Whatever else had occurred at Sarema's grave Balthier was doomed to wonder, for Penelo would not share it with him. But something had changed in her, surely, for she had...settled somewhat, he thought. Oh, not that he thought that she had grown completely comfortable, complacent - did she ever grow truly complacent, he would know she had no feeling for him whatsoever. But she had lost a bit of that nervous, hunted look that she had so frequently worn.
Before, she had generally treated him as a necessary evil she must suffer in pursuit of her grand adventures, maintaining a certain skittish hesitance around him as if she was constantly on guard from an expected attack . Now - although she did not, precisely, seek him out - she at least accepted his presence with an ease she had previously lacked. She did not flinch or start when he entered a room, she would relax into her chair with no trace of a rigid spine, no longer looking as if she might at any moment be forced to flee. Her brows did not jerk upwards in surprise when he touched her. Even when he had kissed her into sweet submission previously, there had always been a strange, desperate eagerness in her. She threw herself headlong into it so she would have no time to second-guess herself, so she could enjoy what he offered with no self-recriminations later. He suspected that absolving herself of responsibility was the only way she could maintain her aloof facade and not have to examine herself, to confront her fears.
But that same night they had left Sarema's island, before she had gone off to bed, he had met her in the corridor on the way to his room to retire for the night. She had been leaning against the wall, lying in wait for him. Her hair had been loose, haloed by the light that had poured from her room, brushed and tamed into soft, silky waves. She wore only his shirt for nightclothes, having thoroughly commandeered the garment for her use. Rubbing one foot against the back of her opposite leg, she had worried her lower lip with those even, white teeth, considering him as if attempting to peer into his soul and glean his motives .
And he had waited, breathless, until she had pushed away from the wall and eased towards him, slowly, so slowly he thought that entire civilizations would crumble to distant memories before she ever reached him. He had been utterly arrested by her, by her careful, deliberate motions. He could only wait in a thick, heavy silence as she delicately laid her hands upon his chest, lifted herself on her toes, and touched her soft lips to his.
Testing the waters. Finding a steady place to land. He could give her that, but not if he grabbed for her like a barbarian, taking what she would so sweetly have given. So he held himself in tense stillness, and sweated, and longed, and wanted, and clenched his hands into fists so tight he thought he might've drawn blood, and let her learn him. She was seeking something, from herself as well as from him, and he could only desperately hope that she would find what she was looking for.
And she sighed, and he was undone. He had taken it as tacit permission, invitation. For the first time in so, so long, he allowed himself to embrace her, to slide his arms around her waist, to gently ease her closer. Not in a greedy, seizing grab, but rather comforting, encouraging. She had softened, all the cautious hesitance extinguished, relaxing into his hold. Rather than locking her arms to maintain her distance, she had folded in on herself, a tiny bird tucking its wings, allowing him to cradle her against his chest. The first overture that she had made, and he relished it, savored it. For just a moment he allowed himself to wonder what it might be like to have this for all time, to have her come to him of her own volition, to not be reduced to coaxing scraps of affection from her but to have them freely given.
Finally, after what seemed like hours, but was likely only seconds, she drew away, and murmured, "Hmm." As if that elusive thing she had been seeking had been uncovered at last, and she was pondering its significance. And she bid him good night, and left him standing in the corridor, staring at her closed door, knowing it was unlocked, and fighting the desire to follow.
Oh, she had brought him low. He had been bound by the sweet lilt of her voice, the silky threads of her hair, the downy softness of her skin. But those chains did not extend in both directions, and he was painfully aware of that disheartening fact. And rather than straining to free himself from her shackles, he found himself searching for ways to bind her to him as well. But he suspected he had little that she wanted, and it was a disconcerting thought, feeling that he had been measured and found wanting. He had been so unused to currying favor that he had no idea how he might insinuate himself into her good graces.
There was the sense of time slipping away from him like sand in an hourglass, each grain that tumbled through a wedge between them. These halcyon days could not last forever; these were merely moments out of time, borrowed against the rest of their lives - and he could only hope that when that time had elapsed, it would find them together still.
A few days later, those tranquil days abruptly came to an end, and the temporary truce vanished as if had never been. The hourglass had run out, and reality marched on once again as they found themselves in a perilous stalemate, a furious clash of wills which he suspected they would both lose.
"I want to go to Nabudis," she said.
"No."
