Twilight was falling over the horizon when the Strahl landed, a monochromatic sunset coming down like a curtain upon the grey sky. The snow blanketing the ground was thick and dense, evidence of a blizzard that had recently passed, but the air was clear except for a few tiny snow flurries.
During the process of finding a safe place to land, Balthier had been moderately concerned that Penelo might actually jump out a window rather than wait the few extra minutes it would take. He saw in her overexcited behavior echoes of the past; she pressed her cheek against the window, staring out over the frigid landscape that stretched before them, bouncing up and down on her toes.
Whatever sulking she had felt compelled to do had gotten out of her system, and she was a bundle of energy just waiting to spring free of the ship to frolic in the snow, precisely as she had five years ago. He was gratified to see it; it seemed that with each passing day she rediscovered a bit more of herself, cast off a bit more of the wariness she had cloaked herself in. She hadn't had a panic attack since they'd been trapped in the jungle – and though he didn't think she was by any means fully recovered, he was inclined to believe she was on the path nonetheless.
The moment the Strahl touched down, she leapt for the button that would extend the dock, jamming it until she heard the hum of the mechanism, and then she dived towards the rear of the ship, sprinting down the corridor to exit.
A blast of freezing air sailed in, the cool, clean bite of winter caressed Balthier's face as he followed her at a more leisurely pace. A trill of high, joyful laughter wafted to his ears on the back of the wind. He jammed an extra set of gloves into the pocket of his jacket, as Penelo had seen fit to dash off without them.
The blinding blanket of white was broken only by the occasional jut of grey stone marking the boundaries of the Paramina Rift. Some fifty yards or so ahead, Balthier could see that Penelo had dropped to her knees in the snow, clumping handfuls of it together. Though a bandage stretched across her injured palm, a steady supply of potions would keep the pain manageable until the wound had fully healed.
Her coat was overlarge – it had been acquired from the clothier's at a steep discount, because the lady who had ordered it had never gotten around to paying for it and so it was terribly out of season and style for the region. But it was made of soft blue wool and lined with fur, and it hung well past her knees, insulating her from the worst of the chill. Her head was obscured by the hood, but a few locks of platinum hair had managed to escape their ribbon, and tangled with the brisk wind in an artless dance.
Her fingers were already white with cold, but she didn't seem particularly bothered by it. She looked to be constructing some sort of tiny building, much like a sand castle. He supposed that, because sand had been all she had known as a child, the concept of snowmen would be unfamiliar to her, and so she had fallen back on the staple of her youth.
"How did you know?" she asked as he approached. "You couldn't have known when you bought the coat that I would want to come here. I didn't even know." The hood of her coat fell back as she peered up at him; her cheeks glowed a wind-burned pink.
But he had known, in a vague sort of way – her fascination with snow had been seared into his memory. Perhaps he hadn't known for certain, per se…but he had hoped.
"Perhaps I know you better than you know yourself," he said, and cast her a faintly mocking smile.
She, like the child she was playing at being, stuck her tongue out at him, scrunching her nose up.
"In all actuality," he said, "it was available for a pittance, and I thought you would like it." It was the color of her eyes exactly, a delicate shade just a touch deeper than the blue of a clear sky.
A smile flirted with the corners of her mouth; she ducked her head and concentrated upon her task, pressing snow up into high walls, forming an archway between them. "I do like it," she said. "Thank you." And then she lifted her face, and her lips were pursed in disapproval. "I still think you shouldn't have bought so many things."
"Don't be difficult," he chided.
An uptick in the wind's severity caught his attention; he turned his head and shaded his eyes against the draft-borne flurries that whipped through the air on the wind that howled through the Rift.
A snowball smacked the back of his head, crumbling beneath the force of the strike, icy flakes clinging in clumps to his hair and neck. The bits of snow melted quickly with the heat of his skin, cold rivulets of water sliding down his neck and into his collar.
Penelo cackled with glee.
He turned and fixed her with an incredulous look, but she only doubled over in response, choking on her laughter. Snow that had packed and hardened beneath his boots crunched as he took a step toward her, the ominous sound breaking over the whoosh of the wind.
