Archive of Our Own ^beta

5+1 things: heart-to-hearts

Balthier:

“How did you do it?”

They’re in the Strahl’s engine room; the others are all busy, taking quests or seeing the sights or acquiring provisions, which left Noah – still convalescing, barely more than ambulatory – the only one who could be spared to hand Balthier tools.

Of course, Balthier could get his damn tools his damn self…but as irritating as the pirate can be with his pompous manner, he’s not entirely unpleasant company. At the very least, he’s surprisingly quiet as he works, content to focus on the job and do little of his habitual chattering. Maybe because he feels at home, or maybe because he doesn’t want to talk to Noah; there’s no telling.

He answers readily enough, though.

“Do what? I doubt you meant tightening bolts, or changing filters.”

Noah frowns. He wants the answer, but does he want it badly enough to face the indignity of asking, and the potential for mockery from the eternally-smug pirate?

In truth, his choice was made as soon as he agreed to help in the engine room; a quiet, secluded place with no one else around. He’s been waiting for an opening.

“How did you know? That it was wrong, that the Empire was…”

For a moment, Balthier’s hands still, and Noah wonders if he’ll shimmy out from under the…well, whatever this part is, and insist on having the conversation face-to-face.

It’s a mercy when Balthier simply asks for a different wrench…even if he hates how his heart beat faster at the pause.

Balthier sighs. “I left because of my father’s madness…or what I thought was madness. But in truth, it didn’t begin there. It wasn’t only his coldness, or the way he seemed to care naught for my brothers’ deaths. When Vayne Solidor cut down his brothers, I wondered what kind of nation it was that would allow such a thing; that his family held such power that even such an act could not be prosecuted. And the Judges…”

The words trail off, fading into nothing.

Noah wonders how the Akademy must have been for Balthier, back when he was the bright young heir of the Empire’s premier researcher. How he must have been treated.

He’d been a Judge already, fledgling but still entrusted with some small authority, by the time he’d heard the name Ffamran Bunansa and seen the face that went with the name. At the time he’d hoped that the young lord would be subjected to the same rough treatment he was, but now…

Now he only hopes that whatever comes of the future in Lord Larsa’s hands, it never subjects anyone to such things.

Balthier’s voice comes again, this time more gentle. “It was many things. But I was not told that my homeland was something to hide. I was never made to feel ashamed of my family or name. Yes, I may have been called a disappointment with such regularity I could nearly use it to tell the time of day…” The words lilt playfully, and a wry smile is briefly audible. Typical of Balthier, to hide from his pain with humor. “...but it was only that I did not sufficiently embody what they considered my birthright .”

Any other time, when not underneath something, Balthier would have turned and spat on the ground after saying the words.

Noah’s not sure how to feel, that he’s spent enough time around the man in the past weeks that he can tell such a thing.

“Even so,” he insists, feeling this far too close to pity for his tastes, “As they tried to mold you in their image, you resisted. How?”

With a chuckle, Balthier finally shimmies out from under the bulkhead.

“Well, now. Can you imagine me taking orders from anyone ? I seem to recall you sitting in on a few of my lessons, back in the day; surely you could see it even then.” He brushes himself off with brisk motions, and nods to the toolbox. “You can just leave those there, I’ll be back here in an hour. For now, lunch.”

Trust Balthier to give him no helpful answers…perhaps he shouldn’t have bothered. Even if it wasn’t mockery, was it really worth it?

And yet…

As he reaches the door, Balthier pauses, and half-turns.

“You know,” he offers over his shoulder, “Not everyone who can fight makes for a good soldier…but there’s no shame in being one. I may have been prone to question all authority by my very nature, but that does not mean you should have been. I doubt you were the son of a scientist, after all.”

With that, and one final smirk as parting, he swans back out the door…and Noah is left in the stuffy, still, slightly-dusty engine room, alone with his thoughts.

Perhaps…not so useless a talk, after all?

Fran:

He doesn’t plan to seek her out, as such; Noah’s still not entirely sure how to address her, and there’s little clue from the others as they all talk with such easy familiarity after their long travels together. Nonetheless, she’s clearly wise, and more than a few times he’s overheard her giving advice to one or another of her comrades.

