Strong hands cupped her shoulders, stroking down her arms, chasing away the chill of the night air that lingered. Gentle fingers brushed aside her hair, baring the back of her neck to the graze of his lips. And then his arms twined around her, easing her into the press of his warm body against her back.
"Come back to bed," he whispered at her ear.
He had woken only a few minutes prior, bereft of the comforting warmth of Penelo's body against his, and had followed the stream of moonlight pouring across his bed to where she stood, staring sightlessly out of the window into the velvety black sky. She was half-draped in a sheet, but from such a short distance he could see the gooseflesh that had risen on her arms. But chilled or no, still she had stood, swaying with the gentle motions of the Strahl in flight.
And he wondered if it had all been too much for her, everything that had filled the daylight hours. The fear, even unto the very last moment, when Ashe had defiantly turned from the path of ruin she might have sought and instead thrust the Treaty-Blade into the heart of the Sun Cryst, forever breaking the hold of the Occuria on Ivalice's destiny to forge a new path created not from nethicite but from the will of the people. The bittersweet triumph, when Cid's rogue god Venat had deserted him, and, abandoned by both god and nethicite, he had fallen at last beneath their blades and arrows. The weighty knowledge that tomorrow they would face Vayne, would free Ivalice from the stranglehold of his tyranny at last.
Today he had discovered that she had firmly vanquished any lingering doubts he might have had that they would succeed. He had believed because she believed, and he had entrusted all of his faith to her. Today, that faith had carried him straight through when he might have faltered, when he had been tempted to let his bitterness - and his father - get the better of him once again. Instead he had rallied, let her hold faith for him, and they had ultimately defeated both scourges, nethicite and Cid. At last, his ghosts had been laid to rest. At last, he could put his past firmly behind him, carry on without guilt or shame.
And he - at this, he felt the barest twinge of regret, or as much regret as he could muster without actually being sorry for his actions - fresh from the battle, he had carried her off, like a conquering hero absconding with the spoils of war, to his room on the Strahl, unmindful of her gasp of embarrassed horror, the slackjawed stares of the rest of their companions. And there he had kept her well into the night, coaxing her from outraged fury born of mortification to blazing passion until she had cried halt in her exhaustion and turned her face into his shoulder to sleep.
"What can you be thinking of, darling girl?" he murmured, when his first request had elicited no response.
At this, her shoulders rose and fell in an elegant shrug. "Larsa," she said wistfully. "He was kind to me. And tomorrow we go to kill his brother. He always wanted to believe the best of Vayne. I wonder how he must be feeling, now."
An irrational surge of - what, jealousy? - took hold of him, but with some effort he shook it off. The boy was all of twelve, after all. Still, he had shown a marked interest in Penelo to which Balthier had taken an immediate and exceptional dislike. But the boy would one day be a man, and what would Penelo think of his kindness then, did he show it to her? Indeed, after Vayne's demise, Larsa would be the lone member of his house left alive, would take up the crown and rule Archadia as emperor in his brother's stead. But perhaps for Penelo, that would be a point against rather than for him - she had not liked being a prisoner within the walls of Rabanastre, surely she would like even less the further restrictions royalty must needs live under. No, she would never countenance the little princeling's suit, even should he offer it when he came of age.
And he wondered why he had even bothered to concern himself with such a thing. Their time together was drawing to a close, their objective all but accomplished. When Vayne fell, when the balance of power had been shifted once more in their favor, they would be at loose ends once again, their temporary partnership dissolved. He would go back to seeking out new skies and treasures with Fran, and she would see the princess safely back to Rabanastre, possibly even help her to gather the shards of her kingdom and piece it back into an approximation of order.
He wanted to keep her.
That disturbing thought again. He swatted it away, but it buzzed like a gnat inside his head. One did not keep people, regardless of the silkiness of their hair, the softness of their lips. He was painfully aware that this night might well be the very last. And he would not waste it mired in thoughts that had no business obsessing him.
"Come back to bed," he said again, finally. And when she at last turned to face him, he could see his own thoughts reflected in her eyes. And if her lips trembled a bit as they touched his, well, he pretended he had not noticed.
A tentative knock at the door. The pillows beneath Penelo's head entreated her to ignore it, to sink back into the comforting embrace of sleep just a little while longer. But sunlight crept into the window, and, having already been roused, she could no longer shut out the intrustion of harsh daylight into her comfortable haven. With a heavy sigh, she mustered her strength and forced herself upright.
