Penelo's fever raged furiously for days. Aryne had taken her leave soon after the cauterization, instructing their party to keep the fever cooled, reassuring them that Penelo was young and strong, and she would recover given time and care. She left with them a sack of herbs to be boiled in water, which would produce a tea known for its curative properties.
Balthier spent more than his fair share of time on nursemaid duty, ministering to Penelo in the shade of the tent they'd constructed around her, to the bemusement of most everyone, but moreso himself. He told himself that he felt a responsibility to her, to the rest of the party to play his part for the success of their mission. He told himself that he was merely protecting his own interests by ensuring her survival, that they couldn't afford to lose what little support they had. He told himself that her youth made him protective of her. He told himself he had seen far too much death already. He told himself that she were to die, it couldn't be here, in a tiny camp at the edge of the Phon Coast, but in a blaze of glory with the rest of them in the liberation of Dalmasca. He told himself he'd merely grown weary of not caring, that he was entertaining himself with his current benevolence. But though he could effortlessly lie to others, it wasn't nearly so simple to lie to himself.
Responsibility did not explain away the way his gut clenched when she thrashed and whimpered, held fast in the clutches of her nightmarish fever dreams. Nor did it explain his curiously assiduous efforts to alleviate her discomfort, his constant attention to soothing her heated flesh with cool, wet cloths, his dedication to trickling thin broth or the prescribed tea down her throat in her calm moments.
In rare moments, when the tea and cool cloths eased the fever, she was very nearly lucid. But even if she could hold a cup steady enough to drink from herself, always her eyes were fever-bright, searching but not seeing. She spoke to people not present in frantic, childish whispers. She spoke of fire and death, her breath hitching in terror. She trembled, shook, and then, as if her limbs had grown too heavy to move, collapsed, still as death. Each episode took years off Balthier's life, each time he had to listen for her weak, thready breaths, he paid for sins he'd not yet committed.
On the third day, Ashe ducked into the tent, a bundle of cloth tucked under her arm.
"One of the women in the camp is a seamstress," she said. "We've traded some of our goods for a set of new clothes for Penelo. They'll be a sight better than the ones that had to be cut off, I suppose. She's been in a child's garb for too long; she's long since outgrown the style." She wrinkled her nose delicately. "Though I suppose it was due to necessity rather than any fondness for them. The cost of proper materials can be so dear, and altering clothing is much less expensive than purchasing new."
"What do you mean, she's outgrown a child's clothes? She's still a child." Balthier's blank look startled a laugh out of Ashe.
"She's not a child, Balthier. Goodness, I was married at her age. She's almost eighteen. That suit she wears, they usually don't make them for anyone over the age of twelve. She must've let the seams out to save money on clothing. But then, she's so small that it probably wasn't so difficult to alter them. Girls are into more adult clothing by eleven or twelve in Dalmasca. Is Archades so different, then?" Ashe settled gracefully onto the ground, curling her legs beneath her, and reaching for a cup of water to heat over the fire to prepare the tea.
"I don't entirely recall. I remember my younger sister in frothy white dresses, practically drowning in ruffles and lace. I can't say I can ever recall her wearing such serviceable garments as Penelo. Though I suppose it might be different, considering the class differences. The upper echelon of Archades rarely mingles with the lower," he explained.
"Somehow, Balthier," Ashe said, "I cannot imagine you with a younger sister." Her lips quirked, as if the mere thought conjured amusement.
"She died," he replied abruptly. "Years ago."
Ashe's humor faded as though it had never been. "I'm so sorry," she said quietly.
He waved away her sympathy. "Really, you ought to be grateful to her," he said lightly. "Sarema's death was the catalyst that forced me to break from Archades. I wouldn't be here were she still alive."
Ashe considered this for a moment, stirring the tea and straining the leaves out of it. "I wonder, Balthier, how much of what you present is real?"
A rueful smile touched his face. "I've wondered the same thing. I've been Balthier for so long, I no longer remember who I once was. I suppose you must understand that, having been someone else yourself."
She shook her head slowly. "No. I took the name Amalia for the protection it provided, but I was always myself. I always want to remember the things that brought me to where I am. I used the pain of loss to forge myself into a stronger person, but not a different one. Inside, I'm still that girl who had such love for her husband that she wept over his coffin for days until they pried her away, who helplessly watched her father die, who saw her kingdom burn. All of those things are part of me. To deny them would be a kind of death."
