The Viera looked upon Fran with mild revulsion. The hume at her side, the one who called himself Balthier, was the cause of their disgust.
He smelled of the dew that glistened on the petals of the rarest blossoms. He smelled of the rich sap that gushed from wounded trees. He smelled of the moss, of the secret streams, of vines, of fresh new shoots, of unfolding leaves.
In short, he smelt of Fran. Every kiss, every embrace, every feverish coupling had painted his skin with the smell of flowers. She had steeped him in it; part of her had seeped into his skin and now the two bled together, indistinguishable.
"It is not often that you enter the village," Mjrn ventured tentatively. Fran gazed stonily at her in response, though her eyes softened as she noted Mjrn's apologetic expression. Standing tall at her side, Jote blazed. She eyed Balthier with such acid dislike that Fran was surprised he wasn't cowed; instead he grinned at her, much to Jote's fury.
"We do not intend to tarry much longer," Fran responded evenly, fighting the urge to glance at her comrades for confirmation. There was a long moment of silence.
"Your party may rest here for tonight," Jote said shortly, turning to leave. "But you must leave as soon as you are sufficiently refreshed."
Fran's heart skipped a beat; she wanted to thank Jote, but she'd noted the finality in her sister's tone and instead allowed her to leave, watching her retreating back with a mixture of confusion and sadness. The other Viera had begun to disperse, and thus Fran turned to the others.
"I will show you where we may rest," she said, nodding a goodbye to Mjrn and leading the others to the edge of the village. The party was desperately in need of some sleep, and a nap around a campfire in Golmore wouldn't do it. It was just as well Jote had been kind, otherwise Fran wasn't sure they would have made it back to where they left the Strahl. Balthier was hiding his fatigue beneath good humour, but Fran saw the weariness in his bones and longed to comfort him.
"So where is it we'll be resting? I've never seen this much of Eruyt before," Penelo asked, wincing as she assisted Fran with one of the blockades on the walkway.
"It is not luxurious, but it will afford us the comfort we need to recover and eat. We will be able to wash and tend to our wounds too," Fran informed her simply. "It is not far."
They walked a little further, Basch carrying Ashe's slumping form, until they reached an exceptionally sturdy tree at the end of the walkway. A beautifully carved staircase snaked up a tree trunk, spiralling to a dizzying height. Fran led them up the stairs without a word.
They climbed for what felt like hours, bathed in the strange, pale light that seemed to have no particular source. The canopy blossomed in sepia around them as they slowly distanced themselves from the ground, the gilded trees watching silently like golden sentinels. Eventually, they reached a wooden platform, securely anchored in the web of ivory branches. A surprisingly large hut was built into and around the trunk of the tree, made of the same silvery wood. The whole structure was so beautifully carved that one could be forgiven for believing the wood had grown that way rather than being shaped by Viera hands. The tree itself wore an aureate crown of shimmering blossoms in shades of gold and white. The flowers were delicately perfumed, their scent enshrouding their treetop vista in a haze of fragrant mist.
"This is where we rest," Fran informed them, leading them into the hut. "It was once a watchpost, though now it stands abandoned."
The interior of the hut was beautiful in its simplicity. There were three rooms, two smaller siderooms with a bed in each and the main room, where there were a few chairs and a table. A pile of books coated with some odd, glittering dust glimmered dimly in a small bookcase. Examining the surfaces, Balthier realized everything was dusted with a fine layer of golden pollen.
"There isn't enough bedding to go around, so I'm afraid we'll have to share," Balthier said, emerging from one of the bedchambers with an armful of sheets. "I say we sort out somewhere to sleep and then set about making dinner."
Penelo and Ashe took one of the bedchambers, with Ashe sleeping in the bed and Penelo sleeping on the floor. Balthier had offered her the bed in the other room, but she insisted that she'd like to keep an eye on Ashe. Besides, it was so beautiful and quiet that she didn't mind sleeping on the floor. Vaan and Basch opted to sleep in the main room, both of them enthusiastically enlisting themselves as night watchmen.
"You and Fran will have to share the other room," Vaan said with a knowing grin. "Hope you don't mind."
Balthier had to laugh at that and merely shook his head in response. This had played out rather favourably, in his opinion. He had a vague idea that Vaan had cottoned on to his "closeness" with Fran, but the boy had the sense to be quiet about it. Gods forbid he make a comment like that in front of Fran. As if on cue, Fran appeared in the doorway.