Her laughter faded to helpless giggles, broken by desperate gasps for air. She threw up one hand, warding him off. "Now, Balthier –"
Another step closer had her scrambling to her feet, snow castle abandoned. One wall collapsed beneath the pressure of her boot as she trod upon it in her haste to flee.
And still she laughed breathlessly, and it echoed in bright mocking trills along the walls of the Rift, cascading around him, pure and perfect. He was certain that she hadn't laughed like that in a depressingly long time.
He gave her a sporting head start before he gave chase, pursuing her through the twisting valley. Her footfalls were muffled by the snow, but the high-pitched, nervous laughter was all he needed to guide him through the maze of passages.
Rounding a corner, he caught sight of her twenty yards ahead. She was careening towards a bend, but the snow beneath her feet had clumped into ice. Her boots failed to find traction; she skidded across the ice, and for a fraction of a second her arms pinwheeled in a desperate attempt to maintain her balance.
She failed; her boots slipped out from underneath her and she tumbled backwards into a deep snowdrift with a muffled thump, disappearing beneath the mound of snow.
He threw back his head and laughed until sides hurt, until her head popped up and she glared at him. Her face was dusted with fluffy white snow, and she scraped at it with her hand.
"Help me out, would you?" She stuck her hand up, waving it at him.
Still chuckling, he eased down the slick incline, carefully navigating the patches of ice that stretched across the path. She had managed to sit up, but she was otherwise buried in almost three feet of powdery snow, and it clung to her clothes like a coat of frosting.
He reached out to clasp her icy hand in his and caught the glimmer of mischief in her eyes half a second too late – she tightened her grip and pulled, and the quick jerk threw off his own precarious claim to balance. His boots slipped, and he pitched forward, shaking loose of her hand just in time to catch himself and avoid crushing her beneath him.
Snow fluffed up around them as he fell, tiny stinging bits of cold peppering his face and neck, dusting his hair. She dissolved once again into peals of laughter, collapsing back into the snow.
"You little witch," he accused, but he couldn't seem to wipe the grin from his face to give the words the heat they might've had otherwise. He braced his forearms on either side of her head, and shifted so that he could tug on the hood of her coat, dislodging it from where it was crumpled beneath her neck to straighten it out and protect her head against the snow beneath her.
Her amusement ended on a little hum of satisfaction at having gotten one over on him. She did not seem particularly concerned that he had ended up sprawled over her, but the thick wool of her coat likely shielded her from the press of his body on hers. At the moment it was all in fun, but soon her wariness would surface and conquer her good humor and she would push him away again.
He shifted his weight to push himself off of her, but when he extended his arms, she grasped for his shoulders and said in a small voice, "No, don't."
He hesitated briefly, then lowered himself once again, bracing the bulk of his weight on his forearms. Her hands moved up his shoulders, clasping around the nape of his neck, her icy fingers warming to the heat of his skin. A skirl of snow danced in the air between them, a few tiny flakes settling on the collar of her coat.
Her fingernails scraped through the hair at the nape of his neck, and he suppressed a shudder. The silence was a fragile thing, stretched thin and waiting to be broken. But she only chewed on her lower lip, her brows drawing together as if she were conflicted.
And so he asked at last, "What is it that you want, Penelo?"
She shifted a bit, opened her mouth to speak, and promptly closed it again. She huffed as if aggravated by her own indecision, her lips pursing. And he waited, unmoving, even as her fingertips caressed the back of his neck.
She took a deep breath as though she were summoning up all of her courage, and at last she said in a rush, "I want you to kiss me." And her face flushed, and she ducked her head briefly to hide it.
Triumph surged through him; this was what he had been waiting for, this very moment, the first overture that she had made of her own accord. But he tamped down on his delight and considered the effort it had taken for her to make her request – she had had to force it out. So she was something shy of certain, then – and he didn't want to prey upon that uncertainty for his own benefit.
So he took a gamble and said, "No."
Her mouth dropped open with a sharp little gasp of surprise. "What?"
"No," he reiterated, as gently as possible. "If you want a kiss, you can kiss me."
She screwed up her mouth in annoyance, her displeasure etched in the furrowing of her brows, her set jaw, the frown tilting the corners of her lips. Her hands shifted, and he thought she would withdraw them and push him away, irked with his challenge – but instead her cold fingers slid smoothly through his hair and drew down his cheeks to cup his jaw. She wriggled beneath him, her boots scraping his legs as she readjusted to draw up one knee, bracing one foot against the ground.
