This story has been completed (just in time for Nanowrimo, thank goodness!), with a total of 35 chapters plus an epilogue. Chapters will continue to be published every Saturday until April 8, 2016, which, barring any major revisions, is the date the epilogue will be posted.
Penelo walked the darkened halls of Reddas' home, finding wandering preferable to sleep. It had been hours since they'd arrived back in Balfonheim, and Ashe had slept much of the way back, rousing only enough to get herself into a bed upon their return. Basch had taken up watch outside her door - Penelo suspected he was reluctant to let her out of his sight after having her snatched from their midst in Giruvegan.
A strange apprehension pulsed through Penelo's veins, like an electric current. It sizzled, burned - anxiety, trepidation, fear, and anticipation blending into a cocktail of nervous energy she could not overcome. But Reddas' manor was a maze of corridors and wings, sprawling and massive, a prime location for restless wandering - she could probably walk the halls for days without ever encountering another person.
Unless that person had also wandered from their room in the middle of the night, as she had - and that unlikely scenario turned probable as she turned into a hallway to see a ring of light spilling out from a door therein. There came the soft creak of a chair, the clink of a glass set upon a table. Too late to be a servant, she thought - and too far from the main wing to be Reddas. Not Ashe or Basch, that much was certain. Too quiet to be Vaan, and not quite silent enough to be Fran. That left only one likely trespasser - Balthier.
For a moment she considered merely turning and wending her way back the way she'd come, for surely if he were of her same mind, he'd not be in the mood for company. But against her better judgment, her traitorous feet lead her down the hall towards the light emanating from the room. She peeked her head through the door frame - just to see, she told herself, if her guess had been correct.
Through the door, she saw a lamp glowing upon a table, a bottle of spirits resting nearby, and Balthier stretched out in a wingback chair, holding a glass of amber liquor in his hand, inspecting it by the soft glow of the lamplight.
As she'd thought. Appeased, she turned to leave, content to wander some other wing of the manor.
"What brings you out at this hour of the night?"
The soft question jarred her to a halt; she performed a little stutter-step, jerking in surprise. How had he...?
"You cast a shadow. The light's low, but it's more than enough to give prowlers away. You might as well come in." His voice was deep, even, but there was a thread of something almost dangerous in it that warned her that she ought to flee while she still had the chance.
A heavy sigh. "I'm hardly in a biting mood," he said. "And I'm half-foxed already."
That caught her attention; he had always seemed the sort that would prefer to keep his wits about him, not to blunt them with an overabundance of drink. She was seven kinds of a fool for falling victim to her own curiosity, but...she poked her head back through the door, and asked, "Why?"
Rather than answer, he merely gestured for her to enter. "If you're going to sneak about the place, you might as well join me." He held up the glass for her inspection. "Reddas has admirable taste in spirits, and he's amassed quite the collection. Would you care for something?"
She considered the offer a moment - outwardly he seemed in an amiable enough temperament. And yet, something pricked at her nerves; he was pretending an ease he did not feel, or she'd not have found him here.
Still, she crossed the threshold. "Wine, then. A sweet red - Rozarrian, if there's any."
His brows lifted at the request, and she raised her chin in turn. "I wasn't always an orphan," she reminded him tartly. "There were dinners and parties and court events - and I ate gourmet meals and drank fine wines with them."
He acknowledged the point with a tip of his glass, then rose to scan the collection buried in the bar set into the bookshelves lining the walls. As he searched, she examined the books, sliding a finger over the spines only to have it come away grey with dust - clearly this part of the manor had seen little use.
A sound of satisfaction from the other side of the room - he'd found something he'd deemed acceptable. There was the soft pop of the cork being removed, then the smooth sound of liquid pouring into a glass.
He returned moments later, gesturing to the empty seat across from him with the glass, handing it to her as she moved to sit.
She swirled her glass, took a hesitant sip. "Oh...this is wonderful," she sighed. "But...not Rozarrian, I think."