Balthier made an annoyed sound of discontentment in his sleep, his eyebrows jerking together as she removed herself from the circle of his arms. Just now in sleep, he looked like a petulant child, a boy whose favorite toy had been snatched from his arms before he was ready to relinquish it, and it drew a reluctant smile from her. She smoothed away the frown with the light caress of her fingertips, and, as if placated by her soothing touch, he subsided back into a restful sleep once again.
A sense of finality, of closure settled over her. Their last day had dawned and their last shred of privacy had been stripped away. She had made her peace with it; she would allow herself no backward glances. Already she had lived too much in the past, given too much of her thoughts over to things that might have been. It was time, now, to look to the future, and that future could never have included him. A pang of loss pierced her heart, not for the man, she told herself, but for the deep, smooth voice whispering 'darling girl' to her in the darkness which she would never hear again.
Silently she gathered her clothing, donning it mechanically, and finally she opened the door, slipping through and closing it behind her before anyone lingering outside could glance inside.
Of course, it would be Vaan waiting there for her. He leaned against the opposite wall, arms crossed, brows arched so high that they gave his whole face the appearance of a question mark.
"So...you wanna tell me what that was all about, then?" he asked.
And she realized: she didn't really care what anyone else thought anymore. What a wonderful concept. She could not suppress the smile that rose to her lips.
"No," she said succinctly, and turned down the hall.
"Penelo..."
She held up a hand. "Not a word, Vaan." Her tone was light but firm, and did not invite further argument.
He followed silently as she made herself a cup of tea, took it with her to the deck, and sat down sipping it. She gave no indication that she either noticed or cared about the curious looks she was receiving from the rest of their party, who had already gathered.
Vaan thought there was something different about her, a confidence, a self-possession, a sort of cool poise that she had lacked before. She neither blushed nor stammered, she merely sat quietly, her lowered lashes shielding both eyes and thoughts, content to let them stew in their own unvoiced inquiries.
"I just..." Vaan hesitated. "I just don't want to see you get hurt."
"I won't." A calm, serene reply. "It's over, anyway." She sighed softly as she settled back into her chair. "It's over."
Balthier supposed he ought to be grateful that she'd vacated his bedroom before he had woken, thus saving him any awkwardness, but instead he was rather...annoyed. It was a baffling state of affairs. Again she has left him, and it was a blow to his dignity for which he had not been prepared.
He fumbled into his clothing, still irritated with her defection. Someone was going to have to have a talk with that girl, explain protocol or something. Of course, that someone would have to be him. And, too, he would have to find a way to gently explain to her that it would be foolish of her to build dreams on what had passed between them, that he would soon be off for grander adventures.
But as he swept onto the deck and saw her there in her chair, he could see clearly that she was already aware. She was coolly composed; she did not start as he entered, there was no welcoming warmth in her face, in her eyes. She had already erected walls, detached herself, cast him and any affection for him which might have lingered out of her mind. She raised a stranger's face to his; there was nothing in it to suggest that she had any feeling for him at all.
He ought to be grateful.
He was furious.
How dared she push him from her thoughts so easily? Maddening little wench that she was, how dared she sit there looking so prim and proper, so thoroughly unruffled, as though butter wouldn't melt in her mouth? How had she been able to go from sweet, hot passion in his bed, to this calm, tranquil miss sipping at tea?
She sipped; he seethed.
And their other companions swirled into motion around him, somehow unaware of the pique of temper Balthier had worked himself into. Basch and Ashe skirted around him, dropping into chairs. Penelo bent her head to listen to something Vaan was telling her, then tilted back her head and laughed. Balthier could hear nothing over the pounding of blood in his ears.
Fran walked by on her way to the navigation console, snapping her bow subtly against the back of his leg as she passed to gain his attention, to jerk him from his thoughts.
"To the Bahamut," she said. "We are expected." She nodded to his empty seat, and he sank into it, shaking off the irrational emotions that gripped him.
"Oh?" He took over command of the ship, guiding her towards their destination. "By whom?" Cool, just as she was. Unaffected. Unchanged.