It had been an instinctive refusal, but they had both been surprised by it. Her brows arched, her eyes widened, her lips pursed into a flat line, her shoulders set in stubborn challenge. And he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, settling back in his chair in preparation for battle - of course, she would take his abrupt denial poorly.
"Darling, Nabudis is dangerous."
"Lots of places are dangerous," she countered in a waspish tone. "The Golmore Jungle, the Feywood. We've been to those."
"It's hardly the same. Those places are well-known to me. Not like Nabudis. It is a wasteland, a city teeming with the dead -"
"I know. I still want to go," she said belligerently, folding her arms over her chest.
"It's not safe." Something in his voice wavered a bit, as if pleading for her acceptance, her understanding. For her to see that he refused not out of high-handed superiority, not to control or stifle, but out of fear for her.
"I was safe in Rabanastre. I hated it. I don't want safe," she muttered. Her voice wrenched his heart, because it carried with it a feeling of doors closing, opportunities being snatched away. She was withdrawing, and he wanted to grab for her, pull her back. Keep her with him.
"I want safe," he replied in carefully modulated tone.
"I'm not asking for permission, Balthier." She made to move away, but he grabbed for her wrist, clamping it in the tight grip of his fingers.
"For the time being, you'll require it. We will not be going to Nabudis." He tried to imbue the words with gentle, if firm, insistence, but she was determined to chafe under the restriction. There was a soft snort of derision, and he was treated again to the icy disdain of the lady she had become under Ashe's tutelage.
"Release me," she hissed. She didn't bother to attempt to free herself, merely stared him down as if struggling futilely in his hold was an action beneath her. As if he were beneath her. He was halfway tempted to applaud, so convincing was her flawless mask of scorn.
That cool detachment, settling about her shoulders like a mantle. He'd have to snatch it away before it could cling and linger. Raking his free hand through his hair, he sighed, "Just listen for a moment."
But the moment he released her wrist, she pushed back from the table, and stalked furiously away. Mistake. His own ire had been steadily climbing, and she'd just tipped him past the point of no return by retreating. She ought to have known better - fleeing only made him want to chase her.
He caught up with her in the corridor, grabbing her shoulder and dragging her back a few paces to keep her from barricading herself in her room and sulking for the foreseeable future.
"We're not finished," he growled.
"We are." She was fairly vibrating with fury, and it gathered in her eyes, sparkling, incandescent. "I'm getting off at the next settlement."
"The hell you say." Glowering down at her, he pinned her shoulders to the wall, barely resisting the maddening urge to shake some sense into her. "Will you just listen for once in your life, you miserable little hellion?"
Perhaps not the best choice of words, for she gasped, flushed an angry shade of red, bristling at him, jerking to escape his hold on her shoulders. Not to be thwarted, he leaned in, observing with perverse satisfaction as she tried and failed to dislodge him. Her color was high, her chest heaved from exertion, and he...he wanted to provoke her just a bit further, see what it wrought.
Because she was beautiful. Because even in her rage - or maybe especially in her rage - she tempted him. To slide his hands in his hair, to bring her lips to his and kiss all of that righteous indignation right out of her. Instead, he pressed closer, insinuating his knee between her legs, forcing her onto her toes to accommodate him. And she stilled, grabbing at his arms to avoid pitching forward against his chest as the movement unbalanced her.
Their eyes caught and locked, his gaze so smug and self-satisfied that she itched to slap him. Instead she whispered furiously, "Damn you, Balthier." And she fisted one hand in his hair, dragging his head down even as she turned her face up to press her lips to his.
All at once she was no longer fighting for escape - rather she was fighting to get closer. He shifted, readjusted, released her shoulders, slid his palms under her, supporting her, lifting her. Arms locked around his neck, she moved restlessly against him, seeking the perfect combination of movement and pressure. She writhed, caught in a sinuous arch, whimpered against his hot throat.
He understood. Poor little kitten, she had been spoiling for a fight, for anything to ease the sharp, unrelenting ache of unfulfilled desire, frustration. She had suffered as much as he had, these past weeks. And now she clung to him desperately, as if she were terrified he would once again draw away, as he had before. One of her hands was feverishly attempting to work his belt buckle, and he gently brushed her fingers away.
"No, no, no, no..." The words tumbled out of her, building to a plaintive whine that he stifled with his fingers on her lips, a tender kiss to her forehead. He sought out the sensitive skin behind her ear, awash in the scent of lavender, kissing the delicate flesh there, hearing her breath catch in her throat.
