Epilogue: Drum roll and the players to their places go; the stage is set for the leading man

A/N: I have always had the sneaking suspicion that despite his protests, Balthier's actions in the game (assisting Vaan, Basch and Penelo – acquiescing to Ashe's kidnapping demands so readily) suggested that he wanted/needed to be involved in the resistance against the Empire (in someway) a lot more than he might have claimed.

Throughout this story I have tried to suggest that almost unconsciously Balthier is in fact trying to save Ivalice from herself (and the Empire) in his own, self-deluding and convoluted way….thus this story could only find a fitting end at the very moment of the leading man's true beginning.

'The people walk freely but everywhere they are in chains.'

Balthier, lounging in his chair in a far corner of the ever-crowded Sandsea tavern, did not deign to answer Fran. Instead he savoured the taste of the cool ale in his tankard. There was sand in his throat and the hot, dry reek of the desert clung to the back of his throat.

Critically he looked over the balcony rail onto the main floor of the split level tavern and down onto the down-trodden heads of the Rabanastrans gathered by the bar.

It was easy to see what Fran meant, while as the people of Rabanastre were effectively free to continue living as they always had (barring a mass relocation to the subterranean maze of passageways euphemistically referred to as 'Lowtown') the presence of the Empire was obvious and heavy handed.

The talk within the tavern was all about the new consul's rousing and uplifting speech from earlier that very day. Balthier and Fran had watched it all from one of the ridiculously ugly spires of the cathedral roof, enjoying the irony immensely even if the acoustics were not all they could be.

Balthier did not need to hear what Vayne (don't call me Consul) Solidor said. He knew the script all too well, such a well worn and trusted mouthful of lies and carefully packaged deceits that tripped off the Solidor tongue like poison honey.

Though, Balthier conceded, Vayne performed the hollow act of appeasement very well.

'I wonder how he managed it?' Balthier mused under his breath, but Fran still heard him, she cocked an eyebrow as she pulled her tall glass towards her across the table.

'Whom do you refer?' she queried as Balthier played absently with his rings. Twisting them off his fingers and sliding them back on (it was intolerably hot in Rabanastre and his fingers had swollen with his expanding blood vessels, causing the rings to pinch).

'Our beloved new Consul Dalmasca, of course,' Balthier murmured. He lifted his brows insinuatingly, but kept his voice low, as a trio of clanking Imperials crossed below their table.

'You must concede that it is extraordinarily convenient that the sadly unlamented Basch Fon Ronsenberg takes it upon himself, for reasons lost to the living, to assassinate his King,' Balthier murmured in lilting voice, 'only for the Dalmascan princess to then commit suicide in grief allowing the Empire to assume command in the vacuum created by the fall of the Dalmascan monarchical traditional.'

Fran sipped her drink, 'I have found that the Hume world is full of such convenience.' She murmured coolly.

Balthier nodded but his brow was pinched in consternation, he tapped his fingers on the table top.

'I wish I knew what the point of it all was.' He finally conceded, two years suppressed frustration colouring his words, 'Dalmasca and Nabradia as a buffer zone is one thing, but it all seems a tad excessive if the only goal was to acquire a sandpit kingdom for Vayne to play in.'

Fran cast an amused look his way, 'I had thought we came for gold and magicite Balthier, do you seek the rare gift of insight in this venture also?'

Finishing the dredges of his ale Balthier smirked at Fran, 'Insight? Good gods, no. I have better sense than to go in search of illusionary treasure Fran.'

Fran shook her head minutely to shake her hair behind her back. She arched an eyebrow. 'I am glad. Even the leading man should not over-extend his reach.' She murmured with pointed humour.

Balthier fluttered his hand and nodded his head in an ironic parody of a partial bow. 'You wound me Fran.'

He glanced at the assorted patrons of the tavern with ill-concealed annoyance.

It was high noon in the city and too damned hot to be out and about (not that he and Fran could really achieve anything until dusk in any event) however the Sandsea was growing increasingly crowded and the ale was not up to Balthier's high standards, either.

Balthier was, in fact, seriously reconsidering this Palace heist. He had forgotten how much he disliked the desert city, especially now it was full of Imperials.

'Will this day never end? I fail to comprehend how a city state in the middle of the desert can have only the one tavern; what do these damned desert –dwellers do all day?'

Fran's smooth countenance quivered with amusement at his sudden outburst, 'Work, perhaps?' she suggested demurely.

Balthier scowled and waved his hand at the assorted lay-abouts in the tavern, 'I do not see any evidence of that here.' He pointed out petulantly. Fran smiled minutely but wisely deferred from making comment.

