Penelo had been watching the sky for what felt like hours. Here on the Phon Coast, beneath the wide open sky once again, she felt more at peace than she had in months. The fire she'd constructed lent a pleasant warmth. The night settled in around her, cool and silent, a light breeze rustling through her disordered hair. The stars shimmered overhead as if welcoming her back. Rabanastre had been so bright, alight at all hours, and she had been so hungry for the sight of the stars that she'd slept outside last night simply to be beneath them once again, even though there were perfectly suitable bedrooms aboard the Strahl. It had comforted her to fall asleep gazing up at Balthier's constellation hanging in the sky, as if it were watching over her. As if he were watching over her.

For now, she was content to stick to the wilderness, though she supposed she would have to pass through a city eventually. In her harried flight from Rabanastre, she had neglected to pack even the essentials, sure that at any moment Ashe would show up with a retinue of guards and have her carted right back to the Palace. She should have left long ago, well before that farce of a ceremony. She should have left well before Ashe had gotten it into her head to turn her into a lady.

She sighed, reaching down to pluck briars from the torn, stained folds of her dress. The delicate silk had never been intended for anything more than a sedate walk, and it had all but given up the fight out here in the wilds, the hem shredding to threads, tiny tears threatening to run into long rends. She needed to go wash up; she was covered in sweat and dust. But she hadn't bothered yet to purchase new provisions and supplies, and the only soap aboard the Strahl smelled like Balthier. Earthy and masculine. Sandalwood, she thought. She didn't want to smell him all around her, on her skin, in her hair.

She reached for the bottle at her side, brandy she'd found tucked away in the Strahl's tiny kitchen. She liked it better than whiskey at least; it was sweeter, went down smoother, a pleasant warmth rather than painful, throat-searing burn. And when she lowered the bottle, there he was, leaning back against the Strahl docked not thirty feet away, arms crossed over his chest.

She let her eyes slide away. She had perfected the art in the past year, after all. She had seen his ghost so many times before, and her frantic reactions had so worried everyone that she had learned it was best not to let on when her heart caught in her throat at the sight of him. And she knew that it was never him, that her mind was simply preying upon her hopes, conjuring up impossible images. Best not to acknowledge it at all, then. Continue as she meant to go on. So she kept her eyes studiously averted, blinking back the sudden onslaught of tears that threatened.

"Darling girl, I thought we had already discussed your penchant for wandering off alone into the night."

She froze. Utterly and entirely, as if her every muscle had locked up, creaking under the strain. With a hazy, muddled feeling that had nothing at all to do with the brandy and everything to do with her complete inability to make any sense of the words, her gaze jerked back to him.

Darling girl. Darling girl. Darling girl.

The words resounded in her head, banged around, slid finally into place like the pieces of a puzzle. And he was still there, that arrogant smirk twisting his lips.

Blackness hovered at the edges of her vision, her thoughts grew murky and dim, but she sucked in great lungfuls of air, staved off threatening oblivion. She had never been given to fits of fainting; she was not about to start now. She staggered to her feet on legs that wobbled precariously beneath her. Opened her mouth, tried to speak, failed. Her hand flew to her throat, as if she could pry the words loose, terrified that she had once again been afflicted with the same wordlessness she had suffered in the months immediately following his death.

His death. His death. He was dead. He was not really here, he was eternally entombed within the Bahamut. She was simply imagining him once again. She had to be - there was simply no possible way for him to be alive, everyone had known that he and Fran had perished in the fall of the Bahamut. She could only guess that in the silence of the night, in this place that held such cherished memories of him, and with no city noise to drown out thought, her mind had wrought not only his image but his voice. She hadn't heard it in over a year; his ghost had never deigned to speak to her before.

She tried again, found her voice. "You're...you're not real," she choked out, making a slashing motion of denial with her hand. She was shaking like a leaf in a high wind, aware of the unnaturally high pitch of her voice. "Please, just stop tormenting me. Leave me in peace!" Her voice broke high, on a ragged, desperate sound.

