Balthier finds Fran concealed in a tiny alcove of the Muthru Bazaar. If she were not such a familiar figure, he might have missed her entirely, the way her dark skin and garb blends into the shadows.
He sits on the ledge beside her, and deliberately keeps his eyes of the heaping market stalls. They're piled with vibrant fabrics, strange spices, and even more bizarre things: strips of Festering Flesh, their namesake property granting them a shady space by themselves, blood-darkened bones slowly bleaching in the sun, and even a few corpse flies buzzing in a mesh cage.
They'd sold these things almost two years ago, and Balthier is unsurprised that no one has purchased them. Perhaps, he muses, the Festering Flesh ages like fine wine: it seems to fester with greater gusto today.
Finally, he turns his attention to Fran. Well, he doesn't look at her, but he addresses her. "I was less than gentlemanly earlier, Fran. I... apologize." He still wants to kiss her, but he leaves that bit out.
"Accepted," she says. "Did Ashe get her letter?"
"That, and a far less pleasant visitor than me."
"Oh?" He's still looking into the market, but he feels acutely when her fingertips brush his. He closes his hand, holding hers loosely.
Quickly, Balthier tells her about the Archadean soldier. He's not sure how, but he ends up orienting himself towards her, the hand that is not holding Fran's resting on her knee. She smiles.
When his story is over, she doesn't say a word. But then, she's Fran, and he doesn't expect her to.
"So," he says, "Archades is up to something. But then, when aren't they? Still, I had hoped the little devil on the throne might keep a closer watch on some of his subjects."
He can feel the gentle pressure as she squeezes his hand. "But we are both accustomed to it. Come, we should find Penelo again."
Penelo, as Balthier might have expected, is back behind the counter at Migelo's Sundries. After all, she is not the type of girl to let this sort of drama get in the way of what must be done.
She looks good, Balthier notes as he walks in the door. Her eyes are no longer clouded with either tears or feverish excitement, and her braids have been retied and tamed once more. Most of all, she smiles when she sees them, and it's a smile that lacks the tension that stretched it mere hours ago.
Her Seeq customer is counting gil out of a velvet pouch while Penelo wraps up a few potions and some eye drops in paper. Her hands move with a deftness that comes of familiarity, cutting the paper, bundling it around the purchases, and tying it just so that it will be secure, but that the sundries inside are easily accessible in a crisis.
Really, Balthier thinks as he watches her exchange a few final pleasantries with the Seeq, he's not sure why she came along with them two years ago. She's not duty-bound like Ashe or Basch; she's not impressionable as Vaan. And she's certainly not as pursued as himself and Fran. In fact, she looks at home here, casually counting out change from the drawer below the desk, soft smile lighting up her features.
Then, he remembers her paradoxically wicked casting of Holy, and decides he needs wonder no longer.
The Seeq shuffles off, and Penelo turns her attention to the pair of them. "Look what just came," she says, and reaches behind the counter. She pulls out a letter, one held in a creamy parchment envelope. A red seal holds it closed, and Balthier is relieved to note that this seal is rather better executed than the last: it appears that the Queen has spared it her anger this time. Perhaps he would get the same reprieve.
He takes the letter from her. "Well, that was faster than I'd dared to hope. Is it too much to ask that she left us a battalion, too?"
Penelo assures him that the shop is too tiny to hold so many soldiers anyways, and he unsheathes a belt knife and runs it along the top of the envelope. The letter slides into his hand, the paper more densely packed with lettering than before.
He reads it once, shakes his head to clear it, ignores Penelo's plaintive questions and Fran's raised eyebrow, and reads it once more:
Self-Indulgent Pirate & his Overinflated Ego:
Please, understand. Four Rozarrian diplomats have already required my attention this morning alone, and double that many from Archades. Bhujerba, as one of Dalmasca's closest allies, must necessarily occupy less of my time.
For ten years, Bhujerba and Dalmasca have been quietly making deals. Do not presume to think that we are unaware of this issue. Do not presume to lecture me on the state of my people.