Balthier slumped into his chair and glared irritably into the empty depths of his tankard. Although not given to superstitions, omens or dubious 'instincts' (or at least that was what he told himself) Balthier could not quite suppress the feeling that this 'Goddess Magicite' trinket could end up being considerably more trouble than it was worth.

Accepting that his tankard was not going to miraculously refill itself (and that he had probably had enough considering his evening plans) Balthier rose elegantly to his feet.

He held out his hand to Fran, knowing she would ignore the solicitous gesture. 'Come Fran, I am sure there must be something mildly diverting to do in this gods forsaken place and I am determined to find it and partake.'

Fran finished the last of her drink and joined him. He bowed courteously for her to precede him down the flight of steps to the lower floor and out of the Tavern.

They strolled right past a table of inebriated Imperials and Balthier bit back a laugh when, turning to glance at the Mark Hunters notice board, he caught sight of the tattered, faded warrant bill with his grinning likeness on it. Evidently the Empire spared no expense to find only the keenest, sharpest minds to fill their armour.

For the rest of the day he and Fran drifted about the Muthru bazaar, before coming to rest on the rim of the south-gate fountain. There really was little else to do in this repressed and oppressed city under a blazing desert sun.

Perched next to Fran, on the lip of the fountain, Balthier trailed his fingers through the cool water while he watched the common people go about their business and waited, impatiently, for the sun to set.

'This trinket we seek, word has it that it is much in demand.' Fran murmured shifting her weight on the rim of the fountain beside him. 'The Empire's lust for magicite seems insatiable.'

Balthier shrugged carelessly, 'Airships to run and kingdoms to invade, Fran.'

In truth Balthier did not care for the so-called Goddess Magicite in and of itself. Oh, he already had a buyer lined up who would pay handsomely for a fist sized chunk of pure, undiluted Magicite, yet profit was a secondary goal.

Stealing from Vayne Solidor while he drank to the destruction of Nabudis held a far greater attraction in his mind.

'We should be wary of others with interests similar to our own.' Fran added trailing her own fingers through the cool, crystal clear water rippling in the fountain pool. Balthier saw her gaze sharpen slightly as a lone Viera drifted past them.

The Viera, although as faultless and pure in appearance as any wandering Viera Balthier had ever seen, seemed young and unsure in her stance. Balthier watched Fran as Fran watched the other Viera for a moment.

'Old Dalan is an ineffectual fool, Fran. He could not field a thief of worth if his very life depended upon it.' Balthier replied to Fran's veiled comment once the lone Viera had drifted away from view.

'It is rumoured he has links to the Dalmascan resistance.' Fran pointed out, turning back to him with her face as expressionless as ever.

Balthier did not comment upon the momentary whisper of wistfulness that had coloured her expression moments before when the Viera had crossed their paths. It was Fran's business and his intrusion would not be appreciated.

'And a more useless pack of insurgents I have yet to hear of,' Balthier scoffed instead, detaching his water canteen from his belt and offering it first to Fran. 'They make Hamish and his rabble, appear successful. How hard can it be to liberate a city of no more than a few hundred thousand people?'

Due to his slightly unusual working practices and the persistent rumour regarding his actions in the siege of Nalbina on behalf of the townspeople, Balthier was often accosted in taverns and secluded places by furtive men (and the occasional woman) seeking to elicit his aid in numerous ill-thought out acts of insurrection for various lost causes.

For his part Balthier found it all exceedingly irritating. Conversely Fran tended to find it highly amusing that for all his efforts Balthier had a greater reputation for his ill-advised forays into altruism than his many spectacular crimes; Balthier failed to see the humour, however.

Thus upon arriving in Rabanastre Balthier had summarily and rather less than politely rebuffed the hookai smoking, shrivelled up geriatric, Old Dalan, when he had suggested that Balthier might like to donate the Goddess Magicite to a 'good cause'.

Balthier was for this reason determined, despite the whispered misgivings of his own mind that bothered him like the clouds of tiny biting insects in the air (and the slight fear that he might be deluding himself), that this heist would go off without a hitch. He would rob the Rabanastran treasury blind and sell off the proceeds to the highest bidder.

He would not even consider passing on any profits to the starving children he saw clinging to the shadows in Lowtown and he would not have any contact with the damned resistance.

He was a sky pirate; not an airborne philanthropist.

Even as the thought floated through his mind Balthier espied a skinny girl-child in non-descript grey and tattered rags dart out from one of the alleys between buildings. Her trajectory was fixed and focussed as the tiny little beggar dashed, bare foot, across the baking stone of the south-gate towards him.

Balthier tried to avert his gaze and willed Fran not to say a word, but it was to no avail.