His brows drew together, clearly not understanding her distress. Then he shouldered away from the Strahl, walking slowly across the clearing towards her, and she could do nothing but watch him approach, eyes wide, helplessly trembling. He stopped within a foot of her, and she thought...she thought she smelled sandalwood. It assailed her senses, clouding her mind, suffocating her with each heaving, desperate breath she took.

"You ought to know by now that I don't take well to orders," he said. And he reached out, brushed an errant lock of hair away from her face, cupped her cheek in his hand. His fingers were warm, strong, real.

She fainted anyway.

He caught her as she sagged. "For the gods' sake..." he bit off, baffled. He lifted her limp body into his arms, striding quickly back towards the Strahl, climbing up the dock, finally shifting her in his arms just enough to be able to open the door to his room. He laid her gently on the bed, then flicked on the light. Her face was terribly pale; she was so still...and he had not missed the fact that she had been much lighter in his arms than he had expected, than he remembered. The foolish girl couldn't be bothered to take care of herself properly.

The neckline of her ruined gown dipped low, exposing her delicate collar bones, which stood out in stark relief. Everywhere there was exposed skin, she seemed thinner, more frail than he remembered. Even her cheekbones were more pronounced. He traced them with his fingertips, hoping she would stir, wake. But her lashes lay flat and still on her white cheeks, her chest rose and fell with deep, even breaths. Her gown was twisted beneath her, wrinkled, torn - it had seen far better days.

He turned his attention to the dresser, hoping it might contain a change of clothing for her, but instead he found a number of his shirts, still neatly pressed and folded, exactly as they had been a year ago. With a measure of disbelief, he realized that nothing had changed in his room at all. She had kept it exactly the same in this past year, as if it were a shrine to a dead man.

He cast that unpleasant thought aside in favor of shaking the creases out of one of his shirts, rendering it a bit less stiff. Then he sat on the bed and carefully drew the gown up over her head, eased her arms into the sleeves of his shirt, and buttoned her into it. He drew the covers up around her, ill at ease with the unnatural pallor of her face. Even her hands were like ice, and he chafed them in his in an attempt to bring some heat back into them.

What the hell had come over her, to behave as she had? She'd looked like she'd seen a ghost. But then perhaps she had, in a sense. Perhaps he ought to have found a slightly more gentle way of announcing his presence, but she had just looked so...forlorn, sitting there alone in the firelight. Solemn little face, vacant eyes, slumped shoulders. She'd looked an absolute mess, like she'd come out on the losing side of a bar fight, her hair a riot of tangles, her gown covered in prickly briars and grass stains. The firelight had caressed her face, but instead of bringing out the golden glow, it had merely emphasized the shadows beneath her eyes. The sight of her so melancholic had hit him like a punch to the gut. Again, the desire to comfort her had nigh overwhelmed him.

It had taken him three days to catch up to her, and she had looked like she hadn't had a good night's sleep since Rabanastre. Poor girl, she had run herself down in her haste to escape. And he didn't doubt that the newly-crowned queen would be even now setting her own scouts to hunt Penelo down. After all, she wouldn't simply let one of her precious few courtiers disappear. Such a vanishing act could wreck havoc on Dalmasca's reputation.

What a terrible tangle Penelo had gotten herself into. It would be a kindness, he was convinced, to help her sort it out, extricate her from this sorry state of affairs.

Her hand moved weakly in his, and she tugged it away, pressing it to her forehead. Seconds later she gave a heavy sigh, and her eyes finally fluttered open. She blinked up at him, momentarily confused to find him seated there beside her. And then her face flushed an angry, mottled red. She jerked upright in a flurry of motion, and her fist landed a solid jab to his jaw, exactly where Vaan had struck him a few days earlier. That bruise had not yet healed, and now he suspected it would linger a good deal longer. Damn, but she had a good right hook.

