside.
Fran left Rabanastre.
She traveled; fought and bled, took and saved lives. New cities learned to whisper her name in awe. Friends she made, and lost; lovers she took to bed and bid farewell come morning. Some years, she spent with those she particularly cared for, and once came their passing, moved on.
New lands she explored, new cities she traversed; she saw the sun set from the very farthest west coast upon the continent.
She lived.