So even if he doesn’t plan to do so, he does at least consider the possibility – and then matters are taken from his hands.

“Something troubles you.”

Her voice is soft but no less matter-of-fact for it, as she changes the bandages on his back. At first it had been hard to accept…but her hands are some of the most steady and skilled, it turns out, and Noah had quickly learned that it was better to accept help and not give the younger ones the chance to carry on and make a fuss…

…nor to worry Basch any further, something that he hated to see.

“You linger in doorways like you’re not sure if you may enter,” she continues, “even when you are invited, you stay at a distance. Like an outsider who does not know how to find his place within.”

The words hurt far more than the soap on the wounds she cleans, and he finds himself grimacing less because of the physical and more because of the way she manages to strike true so simply and easily.

She lapses back into silence, waiting…

And even though he knows, Noah can’t help but take the bait. “Can there ever be a place for me? With everything I’ve done, everyone I’ve hurt…do I deserve a place?”

Fran hums, seeming to consider the matter.

“Perhaps you do not feel that you deserve one…but what say the ones you hurt? Do they make for you a place?” She knows they do, knows that Basch still tries, awkwardly, to find conversation with him. That Ashe remains uneasy but is always cordial at the very least, and ensures he has a place around the table. Her soft voice turns pointed, and she presses, “Would you refuse them when they seek to bridge that gap, and hurt them again? They have made their choice.”

“...and I should respect that choice?” he wonders aloud.

She gives no response to that; simply finishes re-dressing the wounds, and touches his shoulder gently. “You heal well. One without hope could not do so, and would only waste away.”

With that, she stands fluidly from the bed, and leaves him with his thoughts – and for a time, Noah loses himself to them entirely, the afternoon drifting by unnoticed until Basch comes to find him for supper.

Maybe it’s just his imagination, but his brother seems to smile more over dinner, when his awkward conversation is returned.

Could there be a place for him?

Vaan:

If he expected anyone to blow up at him, to really pick a fight – even if he’d declined to do so before when there were more pressing concerns – it’s Vaan.

After all, he’d murdered his brother.

Not just that. That would have been bad enough. But to use him, to torture him…if anyone besides Basch should hate him, it’s Vaan. At least in the Princess’ case, her father’s death was clean and quick, and entirely political.

It doesn’t shock him, then, when Vaan comes toward him with the kind of stride that makes clear he’s on the warpath – he expects to be struck, at the very least. A sword drawn and pointed at him, perhaps.

He’s prepared for that; if today he’s to be struck down by the boy, surely that’s no less than he deserves. At the very least, he’s not going to begrudge him a beating.

But Vaan stops, hands on his hips, and glares up at him with a defiance Noah wasn’t expecting at all…

…any more than he expected the pronouncement, “You need to apologize .”

If that’s how it’s to begin, he supposes it’s not a bad start. “You’re right. What I did to Reks was unforgivable, and I am truly sorry.”

The bow is not mocking, and he’d hope that Vaan could tell that – but the boy sighs, and waves a hand. “No, no. Not to me . To Ashe .” He scowls up at Noah, so much unspoken fury in that gaze, and insists, “You told Basch you were sorry, but not her . Don’t you think you’re forgetting something with all this ‘making amends’ stuff you’ve been doing?”

It’s not hard to follow the first part; that much he agrees with. The second is harder to follow, though. Whatever Vaan thinks he’s been doing, it certainly wasn’t conscious. Noah doesn’t even know where to start to make amends, as such. He’s settled for trying not to burden his erstwhile hosts, and perhaps make himself useful as a way of expressing gratitude for the way they’ve cared for him.

They certainly didn’t have to – even as a favor to Lord Larsa, some things were too much to ask. Caring for him while he convalesced, before he was ready to return to Archades and take up his duty once again was surely already too much. Of course he would do what he could to offset that.

It’s better not to question Vaan once he’s set his mind to an idea, though; that’s another thing he learned fairly quickly with this bunch, and Noah is plenty willing to do as his brother and the others, and simply keep the peace. “You’re right; I will speak with her. Thank you.”