"That," he said tightly, "is growing rather tedious."

"You were supposed to be dead!" she hissed. And he couldn't quite find it in him to be angry, because her fit of pique made her face glow with renewed spirit, and his shirt had slipped off her right shoulder, teasing him with just a glimpse of smooth, fair skin.

"I beg your pardon, then, for not being dead. Would you have preferred I was?"

"That...that...did you undress me?" She gaped at the shirt she was clad in, ire climbing to dangerous levels. This time he was prepared, catching her fist in his hand even as she let it fly.

"Violence does not become you, darling girl," he tsked.

"Don't call me that, you...you contemptible swine!"

His eyebrows arched, his fingers curled around her fist, and his thumb stroked across her knuckles. "I see your vocabulary has improved."

She wrenched her hand from his. "Get out! Just...just get out!"

"Might I remind you that you are in my bed, in my room, on my airship?"

"You may not," she spat, and her fists were once again clenching in a way that spelled further bodily injury to Balthier, so he removed himself from the edge of the bed in the hopes of thwarting any murderous tendencies to which she might currently lay claim.

It was time to absent himself, as she seemed merely to grow angrier with each passing moment, and he couldn't imagine she was in any mood for conversation at the moment. "As you are clearly overset, I shall wait for you on the deck. You may join me there when you are, ah...more yourself." And he slipped out of the room before she could protest.

Penelo pressed her hands to her face, swallowing heavily. Her heart pounded, her hands trembled, her breath came in furious pants. He was alive. He was alive? She didn't know whether she ought to be overjoyed or infuriated. Or humiliated that she had made an utter idiot of herself by fainting like some sort of helpless, delicate maiden. Probably a bit of all three. Only he had the power to incite such a ridiculous mixture of emotions.

How dared he simply reappear, after she'd spent the last year mourning him? Did he think so little of her, of all of them, that he couldn't be bothered to even pen a quick note? Her heart squeezed in her chest and she bit her lip and pressed her hand to her mouth to stifle the sob that had nearly escaped. Of course he did. He had made no secret of it, after all - they had been a means to an end. He had had no obligations to them, had professed no loyalties. She had no reason at all to be so overwrought.

She had thought that his death had been the worst pain she would ever experience. She had thought that nothing could ever touch her again, that she could easily live out the rest of her life unmoved by any depth of feeling. Her heart had already broken, had died with him. But she had been wrong - this was the worst pain, to matter so little. To be so insignificant that she had merited not even a single word of farewell, to be carelessly tossed a side like she had outlived her usefulness. It crushed the broken shards of her heart to dust, and she felt it like a physical ache.

A year ago, she would have given anything to hear him say 'darling girl' just one last time. Now the words made her vaguely nauseated, ashamed. Not a single day had gone by that she had not thought of him, and he had let her suffer, had been glad to be rid of her. What a fool she had been.

She threw back the covers and rose from the bed, pleased to find herself steadier on her feet than she had expected. She could do this. She could walk out there and speak to him with a civil tongue in her head. She could refrain from striking him. She had liked to think that she had risen above such base impulses in the past year, and she had already had one unforgivable lapse when she'd struck him a few moments ago; she could not afford to do so again. She simply needed to recover her composure. Take a few moments to gather the shreds of her dignity and go out there and face him.

Ashe. She needed to emulate Ashe. Cool, poised, unruffled. She hadn't considered that the etiquette lessons Ashe had insisted that she undertake might actually prove themselves useful, but she would call upon them now. She would deliver unto him a set-down the likes of which he would not soon forget. And then he would go, and she could forget this unpleasant turn of events, could weather the humiliating blow he had dealt her in solitude until the pain had faded and the sting of emptiness had abated. The heat of anger vanished, chased away by the frigid chill of ice in her veins.

She needed him gone. He had already chipped away at the icy shroud that had insulated her this past year, and she needed the protection it provided. She needed not to feel, not to hurt. She needed not to care. She had resolved never to be so weak again, but he...he could make her so. It was a risk she would never undertake again. This past year had changed her; she was no longer the naive young girl he had once known. It was time for him to discover it.