The little girl came to a stop before him, all gangly limbs and huge, lost eyes that seemed to suggest to Balthier's less than cheerful disposition (children were not his favourite form of life, it must be said) that he was both the cause and the solution to all the hardship this child had faced.

The child's dirty fingered, clawing, little hands reached out towards him, 'Please mister do you have any Gil? My mama is sick.'

Boldly the little urchin plucked at the brilliant white of his sleeve and Balthier tugged his gold threaded cuff from her grip, narrowing his eyes at the child with open suspicion.

'Keep your hands to yourself, if you please.' He snapped (these Rabanastrans had very sticky fingers he had found, but Balthier was no easy mark).

Fran shifted minutely beside him. She said not one word, but the slight tickle of her long hair brushing his sleeve, was warning and prompt enough. Balthier glanced at Fran in exasperation. Her expression was smooth and implacable but her eyes were firm.

'Oh, for the gods own sake,' Balthier muttered ungraciously, pulling a small purse of low denomination Gil coins from within the confines of his vest.

'Here.' He pushed the purse into the little girl's hands, 'Now be off with you, and tell no one where you came by this Gil, or I shall find you.'

Balthier added pointedly as the little girl's eyes lit up with a near rapturous gratitude that Balthier found simply intolerable. She nodded once quickly and then dashed away into the shadows of the stairs that led to Lowtown.

'Not a word Fran. I simply happened to have a spare purse for emergencies, that's all.' Balthier muttered when he felt Fran's amused and pointed gaze on him.

The worst of Hume devised tortures would not force Balthier to concede that he had put together a purse of coins specifically for the purpose of giving to the poor. His reputation (at least the one enshrined in his own mind) would not survive the confession.

'Of course Balthier,' Fran demurred and he turned to glower at her petulantly. He blamed his ill-temper on the city of Rabanastre; he could barely wait to be shot of the place.

'Let's go Fran. Nono should have finished his tune up of the sky cycle ready for tonight and I am suddenly in all earnest to be about the business of stealing something.'

Once more as she followed him through the crowded streets of Rabanastre towards the aerodrome, Fran refrained from commenting on Balthier's mercurial and out-of-sorts disposition. However Balthier could almost feel, like a second sun, Fran's indulgently amused regard on his back.

There was a comfort in it, even though Balthier was convinced Fran was silently laughing at him.

Dusk found Balthier in much improved spirits.

The faints strains of an Archadian orchestral piece floated through the humid evening air as did the sonorous murmurs of conversation rising from those special guests of the consul who had come to celebrate Vayne's ascension.

Balthier, leaning against the wall of a building facing the high walls of the Palace gardens, glanced sideways at Fran with a sly smirk.

'Like taking candy from a baby Fran,' He murmured, anticipation in every syllable.

'A baby with a battalion of Imperial soldiers garrisoned within the palace grounds, Balthier.' Fran retorted her voice as soft as breath.

Balthier slid his hands down the front of his black and gold embroidered, stiff leather vest, still smirking faintly and eyes almost glittering with barely checked excitement.

'It's time Fran; let's go.'

Without a word Balthier and Fran sauntered calmly through the street behind the palace gardens, casually strolling past two Imperial guardsmen who gripped their pikes a little more tightly but then relaxed their guard when Balthier and Fran did not so much as glance at them while passing.

For this reason Fran's sudden about-face, pivoting beautifully on the heel of one foot, before launching a devastating kick with the other caught the first guard by complete surprise and he crumpled unconscious to the ground.

Balthier caught the other around the neck before he could utter a sound.

The armour of the Imperial cannon fodder had not changed in the six years since his departure from Archades. Balthier knew exactly where the collar of the armour chest plate parted to accommodate the neck guard that usually attached to the full helmet that this guard was very foolishly not wearing on this hot, arid, night.

Squeezing down on the guard's airway with one forearm across the man's throat Balthier counted down the seconds until the man succumbed to unconsciousness.

When Balthier looked up Fran had already crossed the street to the open drain hatch, which she levered up. Balthier began to drag the two unconscious Imperial soldiers towards the drainage hatch.

He allowed Fran the honours of kicking the two through the hole and into the stinking, filthy waters below, however.

After that it was a simple matter to retrieve the sky cycle from where they had hidden it in the storeroom of the building by the drainage hatch he and Fran had been loitering against.

They did not need the sky cycle but then again, they did not need to steal from the Palace treasury in the first place.

Checking his gun (the altair tonight because it was light and durable, though loading time was a chore) Balthier took the passenger seat (he could fly a sky cycle but Fran would not let him near the steering levers of her cycle so he was perpetually relegated to the backseat).

Fran revved the engines, though not loudly enough for anyone lingering in the gardens to hear, and the cycle rose gracefully, but eagerly, into the air.

