Balthier had begun to terrify her. It wasn't what he said so much as what he didn't say, the things she sensed roiling beneath the solicitous surface he showed her. He seemed to delight in provoking her from wary hesitation to outraged indignation, and in the next moment, kissing her fury into breathless passion. But he never trespassed further than a few torrid kisses. His hands never strayed below her shoulders; he preferred to tangle them in her hair, to cup the back of her neck in his palm, to feather his fingers across her cheeks or along her throat. And then he would withdraw, never mind that she had been straining against him, balanced precariously upon her toes in an effort to get closer. And he would gently disentangle her clutching limbs from him and leave her to shiver in the violent, unfulfilled aftermath of his ardor.
She hadn't made another break for freedom, and she didn't truly understand why. But she really didn't care to examine her decision to stay too closely; it had seemed to her that it had never been a definitive choice she had made at any one particular time, but rather a constant sequence of small extensions she had granted, made from moment to moment, always with the option of flight in the back of her mind. And yet still, she had stayed. She had continued to stay, time and again, over the course of the past week.
With the exception of that one night, he had made no attempt to seek out her bed again. And she didn't know what to make of that, because he kissed her as if he were starving, and on occasion she had caught him staring at her with a feral, hungry look in his eyes that had made her blush and stammer beneath its heat. And he took any opportunity that arose to touch her, the heat of his hands burning her even through her clothing. The only time he did not see fit to make free with his caresses was when he kissed her, although while his hands remained chaste his mouth was nothing less than wicked on hers.
She had the uneasy feeling that he had some nefarious scheme in mind, that despite his assertions that he was merely taking her on a leisurely tour of the world, to give her the freedom of exploration, it was all merely a cover for his true intentions, which lingered between them, unvoiced.
She didn't understand him. She didn't know if she even cared to. But when he kissed her, for long moments she forgot everything that had happened in the past year, and she longed for the sweet oblivion that passion could provide. And still he proved as irritating and contrary as ever, denying both of them for reasons she could not fathom. It made her cagey, nervous - she had never known quite what to expect with him, but he seemed to be waiting for something, anticipating something...something from her. And each time he pulled her under his spell with those sweet, drugging kisses, she tingled with pleasure, prickled with a heightened sense of his impatience, confusion and desire mingled, jolting through her veins like a subtle strike of lightning.
Whatever it was he was waiting for, he wouldn't wait forever.
With each day that passed, she glowed a little more, her periods of melancholy and silent introspection growing fewer and farther between as the exotic destinations he took her to breathed life and peace into her like a blacksmith's bellows, stoking the embers of her smothered spirit into flame once more.
She did not love him. Or if she did still, it was buried so deeply inside her that he had not yet unearthed it. Certainly she didn't trust him. She hovered like a wary bird, too fearful to perch near him, treating him with all the caution such a bird might show a hungry cat. So patiently he lured her with breadcrumbs - kisses, smiles, tender touches - waiting for her to settle her ruffled feathers and land, taming her to his hand, bribing her to come closer, offering her a feast of idyllic days spent in a paradise of freedom and high winds, skies sprinkled with stars uncountable, vibrant golden sunsets and delicate pastel sunrises.
She did not love him. But she had stayed nonetheless, and he had rewarded her generosity with little kindnesses and big ones, a small vial of lavender water, assortments of hair ribbons, jewelry and books that had thought she might like, breakfasts in exotic places, lunches he had prepared himself in the small kitchen of the Strahl, dinners under the stars, on the banks of flowing rivers. She accepted his gifts with some hesitation each time, seeming not to understand that they came without strings, without expectations. She did not know what to make of him and his strange behavior - it wasn't simply that she doubted his sincerity, it was that she had no concept of courtship whatsoever. Or if she had, she had certainly never expected it from him, and therefore did not recognize it as such. And so she was suspicious of his intentions, because he had never been a man to give when there was no benefit, without promise of future repayment. She did not understand that he wanted only the pleasure that lit her face, the gently arching brows that signaled her surprise, the high flush of color that bloomed in her cheeks with each small token he bestowed upon her.
She accepted his kisses with no hesitation whatsoever, each time her clinging fingers urging him to tarry a little longer, to trespass a little further. She did not know how difficult it was becoming for him to draw away, to end it there and no further. And perhaps he was tormenting them both, but he wanted her to be a little off-balance, to wonder why he had not taken her to his bed. He wanted her to reach the conclusion on her own that he was not using her, that his interest in her went deeper than the physical.