To that end, do not trouble yourself over Vaan's fate. My six closest councilors and I have deliberated, and deem that he is capable of caring for himself. I sincerely doubt that he would appreciate your mothering.
Stay out of trouble, just this one time.
In Rabanastre, I have been a wise ruler by all approximations but yours for two entire years. You are an outlaw pirate. For once in your life, Balthier, just trust my judgment.
Do this for me.
The letter was not signed, and only bore Ashe's royal seal at the foot of it. It was awfully rude, even for Ashe.
When Balthier looks up, Penelo is biting her lip, and Fran is looking on with cool dispassion. He addresses his copilot first. "Fran, we ought to leave as quickly as possible. Is the Strahl ready?"
She nods, and holds out a hand for the letter. He hands it over, and decides he ought to break the news to Penelo himself.
"Well?" The blonde asks, hand on one hip. She clearly isn't expecting good news.
"We press on alone. Our Queen is throwing a bit of a fit, and we're probably better off without her. Meet me at the Aerodrome in an hour. Now, is there a pen in this damned shop?"
Penelo rolls her eyes at the characterization of the store, but ducks behind the counter and retrieves the writing utensils anyways. And Balthier leans over the counter and scrawls out a final note:
Ashe,
I'm disappointed. I thought you were a little more fun. Still, I'll tell Vaan to take a turn around the palace when we return. You know, so you can apologize.
Balthier.
He does consider not sending the letter. Really, he does. It's rude and inflammatory and all the things that a leading man is not. But when he walks out of the shop and into the deepening shadows of the streets, he can't help himself. The note is handed off to one of Penelo's street urchin friends, a few gil sending the child on his way.
The Aerodrome is far from here, but the sun is sinking, and the heat has begun to seep out of the city. Looking up, Balthier checks the skies, the habit of a pirate. It's clear, and he sees the stars appearing on the eastern horizon. It'll be a fine night for flying.
He starts walking, teetering between frustrated and glad. But when he looks up to that deep, open sky, he feels his spirits lift, sure as always. He doesn't always like the things that come his way, but damn it, he does love being a pirate.
The Aerodrome is as quiet as it ever is.
That's not saying much. The engines within grunt and growl beneath their loads, and the squeals and clunks of those in for repairs sound to Balthier's ears like so many sick men groaning for relief.
And the Strahl, of course, purrs like a coeurl. But then, she's far superior to these lesser products. The ship waits for him in one of the hangar bays, a huge room lit softly by a few chunks of Magicite embedded in the walls.
He already expected Fran to be there, and she is. She sits with one leg elegantly crossed over the other, head bowed over the Strahl's auxiliary navigator.
She doesn't look up as he approaches, but scoots to the side of the ship's gangplank, so he can join her. He does, and gets to business. Namely, calmly voicing his concerns, which in no way resemble whining.
"This is becoming difficult."
"Perhaps you ought to have let Penelo write the letters." The slight twitching of her ears lets Balthier in on the fact that she is kidding, though maybe she's right. But that's why he likes Fran: she sits here, calmly organizing their path to Bhujerba, and she's not about to let anything ridiculous as this get in her way. Balthier is tempestuous, though calm on the surface. Fran is just tranquility defined.
Balthier waves his hands around like he's swatting so many gnats, when he's really just trying to stop himself from being so damned sentimental. Fran doesn't look up from her task, which really just proves his point.
If he's going to be maudlin, he may as well be right about it.
"When can we leave?"
"As soon as Penelo arrives." Fran rises and makes her way up the gangplank, obviously with the intention of reinstalling their navigator. Balthier, meanwhile, leans back to enjoy the view, since nothing calms his nerves quite like a pair of shapely legs.
A/N: Gone forever, and then I post a short chapter. What's the matter with me? Anyways, I just wanted to mention that I'm not trying to mis-characterize Ashe in this chapter. She's got her reasons, and this won't be the last we see of her.
Also, a huge thanks to everyone who's reading. Means a lot to me. :)