She arched up, and he found himself shifting his weight to one arm, his free hand sliding beneath her to support her back. Her cool lips touched his, just at the corner, soft and delicate, and he savored the light pressure. His arm pressed against her spine, his palm cupped the back of her head; he felt the flutter of her lashes against his cheek, the heat of her breath on his chin as she exhaled.
And he waited, barely breathing, for the next touch of her lips – but it did not come. Instead, she gazed at him with faint amusement, the corner of her mouth hitched up in a vaguely victorious smile. "Not so pleasant with the shoe on the other foot, is it?" she asked, patting his cheek in patronizing condescension.
This time it was his turn to be aghast. "You spiteful child," he said, even as she struggled in vain to stifle her snickering. And yet he was somehow impressed – she wasn't a timid little mouse to be pulled along wherever he led, nor would she merely be content to sulk and stew in her anger. She would fight back, repay slight for slight, defy his expectations simply because she could – because her chief asset was the fact that her mettle was often underestimated, and that gave her an advantage to which few could lay claim.
She was so pleased with herself – but she had made a critical error. She had asked him to kiss her. He might have declined initially, but he was entitled to change his mind. So he slanted his head and kissed her, like she'd asked, like she'd wanted him to do earlier. Her amusement died an abrupt death, her breath caught in the back of her throat as she made a little sound of surprise. Her hands spasmed, her fingernails prickling along his jaw for the space of a second. And then a fine tremor ran through her hands, and they slid along his jaw, around the back of his head, and her nails raked through his hair.
She made a low, sweet sound, angling her head to suit, and her lips parted to the pressure of his, the cold vanquished by the heat of their mingled breaths. She moved restlessly beneath him, shuddering – but not from the surrounding snow. Her shoulders drew up tight and tense, as if she struggled to get closer, but she was trapped by the weight of his body, and so he eased to the side, dragging her with him as he rolled. His knee was caught between her legs, and he drew it up until she gasped, her body arching helplessly against him.
Her damned coat was too thick; he ran his hand down her side and could feel only the barest hint of the curve of her body through the fabric. He hadn't foreseen that particular complication – his fingers swept between them, exploring the front of her jacket, searching for the closures, and finding only smooth fabric. How did the damn thing open? His hand traveled up to the collar, slipping beneath it for clues.
A gurgle of laughter escaped her as she broke away, having sensed the source of his frustration. "It's a wrap closure," she said. "You can't get to it that way."
Defeated, he gave a heavy sigh and dropped his head against the curve of her neck, contenting himself with kissing the delicate skin there. She purred like a drowsy kitten, her fingertips flexing on his shoulders. He had thought that she would've retreated, that she might even have chastised him for his thwarted attempt to divest her of her coat, but she seemed pleased to soak up the affection that he lavished upon her, tilting her head to accommodate him.
But the cold was seeping in through his clothes at last, and her lips were tinged with blue. When her fingers brushed the back of his neck, they were cold as ice. He'd forgotten the gloves – they were still lodged in his pocket. He reached down and shoved his hand in his pocket, grabbing up the gloves and jerking them free.
"Put these on," he said. "Your hands are freezing."
The gloves were his; she struggled to pull them on, and they swallowed her hands, the extra fabric dangling over her fingertips.
The first stars were beginning to glow through the steadily-deepening sky. Night was making a swift approach, and they would have to make for the ship. He managed to disentangle their limbs, pushing himself up and out of the snow, clasping her wrist to avoid yanking the glove right off her hand as he helped her to her feet.
"We ought to be heading back," he said. "We can't risk getting caught in the dark."
The moon burned behind the misty cloud-cover, a pale lamp shining upon the sparkling snow. They trudged together up the hill, mindful, this time, of the ice that shimmered in the moonlight. The Strahl came into view as they rounded a corner, perched at the top of another incline, but Penelo had stopped in her tracks, peering down another passage of the Rift.
He paused, turning to see what she was looking at – and recognized it at once. The thick, raised wedge of stone, the overhanging ledge that kept it dry and free of ice and snow…it was where they had camped five years before on their way through the Paramina Rift.
