Chapter Fourteen: How to make a Viera laugh and the true confessions of a pirate
' I cannot believe we are at the mercy of feckless Moogles. We must make for Archades!'
No one said anything at all as the Princess ranted on. Yes, they were at the 'mercy' of work shy moogles, yes the gate to the Phon Coast was out of commission. Yes, they had to reach Archades at some point, but really, did she have to take on so about it?
Balthier tugging at the high neck of his vest irritably was beginning to think he might have lost his wits somewhere between the Dalmascan treasury and here in the Salikawood.
It wasn't as though he and Fran had nothing better to do than play tour guide for a Princess, her guardian Knight, and two children whose exact purpose for being here was anyone's guess.
The peaceful, productive few hours he had spent busily forging Licence certificates for the party's current weapons and sundries two days ago on the Highwaste had bought home to Balthier exactly what he should be doing with his time. Simple, honest piracy.
Instead he was sweating like a stuck pig, too much the aristocrat to remove outer clothing, carrying Ras Algethi slung across his back and Betelgeuse in his arms for Penelo, because -well he didn't know why he was carrying her weapon actually – and feeling as far removed from his usual life of professional piracy as he could be.
The only bright spot in all of this and the reason (he now recalled) he was carrying Penelo's weapon and most of her share of the other equipment was that three hours and fifteen minutes ago, Fran laughed for the first time in eight months, six and half days.
He had missed most of the conversation (bickering match) between Vaan and Penelo, finding himself walking point with the Princess while she whined at him incessantly, that had resulted in the rarest of rare gems, Fran's laughter.
As far as he could piece together it had involved a hypothetical conversation between Penelo and Vaan as to what each member of the party, and in absentia, Larsa, would look like if suddenly transformed into Moogles.
Pure childishness really, but a harmless diversion. He remembered a heated argument over whether Ashe would have a silver or pink plume on her head, while as it appeared to be unanimous that he, Balthier, would have a green one. Balthier decided not to waste too much brain power on the reasoning for that.
He had only been listening in on the conversation carried out behind him, often in whispered asides, as a means to drown out the Princess, and was thankful therefore he hadn't missed Fran's muffled but unmistakable laughter.
Fran's laughter, like her voice, was elemental. The musical twinkle of waterfalls, the chime of pure crystal glass, the beats of a flock of doves taking wing all at once.
It was magic beyond anything a mage or alchemist could create in dusty rooms, that transformed the placid, set lines of Fran's agelessly beautiful face to life and laughter, if only for a handful of seconds.
Balthier could do it, though he knew Fran preferred that he didn't try, Viera do not like to laugh for some reason, but to see Fran forced into open mirth by Vaan and Penelo was somehow so much better.
He knew, though he feigned ignorance because Fran preferred him selfish and insensitive, that Fran's greatest wish and most compelling fear was to be close too and accepted by humes. Not just him, but all humes.
To share in Hume humour, even at it's most juvenile, to laugh and talk freely with Vaan and Penelo, neither of them anything like him, or the other Humes Fran had partnered with, those shadowy dead men Balthier preferred not to think over much about, bought Fran closer to that goal.
Of course it was over all too quickly. Vaan and Penelo were both shocked speechless to hear Fran laugh, where he would have done or said anything, if only to make her laugh more, and had done in times past.
Even the Princess was startled out of her self-pity, while as Basch appeared the least affected, no doubt unable to recognise the value of something that did not wear, and never had worn, a crown.
After that Penelo, who was the one most responsible for Fran's laughter, as her last descriptive explanation of how Moogle-Basch could lift a battle axe with tiny Moogle hands was the straw that broke the Chocobo's back, could have asked him for almost anything and he would gladly have granted it to her.
Now their motley crew were strolling through the Salikawood, a nice change of pace from the Highwaste, harrying lazy Moogles back to work.
'Is it pretty?'
Shaken out of his reverie Balthier inclined his head slightly towards the Princess, ' Pretty?'
' The Phon Coast. I had heard that the coastline was quite beautiful.'
Balthier thought about that. The white gold sands and grassy knolls, the rippling veldt of cerulean blue ocean and the lapis Lazuli sky above.
' Yes, Princess, it is quite an inspiring view. A change from the desert at the very least.'
