February 27: thieves and liars

[A/N: Haven't been very good at keeping up with 31days. exhausted from runs: the few attempts I've made to write for themes petered out into unpublishable rubbish (and you know for me that's a really, really low bar, given some of the junk I've turned out and my philosophy re: online publishing: that there's always someone out there who's published stuff worse than my 8yr old nieces can write, see 50+ of XD).

Fool's Gold: Then, Now, Forever

[Between then and forever

"It fails to stand to reason how you were involved with Gabranth for three, four years, and he is still unable to find you on his home ground."

A familiar voice, measured, acerbic and just a little pedantic, made Balthier pause in the middle of his warm honey-cake and twist in his chair. Zargabaath attempted to smile thinly and reproachfully, but the humorless line soon quirked into a brief curl of old affection, as the elderly Judge-Magister settled with the unhurried grace of the ageing into one of the cafe's elaborate designer chairs.

Four years, and Cafe Omedia was unchanged saved for its waitressing staff: the same portly cook-and-owner and her rake-thin head waiter husband, the same aromatic, strong espresso, the same earthy menu, the same copse of lovingly tended dwarf willow trees that framed all of the cafe's eight outdoor tables. And his favorite, of course: fluffy buttery sponge cake filled with warmed honey.

Zargabaath was dressed discreetly (for the old Judge, anyway), in a gray vest over a cotton blue shirt tucked with obsessive neatness into military storm-gray breeches. A little incongruously, he wore the etched greaves and boots of his Magister armor, and carried his blade at his hip. Zargabaath looked a little thinner, and had somewhat less hair than Balthier remembered; a few more wrinkle lines and crow's feet, but the sharp eyes were as bright and piercing as ever. Being the sole object of their scrutiny remained disconcerting, but he found he did not need to force a grin.

Despite four years spent more or less under Zargabaath's uncompromising and occasionally mercurial thumb as his chief aide, the Judge-Magister had been amongst those whose company he had missed the most keenly, in his years of self-imposed exile (freedom). "Good day to you too, sir."

"You never called me 'sir' even when exhorted, years ago," Zargabaath snorted, waving over a waiter and ordering latte. "But back to my point. You used to take any amount of your favorite food to chambers, despite my wishes, and you have the habits of a cat. To-day is honey-cake day, for Omedia."

Balthier nodded, arching an eyebrow in question, then grinned and inclined his head to a passing aide he remembered from Zargabaath's bureau: she chuckled, smiled, bowed to the Judge-Magister, and continued walking up to join the growing queue for cakes. "That is beside the point. I never took any of such food… home, and with differing schedules we hardly ever used to meet for luncheon. Though… Amelia over there has been the oh... fifth or so person to have greeted me here today."

"Because Lanse fairly burst into chambers declaring that you were here, about a couple of hours ago," Zargabaath said dryly. "Everybody does still miss you."

"Who is the new Chief Aide?" Balthier inquired, over a sticky mouthful of cake, glad to realize that those words affected him not at all.

"Tillian."

"Ah. Still with that... donkey of a boyfriend?"

Zargabaath looked disapproving, his brows stitching together, at this casual discussion of someone else's personal life. "I would not know. If so, it is not impinging on her efficiency. But she is nowhere on your level, in terms of analysis and intuition. When there was next a vacancy on the Bench, I was going to nominate you, then."

"Nice to know," Balthier grinned, his impishness showing an apparent total disregard of that information (days that could have been). "And here I thought that nominating Judge-Magisters who still possessed full heads of hair was terribly controversial." Before Zargabaath could make any comment about Drace, or worse, Gabranth, Balthier hastily added, "I thought you were very busy."

"I am, and no thanks to your party," Zargabaath sniffed. "With three of us gone. Much of the work is actually being remitted to County."

"What a scandal. Wet-under-the-ears Judges delivering decisions."

"Necessary means. It has worked out surprisingly well, but then we have had some years to refine it. When Zecht... well. When that happened. And then Gabranth." Zargabaath, despite his military appearance, could be sly when he wanted to: Balthier watched the enigmatic expression carefully and knew he had to look where he trod.

