It had taken an hour of walking to make it back to the outskirts of Galina, and by the time they had scaled the rolling hills that lead down into the open-air skyport where the Strahl was docked, Penelo was exhausted, ravenous, and parched. The last of the water had run out and her legs felt like they might very well collapse beneath her. They had had nothing to eat since the dried meat that morning, and it was already early evening.
But what she wanted most was a shower. Her skin felt cracked and dry; she was coated in dirt and dust and her arms were still slathered in the remnants of vine-sap and speckles of crusted, dried blood. It seemed to take forever for the Strahl's dock to extend, and then they were both of them rushing for their respective rooms, eager to shed the grime of their journey.
Her shirt had to be peeled off her skin. The blood that caked it crackled as it pulled free, leaving rusty streaks on her chest and abdomen. Her clothes were ruined, and she cast them on the floor without too much concern because there were more important things to attend to – such as the bathroom, filled with all manner of sweetly-scented soaps.
She turned the taps, adjusting the temperature to just shy of scalding and the pressure to a brutal pound, then climbed into the tub and, in deference to her unsteady legs, unceremoniously sat beneath the pouring showerhead, letting the water pummel the sore muscles in her back. Steam billowed, collecting in the shower until she might as well have been encapsulated by a fluffy white cloud. Beneath the heavy stream of water, dried blood flaked free and washed down the drain. Dirt followed suit, sluicing off her skin and turning the bottom of the tub a rusty brown.
Her palm stung; the bandage was saturated with water, pulling away from the rent skin. She unwound it gingerly and discarded it over the side of the tub, then splayed her palm open to inspect the damage. It was deeper than she had realized, bisecting her palm from the base of her index finger nearly to her wrist. It might even need stitching. At least the slice itself was clean; it was smooth and even, and provided she cared for it properly, it would probably only result in minimal scarring.
She seemed to be collecting scars like some people collected works of art.
Balthier had been wounded, too – though he had not complained of it, the death adder's fang had pierced his arm deeply. She hadn't seen him change out his own bandage at all, and she wondered how bad the damage had truly been. If he had been ignoring his own pain merely so that she wouldn't feel guilt over accepting the last of the potions.
With her good hand, she massaged a palmful of shampoo through her hair, sighing as the sweet floral scent permeated the steamy air. It wasn't the fragrance she would have chosen, but beggars could hardly afford to be choosers, and at least it offered up a comforting froth of cleansing bubbles, turning the matted, tangled strands of her hair smooth and silky. She dipped her head back, allowing the spray of water to rinse clean her hair. Cleansing the remnants of sap took a bit more work and dedication, requiring repeated rinses and careful peeling from her skin.
But at last she was clean – or at least passably so. Fran's toiletries were full of fragrant oils that eased the aches and pains, soothed her dry skin, and restored it to a healthy glow. And still, though the shower had served its purpose and there was really no reason to linger, she made no move to climb out. The relentless pounding of the water was comforting, and the steam relieved the pain of her scratched throat.
She'd been in the bathroom so long, she was faintly surprised that the hot water hadn't yet run out. Doubtless Balthier had gotten out of his own shower ages ago.
She rested her head against the wall and sighed. Balthier had kissed her – twice. Once was a fluke, a bit of madness, a fever-induced folly.
Twice meant something.
But for the life of her, she couldn't determine what.
Penelo remained in the shower until the hot water did run out, then wrapped up in a fluffy towel and steeled herself for the coming unpleasantness of crawling back into her filthy clothing. At least she could take comfort in the fact that, having disregarded Balthier's suggestion of purchasing higher-quality clothing, she would only be out the small bit of gil that the ruined ones had cost.
But when she opened the bathroom door, her discarded clothes were gone from where they had been carelessly tossed upon the floor, and resting on the bed was a new set of fresh, clean, neatly folded clothes. Done up in a dusky peach color, they were clearly a good deal more expensive than the ruined set had been. The fabric was soft, good quality; it slipped beneath her fingers with none of the customary roughness she had become acclimated to. It wouldn't be given to wrinkle or scratch.
