"You're not much of a morning person, are you?" Penelo asked, drumming the tips of her fingers on Balthier's back. It had gone past nine already, and she had been awake for at least half an hour.
He swatted at her hand ineffectually, and from beneath the pillow he'd crammed over his head, his muffled, irritable voice emerged. "I would prefer not to be, if it's all the same to you."
"But you managed well enough a few days ago, when we were heading to Archades. It was barely dawn when we left." She crawled towards the edge of the bed, and they engaged in a brief tug-of-war for possession of the blanket. Balthier won handily, and Penelo huffed her chagrin.
"A few days ago, we were still on the run," Balthier muttered. "We're not any longer. There's no reason to rise before noon."
"You said ten a few days ago," she chided.
"I've since reconsidered."
"Oh, come on," she groaned. "I'm up. Are you really going to make me sit around and wait for you?"
A beat of silence as he considered her words. At last, he said. "No, I suppose not."
She made a delighted sound, leaning over the bed and preparing to tear the covers off of him. He waited until he felt her fingers clutch at the covers, then rolled to his side, clamping her wrist in his fingers. She had all of half a moment for shock to set in before he yanked her straight off her feet and back onto the bed.
She landed with a muffled thump, face-first in the pillow next to his head, and recovered quickly enough to twist onto her side and glare at him. "That was not what I meant."
"Well, you really ought to have been clearer, then. It's hardly my fault that you left your words open to interpretation." He caught her before she could roll away, trapping her in the cage of his arms.
She gave a sigh as he bent to nuzzle her throat, levering himself over her. "You can't solve all of your problems this way," she said.
"Perhaps not," he allowed. "But it's certainly fun to try." His hands fisted in her hair, and he managed to work his knee between hers. "In any case, I've achieved my ends."
"Oh?" she inquired, slipping her arms around him to sweep her hands down his back.
"Mm," he said near her ear. "In bed. Until noon."
"Ten," she said. "Until ten."
He caught her earlobe in his teeth. "Half eleven."
She rolled her eyes. "Eleven, then. Final offer."
"Done." He sealed the bargain with a kiss. "But I reserve the right to encourage you to lose track of time."
They had both lost track of time. Noon had sailed by unheeded, and it was coasting along into early afternoon already. Balthier had drifted back to sleep, his arm draped over her waist, holding her securely against him. His chest rose and fell in deep, even breaths, pressing against her back with each slow inhale, the light snore to which she had so quickly become accustomed rumbling at her ear.
For years she had slept very much like this, curled onto her side, her back pressed flat against the door of the dank little room that had been hers at the tavern. Her bed had been little more than a thin pallet upon the floor. She'd had neither pillow nor blanket, nothing to give her even the slightest measure of security except for the door at her back, riddled with splinters. She had come to depend on that much – the door that shuddered with the thud of footsteps down the hall, the rough grain of the cold wood scraping her in warning, her first line of defense.
Now Balthier served that purpose, but far more pleasantly. The warmth of his chest soaked into her skin, lulling her into a sort of peaceful tranquility she hadn't experienced in years. His arms encompassed her, not the passive claim to protection the door had provided, but active – he would be the first to rout a potential threat to her safety. She had no doubt of that whatsoever.
So why did she have so many other doubts?
She didn't want to think of herself as such a coward, but…everyone left in the end. She was fairly certain that Balthier had broken more hearts than any one man had a right to. It would be irredeemably foolish to put herself in that position again. Wouldn't it?
Or would it be more foolish, as Yulia had said, to let love slip through her fingers?
It wasn't him that she didn't trust – it was herself. She didn't know how not to be suspicious and distrustful. She had no confidence in her own judgments; she had been betrayed and now she expected it from every angle. She didn't know how to let that part of herself go, how to stifle the sly voice in her head that decried every kind deed and word as some sort of nefarious scheme.
Balthier didn't deserve that sort of mistrust. He had done nothing to earn it, and much to surmount it. After all of the trouble he had gone to on her behalf, he deserved some measure of faith. She simply didn't know that she had it in her to give. It had all been crushed out of her long ago.
In his sleep, he stretched out his arm and then readjusted it over her, flattening his palm over her heart and pulling her closer. He turned his face into her hair, and his breath sighed out on a contented huff, as if there were no place in the world he would rather be.
Just now, there was no place she would rather be. Even if it didn't last, she suspected this moment would live in her heart forever; a memory she could pack away and take out every so often just to look at it and admire it and remember how nice it had been, for once, to be safe and maybe even loved.