"Archadian," he acknowledged. "The climates are similar; I thought it would suit nicely. For all its faults, Archadia really does produce some excellent wines." He took a sip of his own drink, reclining lazily back in his chair. "What finds you out of bed at this hour?"
She hesitated. "I don't know - something doesn't sit right. I'm hoping Ashe will be able to shed some light on it when she wakes, but...Cid sent Ashe to claim power bestowed by the gods. Why would he do such a thing?"
"Ah, a question I've asked often enough myself. His actions have made little sense to me for longer than I care to admit. All these years I've thought him mad, wondering if perhaps I too might one day find myself suffering the same affliction. I suppose he's never been mad at all." His voice took on a bitter cadence, grating and harsh. "He's simply evil. Vile, contemptible - and he dares to patronize me." His lips flattened into a firm line; he drained the rest of his glass, reaching for the bottle on the table to pour himself another. And then he muttered, "We're going to have to kill him."
She sipped her wine, wondering if it would be wise to question his decision to continue drinking. She supposed she could understand it - he'd probably only just come to that unfortunate conclusion. Probably he'd wanted to hold out hope that there were lesser measures that could be taken. But surely seeking solace at the bottom of a bottle wasn't the best way to deal with the situation. Finally, she ventured a hesitant comment, "If you're already half drunk, is it wise to continue?"
With his free hand, he massaged his temple, sighing. "Is it in such poor taste to seek a few hours of oblivion?"
She shook her head slowly. "No, but...it's not going to solve anything, will it?"
Abruptly, he dropped his head into his hand, his shoulders shaking with mirth. "This, from the chit who's driven me to drink twice already."
She choked on her wine, coughing to clear her throat. "Me?" she croaked in abject disbelief.
Recovering himself enough to slouch back in his chair, he stretched out his legs and rested his chin on his hand. With his other hand, he absently swirled the liquor in his glass. His lips curled into a sardonic smile. "Mmm. Seems unlikely, does it?"
The silky tenor of his voice sent a shiver down her spine; she wondered if perhaps she'd been overconfident in accepting his invitation...because she got the sudden feeling that he might be toying with her, like a cat with a mouse - and she was not inclined to play the part of so unfortunate a creature.
"I don't...I can't imagine why..."
"Can't you?" He swirled, sipped, lazily draped his arm over the side of the chair. "I find that rather interesting."
"I don't take your meaning." She obscured her face behind her own glass to disguise her discomfort.
"Unusual, for someone who has been in your line of work." When her back straightened to ramrod stiffness, he made a swift gesture of placation. "Dear, you really must cease inferring insult when none is intended. You've got a chip on your shoulder the size of a small country."
"You would, too, if people kept throwing your past in your face," she muttered sulkily.
"Oh, I don't know. I'm rather partial to your past - it's provided a great deal of pleasant memories." Again, that maddening smirk.
She froze, staring wide-eyed, bemused. "Why are you telling me this?"
He rolled his eyes, an exaggerated display of exasperation. "Pet, I am foxed. Such a condition often presents with chattiness, or so I am given to understand." He took another sip. "You were wrong."
She frowned. "I beg your pardon - about what?"
"Four times." His head dropped back against the chair, he pressed his fingers to his forehead as if a headache had settled there. "It was four times I came to see you - not three. Have you never wondered what might possess a man to return so many times?"
Unsettled, she curled into her seat, cradling her glass in both hands. Balthier had clearly taken leave of his senses for the evening - so she'd have to keep hers about her. Though she felt heat rising in her cheeks, she managed to keep her voice even. "The novelty, I expect," she said. "Boredom, perhaps. The desire for entertainment."
He chuckled, amused. "You sweet, innocent child," he said in a vaguely condescending tone. And then, after a brief pause, "I almost offered for you, once."
She took a gasping breath, shocked. "Why?"
A patronizing look; he arched a brow.
Abandoning her earlier resolution, she gulped her wine.
Disapprovingly, he said, "Have a care, that wine is older than you are." But he took her glass as she held it out and filled it again.