She picked up the blouse, held it up to her chest with one hand – her size, not Fran's, so clearly not poached from amongst Fran's belongings.
Which could only mean that Balthier had taken it into his head to purchase them himself – he had clearly been busy in town while she had been ensconced in the shower. A knot of frustration rose in her throat; she crumpled the clothing in her fist and stalked to the door, flinging it open to proceed down the corridor. The rich scent of cooked meat, coupled with the spicy tang of garlic met her, told her that Balthier would likely be found somewhere in the vicinity of the kitchen.
When she rounded the corner, the clothing held aloft accusingly, she was baffled to see Balthier standing at the small stove, hovering over a couple of pans. His hair was clean and dry, his face freshly-shaven, and he'd changed into a clean set of clothes. He hadn't noticed her yet; he was keeping a careful eye on whatever it was he was cooking, taking his attention from one pan to sprinkle a pinch of fresh rosemary into the other. The savory scent permeated the air, tingling in her nose.
"You cook?" It hadn't been what she'd intended to ask, but it had slipped out anyway.
His head jerked up momentarily, as if startled by her sudden appearance, but he quickly returned his attention to the pans. "Naturally," he said. "How had you imagined I subsisted?"
"I don't know," she said. "I guess I thought you were the sort to just…frequent restaurants."
"My travels often take me far from cities, with nary a restaurant to be found. I should starve if I did not cook for myself." He retrieved a pair of tongs, used them to flip the meat cooking in the pan, and there was a delicious sizzle and a burst of renewed fragrance of cooking meat. "Of course, I generally prefer the convenience of restaurant dining when it is readily available."
"Then why cook now?" She gestured out the window, to the walls enclosing Galina not a hundred yards away. "Galina's bound to have dozens of restaurants."
"Hundreds," he said. "But I rather thought you might not be up for a journey into the city tonight. It has been a trying few days." He busied himself with collecting a couple of plates from the cabinet overhead, setting them out upon the countertop. "You've developed an alarming habit of wearing towels in place of clothing."
She frowned at the comment and took a seat at the bar, lifting the clothing in her hand for his inspection. "You've developed an alarming habit of attempting to choose my clothing for me."
He bent over the pans, using the tongs to plate the food, and said in a chiding tone, "Darling. They were ruined. You must know they were."
"They were still mine!" She huffed her annoyance; he didn't have to be so…so godsdamned right all the time. But she subsided into a sulky silence when he passed a plate of food across the bar to her and set silverware beside it. Her stomach rumbled.
"Would you honestly have preferred to wear them again? They were so filthy that it was a trial just to persuade a seamstress to accept them for measurement purposes alone," he said, collecting his own plate and silverware to claim his own seat at the bar.
Next to him with his elegant table manners, she felt clumsy and common. She had never learned how to manage utensils so that they did not scrape roughly against the plate. And she shifted in her seat, wishing she'd put on the clothes regardless of their origin. The towel kept riding up her thighs, making her uncomfortably aware of how little it actually covered.
"I don't have the money for frivolous purchases," she said between bites. "I don't have the luxury of purchasing such fine clothing; I have to economize for the time being."
"That's a shame. I've already put in an order for several more sets," he said, as casually as if they were discussing the weather.
She turned on him with a glare. "You didn't."
"I did." His gaze remained fixed upon his plate, as though he were giving their conversation only half of his attention. "Extra clothing is not a luxury, it is a necessity. The alternative is –" He set his fork down and waved his hand to indicate her towel, "– that."
She felt a flush creeping over her cheeks, and dropped her fork to clutch the towel tighter around her chest. "I'm sorry if I've offended your delicate sensibilities," she sniffed. "I'll go change."
"I'm not offended," he said, and his words were even and measured. "But I am a man, and so perhaps it isn't the wisest course of action to wear so little when you've other options."
She pushed back her chair, tucked the set of clothes beneath her arm, and said, "That's ridiculous. Fran wears far less." And what little she did wear was far, far more provocative, besides.