She stuffed her gloved hands in the pockets of her coat and said, "I don't want to go back to the Strahl. I want to camp there."
"You're joking." He stared in open astonishment. "It's freezing. And the Strahl has actual beds."
"We did it once before," she said.
"Out of necessity," he countered. "Do you remember what it was like?" The wind had whipped the hides sheltering them the night through, pushing swirls of snow in through the open spaces beneath to dance across their faces. They had been tired and cold and hungry and filthy, and all night long there had been a constant cacophony comprised of the clink and scrrratch of armor across the stone. It had been cramped and uncomfortable and awkward, and quite possibly the worst night's sleep he'd ever gotten.
"Yes," she said. "That's why I want to camp here again – it's one of my favorite memories. Don't tell me you don't have the supplies; I won't believe it."
He did, of course – there were bedrolls and tarps and all manner of things aboard the Strahl that he rarely had occasion to use but kept close at hand anyway, in the interest of preparedness.
She turned and made for the Strahl. "You don't have to accompany me," she said. "I'm sure I'll be fine on my own. I can build a shelter and set up a fire."
Damned if he was going to leave her to her own devices in such frigid temperatures. The stubborn girl would probably freeze to death before admitting defeat.
And he muttered a few choice expletives beneath his breath – if she was bound and determined to camp, then they would bloody well camp. But he wasn't inclined to give up his creature comforts merely for the purpose of humoring her harebrained ideas, and she would simply have to live with it.
Night had fully descended over the land by the time they exited the Strahl, arms laden with supplies.
"I don't think really we need all of this," Penelo muttered as she clasped her arms around the bundle of bedclothes, squirming beneath the weight of the bag strapped to her back.
"I do," he said. "Believe me – if I had been able to manage a mattress, I would have done. I never sleep on hard stone if it can at all be avoided." As it was, he wasn't sure the bedclothes he'd pilfered from the linen closet would suffice. He ought to have grabbed more – but then, he could always make a second trip if necessary.
At least the light of the moon reflected enough on the surface of the snow to light their path; though he'd brought along logs and a tinderbox, he hadn't been willing to free up an arm in order to carry a torch. The packets of weights in the pockets of his jacket pulled it tight across his shoulders, and they bounced against his hips with every step. How had he let her talk him into this?
She made it to the campsite before him, dumping the bedclothes upon the stone and prying loose the bag from her back, rifling through it to pull out the folded tarps. They were thick and heavy, the outside oiled to waterproof slickness, the inside made of brushed leather to insulate against all weathers. He went to work stringing them up, stacking the weights along the edge of the tarp at the top of the ledge, then weighing the bottom edge against the ground. The wind blowing down the passage rippled the tarp, but it stayed secured, holding out the icy blast of air. It was the work of only a few minutes to enclose almost the entirety of the shelter, except for a small space at the opposite end and sheltered from the wind, where they would build up a fire.
Penelo had busied herself with dragging out their bedrolls, spreading them along the cold stone floor, stretching out the blankets to cover them. It was looking a little sparse to Balthier, who did not relish the thought of bedding down upon so hard a surface.
He'd forgotten the pillows, besides. He tossed down his own bag, into which he'd shoved what he hoped would be enough logs to last them through the night.
"I'll return shortly," he said, "There are a few things I ought to have brought. In the meantime, you should get a fire going." Though the tarps were secure enough that they kept out the wind, the temperature could best be described as frigid – hardly suitable for camping.
The wind whipped at his face as he made the trek back to the Strahl, flinging up stinging shards of ice. He hadn't just forgotten the pillows – he'd forgotten food as well. Of course, the campsite limited their options, so he rummaged around the kitchen for a loaf of bread, some slices of fruit, and cold cuts of meat and cheese, wrapping them all up on a platter.
The pillows he snatched off of his own bed, jamming them beneath his arm, and, upon further consideration, he took up the blanket as well, folding it into a thick square and resting the plate atop it. On the way out, he snagged a corkscrew and a bottle of wine from the kitchen, unwilling to ruin his night yet further with water from a canteen that would taste vaguely of the metal that contained it.