'I have never seen the ocean.' Ashe admitted haltingly.
Balthier shrugged, ' And now you will.'
'Yes, I will.'
Ashe lapsed into silence then and Balthier felt genuine sympathy for her. She was barely more than a girl and was clearly afraid, though she would sooner slit her own throat than admit to that, no doubt.
While the Phon Coast was as breath-taking as he remembered, it was a trifle more dangerous than he recalled.
Still motivated by the memory of Fran's laughter Balthier took more interest in the welfare of Vaan and Penelo than he had before, not to say he ignored the Rabanastran's in times past, only that his usual focus rarely strayed from Fran in battle.
He had not realised just how many knocks and scrapes the orphans took along the way and how little they complained. He was impressed.
He knew Vaan had the resilience and cunning of a Dire Rat but Penelo was a marvel. She handled Betelgeuse competently even though the gun's recoil still sent her flying backwards with every shot.
It was late afternoon when they made it to the Hunter's Camp, they were all tired, battered and ready for a week long sleep when they staggered into the camp.
With the exuberance of youth (Balthier reflected at the grave old age of twenty-two) Vaan and Penelo immediately forgot their cares and ran for the waters edge. Basch and Fran following at more sedate pace.
The Princess tripped and he caught her without a thought, though she jerked her hand from his as if burnt, contrary little Princess that she was.
'Why the Capital?'
The answer was obvious of course, but for some reason he wanted to hear her say it, to admit that she sought the Nethicite. It had been bothering him a time.
He thought that he could rather enjoy the Princess' company, she was less prickly now than on first acquaintance, but he would not aid and abet another power mad lunatic. He hadn't afforded his own father that honour and he would not accord it to a relative stranger.
The saving grace of Ashelia B'nargin Dalmasca was that she was truly, somewhat naively, trying to do the right thing. She did not want power only for power's sake.
At least he fervently hoped not. Vengeance was there, of course, but it was less all encompassing a passion to her as he had first thought.
Still there was that nagging doubt. The dawning realisation that his life had turned full circle. Drifting in an elegant, meandering loop these last six years to bring him home.
He loved his father still. Too practical a mind, deep down to tolerate self-delusion, though he did enjoy make believe, Balthier could not deny that he loved Cid still.
He knew also that this course he was now on would bring him directly to his father's door-step. The Draklor Laboratories, his fathers mark all over this sordid game of war and empires.
He started speaking to Ashe, confessing his past, speaking his father's name as a warning. He did not want sympathy. He did not truly rate his chances of swaying Ashe's decision if she was set on power, he simply wanted to warn her.
Blood is thicker than water, they say. The crimes of the father are reflected upon the son. Family is inviolate. Balthier put paid to such notions.
He was he knew, and on better days regretted, a profoundly selfish man. He could be kind, generous, gracious on occasion. He would fight for Dalmasca now whole-heartedly, though he didn't much care for the desert country. Yet he was selfish to his core.
When push came to shove he would always look to himself and his own well being. He lived to his own whims making no strong bonds of love or friendship, with the exception of Fran, who was too Balthier alike his own soul, and a man cannot live without that, can he? He stole and he swindled, he was adept at blackmail and extortion.
He did all this not because he had to. He was no street orphan like Vaan or Penelo. No, he did these things because he enjoyed it.
Because he was scion of one of the oldest and most established great Houses of Archades and had been raised from the cradle to believe, absolutely, that Ivalice owed him something for the privilege of hosting his mortal body while he lived.
So in a round about way, because it would not do for the Leading Man to give away too much of the drama in favour of clarity, he tried to warn Ashe exactly who it was she looked too to guide her through Archades.
Balthier knew, perhaps because the high drama and fantasy the man who used to be Ffamran Mid Bunansa lived by demanded it thus, that soon the time would come when he must either take up arms against his own beloved father or betray his very soul.
' The choice is yours. But do not give your heart to a stone Princess, you are too strong for that.'
He did not say to the Princess what he wanted to say. He did not tell her never trust a man who would contemplate the murder of his own father, surely the greatest, most heinous of crimes.
He did not say it because even Balthier needed some form of illusion to cling to and it would not do for the finest of warrior damsels to find out that the Leading Man was nothing more than a villain.