"I have never desired Fran in that way," he said, carefully, as if he had meant more than he had said.
She didn't understand. And then, quite suddenly, she did understand. And she was glad that he had his back to her, that he hadn't bothered to face her, because the very last thing she would have wanted was for him to witness her making a goose of herself with her slack-jawed stare.
"I don't…" She clenched her good hand on the loose ends of the towel, backing up a step. The small dining area had somehow grown too close to contain both of them; though he posed no obvious threat – wasn't even facing her – it was imperative to put a bit more distance between them. "You didn't…five years ago, you didn't…" She couldn't even get out a complete thought, couldn't sort through the disordered jumble of them swirling around in her head long enough to form a coherent sentence.
He made a rough, vaguely annoyed sound deep in his throat. "Five years ago, you were a child."
She swallowed hard. "I'm not that sort of person," she said. "I don't...have those kinds of desires."
He made a small sound, and she thought he might've tried to disguise a laugh as a cough. "I'm sure you believe that's true," he said. "But you learned that lesson from a man who lied to you at every turn. If the source cannot be trusted, how, then, can the conclusion be trusted?"
Her throat was dry again, her knees trembled like reeds in the wind. She braced her palm against the sill of the window against her back, wincing at the pressure of the varnished wood on her torn flesh. But the pain was bracing, stabilizing. It snapped her out of the daze she'd reeled within.
"You don't understand," she said.
"I understand all too well," he replied. He pushed his plate away and spun the chair to face her. "Humiliation is powerful motivator. Those without conscience use it to maintain control." He slung his arm over the back of the chair, ostensibly to make it clear that he intended to remain seated, that he posed no physical threat. "You don't have to please him any longer."
"Oh, instead I should please you?" she snapped.
"I didn't say that," he said evenly. "In fact, you should seek to please only yourself." He curled his arm, tilted his head to rest his cheek in his palm. "I do know what it is like," he said, "to hear someone else's voice in my head, heaping all manners of insults upon me, telling me that I would never be good enough, that I would always be a disgrace. For a long while, I listened – and I was the worse for it."
She wondered if he were speaking of his father. Certainly there had seemed to be no love lost between the two men; Balthier had resented his father's madness and ambition, and Cidolfus had resented his son's refusal to ally with him. Her lips compressed into a firm line, unwilling to interrupt.
"I should hate for you to fall victim to the same," he said. "You must exorcise that voice, or else he will control you still."
"He doesn't control me," she said, in a hard little voice that burned with anger.
"You see yourself through a lens of shame," he said. "And that's the real tragedy – that you don't understand how misplaced it is." He unfolded himself from the chair, noting ruefully that she recoiled as if he might make a grab for her. Instead he collected the discarded plates, shuffling them into the sink. "I am not asking you go to bed with me," he said, and waved to indicate the clothing tucked beneath her arm. "I am asking that you refrain from tempting me, however unintentionally. The clothing is mere self-preservation, protection for the both of us."
Her face burned with mortification. "I really didn't mean to," she squeaked.
"I know that," he said. "It's hardly your fault that I find it difficult to concentrate when you are…less than clothed. I make the request out of deference to your wishes." He stood in the entryway to the small kitchen, leaned against the wall, and folded his arms over his chest. "You've had too few choices of late. I won't take this one from you."
She managed a shaky nod, peeling herself away from the window. "I'll, uh…it's getting late. I think I'll just…go to bed early tonight." Her voice sounded high and awkward even to her own ears, and she fought to keep from cringing.
But he called her name as she passed him, and she paused, glancing over her shoulder.
"You'll notice that I haven't promised not to offer…encouragement," he said, and the hint of a grin lingered at the corners of his mouth. "But the choice is always yours. You owe me nothing, and I will never ask for more than you are willing to give."
What a novel concept; she could feel the doubt twisting her mouth into a frown. In her experience, there was always the expectation of more from men, and bitter recriminations followed swiftly if they did not receive it. She glanced down at the clothing tucked beneath her arm – had Raen purchased them, he would have felt entitled to the use of her body as a reward.
