The faded, peeling paint of the number four loomed over the final exit. I could feel the faint wind of the Estersands, and more than anything, I wanted to be back in Rabanastre, fighting wolves in the deserts, dreaming of the sky.
"The mist seethes," Fran murmured, glancing solemnly at Balthier.
"It reeks," Balthier agreed. Then, to me, "Heal yourself, boy. Things are about to get rough."
I nodded, grabbing my last potion vial from my belt. I didn't really have any major injuries, only a few scrapes, but better safe than sorry.
He sat a couple yard away, tightening the buckles of his armor. Pink and red welts winked at me between the rusty plates of his mail.
I sighed, biting my cheek. Gently, I set the vial on the ground and rolled it towards him. I turned away when it bumped into his elbow; I did not watch him drink it. Instead, I watched Fran and Balthier talk quietly, imagining the scars fading away to ripples on tan skin.