When Penelo stepped onto the deck a few minutes later, she appeared to be in a much more amiable temperament. Well, perhaps amiable was not quite the right word...but she didn't appear to be predisposed to physical violence any longer, and for that, at least, Balthier was thankful. Despite her decidedly rumpled appearance - barefoot, mussed hair, still clad in his shirt - she moved with an easy, determined grace, accepting the cup of tea he offered and settling gracefully into the chair across from him. Something about her perfect posture, her demurely lowered lashes, grated on his nerves. And he couldn't help goading her in a desperate attempt to shake her up, to shock her into dropping the detached air.

"Playing at being a lady, are we?"

"I beg your pardon." The frosty tone of her voice bit into him. "I am a lady. Ashe saw to that."

"I was under the impression that you had given it up." He shifted a bit, reached into his pocket, drew out the diadem, held it aloft. "You did leave behind a message for the queen and this bit of nonsense after all." Ahh, a betraying rigidity, her spine had snapped straight with outrage. He had not exactly planned to use this against her, but he wanted to shake the prim and proper lady right out of her, tear away the layers of civility that clung to her and reveal the girl beneath.

"Where did you get that?" Her eyelashes flickered dangerously, revealing more than she wished. Her fingers clenched around her cup, as if resisting the urge to snatch the diadem from his hand.

"Precisely where you left it," he said. "Vaan told me you could often be found at the Bahamut. I discovered your little cache of treasures quite by accident. When it became apparent that you had fled the city with my airship" - he could not restrain himself from stressing the word - "of course I had to go looking for her."

Of course he would come back for the Strahl, she thought bitterly. He could so easily push her from his mind, but his beloved airship would draw him back even from death. She was so foolish to allow those careless words to pierce her as they did, but she could not seem to help it. He mocked her pain, humiliated her by casting her secrets before her. She was furious with his callous disregard; she wanted to hurt him, to take revenge against him, payment for all that she had suffered on his account. And she knew exactly how to do it.

Balthier watched her for a moment, trying to read her face. Furious eyes, white knuckles...saccharine sweet smile. An eerie sense of foreboding swept over him. He had intentionally pricked her temper, incited her ire, and she...she had something over him, he was certain. She was positively relishing whatever had come into her mind, savoring the moments before she sprung it on him.

"Oh, dear," she murmured. "My, this is awkward." She sighed, a soft sound of insincere regret. "This is my airship, you see."

That sentence, in its cool, placid tone rung in his ears like a gong. "I must have misheard you. The Strahl is your airship?"

"Mmm." Her self-satisfied smirk jarred; where had she picked that up? "That would be correct."

"I don't see how that could be possible, considering she is and always has been my ship." The words came out from between clenched teeth.

"Oh, that." She waved away his protest. "Well, you see, she was, of course, formerly in your possession. And as she was never truly yours, her ownership was briefly returned to Archadia following your death." She sipped her tea, enjoying his discomfiture, the way his fingers clenched on the arms of his chair, the tight set of his jaw. "Larsa offered her to me. He thought I might want an airship of my own - Vaan has his own, you know - and she was bound for the scrap heap, anyway."

A muscle ticked in his jaw. "That pompous little princeling gave you my airship?"

"My airship, please." Fluttering lashes, maddening smile. "It really was a very sweet gesture."

"Sweet? He gave you my damned ship!"

"What else should he have done with her? Your tenuous claim to ownership was dissolved by death."

"I am not dead!" he roared.

She blinked at him in the wake of his outburst. "Well, yes, I can see that. But really, Balthier, not so much as a simple note in an entire year. What else were we to think?"

"Would you kindly desist with this lady-of-the-manor nonsense? It doesn't suit you in the slightest." He sank back in his chair, rocked by this newfound knowledge. And under the circumstances, there was only one course he could take. He pinched the bridge of his nose, heaved a sigh. "How much do you want for her?"