It does seem to mollify him somewhat, but he doesn’t leave, and he doesn’t stop glaring – at least, not at first. Testing Noah’s sincerity, maybe? To think that he’d reach a point where he’d meekly allow such a thing as a boy like Vaan taking his measure…

Of course, as Vaan claps him on the arm and nods, finally giving him a smile, Noah can’t help feeling that perhaps he has turned some kind of corner. The familiarity makes him roll his eyes, but there’s no anger or affront. And yet, a mere month ago, he’d have backhanded anyone who tried to do such a thing.

“Y’know,” Vaan adds, rubbing at his nose the same way he always does when there’s mischief on his mind, “maybe you should still try doing something nice for Basch? Whenever I’d been a brat to Reks, I’d bring him something, that way he wouldn’t be mad at me…” The smile takes on a hint of melancholy. “Galbana lilies, when I could find ‘em. They were his favorite.”

The words he’d like to say, of apology or sympathy or anything else, seem to stick in his throat. What right does he have to bear witness to this grief?

Fran’s words come back to him, though. They have made their choice .

And now he has to make his.

“That’s a good idea, Vaan.” His own smile is brittle, tentative…but it’s there, even as the boy stares on wide-eyed at being called by name in such a fashion. “Thank you…for everything.”

“Heh, well. Can’t go letting folks mope around, can I? We’re a family, after all.”

He says it so easily, hands behind his head, wearing a grin as bright and wide as the blue sky outside…and Noah finds his own smile a bit more solid, in return.

They don’t say goodbye; they never do. Vaan is the sort to wander in and out unprompted like a stray, and in truth Noah’s not much different. A lapdog without a master…

Maybe, though. Maybe it’s not so bad, at least for now.

Until he can return to his duty.

Ashe:

She’s practicing outside, the ship having set down well outside even this small town to make it easier to go unnoticed; her motions are less clumsy than they had been, after her regular lessons with Basch. Noah wonders if she knows that he watches sometimes from inside the ship as they practice…he’s certain that Basch does.

It’s strange to see someone else practicing with his brother, but in a way he’s grateful for the opportunity. It’s a little glimpse into the man Basch has become, the things he’s spent so many years doing. There’s no telling how many of Dalmasca’s young soldiers were trained by him…

…and there’s no telling how many of his pupils Gabranth had killed.

It’s hard to think of himself as Noah when he recalls those moments – the dual-identity is a kind of peace, he supposes. A way to reconcile the man he became within the Empire with the boy he once was, and the man he hoped he could yet be.

He surprises even himself with that hope, sometimes.

The hope that one day he and Basch can speak without the specter of their past remaining between them, lingering in the air like a fell Mist…

Even if he has no right to want such a thing, with each passing day he finds himself hoping more and more that it can come to pass, if he can only find the way to make amends properly.

Not through mere words, or the giving of trinkets; there must be more . Surely there is something he can do to prove his sincerity and the truth in his heart…

But even if he cannot find that answer, yet, he can at least do this much.

His footsteps don’t startle her immediately, although he knows she hears him coming. She continues her practice, and he waits, and when she turns with a bright smile, suddenly he realizes why she accepted his presence so calmly.

“I made no mistakes-” She begins to exult, and then stops.

An awkwardness falls over them immediately.

“My apologies, I did not mean to interrupt-”

“-no, really, I ought to apologize, I assumed you were-”

“-I should not have presumed-”

“-I did not think you would-”

As they both try to insist, so many years of politics and propriety driving them both, the tension builds until, like a bubble, it can grow no more – and bursts at last.

They fall silent, watching one another warily.

His eyes flick to her sword, and she follows his gaze. If anything, she turns more guarded; misinterpreting his interest, perhaps? Surely she knows he would not do her harm now?

Or have his efforts yielded so little?

He cannot afford to stop, that much Noah is sure of. He must work to do whatever is needed to make things right, and-

“You must think me foolish,” she says at last, with a sigh. “Just a girl playing at something she won’t ever understand.”

Noah frowns. “I don’t. I think you a queen who has shown great courage. Even if you are not the strongest fighter, you would not hesitate to defend your comrades, even as you refuse to chase war for vainglory’s sake. You are admirable, Lady Ashe, and to be respected. I see no foolishness in you.”