"Larsa Solidor," she replied. "He has heard of what passed in the Pharos. He would aid us." She busied herself with minute adjustments to their course. "She has handled herself well, that one," she said in a low voice, jerking her head subtly to indicate Penelo, who was still engaged in conversation with Vaan. "Anyone would think she did not care to keep you."
He took refuge in the arrogance which had become second nature. "Ah, but one may only keep what one has caught. Sour grapes, and all that."
Fran did not smile, did not look at him. "She caught you weeks ago," she said. "Be thankful then, that she has cast you back."
"No." This, in an answering low tone. He reeled, grappling for stability, familiarity. "No. I have never been caught." He could never be caught. It was simply not a circumstance that he was willing to permit.
Fran slanted him a patient, pitying look. He resented it, for he had not been subjected to it for many a year, not since she had first plucked him from his troubles and trained him up from a sapling. That look was the expression of someone older, wiser, someone who knew better than he did. It carried with it the weight of her experience, and he had always respected it before, because even if he did not wish to acknowledge it, she had always been correct.
"From almost the very first," she murmured. "So blind, you Humes. Wasting your short lives in denial and fear."
His back stiffened ramrod straight at this slight, but otherwise he was unwilling to dignify it with a response. To argue further - that would be tantamount to lending creedence to Fran's ridiculous supposition.
Instead he schooled his features into a semblance of nonchalance, pressing the Strahl for every bit of speed that he could wring from her, carrying them ever closer to the Bahamut, to the end.
There had been no time to think, no time to pause and regroup. As soon as they had docked at the Bahamut, they had been undersiege, even as they themselves had laid siege to the sky fortress. They had forged ahead resolutely, striking down the endless flow of Imperial soldiers that had streamed after them, striking down even Basch's own brother, Judge Gabranth, the right hand of Vayne, the true murderer of Dalmasca's late king, the slayer of Vaan's brother, Reks.
Penelo slid down against the door of Balthier's bedroom aboard the Strahl, collapsing into a heap on the cold floor. She thought it must be cold, anyway. She could not feel it. Nothing was as cold as she. She was ice, numbed clear through.
They had met with Larsa, resolution too old and severe for one so young etched upon his face. He had known what must be done, had finally seen the truth of his brother's madness, accepted that the lust for power in Vayne would never be abated, would grow unchecked unless he were stopped. What it had cost him to lend his assistance, to guide them into the final battle, to take his stand against his own flesh and blood, they would never know.
Not numb enough. Not anymore. Shock and disbelief were rolling into pain, burning, blinding, tearing. She pulled her knees to her chest, looped her arms around them, locked her fingers. They trembled anyway. The tremors had started there, in her frozen fingers, crawling up her arms, through her chest, down her legs, until finally she was a shuddering mess, shaking so severely she felt battered. Her breath hitched. She gasped, drawing air deeply into her lungs. Gasped again, and again, heavy, wheezing breaths.
Vayne had ceased to be a man, had lost any shreds of humanity to which he might once have been able to lay claim. He had lashed out in his rage even at Larsa, too far gone, too little man left in him to even recognize his younger brother, to have a care for the damage he had wrought. His eyes had glowed with madness, with pure unadulterated malice, and finally it had been at Larsa's strident order that they had attacked.
She could not catch her breath, she had lost it and she was desperately afraid that she would never regain it again. She uncurled herself in creaky jerks, crawling by inches across the floor. Somehow she found the strength to haul herself up by the bedpost, grabbing at it, digging her nails into the hard wood. Her legs shook like jelly, threatening to collapse at any moment; how they supported her she did not know.
And Vayne had risen yet again, a strange, unearthly glow emitting from his skin from tiny cracks, chips in the shell of what once had been man and now was both less and more. And they had seen the shade of the Occuria Venat in him, melded with him, filling in the parts that he had cast off, building him anew with bits and pieces of the massive fortress that was slowly, surely going to ruin around them. Both awed and horrified, they had been forced to leap once more into the battle, the deciding battle between man and god, for the future of all of Ivalice.
Somehow she had made it to the bed, crumpled onto the mattress. Fastidious Balthier had neglected to make up the bed this morning, and she was somehow grateful, because she could almost feel that at any moment he would return. She closed her eyes. Like he'd stepped out. Like he'd soon be back.