She wanted him, but with the greedy desire of a child who knows a toy is soon to be snatched away - she wanted to take him, use him, and get her fill of him before he was lost to her. She wanted to live purely in the moment, she harbored no hopes and no dreams, because she feared any foundation she attempted to build might crumble beneath her. He understood, and he accepted - he could offer her no words of comfort or assurance that she would believe. She was still trapped, still caged, and until he could discover the means to break her free, she would remain that frightened little bird, unsure where to land. And so he would build a nest for her, and line it with the threads of his love, and hope that one day she would settle into it, and trust him.
She did not love him. Not yet. But she didn't have to love him - for now, it was enough that he loved her. All he needed her to do was to let him.
"There is somewhere I want to take you."
The soft words floated over her on the breeze, pulling her from the silent, blissful reverie she had enjoyed. Sprawled out on her stomach, she laid at the edge of a great cliff, overlooking the Paramina Rift passageway. From this height, she could see far into the distance, over the cresting treetops of the Golmore Jungle. The winds gathered here, whipping her hair away from her face, and she was struck with the rapturous feeling of discovery. She wanted to traverse every inch of these wild lands, to stray from the safe paths and climb mountains instead, to find vantage points that had never before been discovered. She wanted to ferret out all of Ivalice's secrets. And then she wanted to find new lands, to forge new paths, to walk upon grasses that had grown since ancient times and yet had never before experienced footfalls.
So far, Balthier had made good on his promise to take her anywhere she wished. He had seemed taken with her joy in the world, and he had encouraged her desire to explore it. Sometimes he asked her where she wanted to go, and sometimes he merely set a course for a place he thought she would like, but always he let her experience it for herself, and followed rather than lead. This, however, was the first time he had ever made an announcement like this, in a strangely hesitant, uncertain tone. She didn't know what it signified.
"Where?" she asked.
A sort of wry, sheepish smile. "If I tell you, you might not wish to go."
She rolled onto her back, supporting herself on her elbows to see him better. The wind teased loose tendrils of her hair across her face, stinging her cheeks.
"Where?" she repeated, but he shook his head.
"Come without knowing," he said. "Come because it is a place that none besides myself have ever been. Come because your sense of adventure demands it."
He was asking for a tiny bit of her trust, willingly given. And she knew that if she refused, he would accede to her wishes and never mention it again. And she knew also that he could simply have taken her wherever he wished and given her no choice at all. For some reason, he wanted her to choose, to take a small step towards him. And though his insistence made her feel uneasy, she found herself saying, "All right," in a whisper-soft voice, and feeling as though she had surrendered something terribly important.
And he pulled her to her feet, away from the edge of the cliff, and walked with her back to the Strahl.
"It's not far," he said. "We'll reach it by dusk." He smoothed her windswept hair. "It is, however, exposed to the elements, and the wind is brisk today. You'll want something warmer than that."
He gestured vaguely to her blue silk outfit, one of the ones that had been delivered from the seamstress' shop in Balfonheim, which he by turns admired and abhorred. He admired it when they were alone, when his gaze could slide like water from the lower hem of the top, which gathered just beneath her breasts, to where the low-slung pants began, baring what he imagined to be miles of silky golden skin. He abhorred it when they passed through settlements, and he had caught other men regarding her in the exact way he did, and was forced to glare them into submission. Of this, she had not seemed to be aware.
She was, however, acutely aware of his gaze upon her, seemed to stretch and blossom beneath it. She watched him watch her with a wide range of mixed emotions - surprise, wariness, confusion, satisfaction. Even now, she rolled her shoulders in a way that invited his hands, clasped her hands behind her and rose up onto her toes, a graceful movement that thrust her breasts upwards, as if pleading for the pressure of his hands, his mouth.
He would not be manipulated into such a thing, but...
He eased forward, grabbing her clasped hands behind her back in his larger one, manacling them together with light, firm pressure so she could not break free, because she liked to incite him with those soft hands and he was no longer altogether certain how well he could bear it. And with his free hand he lifted her pointed little chin, and bent to brush his mouth over hers. She followed when he would have retreated, breathing his name against his lips in a trembling plea. Those luminous, glowing eyes were half-shaded by the lids, her lips so soft and sweet and yielding. He smiled against them, and softened his rejection with the slow, affectionate stroke of his cheek on hers. Irritated, pouting, she drifted down onto her feet again, and he released her captured hands.
He smoothed away the sullen frown that had settled between her brows with his forefinger. "Change," he said.
And he left her alone in the corridor, with the queer sense of a double meaning in the word lingering in the air.