It’s clear that it wasn’t what she was expecting – and perhaps that his words aren’t the most welcome, as she adds unhappily, “You thought me foolish before. Surely your mind is not so much changed?”

He nods. She’s right, of course; the way he’d acted before, there’s no reason she should believe him now.

But she doesn’t protest when he settles on a rock nearby the spot she takes up in the shade of a tree, and he takes that as a good sign of a sort.

“It was I who was foolish. My eyes were clouded, then; now I see you plainly, and understand what I could not, then.”

Before she can argue again, he slips off the rock, and offers her a deep bow. “I am sorry. For all that I have done to you, and to your people. Although an apology means less than nothing for so grave a thing, I must say it nonetheless. I have wronged you terribly.”

She mulls it over, watching him with narrowed eyes…but finally, she sits back against the tree and sighs.

“I cannot forgive you,” she warns.

“Some things cannot be forgiven.”

That much he understands, to be sure.

As if she’s come to a decision, she nods. “Then you will show me your sincerity with your blade. Show me that you are a changed man.”

It’s true that, now that his wounds are merely scars, angry and red but nothing worse, he can fight. He’d started practicing only a week prior, going through the motions bare-handed, working on his footwork as he progressed from simple exercises to keep his body in tone and sufficiently flexible.

He’d thought he was secretive enough, practicing only at night when he was certain the others were all asleep (except perhaps Fran, whose habits he had yet to fully understand) – the way she looks at him, though, full of quiet certainty, he wonders if he wasn’t the only one watching unseen.

“I’m afraid I do not understand the merit of such a thing,” he hazards, “but if it pleases your majesty, I will do so.”

There’s a second practice blade nearby – likely waiting for Basch – and he retrieves it with some unease…but retrieve it he does.

He hasn’t held a blade since he fought Vayne…

There’s no time to think, though; with a roar of determination, she launches herself at him, and they clash.

For all that she’s still a novice, Ashelia more than makes up for the lack of skill with surplus energy. If he were in top form, it would be no contest, but weakened like this she very nearly is a match for him.

Or perhaps more than nearly, he has to concede with no small amount of chagrin, as he finds himself on his ass with the point of her blade at his throat.

She stares down the length at him, chest heaving and face flushed from the exertion. Is her body screaming at her the way his is, he wonders? Or is she accustomed to this now?

“I yield.”

For a second she doesn’t move, and he starts to think ah, that’s what this is about-

She’ll kill him, then. And he deserves that, truly.

She doesn’t, though.

He waits, and she looks down at him, and the tension builds until he thinks, surely, now she’ll do it.

But then she’s grabbing his hand and pulling him up with a grunt, and she gestures perfunctorily toward his dropped weapon. “ Again .”

Noah knows a command when he hears one.

And again they clash.

This time, he nearly gets her down – but only nearly. She regains her footing at the last second and turns the tables on him, and in short order his back is on the grass again.

The strange part is that, as before, she hauls him up and demands more , as if she wasn’t sure enough about him from the two previous bouts. Perhaps she wants a third victory, to be sure?

Even after a third, though, she demands more – and he’d have given it, of course, if not for chipper voices calling out to herald Vaan and Penelo’s return from the market. The respite as the three youngsters chatter is one he takes gratefully, leaning against the tree to catch his breath.

At this point he’s not sure what she wants from him, but it’s clear it won’t be an easy thing. After Vaan and Penelo head into the ship to stow their purchases properly (the former sulking all the way, as he’d rather spar outside too), Ashelia beckons him back and engages him once more.

By the time they’re called for supper, he can see at least three faces watching from the ship’s windows, they’re both absolutely drenched in sweat, and Noah can barely stand, much less move-

He wonders for a second, as she glances back at him before heading back to the ship, if she simply meant to humiliate him by outlasting him and then leaving him out here?

An arm loops around his waist, though, his own drawn over a shoulder, and a familiar voice comes from just beside him. “I’m glad to see you two getting along. I think she’s taken a liking to you…or at least starting to.”

Basch smiles at him, no trace of sadness or hurt or anger in his gaze, and for a few minutes as his brother helps him inside, it feels like before. Like being boys again, simple and uncomplicated.

Noah may not feel like he’s done anything much, but it seems…somehow, things around him are changing, and he changes with them.