She gave a shaky laugh as she reclaimed it. "I can't imagine how disappointed you must've been when you found out it was me."
"Did I say such a thing?" he asked lightly.
"Everyone expected something more. Someone more, I suppose. So I had assumed," she said with a delicate shrug.
"As it happens," he replied. "Your assumption was incorrect. I was surprised, of course - but hardly disappointed."
She released a nervous flutter of laughter. "I don't really think this is a discussion we ought to be having."
"Oh, but it is." He favored her with a wolfish grin. "You see, that girl in Rabanastre, she was elusive, unattainable. But you..." He tapped his finger on his glass. "You are attainable."
For a moment she was so still she scarcely breathed. And then she leapt up from her seat, sloshing wine over the rim of her glass. But at the moment, she could hardly be bothered to concern herself with the stain spreading across Reddas' carpet. "I'm not!" she gasped. "I don't know how to came to that ridiculous conclusion -"
"Simple enough; you kissed me."
"You kissed me!"
He waved vaguely, as if irritated by her insistence upon what he considered to be mere technicalities. "You kissed me back," he countered. "That says enough. Do sit down; I'm not going to attack you. I'm fairly harmless at the moment." When she cast him a dubious glance, he scoffed, lifting his glass for her inspection. "This," he said, "is the finest bourbon Reddas owns. It's roughly three times stronger than your wine. Suffice it to say, I won't be moving from this chair anytime soon."
Warily, she reclaimed her seat. After a moment of hesitation, she asked in a small voice, "Why did you do it?"
"Kiss you?" he asked. "I wished to satisfy my curiosity." He was intrigued by her scarlet blush, which showed no sign of abating anytime soon.
She ducked her head, peering into her glass to avoid his eyes. "And did you?"
"Not remotely." He grinned over his own glass. "Which is why I suggest that we give it another go."
Her head jerked up, brows winging towards her hairline in surprise. "Another go?" she echoed incredulously. "Who's to say that I'm curious -"
"Darling," he chided gently. "You'd not be here were you not."
And she had no ready response for that; her lips compressed into a firm line, neither denying nor confirming his supposition. "I should go," she said softly, setting her glass aside.
"Coward," he accused, not unkindly. "Go, then. Flee if you must."
Her eyes narrowed on his face. "I'm not a coward - I simply don't see the point."
"Why must there be a point? It's a simple matter - we're both curious. So you may either retreat to your lonely bed and wonder, or come over here and satisfy the both of us." He set aside his own glass as well and patted his knee, as if to summon her forward.
She did not move at his command, but her eyes flickered towards the open door.
"No one else has to know," he said in a soothing tone. "Not to worry; you're safe with me."
Again, she cast him that disbelieving stare. He fought to suppress a grin, but triumph surged in his veins. She had not yet quit the room - she was wavering. In deference to her understandable caution, he shrugged and amended, "You are as safe as you wish to be."
A moment passed in a tense silence; she was taking his measure, probably she suspected he was manipulating her. But then, he really didn't care what she suspected, provided she reached the correct decision.
At last she rose, unwinding from her seat slowly, gracefully...and his spirits plummeted as she turned away from him, towards the door. He had been so certain that she would comply, and the depth of his disappointment baffled him. To mask it, he turned away - if she could leave so easily, he'd not let her see how it had affected him.
But the soft sound of the door closing snagged his attention, and he turned, barely concealing his surprise - she hadn't left; she'd merely closed the door to ensure privacy.
She lifted her chin, daring him to comment. "It's no one's business. Right?"
He managed a nod, temporarily bereft of the power of speech. Slowly she pulled away from the door, and he stared, astounded, as she crossed the carpeted floor silently, her gait so smooth and steady that she appeared almost to float. And yet she clasped her hands behind her back - he suspected that the gesture was intended to mask her nervousness, as she did tend to fidget when she was uncomfortable.