He read the telling look, and shook his head in consternation. "A gift," he said. "Only a gift – without strings or expectations. I don't value you so cheaply that I would think to buy your affections." But her face was still etched with doubt, and he sighed. "I can see that it will take some convincing. Go on to bed, then. Tomorrow we must keep our promise to Anora."
And she nodded, flustered, and fled to the safety of Fran's room.
Penelo had risen with the sun for the first time in memory, jarred into alertness by the light streaming violently through the window straight into her eyes. She hadn't slept well. Her brain had churned tirelessly into the night, mulling over Balthier's revelation.
She ought to have cut and run. There was no shame in cutting her losses and getting out before she was in too deep – it was what she should have done years ago, before she'd gotten herself so entangled with Raen.
But a part of her – a very small part – wanted Balthier to be better. To be honest, to prove that his words weren't merely the empty promises she had heard so often before. She had seen the worst of the world already, had spent so long mired in hopelessness and uncertainty. Just once, she wanted to be wrong, to have her honestly-earned cynicism proven unfounded. Just once, she wanted someone to rise above her expectations.
She didn't know if Balthier was the right person for the job. But she was accustomed enough to disappointment that she imagined that she could take it in stride. She could always leave. He had already given her that precious gift – she could leave whenever she liked; there was no chain to compel her to stay.
And that, at least, was worth something – that the worst of his sins so far had been to insist upon a proper array of clothing. If one discounted that...other thing.
He said he expected nothing. He said the choice was hers, that he would never pressure her for more than she wished to give.
Gods help her – she wanted him to mean it. She didn't want to go running off like a thief in the night; she didn't want to give up the easy camaraderie they so frequently shared. But she didn't think she would ever be able to play on his level, and he was bound to be disappointed.
But until then, she supposed she might be able to offer him the benefit of the doubt.
And she wasn't planning on staying longer than necessary, anyway – just long enough to earn enough capital to finance herself going forward. Because surely Fran would tire of babysitting Vaan in short order. And then she would be superfluous; there would be no excuse for her to remain.
It was all just a temporary arrangement. And provided Balthier kept his word, it could be both pleasant and profitable.
And so she reached for the clothes he'd purchased – the only thing she had to wear, curse him and his meddling – and reluctantly donned them. They were soft and pretty, neither too loose nor too constricting, and the smooth slide of the fabric over her skin was unmistakably quality. It annoyed her, in a vague sort of way, that they were so perfect – just once, she'd like to see him muck something up. His incredible aptitude for preparation was irritating; Vaan flew so frequently by the seat of his pants that Penelo had become accustomed to his recklessness, accustomed to extricating themselves from danger only by the skin of their teeth. But Balthier left very little to chance – not even something so inconsequential as selecting clothing. And that was unsettling, because it carried with it the suggestion that he would always be several steps ahead of her, which was a prospect she could ill afford.
The Strahl was silent and still; no betraying noise met her ears as she crept from the room. The corridor was empty, the deck deserted. Balthier must still be asleep. An image rose in her mind; his mouth twisted in sulky petulance as he'd demanded five more minutes of sleep when she'd tried to wake him, in the depths of the jungle.
Not a morning person, then, she supposed. A minor imperfection, but something, at least, to blur the line between paragon and person. She rummaged through the cabinets in search of coffee, assembled the supplies and set it up to brew. While it began to percolate, she searched the small pantry and smaller refrigerator for the makings of some sort of breakfast.
She didn't know how he took his coffee, she realized, as she dished out a generous serving of eggs and bacon onto a plate, setting it at the bar. She proceeded down the corridor and tapped lightly at his door. No sound from within, not even the smallest acknowledgement of her knock.
She inched the door open, peeking within. Through the crack she could only see the tiniest sliver of the bed. Tangled white sheets and a twisted grey blanket dominated, thrown into rough peaks and valleys, as if their occupant were the worst sort of restless sleeper. A slice of bronzed skin cut through them, but she could hardly tell from this angle whether it might be his arm or back.