Her heart stuttered through a few harried beats, and she was unsure if it was the result of panic or the tiniest resurgence of hope. She might not have it in her. She might've lost the capacity for it, the belief in it…but perhaps she owed it to him – to herself – to try.
"I should call Vaan," Penelo said, between sips of sweet wine. Balthier hadn't offered a price point for this particular bottle, and she hadn't asked, having decided that as long as she didn't know, she wouldn't risk heart palpitations. Still, knowing what she did of him, somehow she doubted that Balthier would have kept anything aboard that Strahl that didn't want an outrageous price.
He might cede to her the smaller battles without too much of a fight, but he wouldn't give up his creature comforts for anything. And she supposed – begrudgingly – that he had earned them.
"I wouldn't," Balthier said. "I imagine he and Yulia still have some bickering to work through, and it will be all Fran can do to keep them from each other's throats. Each of them will be looking for a sympathetic ear should you call, and it can only breed resentment. Best to let them alone for a while."
"But Vaan said –"
"Vaan said he would call," he interrupted. "Don't fret; it'll work itself out. And I've got it on good authority that Yulia's taking to her sky pirate training like a duck to water, much to Vaan's dismay."
Penelo smothered a snicker. "Fran?" she asked.
He inclined his head. "As she tells it, it took only a few swats to the arse with the flat edge of a sword to convince Yulia that fighting with honor would only get her killed. Fran says she's grown almost feral. Vaan made the mistake of underestimating her, and she nearly took his arm off."
"I'll be he loved that," she said.
"Well…no. But he is quickly running out of reasons to give her the boot. She might have much to learn, but she is learning." He leaned back in his chair. "I suspect there will come a time when she'll outstrip him for supremacy. It would do him good, I think, to be put in his place."
Penelo did not disagree. She had always been the one coaxing Vaan to follow a straighter path, and it had taken most of her energy simply to keep him out of trouble. Or jail. Or both. Usually both. She only hoped Yulia was up to the task, because Fran would not stay around forever.
And Penelo didn't relish a return to the days when her primary function had been to act as Vaan's keeper. She had outgrown the desire to manage, to soothe ruffled feathers and maintain an even keel. She liked that she didn't have to babysit Balthier, liked that he handled himself ably enough and allowed her the freedom of the same. She didn't have to clean up his messes, didn't have to act as an intermediary between him and anyone else. She didn't have to be responsible for him.
Instead they rubbed along well together, and he gave her suggestions and desires equal weight – something that Vaan, well-meaning as he was, had never done. She wasn't accustomed to the courtesy, and she didn't know what to make of it.
"Something troubling you?" he asked.
Belatedly, she realized she had gone silent, staring out the window with her gaze fixed on the horizon. The setting sun burned over the ridge of mountains in the distance, gilding the snow-capped peaks. Dusk rippled over the cloud-speckled sky in muted purple, and the first stars would soon emerge. "No," she said. "I was just wondering where we were headed."
"At the moment, Rozarria," he said. "There's a port city called Tarram on the Bay of Challonde that is primarily frequented by smugglers. It's as good a place as any to collect information; for the right price, virtually anything can be bought there." He paused. "Had you another destination in mind?"
He was comfortable making decisions, taking charge when necessary – but just as comfortable ceding that control to her, if she wished for it. And she knew that if she said she didn't want to go, he would honor it and find a new destination. He wasn't merely humoring her, giving in to her whims for the purpose of placating her; he saw her not as his tagalong companion but as an equal partner.
"No," she said. "I was only curious." She wasn't quite as well-traveled as he, and presumably he knew it. Probably he saw their jaunts across the face of Ivalice as broadening her horizons, acquainting her with the world she had seen too little of. Perhaps he was training her up, just like Fran was Yulia.
"There ought to be a few leads for us to chase down in Tarram," he said. "Shipping schedules are a big business, and we ought to be able to find something worth our trouble – and almost certainly a bounty large enough to put you back in the black once again."
She could almost regret that. If such a lead should pan out and she should find her finances sufficiently recovered, she would be absent an excuse for staying on with him. She would have to make a decision – and her future hinged upon making the right one.
Somehow, she was going to have to muster up the courage to make a leap of faith.
She had expected Tarram to resemble Balfonheim port, which was the pirating city hub in the Archadian territories, but instead of the quaint seaside city she had expected, there was instead a sprawling network of piers laid out across the eastern edge of the bay, with ramshackle buildings perched atop them. The whole thing looked as though it might tumble into the sea at any moment.