She could still turn tail and run - would do, if he rushed her, if he said or did anything to displease her. She was right to be cautious, probably she didn't even know how right she was, and he'd be a fool to inform her. He'd lead her to believe he was harmless, no threat to her, and she was operating on the assumption that simply because he'd imbibed a bit more freely than he ought, he posed no risk, that she could maintain the upper hand.
Which suited his purposes very well indeed.
She paused just before him, considering her options. With no small amount of effort, he kept his features schooled into a neutral expression, as if he were simply leisurely awaiting. At last she bent towards him, her hair spilling over her shoulder, a silky blonde lock brushing his chin. He waited, waited, until her lips were mere inches from his own.
And he murmured, "Sweet, if you're going to do a thing, you might as well do it properly."
He seized her waist, lifting her off the floor. Off-balance, she tumbled forward into his lap with a cry of surprise, bracing her hands on his shoulders. Her knees landed on either side of his hips, but his hands around her waist kept her locked in place.
"Wh-what are you doing?" she gasped, straining against his hold. "I didn't agree to this!"
"No; you thought you could just waltz over, make a half-arsed attempt at a perfunctory peck, and then carry on as you were," he scolded. "It would've been a sound enough plan, except that you forgot to work the variable into your equation - me." She was hopelessly ensnared, but that knowledge didn't quell the instinctive struggle. Beneath his fingers, he felt her muscles tense - but she couldn't fight forever, and she would realize it soon enough.
"You're drunk," she whispered. "You said so."
"Rather," he agreed amiably. "But perhaps not quite as much as I lead you to believe. Are you quite finished?"
She gave a last, ineffectual shove at his shoulders, her lower lip thrust out petulantly, before she finally subsided, quiescent at last. "I don't understand what you want from me," she muttered.
"I shall let you know when I figure it out myself," he said carelessly. "Come now, chin up, it's poor form to sulk when you've been out-maneuvered." With one hand, he brushed her hair away from her face; she didn't flinch but her eyes darted, wary as a cornered animal.
He rubbed his thumb gently over her cheek, where her soft skin was mottled with a purple and yellow bruise. "I saw him strike you," he said. "I could've killed him for that alone."
Apparently she was a bloodthirsty thing, and he'd chosen precisely the right thing to say; she softened, her fingers curling on his shoulders. She took a shaky breath, murmured, "I've still got this cut..."
"Already healing." He brushed his fingers over the injury; she didn't flinch. "You made your decision when you closed that door, pet."
She shifted, easing just a bit closer - but not quite close enough. A last-ditch protest: "You don't even like me."
His lips quirked in amusement. "On the contrary, there are times - now, for instance - that I like you very much indeed." His hand closed over the nape of her neck, fingers sliding into her hair, the silky strands cool and soft. She didn't resist as he drew her down, but her breathing hitched. Her sooty lashes swept downward, shielding her eyes. Her breath was warm and sweet, and when her lips at last touched his, he caught a lingering note of the sweet red wine she'd been drinking. Perhaps he'd underestimated his level of intoxication, for his head spun...or perhaps it was simply from the pleasure of her kiss.
Instinctively, he'd been stroking his fingers along the warm skin of her back, coaxing forth a beguiling shudder. Positioned how she was over his lap, that unconscious movement was dangerous - to both of them. But reasoned thought had fled with the delicate glide of her lips on his, the sharp nails digging crescents into his shoulders even through his shirt. His free hand clenched upon her hip, pressing her down over him.
She gasped, drawing back slightly as her lids lifted, eyes wide and shocked. He expected her to stiffen in outrage, to push away - but she didn't. With one hand he held her fast, her hips flush with his, with the other, his fingers caressed the nape of her neck, traced her jaw, stroked her cheek. And she trembled, yielded, draped her arms around his neck with a sigh. He knew the precise moment she went under, when her lashes fluttered and her eyes finally closed, when her hands that had held herself away from him finally relaxed their death grip on his shoulders and instead cupped the back of his neck, nails scraping through the soft hair there. He swept his fingers down the smooth slope of her back, relishing the shiver that coursed through her, the sweet gasp she gave into his mouth. Her hair brushed his fingers, so fine and soft, and cool strands teased his chin, fresh and clean and smelling faintly of wildflowers.