Fran launched them forward and upwards, lurching over the wall of the Palace gardens, and dipping down into the covered portico cloister lining the gardens with the grace of living shadow.

These were the moments Balthier lived for.

Fran pushed the cycle at brake-neck speed through the now deserted gardens (the party having moved indoors to dine) and Balthier watched the white pillars and faded mosaics on the walls of the cloister blur into an adrenaline infused swirl of colour and anticipation before his eyes as he readied himself for his dismount.

Balthier did not need to leap from the still moving cycle, catching his balance under him with the dexterity of a cat, and landing neatly before the doors of the Palace, but then again necessity had very little to do with their agenda for the night.

Fran waited for Balthier to enter the palace before she left him to hide away the cycle and sneak into the palace from an upper storey window (Balthier with his aristocratic diction, fine tailoring, and proud bearing could blend in perfectly with the guests mingling in the large open spaces of the palace; Fran could not, thus the need to separate).

Balthier took the time to note the formations of the guards and the quality of the jewels adoring the limbs and clothing of the collaborators and cronies that Vayne had invited to his shindig, before moving purposefully through the lower floors of the former Dalmascan royal palace.

Passing through one room (a library with old portraits of Raminas and his dead children lining the walls) Balthier helped himself to a very nice jewel encrusted letter opener and a gold plated wax seal stamp bearing the crest of house Dalmasca (useless considering no one from that house still lived but it would make an interesting souvenir).

Once he had finished indulging in his own rampant kleptomania Balthier rather swiftly found the recessed door, hidden under a tapestry, which led to the corridor to the treasury.

He slipped through it to find Fran waiting for him, her foot tapping lightly with mild impatience.

She quirked an eyebrow, 'Delayed were you?' she looked pointedly at the bulge in his belt pouch.

Balthier shrugged unabashed, 'When visiting royal palaces I like to collect souvenirs, Fran.'

Fran shook her head in mild distain at this evidence of his predilection towards pilfering bright, shiny objects, especially when said shiny trinkets did not belong to him.

'I have caught a scent. Sun and young sweat. I fear you have underestimated Old Dalan.' Fran nodded her head towards the secret door in the painted wall of the corridor that led to the treasury room.

Balthier frowned slightly, 'Well I'll be damned.' He swore softly, turning smartly on his heel and leading the way to the door, 'We had best make our entrance then.'

He might not have cared particularly for the Goddess Magicite but that did not mean he was about to let some sticky-fingered riff-raff under Old Dalan's employ walk away with his prize.

Balthier glanced briefly at Fran when he reached the hidden door and sought out the recessed buttons to disengage the lock, hidden in the carved frieze disguising the entrance. Fran nodded once, confirming that she could hear someone moving about inside the room beyond.

Balthier rolled his eyes in mild annoyance; it was clearly against the will of the fates that his life should be simple.

The door to the treasury creaked slowly open on badly oiled hinges and he entered swiftly, Fran at his heels, as an insultingly young, appallingly dressed, and slack jawed boy turned around to gape at he and Fran.

Immediately Balthier spied the chunk of faintly glowing crystal stone (the Goddess Magicite) pulsing in the boy's sweaty fist. Balthier felt his lip curl in annoyance; just what he needed, another Rabanstran street urchin to deal with.

'Impressive.' Balthier purred, though he meant quite the opposite.

'Who are you?'

The youth demanded as Balthier entered the extravagantly decorated treasury room, which was gratifyingly filled with shiny and sparkly trinkets, trails of ancient coins, and curios that might fetch a pretty Gil in certain markets.

Balthier, acutely aware of Fran at his back, her presence the one constant in his life, found himself oddly tickled by the question posed by the vacant eyed, sweaty-lipped and callow youth before him.

Who are you?

That was the question wasn't it? Who was he; the man he pretended to be or the boy he could no longer see in the mirror?

Was he a thief, a pirate, a liar and a spy? Or was he something else, some manner of man the measure of which even he could not fathom? Was he the sum and substance of his dreams or merely the totality of his own failings?

Perhaps he was both, and perhaps he was neither.

Perhaps he would never know; perhaps, as Fran had said, it was not the answers that made life worth living but the questions themselves.

Here and now, with his partner at his back and this foolish young thief before him, the boy all aquiver with fear and his own pride, Balthier found a slow, triumphant purring smirk curling over his lips.

Who are you?

Well, there was only one answer to that question, wasn't there?

Insouciant, darkly amused, and impossibly confident that whatever life threw at him he had the means to triumph regardless, Balthier gave his answer; the only answer.

'I play the leading man, who else?'

A/N: To all who have read this story; I hope that you have enjoyed reading this tale as much as I have enjoyed writing it.

Spikey44