Vayne had fallen, and Venat had fallen with him, and as battered and exhausted as they were, they had taken a moment, just one moment, to savor the glorious victory, the sweetness of freedom in the air. And then the fortress had lurched, and they'd scrambled for perch, casting their eyes about incredulously. And they knew - it was coming down. That massive, hulking fortress was going to plummet from the sky.
Her fingers drifted up the rumpled covers, sliding over soft cool sheets finally to press into the pillows, into the indentation still visible, still revealed beneath the pressure of her fingers, of where his head had laid mere hours ago. Her heart caught on a desperate wish that it had not yet cooled, that it might've retained even the tiniest bit of the warmth of his body.
They had made it - barely - back to the Strahl, but she had been locked, unable to fly from the Bahamut that listed so unstably in the sky. And through the Strahl's windows they had seen with gripping horror the sprawling city of Rabanastre stretched out before them, and knew at once that the Bahamut's trajectory would mean crashing straight into it.
She turned her face into the sheets, curling into herself, muscles contracting involuntarily. As if, by reducing herself, she might also be able to reduce the anguish. She wished to be numb again, because surely feeling nothing would be better than this. At any moment she might explode into tiny fragments of agony. At any moment, she might simply curl up so tightly that she would disappear altogether. If she could simply banish all feeling until the end of time...
And then, a voice, crackling over the radio.
"Vaan, the minute she can move, you fly the Strahl out, like I taught you. I'll expect you to take good care of her."
At the staticy sound of Balthier's voice, Penelo had jerked in alarm to realize that neither Fran nor Balthier had made it onto the Strahl with them. She had frozen in complete shock, abject terror. Her mind rebelled absolutely against this unexpected turn of events, retreating to a cold, silent space within herself where grim reality could not reach.
Ashe had grabbed the radio from Vaan, shouting into it.
"What are you doing? Get out of there!"
A rueful chuckle. "Someone's got to fly this thing away from the city. Not to worry, we've nearly got her."
But they had known, they had all known. Even did they manage to somehow steer the Sky Fortress away - a bleak enough proposition in itself - there was no time, no time at all, for the two of them to escape. They would go down with it.
As if of their own accord, her fingers slipped into her pocket, brushed his ring that rested there still, paused. Finally they closed around it, drawing it out, clenching it tightly in her fist. A talisman that had protected her, but had failed him. She ought to have given it back. But then, what would be left of him? A harsh sob burst from her throat. He had given her his faith. He had been so, so wrong.
The silence had been deafening, it rang in their ears. And they had all looked to Penelo's white, pinched face, and then averted their eyes, unable to bear the desolation they had witnessed upon it.
The radio had crackled once more into life, and this time his voice had been serious. "Princess. You will care for her." It had not been a request. It had been the last order of a man who knew he faced death.
And Ashe had mustered her courage and looked straight at Penelo, understanding immediately Balthier's meaning. Her voice had been the barest whisper of sound, a solemn pledge to the man who had given so much, who would pay a price too dear. "I will. Of course. I will."
And Penelo had made just one sound, a high, keening wail of grief. She could not stay; she could not bear witness to this, or she would break.
But she had broken anyway. She had crumbled to pieces immediately, she had shattered into mere slivers as soon as she had backed away from the deck. She had held off the inevitable far too long already, and the storm would overtake her at any moment.
Only the second time in years that she had cried, but this time there was no one to pick up the pieces, no one to hold her together. No one to weather the storm for her, with her.
She had been such a fool to pretend an indifference she hadn't felt. Such a fool to think that she could love him only a little. He had never been content with an inch when he thought he could get away with mile. She had known she could not keep him, but she had been so foolish to think that he would not keep her.
She could have lived, picked herself up, moved on with just the knowledge that he was out there, somewhere. She could have imagined him laughing, soaring through the skies with Fran at his side. She could have wasted a few idle moments here and there wondering about him, wishing him well. He had never been hers, not really. But he had belonged to Ivalice, and she could have been satisfied just sharing the same sky, the same world. She could have been happy simply knowing that they lived beneath the same moon and sun, watched the same stars.
She could have been happy knowing he lived.
The world had changed for her in an instant, cast into shades of grey, a perpetual pallor that could never be lifted. She was lost. And he was lost to her, to everyone. All that was left of him were memories and his namesake star in the western sky.
She turned her face into his pillow and cried.