Tonight, he manages to return the smile.

Even the conversation over supper flows smoothly, for once.

Basch:

The weeks pass without resolution, but without further tension. They slip, somewhere along the line, into a holding pattern – Basch always makes room for him, but never pushes. Noah always responds, but never begins . And so they continue, day after day, as Noah’s body slowly heals, and his heart begins to ease.

He’s not choked by guilt constantly; still, it comes to him, most especially in the dark hours of the night when he lays quietly in his berth and waits for sleep, listening to his brother breathing evenly in the other bed…the moments where he thinks of all he’s done, all that Basch should hate and distrust him for, that somehow doesn’t stop his brother from sleeping so peacefully only scant feet away from him.

If he could take it all back…

If only he could .

He’s tormented by the sight of the scars he’s inflicted, and each gentle touch of Basch’s when his brother came to check his wounds and their healing made him want to crawl right out of his skin with pure revulsion – not a rejection of the love offered, but the overwhelming, desperate need to escape himself and the memories of his own acts.

And still, each morning Basch smiles at him, and each night he bids him sleep well so gently, until Noah can scarce hold back the impulse to shake his brother and shout but surely you must hate me, you cannot simply love me again after all I’ve done!

More than that…

Noah cannot stand to be loved by Basch, after everything.

He can accept, with difficulty, a remote kindness tempered with apprehension. He’s prepared for that, for his brother to be a pleasant stranger. But this, the open arms he’s met with, is too much.

It seems he’s not subtle about it, either; the others give their thoughts unasked for in quiet moments.

“Once you start running, you’ll never stop…not until it’s too late,” Balthier had said, his eyes sad. “Take it from me.”

“To be embraced by kin should not be thrown aside lightly,” Fran counseled gently.

“Sometimes coming back after making a mistake is the hardest part, but it’s better than being alone.” Vaan had looked right through him, almost chillingly direct. Even Penelo seemed to read him easily these days, adding in her sweetly certain voice, “You don’t deserve to be alone.”

Even Ashelia. “Basch is a good man…I did not know before what grief lay in his heart, but now I do, I would think you lesser if you rejected him after everything.” So full of queenly presumption, to be certain that her good opinion matters to him – but was she wrong?

Were any of them?

Even Basch himself – he doesn’t push, still, but he makes time to spend little peaceful moments with Noah, and Noah can feel the weight of the words his brother holds back in those moments.

Sometimes he wonders just how long they can keep going like this, and whether what’s between them will break open before he returns to Lord Larsa’s side.

The answer comes a week before he’s planned to make his return to Archades, high in a broad-leafed tree’s boughs. At first he’d only intended to climb it to pick some fruits that the birds hadn’t yet bothered, since no doubt the youngsters would like the sweet snack on such a balmy day, but he found the fresh breeze over the rolling hills beckoning him up bit by bit, until he was well and truly nestled among the boughs.

Basch hadn’t asked before climbing up after him; even as boys, he never had. He’d always been the sort to follow his heart and do what he believed right. Impulsive, yes, but full of determination and passion, too. Noah had always admired that about him, and he’d be lying if he said he didn’t take some comfort in seeing Basch so unchanged.

Climbing up easily, Basch navigates the branches until he can settle on the same wide bough Noah sits on near the trunk. It’s a trick to settle himself so close, and it means they lean together to keep from falling, but somehow it’s…

…it’s nice, actually. Uncomplicated.

Basch’s arm is around his shoulders, and his around his brother’s, and they sit together like that for a time Noah doesn’t care to count because the relief of it all is just too much.

Up here, like this, the past almost fades away out of sight, almost .

And yet, even here the weight of Basch’s unsaid words remain, until Noah can take it no more. “I would hear what troubles you,” he says, a bit stiffly. The words feel strange in his mouth. “I would know what burdens my brother’s heart.”

Basch exhales, a soft sigh as he seems to consider the implicit request.

For a moment Noah wonders if he should apologize for that, if he’s overstepped, but the answer comes before he can even consider what he would say.

“Is this distance to remain between us forever? You to your post and I to mine, with all else forgotten?”