He shouldered away from the wall, and she clamped her legs around his waist, a little sob bursting out of her. Her head dropped onto his shoulder, nuzzling against him in silent plea.
With one hand he reached out, feeling for the doorknob, eventually closing his fingers upon it, and gave it a vicious twist. Her teeth scraped across throat; he very nearly stumbled as his knees threatened to buckle from underneath him. Wicked little thing that she was, she only continued on her path, stringing kisses up his neck, nipping at his earlobe.
He toppled her down on the bed. The thin strap holding up her top had slipped off one shoulder, her hair tumbled down her back in wild disarray. She looked adorably rumpled, slightly pouting at having been thrust away from him so suddenly. Flushed cheeks, chin tilting upwards as if in preparation for an argument.
She opened her mouth.
"Not a word, Penelo." Her mouth shut with an audible snap as he shucked off his vest and shirt and crawled across the mattress towards her. He slid his fingers into her hair, kissed the corner of her lips. "Not a word."
"Are you still planning on getting off at the next settlement?" He pressed the question into the warm skin at the base of her spine, enjoyed the little shudder that slid through her as his stubbled jaw gently abraded her sensitive flesh.
"Will you take me to Nabudis?" The sullen tone was muffled; her face was buried in the pillows.
He smiled, kissed the spot again, said, "No."
"Balthier -" She tried to rise up onto her elbows; he pressed his palm against her spine, held her down where he wanted her.
"Hush and listen," he said. "It's dangerous enough to go with a complete party, much less just the two of us. I would never have even considered going with Fran, and she's got lifetimes of experience on both of us. It's not a never, darling girl, it's a not now. I'll not take you anywhere I cannot guarantee your safety."
She lapsed into silence, considering his words. Then, finally, "You could have said so earlier."
"I would have, had you given me half an opportunity. But no, you were bound and determined be in a snit."
An offended breath. "I was not in a snit!"
"Sweet, you're working yourself into a snit now," he chuckled.
The fierce glare she shot at him was softened by her tousled hair, kiss-bruised lips. And he collected her in his arms, arranging her against him so that her head was pillowed on his chest.
"I propose a compromise. Let's go somewhere neither of us has ever been before," he said.
Long, warm fingers traveled up and down her back in soothing strokes, coaxing her to agree, to stay awhile longer, to take what he offered.
"Won't it be dangerous, if you've never been there?" she asked.
"Not in a city," he said reasonably. "Give it a chance. Not all adventures must be dangerous. You wanted to see the world. What have you got to lose?"
And she sighed, curled closer, and silently granted him another few days' time.
The capitol city of Rozarria was an interesting hodgepodge of varying architectural styles. Towering spires vied with looming columns and high-reaching brick walls spider-webbed with climbing ivy for dominance, but none won out, merely serving to bring an eclectic, dizzying sense of disorientation to the beholder. It appeared to Penelo as if several kingdoms had butted right up against one another, each bringing their own distinct flair to the city. Certainly she had never seen a bright blue and purple glass-topped tower tucked right up against a rustic-looking lodge, which was, in turn, crowded right next to a stately, marble-columned manor house.
There seemed to be no particular commerce district, with open-air markets set up wherever space was available. And no residential district, either - it was impossible to tell at a glance whether you might be entering a courthouse or someone's private residence. If there were signs to indicate buildings for a particular purpose, she had seen hide nor hair of them.
Despite all that, the city was entirely too lively, and everyone seemed to know precisely where they were headed. The Rozarrians were loud, boisterous, and overall friendly group of people, and the city was raucous with the constant shouts of greeting as friends passed one another on the street.
Though she knew that Rozarria had both a monarchy and a healthy amount of nobility, it was impossible to tell by either their clothing or their manners who was who - street vendors seemed to dress just as flamboyantly as the upper classes. She would never have known the man purchasing a sack full of plums for a duke if the vendor hadn't greeted him as one - in fact, she thought perhaps of the two, the vendor was the better dressed.
Despite the disorder, she loved the city, the lilting, musical accents of the people. She stole a glance beside her; Balthier did not seem to be similarly impressed. In fact, he looked vaguely nauseated. The chaotic nature of the city and its people served only to make him ill at ease.
"It's amazing," she said, relishing his discomfort as he was jostled by a passing group of children who turned around briefly to shout an apology. "What do you think?"
"It's...ah, interesting."