"Not for sale." She set down her cup, folded her hands in her lap, ignored his pointed jab. How the hell did she manage to look elegant even as disheveled as she was? A button had slipped free, exposing just a tiny bit of the shadowy hollow between her breasts; with no small amount of effort, he pulled his gaze away.

"I assure you, I have the funds to pay for her," he bit off.

"Not. For. Sale." she repeated. "I've grown attached to her."

"That is utter rubbish. There's nothing of you here. She's the same as she ever was."

"That's neither here nor there. The fact of the matter is that she belongs to me, and I will keep her. You cannot have everything you want." Her voice was carefully modulated, neutral, but the flames of anger, of hurt, burned behind her eyes.

And quite suddenly, his anger faded and comprehension struck. She was punishing him. She was trying to hurt him as he'd hurt her. That cool exterior was merely armor intended to keep him at a distance. And beneath the smooth, polished veener of the lady she had become, he was willing to bet that the adventurous, free-spirited girl she had once been lingered still, yearning to break free. That girl he had been rather fond of, in his way. But in the past year she had been trapped in a prison of cool civility and bland courtesy, stifled by Ashe's expectations. And he...he wanted to see her glow again.

It was still there, buried somewhere deep inside her. He saw a bit of it when he goaded her into anger, much as she tried to hide it. He did not care for what she had become, what Ashe had made her into - she had always been intended for so much more than this, so much more than empty words and polite, meaningless conversation. She had been fire and passion, unguarded joy, breathless wonder. She had been artless, innocent, sincere. She had effortlessly enchanted him, unwittingly seduced him.

He wanted to seduce her back into the girl she had once been. He would have to coax her from her anger, of course, and that would be no simple feat, given the way everything about her warded him off with the hostility of a wild animal backed into a corner. But then, he had always relished a challenge.

Penelo shifted in her seat, uneasy with the slow, scheming smile that slid across his face. His eyes raked over her from bottom to top, lingering a touch too long on her exposed thighs, the gap in the front of the shirt. Such a hungry look, it made her want to pull the shirt down over her exposed legs and clutch the collar closed against her throat. But such a move would betray her, and so with no small amount of effort she pretended she had not noticed his perusal.

"Then you had best resign yourself to company, dear girl."

"I...what?"

"I've decided to accompany you, of course. It's fortunate that my bedroom still contains all of my necessities." He enjoyed her open-mouthed expression of shock.

"You can't do that," she said. "You can't just...just invite yourself along on someone else's ship."

"I believe I just did."

This, she had not prepared for. She wracked her brain furiously - she had to get rid of him, she had to keep a firm grip on her icy detachment. She could not do that if he remained here. She took a deep breath, settling her nerves, drawing upon all the suffering she had endured in the past year to keep her voice steady and even.

"Your company is unnecessary." There, she had managed that ably enough, with just the right amount of derision.

"Darling girl, if I did not know better, I would think you were trying to be rid of me."

Her eyes narrowed on his face, that lazy smirk, the arching brow. The bastard was enjoying this. "I have no need of a traveling companion. After a year in Rabanastre, I find that peace and solitude are all I require. Your presence would disrupt that."

"But I have decided that you require an escort, and I don't see how you intend to keep me from that purpose." He leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees. "I know the Strahl far better than you do. I know all of her overrides. And, really, I wouldn't be much of a pirate if it were so easy to keep me out."

Calm. Collected. Cool. Poised. She repeated the words in her head like a mantra. "Surely you have better things to do."

"As it happens, I am currently at loose ends. I should like nothing better than to escort you on your travels."

He had sprung her own trap on her, and she knew of only one way to extricate herself from it. She would have to abandon the Strahl entirely. A loathsome thought to be sure; she loved the ship - perhaps even as much as he did. But there was little she would not have sacrificed for her own peace of mind, of heart. He was amusing himself at her expense, and she did not expect that he would easily relinquish her before he was through toying with her. And she could not bear to be so used again.