The Strahl docked as the sun made its descent, just barely touching its bottom curve to the ocean, painting the sky in rich, golden colors. The blue-purple night seeped in above, chasing the remnants of daylight toward the horizon.
They were on an island, a small, floating one in the great archipelago that made up the sky continent of Dorstonis. She had been in this region of the world only once before, having been briefly held captive in the Lhusu Mines in Bhujerba, the largest city on the continent, but her rescue had been swift and she'd gotten to see precious little of the area.
This particular island was tiny and far higher up than the rest of the islands, which stretched below them in a massive, disordered sprawl. Landing the Strahl upon it had been a neat trick in itself, it was so small; she doubted that anyone else but Balthier would ever have attempted to do so, but then he had always been reckless.
The view was spectacular. Though the island was small, it was lush with soft grasses and sweet-smelling flowers, and she longed to crush them beneath her and breathe their perfume as she lay on her stomach and peered out over the edge, watching the rest of the world sail by beneath her.
But as she tripped off the dock in delight, her eyes caught on a small, smooth block of grey stone at the far side of the island, wrapped in creeping ivy. She stared at it, at the etching upon it, too far away to read it, but near enough to understand its import, and her smile faded to solemn awareness.
"Balthier?"
His hand covered her lower back, urging her forward.
"My sister," he said. "I wanted to bring you to meet her. She's not really here, of course. There wasn't -" Here, his voice grew alarmingly husky with emotion. "There wasn't enough left of her to bury after our father -"
But her small hand slipped into his, squeezing with gentle reassurance.
"She would have liked it here, I think," he said. "She would have liked you." A moment's hesitation. "I've never brought anyone here before."
Her hand released his slowly, and she drifted toward the little gravestone. When he made to follow, she thrust a staying hand in his direction. "No; I'm going to talk to her. Alone. I can introduce myself, thank you."
So he waited, and took a seat upon the dock, and watched her clear the ivy away from the headstone, and kneel in the grasses before it. Her fingers traced the delicate lettering that read 'Sarema Mieya Bunansa, Beloved Sister.'
She settled back upon her bent legs, and for a moment she was still and silent. And when at last she began to speak, he could see her lips move, but she was too far away for him to hear her. As she spoke, she reached up and unwound the ribbon from her hair, letting it fall loose around her shoulders. She caught a small pink flower between her fingers, plucking it from the earth, twirling the long stem and laying it across her lap. Long minutes elapsed; several other flowers of varying shades and species had joined the one in her lap until they amassed into a small bundle. Finally she collected them, sorting them into a tidy bouquet, wrapping the stems with the hair ribbon and tying it into a neat bow. She brought the cluster of flowers to her face, breathing in the delicate scent, brushing her lips across the fragrant blooms.
Then, in a tender gesture of compassion, she laid the bouquet at the base of the headstone in such sweet tribute to a girl she had never known that Balthier felt the sting of tears behind his eyes.
"He loves you so much," Penelo whispered. "Everything he has done, everything, for years...it's all been for you."
A bittersweet pain pierced her heart, both for the tortured man and the girl who had so suffered. Why had Balthier brought her here? Why would he want to share this place, the place that he surely must hold sacred above all others, with her? She had expected to feel like an intruder, an unwelcome visitor, but instead...a soft breeze drifted across the back of her neck, easing her tension, tempering her confusion.
And she thought, perhaps Sarema was here after all. Her breath on the wind, her spirit in the glinting strains of fading sun, her eyes in the knowing glimmer of stars that had begun to sprinkle the falling night. Watching, waiting, listening, learning, remnants of her gentle soul lingering in the perfect peace of this place, a solitary princess in her bower, willing and eager to ease the burdens of those who came seeking comfort. A trusted confidant, someone who would accept secrets and never betray them.
"He carries so much guilt for what happened to you. Regret that he couldn't save you. I think you must have forgiven him already, but he can't forgive himself. I understand that, you know. I lost my family, and they were so precious to me." A shallow, gasping breath; a tiny shred of understanding that she had never before been able to achieve. "But they would have forgiven me, too, wouldn't they? I've been holding so tightly to them for years, but maybe that's not what they would have wanted. Maybe I have to forgive myself. Maybe I have to let them go."
A whisper of a draft across Penelo's forehead, the crooning whistle of wind in her ears like a benediction, a sweet assurance that there had never been anything to forgive, that her terrible guilt had always been misplaced and undeserved. Absolution. From herself, for herself. It was as if the wind had reached inside her, carefully plucking out the thorns of grief that had pierced her heart for years, cleansing the wounds of the bitter poison. It hurt, but she thought that the pain was necessary, vital for healing to begin. And the fresh, clean blood that flowed dredged up other wounds that she had wanted to keep buried, but somehow came spilling out unfettered.