As he descended once more into the Rift, he could see in the distance the smoke of the fire rising into the sky against the backdrop of the moon. On approach, he could hear the fire crackling merrily in the space between the edge of the tarp and the wall of the Rift, see the warm glow lighting the interior of the shelter.
He nudged one edge of a tarp free in order to enter the tent, and the heat of the fire that had been trapped within soothed the worst of the cold that had frosted his face. He let the pillows fall atop the bedrolls, dropping the bottle of wine upon them to cushion its landing, then put down the blankets and plate and moved to adjust the tarp and reposition the weight.
Inside the shelter, it was pleasantly warm already. The fire crackled, shedding a golden glow across the inside of the tarps and the carefully arranged blankets. Their bags were settled near the edge of the tarp, and beside them rested Penelo's boots and a folded bundle of clothing.
She sat in a mound of blankets, knees drawn up, toasting her bare toes in the warmth of the fire. She still had on a shirt, at least – but the trousers had gone by the wayside, and the smooth length of her legs was bared to the low light. At least the shirt was of the longer variety; it bunched up around her hips rather than ending at her midriff. She'd loosed her hair from its ribbon, combing through the strands with her fingers. The snow that had dusted it had melted in the heat of the shelter, and she looked to be drying it out and detangling it as best she could.
He'd been gone perhaps ten minutes and she had already stripped almost down to her underthings. He took a glance back at the lone bottle of wine buried amongst the scattered pillows, regretting that he hadn't brought another…or five.
She had to have noticed that he'd returned, if for no other reason than the rush of wintery air that had preceded him through the tarp. But she hadn't looked back – she was fixated on the crackling fire, on lazily pulling her fingers through her hair, fanning out the shiny blond strands to dry into loose waves.
After a few moments, she extracted her fingers from her hair, stretching out her arm to run her fingers along the ridge of scar tissue encircling her ankle. The collar of the shirt dipped down off of her shoulder, the ivory fabric bunching around her upper arm.
He didn't recall having seen such a shirt amongst those he'd picked up at the clothier's shop. It was wildly impractical, just filmy gauze, so thin and delicate that the firelight shone right through it. So it hadn't been something he'd purchased for her, which meant –
Dear gods. She'd borrowed it from among Fran's things.
He resisted the urge to cover his eyes like some sort of scandalized damsel. Instead he grabbed for the bottle of wine, fishing for the corkscrew he'd jammed in his pocket, and went to work opening the bottle in an effort to distract himself.
"I thought we had discussed the necessity of wearing appropriate clothing," he said as he plucked the cork from the bottle at last.
That prompted a flutter of surprised laughter from her. She said, "What – did you expect me to sleep in a coat?"
Beneath his breath, he muttered, "It certainly couldn't hurt."
She sighed, propped her elbow on her knee and her chin in her hand. "I didn't have anything else, so I had to borrow something of Fran's. It's entirely appropriate."
"Not," he said, "on you." The wine was a rare vintage that he'd nicked from an avid collector. It would have sold for at least a hundred thousand gil. He dropped down to recline on the pile of pillows and tossed back a healthy swallow without even tasting it
She took his comment for censure, scrambling to her feet to plunk her fists on her hips and thrust out her sharp little chin rebelliously. He was somewhat relieved to note that the shirt was actually more of a gown, and it fell to mid-thigh when she was standing. "It is, too!" she snapped. "What's wrong with it, then?"
He passed a hand over his mouth and cleared his throat. "To begin with, I can see straight through it."
She glanced down and made a little choked sound in her throat – the light of the fire glowed clean through the thin fabric, starkly silhouetting her body. Her legs collapsed beneath her, and her bottom hit the ground with a muffled whump as the blankets and bedroll cushioned the impact. She clapped her hands over her mouth, and her shoulders began to shake. For a moment he thought she might be crying – but no; tiny smothered strains of laughter slipped through the cracks of her fingers.
"I'm sorry," she managed at last, ruefully. "I didn't know – it was the most conservative thing I could find. I swear I had no idea." She tugged a corner of blanket out from beneath her, drawing it up to her chin. One hand emerged from beneath the blanket, reaching toward him and gesturing for the bottle of wine.
He passed it over. "What were you thinking about?" he asked.
"Hm?" She tipped the bottle up for a quick drink and handed it back.