"Then it is fortunate that the boy I was died long ago," he said deliberate carelessness, "and can never be revived. I don't have it in me to forge myself in the fires of adversity, as you did. I lost the part of me that cared about anything years ago."
Ashe studied him in silence for a moment, observed the way his hands wrung out a cloth, folded it neatly, and drew it over Penelo's forehead with exquisite tenderness. She watched as his long, elegant fingers smoothed Penelo's hair from her face, taking care not to pull at the tangled mass of it. She lowered her eyes, feeling as though she'd somehow blundered in on an intimate moment.
"I think perhaps you are wrong," she said softly. "I think that boy has only been hiding, lying in wait for the opportunity to care again. Waiting for someone worth caring for."
Balthier reared back as if she'd struck out at him. For once, the mask of indifference slipped, and Ashe caught a glimpse of the man beneath. A man suspicious and wary, hiding his pain beneath the veneer of recklessness and detachment. But the moment passed, and the mask slid back in place, and he appeared as cool and remote as ever.
"There is nothing worth caring for in this world." His tone was laced with disdain. But he did not meet her eyes.
Penelo awoke long after dark, disoriented. Her mouth was dry; her hair was a mess of tangles and dirt. Her leg ached, a slow, burning throb that made her wince. She was wrapped in blankets that had clearly seen better days, and she felt as though she'd undergone a beating. She was sore all over, muscles protesting as she sat up.
Her mind called up vague memories of searing pain, of soft, soothing whispers in the dark, of pleading entreaties to grow well again, of broth and bitter tea dripped down her throat, of blessed coolness stroking her heated limbs. Of a strong, warm hand clutching hers, anchoring her to the world of the living when all she had wanted was to slide into the all-encompassing darkness.
She shook her head to clear it, but it only brought a wave of dizziness. She pressed her hand to her forehead, but her fingers caught and pulled in her knotted hair. Her stomach clenched; hunger clawed at her. But that would wait - what she truly needed now was to be clean. She felt grimy all over, coated in the sweat and dirt of she didn't know how many days.
In the dim light of the fire outside the makeshift tent, from her limited vantage point, she could make out Basch's boots, and just the tips of Fran's ears. A deep, rhythmic snore told her that Vaan was also accounted for without. She tugged the blanket close around her shoulders, looking about the tent for her bag, but instead she found Ashe, curled up in a corner upon her bedroll, and Balthier, sprawled out on his back behind her, a cloth clutched in his fist.
His own bedroll was nowhere to be seen, and nothing separated him from the hard ground. He looked as though he'd collapsed from exhaustion, right in the middle of a task. A small bowl was resting on the ground beside him, filled with water, and comprehension dawned - the cloth in his hand and the bowl of water; he'd been using them to keep her cool. How long had she been ill, that he'd succumbed to exhaustion like this?
Quietly, so as not to disturb him or Ashe, she shifted to her knees and poked her head out of the tent. As she'd thought, Basch, Fran, and Vaan were sleeping around the campfire. They'd set up camp only thirty feet or so from the edge of the hunter's camp - close enough that they could summon help if needed, but far enough to afford a little privacy. The dying light of their small fire was supplanted by the light of the much larger fire at the heart of the hunter's camp. Penelo shuffled out of the tent, pulling herself up to stand. She was steadier on her legs than she'd expected, but still weak.
Still, she summoned her strength and walked the short distance to the hunter's camp, where a lone woman sat beside the fire. The woman looked up as Penelo approached, but it took Penelo a moment to recognize her.
"You're the healer," she said. "You cauterized me."
The woman opened her mouth, probably to defend her actions that night.
"You probably saved my life," Penelo said. "Thank you."
The woman's mouth snapped shut. Then a wry grin crossed her face. She stood to face Penelo. "I definitely saved your life," she said. She accepted the hand Penelo extended through the blanket. "I'm Aryne. I don't think you were conscious to hear it the first time. It's wonderful to see you up and about; your color's much better."
"Thank you," Penelo replied. "But I still feel terrible. And filthy. And hungry. But mostly filthy. Is there anywhere nearby where I can bathe?"
"Oh. Oh! Yes, absolutely. I'm so sorry; you've been feverish for days, I'm sure you'd welcome a bath. There's a small hotspring not far from here; it's fed from an underground source, and the water is always pleasant and warm. Here, let me get you some soap, it's the least I can do."