"It's sturdier than it appears," Balthier said, noting the incredulity scrawled across her face. "It's withstood the test of time for some fifty years or so; I imagine it'll stand for at least the night we'll be here."
"Are you sure of that?" she asked, as he brought the Strahl down upon the bank.
"As sure as I can be," he said. "It's wisest, however, to watch where you walk. More than one pirate has lost his life to a board in a sad state of disrepair. And it's not unheard of for some of the bolder pirates to eliminate their competition by pitching them into the water. The currents in these parts are treacherous and unpredictable; one would have to be an exceptionally strong swimmer to overcome them."
Penelo shuddered. "Is that something we ought to be worried about?"
"Only if you've acquired a reputation as a pirate here in Rozarria," he said. "My notoriety extends primarily to Archadia and Dalmasca. I've enemies there, perhaps, but to the best of my knowledge, none of them reside within Rozarria's borders."
She hesitated a fraction of a second too long. Balthier swiveled around to face her. "No," he said. "You've made enemies?"
"Well," she hedged. "There were lots of pirates that frequented Bartaan's tavern, and I may have picked a pocket a time or two."
"A time or two?" he echoed, his brows arched.
"Maybe a few more than that," she admitted, folding her arms over her chest. "Well, really – if I hadn't, I'd only have racked up more debt. And I only did it to the really awful ones, the ones that deserved it."
A laugh rumbled in his chest. He snagged her elbow, pulling her close to plant an affectionate kiss on the top of her head. "That's rich," he said. "Should we take a tumble into the bay at someone else's hands, I won't have to fear that it was my actions that did us in."
She extricated herself from his grasp, stomping toward the dock. "Rub it in, why don't you," she muttered.
"Oh, I intend to," he called after her.
There was the mechanical whirr of the ramp extending, the door lifting to let them out. A plume of fine-grained sand drifted skyward as the ramp settled. The salt-scented sea air rushed past, carrying with it the distant cry of seabirds and the crash of the surf against the rocky shore at the western edge of the bay. The sun had long since set, but lanterns strung along the piers bobbed like fairy lights in the dark, wreathing the city in shimmering spots of light.
She started down the ramp, and Balthier followed behind, punching in the code to retract the ramp and lock up the ship as he went. The sandy beach was dotted with all manner of ships, a testament to how many travelers Tarram boasted.
"You won't find Tarram on any map," Balthier said as they walked the shoreline. "It hasn't got the same veneer of legitimacy that Balfonheim has established. Tarram and its denizens are a law unto themselves, and they keep their secrets hidden the prying eyes of their empire. It is known by word of mouth alone, a smuggler's and pirate's paradise."
The closest pier stretched before them, a mishmash of boards that looked as if they'd been scavenged from wrecked boats, the planks warped and in varying states of disrepair, cobbled together haphazardly.
"After you." Balthier waved her on in what might've been considered a chivalrous gesture, but the smirk lingering at the corners of his mouth suggested he simply wanted to see her brave it on her own.
Hesitantly she touched the flat of her foot to it, somewhat surprised it held up even beneath that scant weight. She'd expected it to crack straight down the center, and even if she would only fall through onto the sand, it still wasn't an experience she wished to have. Balthier had been right – it was sturdier than it first appeared. The boards didn't even creak as she shuffled onto them, for all that the nails looked as if they'd been driven in at odd angles. Though they were rusty from exposure to the water, they held admirably.
The swaying lanterns in the distance lit the main pier, a wide boardwalk stretching in a semi-circle and lined with plain wooden structures overlaid with thatched roofs. The star-strewn sky pressed in above, and the tiny city glowed with its own small, insular halo of light beneath it. Balthier lead the way, past the rickety buildings on the outer edges toward the larger ones on the main pier. Here the well-trod boards had been worn smooth by the passage of many feet through the years, and the slick surface of the wood shone in the lamplight, reflecting the moon hanging heavy in the sky.
The murmur of voices grew louder, rising over the crash of the surf, and at last Balthier stopped before a building, grabbed the handle, and threw open the door. The chatter dimmed as the people within paused their conversations to survey the newcomers, but soon escalated to its former furor.
All told, the tavern wasn't much different than Bartaan's. Perhaps the chairs were better matched, and the floor was cleaner. It had a notice board like many others, although she suspected the marks posted there weren't beasts but people.
