Post Note: Not joking about the posture thing (third section) equip Balthier with a two-handed sword and you'll see what I mean. Looks freaking weird.

Prompt: Confessions

Character(s): Main Party


Noisome Incendiaries: Confessions.



"The truth? We are fighting tooth and nail across a godless savannah and you request honesty?"

The crossbow is heavy in her arms as Ashe scans the dunes for wolves, "It is a request not so difficult as you would make it."

"My. You are precious, aren't you? Where is your chaperone? I'm certain Basch-"

"Baltheir," she cuts him off, "Why did you take the wedding band?"

This seems to genuinely puzzle him, "Why payment, of course."

"Only it is more than that, isn't it?"

He folds his arms across his chest and regards her silently. At length he ventures in a tone that is more accusation than inquiry, "If it is? What of it?"

"I ask only the truth. I ask only what you think."

There is sand in her hair and dirt on her face. Her lips are chapped. Her hands are bleeding from where the crossbow bolts have nicked her. The sword suits her so much more but with Fran utilizing the javelin, the party has found itself in need of a second ranged weapon in addition to his gun.

Oh, yes. It had been fun at first. Watching the way the sweat made her shirt stick to her skin. Watching Basch grind his teeth every time Balthier insinuated anything vaguely inappropriate about the vast amounts of alone time he'd be spending with the princess…

Two hours into the new formation and he began wishing that anyone – even Vaan – had agreed to take up the bow. Perhaps he could convince Fran to resume her previous position. Because, alright, yes. Yes, the battles are over much quicker when Fran is down in the quick of things dealing melee attacks…but were the avoided scratches, the saved potions, really worth Balthier's slow death by the harpings of one Ashelia B'Nargin?

He didn't think so.

The bitterness rises, "What I think? Alright, Princess, I think that-"

(I think that you have no real proof of your identity. I think I am not above stealing said proof should we somehow manage to live long enough to acquire it. Even if the people accept you as Heir Apparent, Vayne Solidor will still overpower your pitiful city-state. I think your husband ought to have swallowed his pride, pulled his soldiers, and marked Nabradia as lost whilst there was still chance -and men- enough to secure Dalmasca's borders. I think you are exploiting Basch by playing on his guilt and his overdeveloped sense of morality in order to get him to do what you want…I'd have told you long ago to go and collect your own firewood. I think…I think I am not in the mood to have this conversation at present.)

"-you smell bad." He finishes petulantly.

"I…I beg your pardon?"

Unfolding his arms, Balthier throws his hands up in the air, "There. I said it. Dreadful business, I know, but you did ask."

She recovers quickly and prompts, undaunted, "Balthier."

Entirely over the situation, he brushes past her, explaining quietly, "You cannot breathe life into a kingdom whilst shouldering a dead man."


In Lowtown, Vaan is staring at Penelo much harder than he probably should be.

From where he is perched atop an empty crate (according to the label it once contained assorted dried fruits), he can see her moving down the corridor. Give her a moment or two and she'll be passing him by.

This last night, Vaan has had an epiphany. Vaan has had a vision. Vaan has had a single moment of clarity.

And now he needs to tell her. He has to tell her. It's important.

Close enough now, he hops off his crate and rushes forward, managing to catch her by the arm, "Hey, Penelo!"

She gives a slight start and a jerk before recognizing the voice. She smiles a greeting.

He rubs the back of his neck, voice only a bit too high, as he unnecessarily adds, "Just me."

She tilts her head to the side, peering up at him, "Just you," and then, "Something wrong?"

And he's glancing somewhere over her shoulder, decidedly not looking at her. A drastic change from a few seconds ago, but he can't seem to help it…besides, throwing up on her probably wouldn't go over all that well, "No, no. Everything's fine."

"Okay, well… I'm off to Migelo's. I'll see you later okay?"

"Later. Yeah. That works."

She makes it a whole five steps before he's running up behind her, "Penelo!"

"What, Vaan?"

He has to say it. He needs to say it now or he never will. He knows it.

Face burning, Vaan waves a dismissive hand, "Nevermind."

She gives him a look before turning away.

Two steps this time, "No, wait! Don't go!"

"I'm going to be late!"

"I just gotta tell you something! It'll only take a second."

She sighs and shifts, eyeing the corridor.

"…uh."

"Well? What is it?"

Have her eyes always been that expressive? "…um."

"Vaan-"

"I mean…"

"Vaan!"

"I love you!"

There. He said it. He said it and now he's grinning (a bit stupidly) waiting for her to fall into his arms like he knows she will.

She places a hand on her hip and raises her eyebrows, "Yeah. Thanks. I love you too, Vaan."

And she reaches out to smooth his hair down in an entirely sisterly manner.

Vaan waits until she is well out of earshot before shouting in frustration.


("…Shall I swear by your sword or some such?")

The sincere exasperation in the pirate's tone had far outweighed the light mockery causing Basch to issue out a few hasty words of apology.

("I'm only here to see how the story unfolds. Any self-respecting leading man would do the same.")

And as they leave Jahara, Basch trails behind the rest of the group, collecting his thoughts. In his heart, he does not believe Baltheir would betray them. Yet, as a knight and as sole protector of the only living heir to the Dalmascan throne, it would not do to completely place his trust in a pirate.

Yet…yet Basch has his suspicions.

By all appearances a naturally svelte man, it takes a trained eye to notice Balthier's muscle mass is distributed in an even manner that could only be acquired through the donning of heavy, full-bodied armor…often for long periods of time.

There had also been a recent incident in which, during a scuffle with fiends, the princess had dropped her sword. Too far away to be of any real assistance, it had been Balthier who picked up the fallen sword and skewered the beast. And while it had not surprised Basch that the younger man knew how to wield a blade, the way he held the sword -his posture - had. The way Balthier had held the sword with his elbows facing outwards, the hilt raised nearly at eye-level…the way someone used to looking out of a visor or a helm would hold a sword.

There were smaller, more obvious details, as well. The remnants of an upper Tsenbole accent, the Imperial engine in the Strahl… even his skill with a firearm is a firm mark of the Archadian army.

Yes, Basch has his suspicions.

His suspicions do not explain the Viera woman at all.

Why would a Viera – a folk notorious for their distaste of other races – agree to partner with a hume man? An Archadian hume man. The Archadians whom were equally notorious for their beliefs that humes are The superior race? It made no sense at all.

And, only possessing enough patience for so many suspicions Basch does what he deems no one else in the party has the good sense to do.

He asks her.

Simply, plainly, he asks her, "Why do you follow him?"

Incredibly striking in her appearance, an almost violent kind of beauty, Basch is somewhat surprised (and in no small part relieved) when he finds that he is not so flustered as he feared he may be.

She smiles one of her almost smiles. Extremely tall and statuesque, even if it were not for the outlandishly tall heels she wore, the woman would still reach eye level with him.

"Leading man or no, the act is an interesting one, Captain."

(Ahead, a serpent of impressive proportions makes a sudden strike for Vaan's face. His shriek is abruptly cut off by a resonating gunshot.)

"...though often I find his choice in understudies questionable."

It is not an answer. Not a true answer.

Yet, for now, Basch can content himself with such.


Noisome Incendiaries: Confessions: End.