"I thought Gabranth was quite efficient," he shrugged carelessly.

"Up until you left, he was. Then he became inconsistent, unpredictable, and it worsened after the Dalmascan war. Now he seems... irrational. But with the dearth on the Bench at the moment, and the upheaval with the arrest and dissolve of the Senate, contesting lifelong tenure would be impossible."

Inconsistent, unpredictable. Balthier told himself quietly that this did not change things, and knew it true, even though his annoying sense of curiosity made him ask, "It is hard to imagine him as irrational."

"After you left he was unable to function properly in his role for weeks. He only seemed to pull himself together when Lord Vayne, apparently, spoke to him. After that... well, his judgments were on the whole no less brilliant than before, but he developed a vicious tendency to verbally rip apart submissions that he felt did not meet his standards, and that meant most."

"He was not so kind even before to submissions as such."

"To give you an idea," Zargabaath added unhurriedly, "Even Ghis has spoken to him about it once, afterwards. Drace, many times. And now each time there is even a hint that you may be in Archades he disappears from the Bench."

"What do you expect me to do?" Balthier drawled, a little annoyed to realize that he found the attention flattering, as much as it was hardly surprising. "And I am surprised he has not tried asking anyone from chambers."

"He did. It frustrates him that several certainly have more than a good inclination of your whereabouts but would not tell him," Zargabaath raised an eyebrow when Judge Amelia bustled past, coffee and cake in her hands and a fleeting warm smile of farewell for Balthier. "Do you think any of my associate team in chambers would betray you? Or your friends in Drace's?"

"Some may not see it as betrayal," Balthier ventured, though a small smile indicated that he certainly saw Zargabaath's point.

"As to what I would have you do…" Zargabaath sighed, heavily. "I gather you met with him, 'ere meeting with your father. After four years."

"Aye," Balthier finished the rest of his honey-cake and took to licking fingers, unashamed of the apparent immaturity, already used to the carefree lack of a need to present himself formally.

"Before that, well, I would not say he had gotten over you, but he was certainly… functioning. Now he seems to have almost returned to the first few weeks upon finding you gone. That state of mind." Zargabaath was clearly uncomfortable with the subject. "And each time there is a hint from sources in the aerodrome that your Strahl may have docked… but of course given the Aerodrome Act the Moogles deny official investigation into private hangars without sufficient warrant…"

"'Tis not my fault that my current… employer sees fit now and then to venture into Archades on business," Balthier waved a hand dismissively, his expression carefully schooled, even as his heart began to ache.

"There is no call for your continued estrangement. Zecht wrote to me more than two years ago, expressing that he held no ill will towards myself, or Gabranth, or Drace." Piercing eyes made Balthier finally avert his gaze to his coffee, and the old Judge added, more softly, "And I doubt 'tis only your employer's business that takes you so often of late to Archades."

"I have another," the sky pirate said tightly, even as he knew this was not a logical reply.

"Aye," Zargabaath said dryly, "The man's twin brother."

Stung, Balthier snapped, "Why are you concerned? The case load?"

"Not that," Zargabaath said reproachfully, "Gabranth remains my friend. As are you. And he has ever been leashed to Solidor. Lord Vayne grows impatient with his… state of mind. I fear soon he may be given an assignment where he may… harm himself, if he remains so. I ask you simply to speak to him, longer, and frankly. Much of what hurt him was your leaving with only a short letter and not a word further for so many years."

The ache was worsening, and had spread to his throat. Balthier finished his espresso, and curled back in his chair. If he closed his eyes now, they would sting. "Gabranth is a man grown, and a Judge-Magister at that. He needs to learn how to control his emotions."

"I see I cannot persuade you," the old Judge lowered his eyes to his latte. "Ffamran… in this life, some things…"

"You cannot persuade me," Balthier interrupted, and then tempered his cold tone to a good humor that was not as feigned as he thought it would be. "Come. Let us speak of other things. How fares the wife?"