The door creaked as she eased it open further. His head was buried beneath a mound of pillows, bracketed by his arms. The abused covers had fallen to his waist as if they were embroiled in a bitter struggle to protect some small amount of modesty.
"Balthier?" she called.
A groan emanated from beneath the pillows; the muscles in his back flexed and stretched. With alarming accuracy, one arm dislodged itself from beneath the pile of pillows, snatched one up, and lobbed it in her direction.
She gave a little shriek of surprise, jerking the door back to block the sudden attack, then covered her mouth to stifle the burst of laughter that clawed to escape from her throat. She took a deep breath, swallowed it down, and eased the door open again.
"Breakfast is ready." This time she was prepared; she snapped the door shut, waited for the soft pop of the feather pillow hitting the door, and slid it open once again.
"Coffee, too." That, at least, garnered a response that did not result in a projectile launched at her head.
Although she had not asked, he grumbled in a sleep-roughened voice, "Cream. No sugar."
"Right." She smothered another snicker; other than the guttural rumble, he'd made no concessions toward rising – not even the tiniest twitch that would suggest he had any intention of getting out of bed any time soon.
She closed the door and proceeded back to the kitchen, wondering if she ought to have actually waited until she'd seen him up and about to begin cooking. Nonetheless, she selected a pair of mugs from a cabinet and set about preparing his coffee the way he'd requested it.
As she finished the last of the cleaning up, drying the pans with a clean cloth and setting them back into their drawers, she heard the creak of a door in the corridor, followed by the steady tread of Balthier's boots on the wood-paneled floors.
He looked…grumpy. Though he was perfectly attired and his hair had clearly been combed into perfect obedience, he had the straight-shouldered, taut-jawed look of a man who had been unfairly maligned, as if, merely by waking him, she had done him a terrible disservice.
He grabbed for the mug she offered him as if it were a lifeline, curling his fingers around it protectively and tossing back its still-scalding contents in an almost worrying sort of desperation. His shoulders hunched as he dropped into the chair with something less than his usual grace, and he handed the empty mug back to her, presumably to be refilled.
Once she had prepared a new cup, she pushed it back across the counter to him, along with some silverware.
He stared at the food on the plate before him as if he could not quite determine what its purpose might be. "It's far too early to eat," he grated at last.
Penelo's brows rose. "It's gone half past eight already."
He shuddered, as if the very thought were untenable. "The world does not exist before ten," he said.
She pursed her lips against the threat of a smile. "I don't recall you being so lazy," she said. "Five years ago, we were frequently up before dawn."
"There is a distinct difference between needs must and willfully choosing to arise at an ungodly hour when there is no call to do so," he said sulkily.
She nudged the plate toward him again. "I went to the trouble of making it," she said. "The least you can do is go to the trouble of eating it."
He gave an irritated grumble into his cup of coffee, but even so he reached for the fork she'd laid beside the plate, and took a bite. Though he had claimed not to be hungry, his eyes closed in obvious pleasure, and after that first bite he attacked the food with new vigor.
"See?" She folded her arms over her chest. "I'm a good cook, too. I just haven't had much of an opportunity for it until recently."
"I was already aware," he said as he polished off the last of the eggs. "You did most of the cooking five years ago."
"Oh." She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "I guess…I didn't think anyone had really noticed."
"I noticed." His green-eyed gaze speared her with vivid intensity.
"Oh," she repeated lamely. Feeling the heat of a flush come on beneath his ardent scrutiny, she ducked her head and went through the mechanical motions of washing her hands in the small sink. A few moments later she was aware of the heat of his body at her back as his hand slipped past her to slide the plate and utensils into the sink.
His voice was warm, rumbling near her ear. "Thank you for breakfast. Shall we take advantage of the early start, then, and do our duty to Anora?"
She cleared her throat and dried her hands on the dish towel. "Yes," she said. "We might as well."
There was the lightest pressure just on the top of her head, stirring her hair, as if he'd brushed his cheek there. But when she turned around, he was already walking away.