"I feel like I don't understand anything anymore," Penelo sighed. Her shoulders slumped, her hands in her lap, twisting her fingers. In her mind she tried to conjure an image of what Sarema might look like, not as a child of twelve as she'd been when she'd died, but as she might if she'd lived.
She would be Penelo's age. Balthier had described her once, as a sweet, gentle girl. Green eyes, she decided, and hair maybe a shade or two lighter than Balthier's. She would be one of those delicate, demure ladies, without so much as a hair out of place, but perhaps her mouth would carry the echo of Balthier's wicked smile.
Would they have had anything in common? She, with her low origins, and Sarema, with her elegant upbringing. But Balthier had been certain that Sarema would have liked her. Why?
"What would you tell me, if you were here?" she mused. "What did he used to be like? Have you watched over him all these years?"
The wind stirred her hair, brushed a leafy green sprig of ivy over Sarema's name on the modest headstone.
"I wonder if you would have advice for me. You knew him best, didn't you? So tell me, is he trustworthy? Is he safe?"
Another gust of wind, like a burst of laughter from the heavens, and Penelo smiled despite herself. No, Balthier would never be safe. He would never be tame, never be content with a life of leisure. He could not be constrained by such trappings. He had suffocated under the weight of such things, just as she had. They were alike in so many ways.
"I'm afraid," she whispered, and was surprised by the sudden welling of tears. "Oh. I'm so afraid." She tipped her head back, letting the wind wick away the moisture with a comforting hand. Inside, she shivered with uncertainty, with trepidation.
"I'm...stuck. Like I'm mired in quicksand. I don't know if he intends to pull me out or let me drown, and, honestly, either option is equally terrifying. But it's as if the decision isn't his, it's mine, and I'm still just...stuck. I've forgotten how to move forward, and I can't move back. So what am I supposed to do?" Her voice broke, but the wind stroked along her shoulders, a soothing caress.
A quick glance over her shoulder; Balthier was watching her from a distance, his face unreadable, but she didn't think he would be able to hear her.
"I wonder if my family is there, wherever you are. Probably you don't move in the same circles, but...my parents need a daughter. My brothers need a sister. If you might look in on them from time to time, I'm sure they would be happy. And you're just my age. If you could look past them not being so very high in the world, I'm sure they would love you like their own. And I think you deserve a happy family at last. They are that, I promise you."
The wind at her back, like the teasing, playful nudge of a good friend. An assent, she was certain. And she managed a smile, brushing her fingertips once more over the engraved name on the headstone.
"I'll be back to visit you again," she said. "I'll bring you flowers. Lots of them. And I'll plant some, so you'll have flowers all the time. And you can look down and see this place, and know that you are always remembered." A shuddering sigh. "Thank you, Sarema. For listening. I think maybe we would have been friends."
Penelo walked a slow path back towards Balthier, and he rose to his feet as she approached. Her hair was wild, wind-whipped, and her eyes were rimmed with red as if she'd been crying. Nearly a half hour had passed that she had knelt before Sarema's headstone, speaking quietly.
He had watched her go through so many emotions as she had sat there, but as she walked toward him, he got a sense only of peace, as if at least a few of her burdens had been lifted from her shoulders, carried with her words away to a higher plane. She moved with such easy grace, her glow no longer stifled by quite so many looming shadows of the past.
"What did you talk about?" he asked.
And she smiled, a warm smile full of secrets. "That's between Sarema and me." But she still glowed brighter, and he thought maybe a tiny part of her had healed in the past few minutes. She turned a bit, looking out over Sarema's island.
"I wish I could have done something like this for my family," she said wistfully.
"We can, if you like," he said carefully. "Sarema's been alone here for so long. I think she might be glad of the company."
A moment's silence stretched between them, taut and trembling. He sensed a sudden fragility in her and reached for her hand, stroking his fingers across her knuckles. Lending his strength if she had need of it.
"I let them go," she whispered finally, and a few crystalline tears collected on her lashes. "My family. I let them go. Sarema is going to watch over them for me. In my place. She needs a family, and they need a daughter, a sister. So I'm giving them to her. They'll look after each other."
And his heart ached for her, and he marveled at her compassion, her generosity. He gently pulled her into the circle of his arms, burying his face in the lavender-scented softness of her hair.
"My darling girl," he breathed into it. "They will. I'm sure they will."
And he held her as she cried.