His hands spanned her back, the heat of her skin burning him. He'd wanted to feel it beneath his fingers last night, but he couldn't have anticipated how smooth, how soft she would be. His hands were too rough, too calloused to have any business touching her, but she seemed not to mind - she pressed herself against him, made a soft, kittenish sound in her throat.
Somehow he had known she would be like this, abandoned, passionate. She had only needed a gentle nudge, a spark, and she would burst into flame, as vibrant as a firework. She kissed like it had been too long since she'd experienced any sort of intimacy, connection - but he supposed it must've been, since she'd set herself apart for so long. That she had discovered it with him was not particularly surprising; they were alike in many ways, secretive, distrustful, determined.
He was the wiser, more experienced - he ought to have been the one to pull them back from the brink before it was too late. But he was a pirate first and foremost, never content with an inch when he might take a mile. His fingers were light, nimble as they eased free the ties of her top; she noticed nothing amiss as he carefully whisked the fabric away and cast it aside. She rolled her hips, a perfect, enticing motion, and he stifled a groan at the tight press of her body atop his. His fingers smoothed over her back to her waist, sliding up, up, until at last his thumbs teased the impossibly soft flesh just beneath her breasts.
At last she realized what he had done, drawing away with a shocked inhalation. She simply hadn't anticipated that he'd follow, that his strong hands would hold her immobile. She wasn't prepared for the glide of his lips across her throat, and she reflexively gripped his shoulders. Beneath his lips, he felt the furious pounding of her heartbeat, her throat working as she tried to swallow.
She whispered, "Balthier, I don't think..."
But the automatic protest was lost, drawing out into a dazed silence as his thumbs edged higher, trespassing where he knew he ought not - but he was helpless to resist the lure of that pale, perfect skin. Elsewhere, she'd acquired an even, golden tan from hours spent in the sun, but here...here, her flesh was as light as cream. With just a little coaxing, under the lightest of pressure from his fingers, her back arched, her nails raked through his hair, and she trembled as his lips descended on a leisurely path, flirting briefly with her shoulder, her collar bone, the hollow of her throat.
She was tense, still, her muscles locked in an agony of anticipation for that last devastating kiss, and when it finally came, her head fell back, her arms cradled his head to her breasts, and a soft cry erupted from her throat. That uninhibited response struck fire in him, he pulled her closer, tighter - he was rougher with her than he ought to have been, the pressure of his hands on her might've bruised her delicate flesh. But she was so warm, so yielding; he doubted she understood the dangerous situation she'd unwittingly placed herself in - but then, he hadn't quite expected it himself. He had suspected there was passion in her, but he hadn't anticipated his own reaction to it, hadn't expected it to go beyond a kiss, hadn't predicted that her ungoverned responses would flash-boil his blood, that she could fell him with only the gentle stroke of her fingertips, the sweetness of her skin beneath his lips.
She was killing him with those excruciating, magnificent, maddening movements, the subtle sway of her hips - he doubted she was even aware of it, it was instinctual, innate, and each gentle rock sent coherent thought scattering to the furthest reaches of his mind until only one remained.
He managed to pry loose one of her hands, capturing it in his to rub her soft palm against his cheek, encouraging her with the gentle scrape of his teeth against her breast - she jerked, gasped, shuddered. He eased her hand down; guided by his, her fingertips traced a delicate route along his throat, down his chest, his abdomen, until at last he settled it between them, over the bulge that stretched his leather pants tight. He had shocked her; he felt it in the sudden tension of her fingers, and he drew his hand away from hers at once - her choice, whether or not to pull away. But she hesitated, unsure, and he used her indecision against her, curving his hand around her nape, drawing her back down for another kiss.