"I'm trying to get the irrigation system running, with any luck, we will be able to wash tonight," she told them, raising her eyebrows as Vaan attepted to engage an unamused Basch in a pillow fight.
The irrigation system itself was a rather clever contraption that caught rainwater and funneled along narrow wooden channels to the hut, where it could be loosed from the branches into a recepticle and used for a number of purposes. As the watchpost had once been something of a homestead to the Viera who had guarded Eruyt there, the water system was particularly good and was in fine working order. As Balthier had set about lighting a fire, Fran had found a big pot with a handle. She filled it with water and hung it over fire to heat.
"I'm going to make something to eat," she explained when Penelo had enquired about the enormous cauldron simmering quietly over the fire. "We have exhausted most of our supplies; I thought that a stew would make the most of the little we have. Even with our leftover food, we will still need to gather ingredients."
After their long journey, the food they had was paltry. The smoked fish and salt-cured meat had run out the day before and now all they had left was some stale bread. Fran had bartered in the village and procured them some meat, a few eggs and a small sack of mixed pulses, but that was not enough to make something sufficiently filling. She sent Vaan and Penelo down the steps to gather herbs with careful descriptions of what they were looking for, and set off herself to find some vegetables. There was a small green by a stream further along the walkway if one was daring enough to drop down the side and climb a little. If memory served her correctly, that particular area was rich in some good vegetables. With a final backward glance at their resting place, Fran headed along the walkway, full of a thrilling sense of nostalgia as the wood she knew so well unfolded around her.
Fran had returned with an armful of bizarre-looking vegetables the others had never seen before. She'd washed and chopped all their ingredients and added them to the pot. A glorious smell emanated from it, rising with the spirals of steam and sending a wave of hunger crashing over the group as they huddled around the hearth, eagerly awaiting their food. Eventually, Fran fetched some small bowls and dished out the stew, whilst handing around some bread. Despite the rather sinister appearance of the herbs and vegetables Fran, Penelo and Vaan had gathered, the stew was hearty and delicious. Eating dinner out on the deck had been a strange experience. There was a particular variety of moss that appeared somewhat luminescent at night, and the evening air was full of moths and the smell of flowers. The Viera world was all shades of cream, buff, ivory, white, green, gold. Everything was pure, untouched. There was a curious sense of time having stilled, yet one could feel the trees growing all around them. Once the meal was over, the others reluctantly headed indoors and prepared to bed down. Fran remained on the deck, gazing out into the pale darkness with an expression of miserable thoughtfulness. Balthier placed a hand of her arm.
"What troubles you?" his voice was low, his tone gentle. She did not turn to look at him, but merely shifted so as to be closer to him. For a long while, she did not speak.
"If you are quiet and perspicacious," she said softly, her voice syrupy. "You can feel the trees breathe."
Balthier was not quite sure how to respond. They stood together in silence for a time, and slowly, he began to feel what she had described. The delicate, looping sway of pollen-laden breaths rustled the branches. The sap in the trees rushed through them like the blood in his veins. He could feel the trees breathe. The wood climbed up interminably toward the sky around him, creaking as the gnarled branches clawed at the arcing heavens to pull the stars into their nest of flowers.
"It's beautiful here," he murmured, brushing pollen from her hair. Her eyes were alight with what might have been tears. Balthier almost reeled; he had never seen Fran cry. She just didn't. It wasn't her thing. But there she stood, sadness pearling on her lashes and misting her vision in crystalline fog. He did not ask what prompted the tears, instead opting to envelop her in his arms. Even though she was taller than he was, their embaces were never awkward; it was as though they'd both been sculpted to fit together, as though the Gods had intended for them to cling to each other when they were cast adrift in the tumultuous, bubbling cauldron of life. Their eyes met and she took his face in her hands.
"I do not doubt your sympathy, but you wouldn't understand," she told him, leaning in to kiss him once on the mouth before pulling away. "The wood is like a mother to me. It needles to know that she calls out to me and I cannot hear her."
Balthier remained silent. Fran's ears twitched, almost searchingly. He studied her expression, and the pain he found there wounded him more than he had expected. Suddenly clumsy, he took her hand.
"Shall we go to bed?" he asked gently. Fran nodded, eyes distant.
Balthier had always been a passionate lover, but there was a strange urgency to his lust that night, almost a sadness. It felt like a goodbye. She stifled a quivering gasp, his embrace unwavering as he took her. She pulled him close to kiss him as he thrust into her; her intention partly to seek the warmth of his mouth on hers, partly to muffle the soft moans parting her lips.