--

[Forever

Basch observed Chief Aide Trillian, of Judge-Magister Zargabaath's legal team, come into his chambers and pull Balthier aside for the second time that day to discuss some legal matter or other with a wry smile. Before Trillian, in the course of the week so far of Balthier's visit, there had been any number of the old Judge's team who had shown up on consultation, despite Balthier's repeated assertions that he was four years out of date and, in any case, was retired, an outlaw, and here on holiday. Zargabaath could be a sly old fox when he put his mind to it: the assertions were getting shorter, and the discussions longer.

Balthier finally wandered back to him, looking a little annoyed as he slumped into the cleared guest chair before Basch's desk, watching the Judge-Magister perusing a stack of typewritten transcripts with half-lidded eyes. "Could you tell Zargabaath to stop?"

"Stop what?" Basch asked, innocently, as he turned a page, not really paying attention to the matter at hand. Balthier could be a force of distraction by himself simply by sitting still in a corner.

"Sending people here to talk to me about this and that," Balthier said irritably, "I feel like cutting short my visit."

Which was what the sky pirate had said the first day into Zargabaath's latest tactic to recover his Chief Aide, Basch thought privately, but managed to keep his expression wooden. "I will speak with him if you wish."

"Good. Because I have no intention to return to judicial life," Balthier said firmly, slouching further in the chair and crossing his boots over part of Basch's desk.

"Evidently." Basch said, turning his eyes ostensibly back down to his papers. "Since you value your freedom."

"Aye, and…"

"And of course you have already firmly decided that an aimless life is what you desire."

"That is not…"

"Not to mention all the attention and status from being Chief Aide, and the presence of all your friends in Zargabaath's team and various others, matters not a whit at all compared to the freedom of the open sky."

Balthier opened his mouth, closed it, and then narrowed his eyes in a dangerous glare. Basch smiled at him over the edges of page forty-seven of the transcript notes, serenely. "I refuse to be drawn out on this."

"Of course," Basch allowed himself a grin.

The sky pirate growled, then added, a little petulantly. "I am serious. I will not come back. The workload here is unbelievable. I much prefer waking and sleeping whenever I want and living outside of six minute brackets."

"You always wake two hours or so after the dawn," Basch said, very mildly, "And you sleep about four hours after the dusk. It may only be coincidence that these are the hours that Judges keep, of course. Several times during our journey you could be heard exclaiming over boredom."

"Aye, well, being tied to a group of…"

"Also, I spoke to Reddas, and he said once you alternated between restlessness after heists, or lazing about in Balfonheim complaining to all and sundry that…"

"You know," Balthier muttered, barely audible, "You can be just as annoying as your brother."

Basch stifled a chuckle, adding gently, "I am sure Zargabaath would welcome even your presence part-time."

"Part-time outlaw, part-time Judge? How curious," Balthier grinned, his mischief returning at the incongruity.

"Fran said she felt your heart was no longer in the… thievery."

"And there's a difference between the both of you," the sky pirate rolled his eyes. "If he wanted something, he would dash here and there until he found it. If you want something, well! You approach it as though it was a problem of war that wanted patient strategy, gathering allies along the way."

"I hope to think the results differ." It was beginning to be a strain to keep his voice bland, but experience told him Balthier was remarkably prickly on the matter of his late brother and this.

He caught only the faintest hint of a faraway gleam, in chestnut eyes, then Balthier turned away, his posture archly stiff. "Both equally annoying."

Basch chuckled then, if a little nervously, a weight he had not realized about his heart slowly ebbing. It was good to know. Equally. More than he would have asked for (even as faint a hint as this). "I do believe I see Judge Amelia at the door."

"If you are laughing at me, Judge-Magister, your bed will be quite lonely tonight."

"I would not dare," Basch said, quickly hiding his mouth behind pages of cross-examinations.