She coughed discreetly into her fist, hiding her smile. And then started, as off to her right she saw a cluster of what looked to be Dalmascan soldiers. A curious sense of foreboding shuddered through her; she sidled closer to Balthier, slipping her hand into his. A brief flicker of surprise chased across his face, but his fingers closed around hers, warm, solid, reassuring.
Her attention was swiftly captured by a vendor selling his wares, strange fruits that she had never seen before, fuzzy ones, star-shaped ones, vibrant pink ones that she was certain didn't grow anywhere in Dalmasca.
"Ah, miss, you look like you've never seen a heartfruit before," said the merchant, smiling down at her. He hefted the fruit in his hand, passing it over to her to examine.
"I haven't," she murmured. "Heartfruit? Why is it called that?"
"It's in the seeds, miss. You cut the fruit in half, and the pattern of the seeds on the inside resembles a heart." He winked at her. "Legend has it that if you scoop out the seeds and put six of them beneath your pillow, you'll dream of your true love. Just a story, of course, a bit of fun. But you'd be hard-pressed, I think, to find a Rozarrian lady who's not done it herself once or twice."
"Why twice?" Balthier scoffed. "To get a second opinion?"
"Ah, sir, you've no romance in your soul," the merchant chided with a good-natured laugh.
And Penelo, feeling rather silly, set the fruit down, thanked the merchant for the story, and drifted on. But when she glanced behind her, it was to see Balthier passing over a bit of gil and collecting a bag of heartfruits.
And later on in the day, they stopped to perch upon a low wall separating two streets, and split a heartfruit between them. It was sweet and soft, and while Balthier was distracted in his search for a handkerchief to wipe the sticky juice from his hands, Penelo slipped a small handful of seeds into her pocket.
She had thought that when night fell, the city would quiet somewhat, but it seemed just the opposite - the streets flooded with even more people. A lamplighter had made his rounds, setting aglow the plentiful lamps lining the streets. And she sat and watched the pandemonium, the bag of exotic fruits by her side, as Balthier browsed the wares laid out in the rows of merchant's tables lining the walkway. He had indicated that she should wait and rest a bit, but she suspected that he was looking for another trinket or some such bit of nonsense that he thought she might like, and did not want her to ruin the surprise.
She tried to divide her attention evenly between Balthier and the swarms of people crowding the street, but was momentarily distracted by a swarm of ladies in their long, fluttering gowns in every vibrant hue imaginable drifting through the streets like large, magnificent butterflies. Her view was suddenly obstructed by two men who paused before her, and she listed to the right to see around them.
"My lady, here you are at last!"
She heard the words with a jolt of shock, stiffening as she realized they were directed to her. Her attention firmly captured, she stared at the two men before her. Soldiers - Dalmascan soldiers. She'd been correct in her earlier assumption, but - what were they doing here, of all places?
She cleared her throat. "Can I help you?" she asked cautiously.
"Her Majesty the Queen is visiting Rozarria with Emperor Larsa Solidor to foster diplomatic relations," the one on the left explained. "She received word earlier that the Strahl had been docked in the Aerodrome. There's been a notice out on it since a week after you went missing and failed to send word, my lady, that any city who harbors her should contact the queen at once. We've been searching for you most of the day; we're to conduct you back to her majesty directly."
Penelo shot to her feet at once. "Bal-" But the soldier on the right clamped his leather-gloved hand over her mouth, stifling the cry.
"Now, now, we have our orders, beg pardon, my lady." He grunted as Penelo's foot connected with his shin. She bit down on his hand, but her teeth gripped only leather - the glove was too thick for her teeth to connect with his skin. Furious, she flailed, kicked, but there were two of them, heavily armored. Without benefit of a weapon, which had been left off for the trip into the city, she was supremely outmatched. And they were trained warriors, more than equipped to subdue one lone female. She found herself lifted off her feet. All her desperate thrashing had accomplished was to knock the bag of fruit from the wall, scattering its contents into the dusty street, where they were promptly sent flying by the well-shod feet of the people milling around.
No one cared to rescue her, not when she had been taken into custody by soldiers of a foreign nation. And so she could only watch as, little by little, Balthier disappeared into the distance, his head bent low over an object on a table, and she was carted away from him.
She had gone, fled. Balthier cast his eyes upon the place he had left her waiting, a curious numbness settling in his veins. He clenched his fingers around his purchase - a tiny figurine of a bird carved from crystal, perched upon a twig made of twisting gold and silver wires - and tried to understand.