Aryne hurried off and returned a few moments later with a bar of soap that smelled of lavender, a comb, and a clean towel. She carried the items with her, leading Penelo off into the darkness towards the spring. The light from the fire died out as they walked through a copse of trees, and they emerged into a small clearing. A pool of water was centered therein, steam rising off in great waves, visible in the clear light of the moon. Aryne set the toiletries down near the edge of the water.
"Most of the camp dwellers bathe here from time to time, but I'll see to it that you're not disturbed by any of us. I'm sure a little privacy would be welcome," she said. "It's shallow; the water should only come to your waist at its deepest, so you needn't fear drowning. I'll stop by your camp in the morning to retrieve my things; don't worry about returning them tonight."
Penelo thanked her, and Aryne faded into the darkness, leaving her to bathe in peace. She tested the temperature with her toes and found it just a shade above warm. With a sigh, she cast off the tattered blanket and her underthings, and slipped into the water. The heat soaked into her abused muscles, releasing tension and soothing the soreness. She collected the soap and comb, wading deeper into the spring to set them upon a smooth rock that jutted up from the center of the pool. The water here was warmer, and she sunk down to her knees to let the warmth wash over her shoulders.
The air was calm and still, the moon giving the only light. Penelo drifted, closing her eyes, soaking in the quiet peacefulness of the hotspring.
Balthier reached out in his sleep to stroke Penelo's hair, but his fingers connected only with the abandoned bedroll. He jerked upright, his heart in his throat, panic clawing at his gut. Gone! He scrambled out of the tent and to his feet, startling a woman standing near the fire. The healer, Aryne.
"She's just at the hot spring. She awoke about an hour ago, wanting a bath," she said, her voice low to avoid disturbing the others. "You may want to, um..." she coughed delicately, "bring her some clothing. She had only a blanket when I spoke to her."
"She's well?" His voice was oddly hoarse. He cleared his throat and tried again. "She's recovered?"
Aryne shrugged. "She seemed well enough. She may suffer weakness for a few days, in the aftereffects of the fever. But she's awake and alert." She hesitated. "No doubt she wanted some privacy, but given her recent condition, I think perhaps she should not be left alone for too long. Perhaps one of the women..."
"I will see to her," Balthier said. He ducked back into the tent too quickly to see the flare of amusement in Aryne's eyes. He rooted around in the darkness, finally finding the bundle of clothing Ashe had procured earlier. He tucked it beneath his arm and emerged from the tent once again.
"It's just there, past those trees," Aryne said, gesturing in the direction of the spring. "She's safe enough; no beasts venture this close to the camp."
He stalked off with a curt nod of acknowledgement in the direction Aryne had indicated, at once relieved that Penelo was at last revived and furious that she had gone off alone, again. The obnoxious chit was clearly too reckless for her own good. She needed a keeper or she'd get herself killed. A muscle ticked in his jaw as his ire grew. Foolish child couldn't even be bothered to wake anyone to tell them before she'd rushed off once more into the night.
A splashing sound reached him through the trees, alerting him to the spring's proximity, and he stepped into the clearing, prepared to launch into a furious tirade, but the words died before he could speak them.
Steam rolled off the spring, catching the moonlight in the mist, casting a foggy aura around the spring. And Penelo stood in the water, her back to him, carefully pulling a comb through her wet hair. Moonlight gilded her skin, droplets of water shining like a mantle of stars against her silken shoulders. She looked like a mermaid, a siren, a creature of exquisite sensuality, created solely to lure unwitting men to their doom. Unconsciously seductive, innocently enticing. She was...dangerous.
Her hair, unbound, reached nearly to her waist. His fingers itched to run through it again - clean, it would be soft, fine, silky, and free of the tangles that had taken up residence in her fevered days. Her narrow waist flared gently into generous hips, a lovely figure that had been camouflaged by her unflattering child's garments.
He could have alerted her to his presence, but the wicked streak in him would not be denied. Instead, he silently took a seat at the egde of the pool, observing. He couldn't even summon a modicum of guilt for his voyeurism - instead he experienced the excitement of a child who had ripped the wrapping paper off of a gift, discovering the untold wonders beneath.