"When I returned, you were staring at the fire, lost in thought. What about?"
"Oh." Her lips pursed, and she chewed the inside of her cheek, considering how to answer. She shifted uncomfortably, forming a pile of blankets around herself like a fortress. "The truth is…I do have money. Sort of."
He canted his head to the side, interested. "Oh?"
"Ashe put in trust for me years ago at a bank in Rabanastre, as a reward." She waved vaguely and rolled her eyes, "For services rendered unto the Crown. But I never wanted to take it. It belongs to the people of Dalmasca." Her shoulders rose and fell in a self-conscious shrug. "So it's just been sitting there accruing interest, several million gil that I don't know what to do with and I couldn't possibly spend." Her voice dropped to rough whisper. "And I think that's why he left me there. He wanted me to claim it, and I wouldn't."
Ah – she'd been agonizing once again over that unworthy sack of behemoth dung who had abandoned her to three years of hell. He set the bottle of wine aside and braced his elbow on the floor to prop up his head with his hand. "Had you quarreled about money, then?"
"Just…just about that." She gave a little one-shouldered shrug and brushed her hair away from her face with one hand. "When I broke with Vaan, Raen wanted to go back to Rabanastre to transfer the money to his accounts. He said that I wouldn't need my own, since we were getting married." She laughed, a low sound devoid of mirth. "So we fought. And I thought I'd won; I thought I'd made him understand why I didn't want it. And instead he cut his losses and left me."
"You had a lucky break," he said, "despite the circumstances. Can you imagine how miserable you might've been had you gone through with it?"
She shook her head. "But now I'm afraid to trust my own judgment. I was wrong before, and suffered the consequences. Wouldn't you be afraid?"
"Perhaps. But I certainly wouldn't allow the fear of a misstep to rule my life. We make the best choices we can given the information we have." He had the distinct impression that she was working up to something. She was dissecting his responses in her mind, studying their suitability, almost as if she were interviewing him.
One of her hands slipped out from beneath the blanket to pick at a stray thread. "What if I can't even trust the information I have?" she asked. "Because it might be right and it might be wrong, but…if it's right, I think I'd be devastated." She blew out a breath, stirring the tendrils of hair that had fallen back over her face. "And I think you'd be…disappointed."
Disappointed? Why would she think – oh.
He chose his words carefully. "We're not talking about him any longer, are we?"
After a brief moment of hesitation, she shook her head gravely, curling in on herself. She was trying so hard to be brave, to be honest – but she looked terrified.
"Why do you believe I would be disappointed?"
She pulled a face. "Because I'm not good at this sort of thing."
"Luckily for you, I am." He laughed as she snagged a pillow and chucked it at his head in a flare of temper over his blasé retort.
"I'm serious!" she said.
"As am I," he replied. "Darling, don't you think it's up to me to decide whether or not I'm disappointed?"
She covered her face with her hands and wailed pitifully, "But what if you are?"
"I assure you," he said, "if I can manage to get you out of that gown, I will be a happy man indeed."
Her shoulders scrunched up; she made a curious sound behind her hands, halfway between amusement and exasperation. And then she set her shoulders, firmed her jaw, and said, "Okay. I want to try."
He choked on a laugh. "Dear gods – you needn't look as though you're headed off to war. I promise you, it'll be a sight more pleasant than dying in battle."
"Not in my experience."
The grim words had a sobering effect on him. "You poor thing – are you certain you want to do this?"
She shifted beneath the blankets, stretching out a bit as if his words had bolstered her confidence. "It's now or never, I think." She shrugged, and continued, "My mother used to say that we build unpleasant things up in our minds until fear prevents us from ever facing them. I don't want to be a coward forever."
"How very flattering," he said, utterly deadpan. "You've quite the romantic streak, haven't you?"
"I'm not looking for romance," she said, casting him a baleful look. "I'm just…" She sighed, shoved her fingers through her hair, and tried again. "I just need to find out if I'm really as broken as I feel." And though she tried to mask it, her voice trembled a bit at the end, hitting a high, plaintive note.
"You're not broken. Bruised, perhaps – but never broken," he said, holding out his hand to her. "And if you'll come over here, it will be my pleasure to prove it to you."