Galina was a riot of activity, flying in the face of the initial impression she had formed of it some days before. She had thought, before, that she had never witnessed a town where the forward march of time seemed to be of so little consequence. Despite its massive, sprawling size, its citizens had moved at a speed that could, at best, be called lazy, as if there were nothing of more import to do than to take a leisurely stroll through the marketplace.
"Oh, yes," Balthier murmured, after a quick glance at her startled face, "I may have forgotten to mention: the aftershocks of Anora's cataclysm were felt well into the city. I suspect they are preparing scouting expeditions to investigate."
Penelo dodged a man who, overladen with all manner of weaponry, barreled through the crowd at a high clip giving no care to who might be occupying the space he passed through. "Hm," she sighed, as she slanted a cross look at the man, who remained oblivious to her presence, "I suppose we ought to inform someone, then, that there's no cause for alarm?"
"I doubt that even word from on high would persuade them," he said. "But we should find our way to some sort of historical society – they'll doubtless wish to send out scouts to survey the tomb before it gets ransacked by looters. Although…" His hand touched her back to direct her away from the swell of the crowd, and the heat of his fingers seared her skin even through her shirt. "We've a stop or two to make along the way."
She followed along in his wake as he navigated through the flood of people, wading through the open-air market and down a side street, where the crowd had thinned. At last he stopped before a nondescript shop and pushed open the door, beckoning for her to follow.
Behind the scarred wooden counter, an elderly man, hunched and wizened with age, blinked up at them from behind thick-rimmed spectacles. "Ahh, you've returned. This is the lady, then, I take it, sir?"
"Yes." Balthier again laid his hand gently upon her back, urging her forward. "I thought you might prefer a more accurate measurement."
"Quite, quite." He brandished a measuring tape, scuttling out from behind the counter so swiftly that Penelo nearly drew back in shock. "A challenge, sir, the likes of which I've not been presented in all of my days. I think you'll be pleased with the results, however." The measuring tape snapped in his hands as he drew it along the length of Penelo's leg, wrapped it round her calf, and draped it around her hips. The results he seemed to commit to memory, muttering beneath his breath. "Only a few darts and a bit of hemming necessary, sir – it won't take but a moment if you'd care to wait."
Penelo exhaled in relief as the shopkeeper scurried away, diverting her attention to the shop itself. It didn't look like any clothier's shop she'd ever seen – not that she'd been within more than a handful. The interior was masculine, done up in understated browns, and there wasn't a fashion magazine to be found, nor the bits of ribbon and buttons and other such fripperies she'd have expected. Instead there were large strips of leather hide dangling from the rafters, or set against the wall on massive rollers, and brass togs of varying varieties set within rows of drawers.
"Leathers are expensive," she whispered uneasily to Balthier. "Far out of my price range, certainly."
"I struck a bargain with the shopkeeper," he said. "It won't cost us a single gil."
She was pondering how that could possibly be true when at last the shopkeeper returned, holding over his arm a pair of trousers. As he approached, the light pouring in through the window caught on them, and they glowed with a faint iridescence.
"Took a bit of doing," the shopkeeper said. "I worked the night through. But it polished up nicely, and I thought a nice black fabric backing would be a sight more comfortable." He offered them to Penelo. "I do have a back room, miss, if you'd like to try them on."
She accepted the offering, holding out her arms to take it. The snakeskin trousers gleamed, light trickling over the shiny scales like water. It had been polished to a high shine, oiled to maintain its sleek smoothness, and worked to supple pliability. The interior had been lined with a velvety soft fabric, which would undoubtedly guard well against cold weather, as well as provide a bit of extra comfort.
"There was enough left over for another pair of trousers," Balthier murmured. "The shopkeeper believes that such an unusual material will fetch a high price; he was more than willing to trade these for the remainder of the skin."
She ducked her head, for a moment in terrible danger of crying, unspeakably touched. He'd remembered what she'd wanted – and he'd seen it done for her, and managed to do it without shelling out a small fortune on her behalf, without making her feel further indebted to him.
"They're perfect," she said.
And Balthier was momentarily dazzled by the bright smile she cast him, for it held all the warmth of the sun.