"I love you," he murmured into her hair, pulling her closer, her warmth maddening. Fran whispered an incoherent response, her face buried into his shoulder, bruising his skin with her kisses. He knew her better than he knew himself; every elegant dip and sway was forever imprinted upon the memory of his hands. The touch was instinctive. Every scar, freckle, glorious imperfection was indelibly inked somewhere in his mind. To make love to Fran was like reading poetry; finding the beauty interwoven in every fibre of her being was more than an act of carnal fulfilment. Balthier took his time. He sought out the anchor of her hips, the swell of her heaving bosom, the lovebitten scarlet of her mouth. His fingers traced the harpstrings of her ribcage, followed the rush of her blood through her veins, reached within her and touched upon her heart as though he had dipped them through her chest and pulled it, still beating, from her body. He made her his.
They lay tangled together, skin sticking as they kissed fervently through the heat haze. Her dark skin glistened gold as the first rays of sun lanced through the window and struck them with a blinding glow. Fran's white hair spread around her, effulgent, as she collapsed backward onto the pillow, her thighs holding him close. Like a roll of thunder, there was a quickening; Fran first, her lips pressing a violet blossom to his neck, and after a time he followed. He cried out once, then sighed and sunk into a lazy embrace. Fran stroked his hair, scarlet eyes too bright in her face as she gazed heavenward, lips parted. As the glow began to fade, she noted how gaunt he had become. He was still beautiful though, looking at him still stirred something inside her that made her so full of love that she almost felt sad. Even in the midst of lovemaking, she had wept for his beauty, for his heart, for his fire. He was everything, and his breath crept across the gap between them and stole into her lungs, setting her alight from the inside out. His seed was cooling on her thighs, the warmth that had filled her dispersing. She did not miss the fresh wounds, nor the new scars, that criss-crossed his flesh. Fran remembered when they had first met, when he had been as pale and perfect as polished marble, nary a mark to be seen. She remembered healing each wound too; she had been the one who packed the bullet wound in his stomach with rare mosses. He had protested awfully at that, convinced it wouldn't work, but when he found the wound near fully healed within a week, he was silenced. She remembered too the enormous scar that had torn his back and chest wide; he'd taken an axe to the shoulder. Fortunately the wielder was inexperienced and hesitant, for had they had better aim, they might have gotten his head. Had they been stronger, they may have taken his arm. As it was, they had left him with nothing but a jagged stripe of violet scar tissue. There were countless other wounds, other stories writ upon his flesh, and Fran had not forgotten a single one. The knowledge that she would most likely outlive Balthier gnawed at her, but acceptance dulled the pain. One does not fall in love with a sky pirate without at least some expectation for heartbreak. Balthier stirred, rolling over and pulling her close to him. His expression was full of sleepy fulfilment, a strange peace in his eyes that Fran had not seen in months.
"We might not get another night like this again," he said gently.
"I know," she breathed, drawing the blankets around herself and pressing her body against his. Viera did not feel the cold much, but Fran still enjoyed warmth and comfort. After weeks of sleeping rough wherever they could find a spot out of the reach of the local fiends, a bed was heavenly. Some part of her knew he was not referencing the accomodation. She rolled over, propping herself up on her elbows and gazing at him. He smiled and moved to kiss her, but she pushed him away.
"You are not saying goodbye to me," she said flatly. "Now is not our time."
"Spare me," he replied laughingly, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "We are no closer to death now than we have ever been in all our lives."
Fran's eyes darkened, though she said nothing. He leaned over and kissed her, gently, his hands tangling in her hair. She let him because she was angry with him, because she loved him, because she pitied him, because he was beautiful.
"I love you," he murmured, pulling away. Fran did not reply, sliding out of bed. She left him there, her kisses still hot on his flesh, and went out into the wood to wash.
He gazed at nothing in particular, his heart breaking, the absence of her body next to his painfully cold. Guilt chilled him further. Both he and Fran knew their time with the princess on this quest was drawing to a close. The Feywood awaited them, and beyond it, Giruvegan. Beyond that, the unknown. Who knew where the leading man might end up, what may happen to the brave hero at the quest's end? Vaan would have the Strahl, he'd decided upon that. For Fran, he had nothing, for there was no doubt in his heart that he would not walk into the arms of death alone. When his life was extinguished, he did not doubt that hers would not be far behind.
She'd never have admitted it, but she never could bear to be parted from him for long.