She melted, uncertainty vanquished. The tip of her tongue touched his, her palm and delicate fingers shaped him through his pants, and he groaned, overwhelmed by her shy overtures. Her touch was torturous, exquisite - unbearably so. Unless he managed to regain control, he was going to embarrass himself. His hands framed her face, softening the blow when he drew away despite her whimper of protest.
"Come with me," he said, his voice low, husky. "My room is a good distance from the others - no one will know."
She froze; as if waking from a dream, her eyes opened, dazed. "What...what did you say?" she whispered.
"Come with me." His hands cupped her slender shoulders, slid down her arms. There was something addictive about the feel of her skin, softer than silk. "Beautiful girl, I know that you want to."
She ducked her head and covered her mouth to stifle the burst of harsh laughter that escaped. "You don't know the first thing about what I want," she said finally, bitterly. And her arms folded over her breasts. She hadn't cared about her nudity just moments ago; she had arched to his touch, pressed herself into his hands. That she concealed herself now was telling.
He had blundered this somehow, but exactly how he did not know - he hadn't misread the signs; he knew she wanted him, he'd lured numerous other women to his bed in precisely the same manner. And then he realized what he'd forgotten in the heat of the moment - she wasn't other women. And she had been propositioned for years, viewed as nothing more than a body to be bought and sold, a tool for others to use and discard at their leisure.
Probably a kiss had been a new request, innocent and novel - and he had destroyed her enjoyment by pressing for more. He'd reminded her again that he'd been one of those men, once, wanting only one thing from her, her own desires irrelevant, immaterial. He'd made an assumption and insulted her in the process.
Her shoulders drooped despondently. She brushed her hair back from her face, and shoved at his shoulders; he locked his arms around her waist in response. He didn't want to release her, knew she would flee back to the safety of her room to nurse her wounds in private and he'd have the devil of a time reaching her again.
"Let go!" she hissed furiously.
"No," he bit off. "For the gods' sake, that wasn't intended to be insulting - it's a perfectly reasonable request given the circumstances."
"Have you any idea how many times I've been propositioned?" she snapped. "How many times I've refused such an offer?"
"A fair one," he retorted. "It has warped your mind, turned something pleasurable into something sordid. In the past, you may have been propositioned because of your dancing, because of your fame, because of the prestige you would bring, but that hadn't a single bloody thing to do with what I asked you just now."
Her breath caught in her throat, her eyes wide and stunned at the unexpected declaration. And she whispered, resentfully, "Why, then?"
"Because I wanted you," he gritted out. "You. Not who you were, wearing a mask in Rabanastre. You. As you are, right now."
She stared, uncomprehending. Then, abruptly, her lower lip trembled, tears washed her eyes, and he realized that she had not expected that answer - probably she had thought that even he had only acquired an interest because of her past. He recalled her earlier statement, the tinge of shame that had colored her voice when she'd speculated upon his likely disappointment. She had been honestly surprised at his assertion that he hadn't been - because any one of her other admirers would have. Not only had she been coveted purely for her body, but she had come to believe in those crass judgments forced upon her by the patrons of her club, because no one had ever given her reason to believe otherwise.
And he sighed; he was prepared to deal with her anger - her tears, he could not. They had wrecked him last time. He didn't dare try to comfort her, not while she was on his lap, half unclothed; she'd tried his restraint enough for one evening. Instead he stroked her hair, brushed a kiss across her forehead, and said, in as gentle a tone as he could manage though his throat felt like it had been rubbed with sand, "Go on, then."
She scrambled off his lap, reaching for her top; he snatched up his discarded drink, downing it in a long swallow. She fumbled in her haste, struggling to thread the ties through grommets behind her back, missing some completely.
He heard the door open, knew she would flee without so much as a word. But before she could escape, he called her name, and she stilled and turned, as if she were helpless not to obey.
And he said, "You will come to me. Not tonight, perhaps. But soon. It's inevitable."
She said nothing, but before she darted out the door, he caught a flicker of fear in her eyes. Not of him, he thought - but because she feared he might be right.