"Have a seat," Balthier said. "I'll speak with the owner and see what he's got on the menu."
Somehow, she did not think he was referring to food. She peeled off and skirted tightly-clustered tables, selecting a small one off to the side to settle in and wait, uncomfortably aware that she had attracted a good deal of interest. Unlike in Galina, there were no other women in this tavern. Lady pirates were still something of a rarity, and they probably did not welcome her encroachment into their world. She folded her arms over the table, hoping that their attention would soon wane.
A few minutes passed; she focused on the notice board on the far wall, trying to make out the posted marks from a distance. Squinting, she tried to bring the words into focus.
Moments later, a shadow fell across the table. Expecting Balthier, she glanced up, and froze. Jiraj – this close to Bartaan's tavern, she should have expected to encounter someone she had known.
"Penelo," Jiraj said in a jovial tone, his meaty fist wrapped around a tankard of ale. "Fancy meetin' you out here. Would've thought you'd hightail it out of Rozarria. What with havin' walked out on a debt and all that."
She hadn't seen him since just before Balthier had rescued her, hadn't thought she'd ever see him again. "Jiraj," she said. "You know as well as anyone else it wasn't mine to pay."
"Don't know that that mattered to anyone but you," he said. "And I never got that rematch."
"You won't, either," she said flatly, more than a little irritated at the unwanted reminder of the life of drudgery she had all too recently left behind.
A hoarse laugh rustled in his throat, attracting attention from the neighboring tables. "Bartaan was right – you got too much pride. Someone shoulda knocked it out of you."
"Are you offering?" she asked. A quick glance over her shoulder revealed Balthier standing at the bar, a folded wad of papers in his hand. He seemed to have concluded his business with the owner, but he waited there, watching the exchange between her and Jiraj. He lifted his brows as if in subtle inquiry – a silent message intended to offer assistance had she need of it. She gave a slow shake of her head, and he settled back against the bar to wait.
He'd probably still leap in if she got in over her head, but he trusted her to handle her own affairs. Again, that alarming flutter in her chest – she liked him best like this; not designating himself her protector or guardian or anything of that unsettlingly paternalistic nature. Instead a partner, at her side when and if she needed him.
Jiraj chortled. "I guess I just might be," he said. She thrust back her chair, sinking into a fighting stance – but rather than launch an attack, Jiraj only turned away, heading across the room toward the door, polishing off the last of his ale as he went, discarding the empty tankard at an unoccupied table. On his way he passed by the notice board and tore down a poster, folding it up and tucking it into his vest. He didn't even glance back as he jerked the door open and left the tavern.
As the patrons settled back into their conversations, Balthier crossed the room to her. "I recognize him from your tavern," he said. "What did he want?"
"I thought he wanted to cause trouble," she said, a vague sense of unease settling over her like a cloak. "Did you see what he pulled off the notice board?"
"I'm afraid not." He held aloft the stack of papers. "But at the very least, I've got what we've come for. Shall we?"
"I suppose so." Her gaze swept over the room, reading the atmosphere. She'd spent too long in a tavern not to recognize the contemplative hush, the strange way that the eyes of the other patrons flickered away from hers as if trying to hold on to a secret. "Let's go," she said, with no small amount of urgency. "Something's going on, and I don't want to stick around to find out what it is."
She was aware of the myriad eyes that followed them as they headed for the exit, could feel them boring into the back of her head. It was a relief to get back out into the breezy night, where only a few travelers crossed their paths. Still, she couldn't quite tamp down the unease – she started when Balthier's hand settled on her shoulder.
"All right?" he asked.
She let out a breath. "I don't know," she said. And then, slightly ashamed of her rush to judgment, "I mean, it's probably nothing."
"You've got good instincts," he said. "Use them. What does your gut tell you?"
She couldn't recall the last time she had been encouraged in that fashion. She was accustomed to being disregarded, to having her concerns dismissed as overreaction. That Balthier held enough respect for her to seek her opinion was new and intoxicating and a little bit heart-warming.
Maybe a lot heart-warming.
She said, "I don't like the way they were looking at us. I've seen that kind of quiet before, and it generally means trouble." A moment of hesitation. "Jiraj said something about knocking the pride out of me. I thought he meant to start a brawl, but instead he tore a poster from the notice board and left. I wish I had gotten a look at it."