--

[Then

Gabranth found release in a long, low groan, his head lolling back against the cushioned headboard, one hand clutching at a pillow, the other tense against cropped chocolate hair, and he shuddered, choking for breath, as his lover continued to suck, greedy and loud, delicate fingers pressed against his hips. An ecstasy he would never tire of, but today, tonight, something felt a little off. He wished he could push away that irritating thought, as Ffamran gave his prick a final, slow lick and glanced up at him smugly, the edges of a pink tongue sliding over his lips.

When his muscles finally agreed to answer his mind again, he pulled the boy up against him, into his lap, to taste himself (bitter) on his lover's smile, and muttered, "And yourself?"

"Mm." Ffamran wriggled on his lap, bucking his own hard arousal against Gabranth's belly. "No matter."

Something was definitely off. Gabranth frowned, though he stroked a hand downwards to curl around the heat he felt against him, squeezing gently. "No matter?"

"Well. I doubt you are up to responding adequately as yet," Ffamran's response was just a little too hasty, even as he purred and bucked into the other man's grip. "Being middle-aged and all."

"Thirty-two is hardly middle-aged," Gabranth nipped a lower lip sharply, already swollen from languid kisses. He felt that he should have realized something was wrong from the beginning: tonight had been slow, with none of Ffamran's normal impatience; indeed, the boy himself had been lengthening the foreplay, taking his time to pet and explore where he would normally have been writhing against Gabranth and begging for surcease.

When Ffamran didn't retort or retaliate from the bite, instead sucking absently on the reddened mark, his eyes distracted, hands stealing up Gabranth's shoulders, the Judge-Magister closed his eyes and pulled the warm body gently down under his chin, cradling him and stroking his shoulder. "Something you wish to tell me, Ffamran?"

The boy flinched almost imperceptibly, even as he shook his head against Gabranth's chest (sweat, and the after-tremors of climax). "No."

It had to be something truly momentous, if Ffamran was unable even to exercise his considerable skills at dissemination. At a loss of something to say, Gabranth resorted to a knee-jerk male response to a Potential Relationship Issue: he made a noncommittal, back-of-the-throat sound, and murmured, "I love you."

"I know," Ffamran said, and the misery in the words stunned him for a long, speechless moment.

Gabranth turned up the boy's chin, sure that he would now be unable to hide his concern. "Ffamran. Did something happen today?"

Ffamran stared at him for a long moment, then he shook his head, slowly. "Not today."

"Then…" Gabranth searched his memory, and decided to start on the most likely, as much as it had proved a mood-killer before; but in any case, Ffamran's arousal was fast ebbing, and this was far more important. "It is about Zecht?"

Ffamran's reply took a heartbeat too long, and he did not meet Gabranth's eyes. "No."

"Look at me if you want to lie to me," Gabranth meant that to come out gentle, but there was a note of reproach. Zecht's trial was in two days, and Ffamran's mood (and Drace's) had worsened steadily as the days passed.

"All right," Ffamran twisted in his lap to straddle it, his eyes flashing anger. "It is about Zecht. He will be executed in two days."

"His trial is in two days," Gabranth corrected. "It will likely take weeks in deciding. And he has a chance of…"

Ffamran voiced a decidedly filthy expletive that had Gabranth raising both eyebrows. "A sham trial. Who is on the Bench? You, Ghis, Bergan, Zargabaath, Drace. Who has accused Zecht? Lord Vayne-bloody-Solidor. Three votes to hang him. What matters if it is two days, or a few weeks? Soon you will have a part in the murder of my friend. Your friend, your mentor." The bitterness in Ffamran's voice was painful to hear, even as it in turn angered Gabranth.

"And you are so sure where I stand?"

"Look at me and tell me that you are not Solidor's pet," Ffamran replied harshly.

"Lord Vayne is my benefactor, but…"

"When he whistles, you come running," Ffamran shook his head slowly, with a disgust so palpable it was like a slap across his cheek. Stunned speechless for the second time that night, Gabranth didn't move when his lover shook his head again, climbed off him, and curled up on the edge of the bed. It was a long night, with both of them pretending to sleep.