She had seemed happy. She had been thrilled with this city, agape with breathless excitement. Earlier in the day she had even slipped her small hand into his so that they would not be separated by the tide of people pushing past them. They had spent several hours exploring, and he did not think he had seen her sweet face lacking a smile at any point. How could she have left him? He had thought that she had gotten over her anger at having been denied Nabudis, but had she merely concealed it from him? Had she simply bided her time, waiting to lose herself in a city that was unfamiliar to him so that he would not easily be able to locate her?
Something drifted over the toe of his boot; he looked down. A bag, like the one from the fruit merchant. No, not merely like it - it was the bag from the fruit merchant. Near his right foot, a pulpy mass of squished fruit lay on the ground, having been pounded to a sticky mess by the throng of people passing through.
A frisson of mingled fear and fury assailed him, chasing away the numbness that had invaded him at the thought of her desertion.
She had not left. She had been taken.
He was furious and terrified. Had he thought a city would keep her safe? How wrong he had been - and now she was to suffer for it.
"Well, it seems that I acted in haste in giving you a posthumous pardon," came a slightly sardonic voice from behind him.
He jerked around, coming face to face with Larsa Solidor. Basch was at his side, his hand on the hilt of his sword, sensing the volatile emotions that roiled in Balthier and preparing himself for battle if it came down to it. Larsa had grown several inches since Balthier had last seen him up close, his hair pulled back into a neat queue, no longer in the puff-sleeved blouses he had previously favored, but a slightly more severe, reserved style as befitting an emperor in his own right.
Still a boy, but with enough of the man he would one day become in him for Balthier to grow immediately suspicious.
"If you took her," he seethed, "I will kill you."
Larsa's dark brows rose skyward in surprise. "Not many are those who would threaten an emperor," he said. "But I will forgive you the lapse, all things considered." He clasped his hands behind his back, reading the barely-leashed fury in Balthier's face. "I didn't take her," he said finally. "Her Majesty Queen Ashelia did."
"Then you will take me to where she is being held." Balthier's tone did not allow for dissention.
"I'm afraid that will not be possible. Her Majesty is even now on her way out of the city. Penelo was taken to her ship. You'll not make it in time. As it happens, I don't agree that her majesty has the right of it, even if she does have good intentions. I only came to tell you what has passed because I - all of Archadia, really - owed you a debt. I hope this shall put us even."
Balthier gave a sharp nod. He had not desired favors from those he had once traveled with, but this was one he would not thumb his nose at. But for Larsa's warning, he might have wasted precious time searching fruitlessly.
"I'll be on my way, then. I've a state dinner of some sort to attend. Do try not to make a muck of things this time around, Balthier." And he was off, Basch at his side, leaving Balthier to ponder his next course of action.
Ashe had not cared to listen. But then, Penelo hadn't really expected her to, not in the face of so many livid, nigh-insensible recriminations of Balthier. It seemed that somehow she and Balthier had been spotted in Balfonheim, and that an unnamed source had reported back to Ashe that Balthier had carried Penelo away from the city kicking and screaming. Of course it was true, but none of her attempts at an explanation had gotten through to Ashe, who was inclined to believe the worst. Given the nature of the report, she had promptly launched a rescue mission - really, nothing more than a glorified kidnapping.
She firmly believed that Balthier had merely worn away Penelo's resistance, and that Penelo required time separated from him to recover her senses and shake his hold on her. Nothing she said had penetrated Ashe's infuriated furor. No amount of pleading had been able to convince Ashe that she had elected to stay aboard the Strahl with Balthier of her own free will.
And now she was languishing in a locked cabin aboard Ashe's airship, bound for Rabanastre.
Her surroundings were sumptuous, but she could not enjoy them. She simply curled up on the bed, watching the minute hand of the clock resting upon the nightstand tick away the time with doleful precision. With nothing left to do but sleep, she disrobed and changed into the soft cotton nightgown that Ashe had had left in the room for her.
As she folded her clothing neatly to set it upon a chair, a handful of seeds scattered across the floor. The heartfruit seeds she had stashed in her pocket earlier in the day. With shaking hands she collected an even half-dozen and thrust them beneath the pillow.
Climbing into bed, she curled up and rested her head upon the pillow. This time, Balthier would not be just across the hall, and the thought made her...lonely, sad. She closed her eyes, slept. And dreamed of Balthier.