"Hmm," Balthier murmured. "Perhaps it merits a bit of investigation. I shall make a few discreet inquiries tomorrow; some things are best done in the daylight hours." His fingers skated down her arm to link with hers, squeezing with comforting reassurance.
"You don't think I'm overreacting?" she ventured.
"Of course not," he said. "Between the two of us, you are better equipped to judge a suspicious situation in a tavern. I don't frequent them often enough to read a room half so well as you."
Her heart gave a painful beat in her chest. She ducked her head to hide her face, afraid that the silly burst of elation his words roused might be writ across it. The pier gave way to sand beneath her feet; the Strahl came into view along the shoreline.
"You didn't interfere when Jiraj approached me," she said in a hesitant tone.
His brows drew together. "Should I have done?" he asked. "You seemed to have the situation well enough in hand. I thought you would prefer to handle it yourself."
"I would. I mean, I did." She puffed her bangs out of her face and took a deep breath. "No one's cared much about what I wanted in the past few years." She paused a moment, reflecting. "Or really much of ever. And I usually just went along, because it was the path of least resistance. But I'm not that person anymore; I can't just follow."
"I would not expect it of you." His voice was laden with bewilderment.
"I know," she said. "I know, and that's why…" She swallowed hard in an attempt to ease the tightness in her throat. "Why I think that I might…love you. A little bit."
His fingers went lax in hers, drifting free of the clasp of her hand. Mystified by his lack of acknowledgment, she risked a glance at his face. His confusion had fled, replaced instead by a taut jaw and a face deliberately blanked of emotion.
That tightness in her throat that she'd made great strides in vanquishing came right back, clamping down until even her breath struggled through it. A sinking feeling settled in the pit of her stomach. "Balthier?" she asked. "Did you –"
"I heard." His voice was pitched low, only just audible over the rush of the rising tide, and utterly lacking in inflection. "Now is not the time."
"But –"
He forged on ahead without her, his longer strides eating up the shoreline between them and the Strahl, stopping only once he'd reached it, and just long enough to punch in the code to open the ship. And then he had disappeared inside, and she was left to bring up the rear on her own.
After closing the ship up once again, she found him rooting around the kitchen, muttering beneath his breath. She had thought – given what Fran had lead her to believe – that he would be pleased. That he might have something to say that wasn't now is not the time. Something that might've given her even the slightest bit of encouragement.
Instead, he slammed cabinets and jostled bottles, in an unsettling sort of temper. Somehow she had made a terrible mistake. Her confession could not have been less welcome. She was tempted to turn tail and run, to hide in her room and lick her wounds.
But that would have been the coward's way out. And she didn't want to be that – not even if it was easier than facing unpleasantness, not even if running would mean that she could avoid the inevitable hurt.
Instead she steeled herself for the coming blow, and said in as firm a voice as she could muster, "I'm sorry if I've offended you. I won't say it again."
He had found what he had sought – a bottle of liquor that had been shoved to the back of a cabinet and was coated with dust, attesting to its age and disuse. He didn't even go to the bother of finding a suitable glass; he merely twisted off the cap and downed a mouthful.
"I'm not offended," he said, in a voice roughed by the spirits he'd imbibed. "I'm furious." He abandoned the bottle on the counter, his footsteps echoing in a sharp, heavy rhythm as he stalked toward her.
She lifted her chin, uncowed. "That's a bit of an overreaction, don't you think? I've apologized –"
His harsh laughter silenced her. "But for what, I wonder? In fact…" He moved with lightning speed, boxing her in, and she felt her shoulders touch the wall as he backed her up against it. "I wonder if you've got even the faintest idea of why I might be furious with you."
His hands came up to slide into her hair, cupping the back of her head. She lifted her arms to brace herself, but he struck before she could do more than flatten her palms on his chest, and she whimpered beneath the onslaught of his lips on hers. The sharp tang of whiskey lingered on his tongue, not unpleasant, but an unwelcome reminder that her confession had driven him to drink. She reeled in confusion – why, then, if he had been so upset by her confession, had he decided to kiss her? But she couldn't bring herself to do anything more than scrape her nails across his shirtfront.
It might very well be the very last kiss, and she didn't want to squander it.
When at last he drew away, they were both breathing heavily. His eyes blazed at her, still furious. "You think you might love me a bit," he snarled. "I've no use for such a tepid degree of emotion; I won't settle for whatever scraps of it you care to parcel out. I want everything."
Before she could muster a response, he released her, turning on his heel to stride away, leaving her alone with her thoughts.