Gabranth was more than ready to make some sort of apology in the morning, anything that would absolve him of his lover's painful contempt and ire, but Ffamran surprised him by apologizing first, his eyes reddened and his kisses conciliatory. "I was in a poor mood last night. I beg pardon if my words hurt you."

"No. You were right. It may well be that my loyalty to Lord Vayne is too unquestioning. But I assure you he has made not even a breath of command in this…"

Ffamran's lip curled, then the boy seemed to relax with an effort. "The whole point is for him not to, and see which of you will bend which way."

"I cannot go to trial convinced of Zecht's…"

"No, you cannot," Ffamran agreed, and there was an odd pity in his voice, his eyes over-bright. Gabranth leaned up to kiss one shuttering lash, and tasted salt. Tears. When he took in a breath, Ffamran said, in a very small voice, "Do not talk about evidence, or due process, or judgments, or chances. Better yet, just say nothing."

Gabranth hesitated, then nodded, and pulled the boy into his arms, stroking the curve of his back, feeling more than listening to tiny sobs stifled against his skin and hating himself for being unable to think of anything near appropriate to say. All too quickly, Ffamran twisted away, rubbing his eyes, his expression now unreadable. "You had better get changed. The case load is spreading out, I hear."

"And you," Gabranth said, with a glance at the clock. "Would you prefer if I called a cab? Judge-Magister Zargabaath…"

"Can wait a little later for his coffee. I will head to the Department when I am a little calmer." Ffamran's smile was all too feigned. "You go first."

Doubtfully, Gabranth went through the process of washing up and getting changed into his heavy plate armor. Ffamran watched him all the while, from the bed, sheets pulled around his waist, expressionless, unnervingly so. Disconcerted, Gabranth finally leaned down to kiss him, then said, forcing a lighter tone, "Free for dinner tonight?"

"Tonight? Um." Ffamran blinked rapidly, then shrugged. "Why not."

"Where?"

"Wherever." A pause. "Meet me here."

"Not in the Department?" Gabranth arched an eyebrow.

"I am not about to spend even dinner in full armor," Ffamran replied, absently. The wrongness made Gabranth frown, again, but he could not begin to see how to unravel this. "Well, go."

"I will inform Zargabaath that you will be late," Gabranth said, knowing he was rather obviously stalling for time.

Ffamran shrugged, his answer mysterious. "No doubt he has guessed." Before Gabranth could ask, however, the boy had disappeared into the washroom, closing the door behind him.

--

[The beginning and end of now

Ffamran waits until the noise of full plate dies away, then he slides down (a little theatrically, he would admit) against the smooth washroom door, sitting on the cold tiles and staring up at the mirror. From this angle, he cannot see his face, and he is a little glad of that: he must look a wreck, for Gabranth to be this worried.

He wishes many things: that he need not make such choices, at eighteen-on-nineteen, that he could keep both his love and his integrity and one of his closest friends; that he could keep both this comfortable life and freedom. That his love was not bound to the plans of another; that his friend had not been just the latest casualty in a war-prince's ambitions.

He wishes he could tell Gabranth: this is how I stand; choose now, but he tells himself that this way is better for that way is too unfair, to himself, to Gabranth, even as he also knows that the true reason why he does not ask so of his love is that he is afraid of what Gabranth would choose. It is better, Ffamran thinks; to leave with an illusion of final images than to find out that the person he has given his heart to could choose ill-placed loyalty or ambition over the life of a friend whom he knows to be innocent.

Better that he never knows (both). He wishes now for the distant then, when this would not hurt nearly so much (in all probability).

He knows the choice he is about to make is irrevocable, and the knowledge but creates emptiness in his belly and a dizzy humming roar in his mind. He is already beyond tears and such banalities as grief; he can hear the first words of the letter he will later write in his mind, superimposed over a disciplined mental retrieval of security codes and patrol routes.

At eighteen-on-nineteen Ffamran makes the best and worst choice of his life.

-fin-