She hummed a few bars of a wistful-sounding song, rubbing a bar of soap between her hands to work up a lather, and Balthier shifted uncomfortably as she stroked her soapy hands along her limbs. The filmy bubbles clung and slid, accentuating curves. His hands curled, as if in anticipation of touching her, learning the shape of her body. She lifted handfuls of water, sluicing it down her body to wash away the last of the soap, sighing in delight. The sweet sound sent a shiver down his spine. She collected the bar of soap and comb, turned, and stopped abruptly, her eyes lighting on him. For a moment she stood, staring blankly, as if uncomprehending. Then she gave a tiny cry of dismay, jerked her arms over her breasts, and overbalanced herself, toppling backwards into the water.
He suppressed a snicker - barely - as she resurfaced, sputtering. This time, she knelt on the smooth stone floor of the pool, the water nearly reaching her shoulders. She pushed her hair out of her face, glaring at him.
"What are you doing here?" she demanded.
He shrugged nonchalantly. "Taking in the sights. You know better than to go out alone; you should have taken Fran or Ashe with you. As you did not, you are stuck with me." He propped his chin in his hand. "By all means, do continue."
Her eyes narrowed. "I'm finished, thanks. If you could hand me the towel..." She pointed a few feet away from Balthier, where a folded length of fabric lay.
He stood, retrieved it, held it out.
She coughed delicately into her hand, a scarlet flush creeping slowly over her cheeks. "If you would look away for a few moments?"
He gave a long-suffering sigh, but averted his eyes. A few seconds of splashing, then the towel was snatched out of his hand. He waited patiently, until she finally announced, "Okay, I'm decent again."
Decent was a matter of opinion, he thought. The towel covered her, but just barely. He wasn't sure how much more of that he would be able to withstand. So he grabbed the clothes he'd brought and thrust them at her.
"Wear these," he said. "Ashe procured them for you; replacements for the clothing that we had to cut off of you."
"Oh." Penelo took the bundle of cloth, carefully unfolding it. "Ohhh. These are...too nice. Nicer than anything I've ever owned." Her voice trembled a bit, sounding suspiciously like she might cry.
Balthier cleared his throat. "I shall leave you to dress, then. If you haven't returned to camp in ten minutes, however, I will come looking for you."
"No." She thrust her hand out imperiously. "I don't trust you not to spy on me. Stand there, where I can see you, and turn your back. I won't have you lurking in the woods, doing gods know what." Her nose tilted at an impudent angle, she fixed him with her best attempt at a commanding look. It failed; with her wet hair clinging to her and a droplet of water threatening to drip off the tip of her nose, she looked too much like a mischevious water nymph to incite anything other than mirth.
Nonetheless, he turned his back. A wet plop heralded the towel dropping to the ground, and he barely resisted the nigh-overwhelming urge to turn around. Fabric rustled, and his mind conjured up tempting images of soft fabric sliding over softer skin. He gritted his teeth.
"Um, Balthier?" A tentative call from behind him. "I can't get the ties...could you...?"
He turned and caught his breath. He hadn't examined the clothes that Ashe had purchased, and of course he was familiar with current fashions, but he had never imagined Penelo in anything other than her typical concealing clothing, and therein lay his mistake. The billowy crimson pants hung low on her hips, exposing the enchanting dip at the small of her back. The silvery top, if it could be called that, given how little fabric the garment contained, ended just below her breasts, and tied in two places, at the back of her neck, and across her back. She'd managed the one at her neck, but hadn't managed to get the other. One hand held the fabric secure across her breasts, and the other held her wet hair over her shoulder.
He didn't want to do it. It would almost certainly necessitate touching her, and he didn't want to do it. Rather, he wanted to do it altogether too much, and that simply would not do. But he was already walking towards her, his body moving of its own accord, hands reaching for the ties. His knuckles brushed the flesh of her back, and she shivered involuntarily. And so did he.
Gritting his teeth, he tied the strings together as hastily as possible, needing to put some distance between them before he did something he would regret. He needed to go back, to return to the time when he'd been able to dismiss her as a child.
But she stepped away, thanking him for his assistance, bending to retrieve her things, and he got a clear view straight down her cleavage and bit back a curse. The dip of her navel tantalized, the exposed skin of her midriff invited stroking, her top which was held up by only flimsy bits of string provoked delightful, terrifying thoughts of how easily she could be divested of it.
The veil had lifted. Penelo the child was gone, replaced by someone infinitely more dangerous.