"Fine, then." She rose, collected her empty tea cup. "Do as you please. But do not expect me to entertain you."

He followed swiftly as she exited the room, heading towards the small kitchen, where she busied herself with washing and rinsing her cup.

"I am gratified that we could come to an understanding," he said.

"Hmm." A noncommittal reply. He might've believed she truly did not care if he could not see the tightness of her jaw. He sighed - perhaps he ought to have been a little kinder to her, or at the very least not so clearly shown her his pleasure in her discomfort. But she was taking his highhandedness rather well, all things considered. And then, a sinking suspicion: she was taking it rather too well.

He eased casually into the kitchen, blocking the exit, and noted the stiffening of her shoulders. But she merely set the cup in a rack to dry, turned off the water, and turned to face him. She tilted her chin up and that stubborn angle he had always found rather appealing.

"Let me pass," she said.

"Hmm, no, I don't think that I will." He crossed his arms over his chest. "Please, do relieve my mind. You wouldn't be so foolish as to go off on your own, would you?"

A flicker of guilt in her eyes, just for a fraction of a second. He sighed, shook his head, stepped towards her. She stood her ground, admitted nothing.

"That would be very, very unwise." His fingertips grazed her cheek, drifted down her throat, flirted with the collar of his shirt. "I think, from past experience, you ought to have learned not to go off on your own, and should you take such a foolish risk, you would risk inciting my anger when I find you. And, darling girl, I will find you."

Her eyes closed briefly, her breath shuddered out. "I am not a pet, Balthier. You cannot keep me like one." Despite herself, the words came out vulnerable, aching.

He wanted to keep her. After a year, even through the cold lash of her anger, her outraged pride, his own desire to keep a hold on his freedom, he still wanted to keep her. A year ago, he had wanted to protect her from the world. Now, hearing finally the terrible sorrow in her voice, guilt flayed him. He wanted to soothe her, to draw her into his arms and comfort her. He did not, however, imagine she would allow him to do so. He had behaved like a proper ass, and she was raw, wounded. She was still reeling from his unexpected reappearance, and he needed time to disarm her, to carefully pry her from the cocoon she had cobbled together to protect herself against him. Time she would not be inclined to give him, did he continue to rile her.

He had already bungled this badly. She was such a softhearted little thing, and he had mocked her for it. Small wonder she had not cared to renew their acquaintance; he had shown no regard for her feelings, no regard for her. He had proved himself just as self-serving and thoughtless as ever. And he realized now, with no small measure of self-reproach, that it wasn't Ashe who had wrought this change in her - he had. Ashe had merely given her the weapons to wield; he had provided the enemy against whom she needed to defend herself. He had broken her trust and quite possibly her heart. The thought roused a strange ache in him, too sharp to be merely guilt.

He brushed back her hair, barely stifling a wince when she flinched from the tender gesture. He kept his voice soft, hoping she might hear the regret within it, perhaps soften towards him a bit. "Ah, dear girl, I have been less than kind to you, it seems. Do you suppose you might find it in your heart to forgive me my thoughtlessness? I assure you that I shall be the soul of courtesy in the future."

Her face was impassive, a study in careful neutrality, but those wide blue eyes were wary, distrustful. "I don't understand you, Balthier," she said flatly. She would have pushed past him, but he caught her wrist.

"But at least you must know that I am speaking the truth," he insisted. "You always did."

Something in her eyes shuttered, dulled. "No," she said. "I lost that ability at some point in the past year. That's the thing about the truth, Balthier - in order to see it, you have to actually care whether or not you're being lied to." She tugged her wrist from his grasp, and retreated down the hall, leaving him to linger in the kitchen with the oddest sense of remorse clinging to him - as if, like a clumsy child, he had carelessly broken something precious and lacked the means to piece it back together.