He can hear the pain in Basch’s voice, the rawness of the emotion that grates over his nerves – Noah feels it too, and before he’s even thought, he tips his head onto Basch’s shoulder just as he would when they were boys. “Can there be aught else?” It’s hardly more than a whisper, nearly swallowed by the wind, and full of longing. For a minute, he thinks it was lost entirely, but Basch’s hand presses to his back, warm and comforting, hugging him close, and Noah’s throat tightens so much that words are but a distant dream.

“Always,” Basch murmurs against his hair. “ Always , if you wish it.”

Noah doesn’t trust himself to speak, but he manages a nod; somehow it’s enough, and the kiss pressed to his brow is benediction and absolution and everything neither of them knows how to speak yet, the grief not gone but less sharp than it had been.

They stay up in the tree until the sun starts to droop low in the sky and its rays turn more orange than golden, and all the while they remain there, quiet and still, letting the world move around them for a time…

These green fields and trees are not Landis, and they are not home, and there is no turning back…but when they return late, afternoon snack becoming dessert, there’s an ease between them that hadn’t been there.

The space between them is space, yes, but it’s lighter. Not an oppressive weight, just air – and the gap is not impossible to bridge, Noah finds.

After all, that night when he reaches out in the darkness, his hand finds Basch’s drooping off the side of his bunk as he dozes, and the gentle squeeze he gives is answered immediately.

Perhaps they must still return to their separate duties, and perhaps much remains unspoken that must still be reckoned with…but they are no longer kept apart by the tides of fate.

Now they must choose their own way: to come back together, little by little.

+ Al-Cid:

“You must grovel more! Not like that, low on your belly! Like a dog , you see.”

With an irritated noise, Al-Cid insists, “Like this , as a cur that has been kicked by its master!” And sure enough, as Noah twists to look, Al-Cid is on the ground, crawling on his hands and knees in an incredibly comical fashion.

Anyone who saw him would think him the town drunk, not the heir to an Empire in his own right…

…although, now that he considers it, Noah supposes he could certainly be both. He’s certainly got more than enough of a penchant for melodrama.

“And then?” he asks, trying to hide his smile. As absurd as Al-Cid can be, there is something almost amusing about the man in quiet moments like this, when his absurdity carries no consequences.

It’s clear that the response is what Al-Cid was looking for, as he perks up once again, crawling over to correct Noah’s posture. “Lower the hips, like that. And your head must remain down; you must never look up from the ground as you plead. ‘Ahh, my lady! Spare me if you must, but this unworthy servant deserves to die!’”

From behind, at some distance, he can faintly hear the snickering from whoever is watching. Vaan, from the sound of it, but others as well.

Balthier, most likely; he’s the sort who’d take a certain sadistic glee from watching something like this.

Al-Cid continues to wail and carry on, growing more insistent, until at last he turns to Noah. “And now you .”

“Me?”

If that ridiculous Rozarrian thinks for a second Noah is the sort to actually partake of this, beyond simple indulgence…

“ You .” Al-Cid repeats, this time a hint of threat in his voice. He speaks lower, leaning in so the others won’t hear. “Unless you would prefer I confided certain things in the lady Ashe? Perhaps you would find yourself more willing to grovel in earnest, not only in practice? That can be arranged.”

Noah stifles a sigh. “I have transgressed beyond description,” he mutters, mostly succeeding at not rolling his eyes. “The things that I have done-”

Al-Cid tsks . “No, no, no! You put no spirit into it; you must make your remorse heard! Again.”

“I have transgressed beyond descrip-”

He doesn’t even receive correction that time, only a weary sigh that he takes for the warning it is.

This time, Noah does his best to mimic Al-Cid’s wailing, pressing himself into the ground with more enthusiasm. “I beg of you my lady, let this unworthy cur die by your hand!”

The only thing more mortifying than the outright laughter behind him is the soft footsteps that pause in front of him.

“Get up. Surely you know better than to listen to Al-Cid’s foolishness.” The open disappointment that drips from Ashelia’s voice makes his cheeks heat with shame, and Noah can barely meet her eyes.

He actually regrets it when he does.

Not because she glares or looks at him with disdain, but because she’s watching him with open amusement, even if she makes some token effort to temper it when he finally looks up.

She clears her throat. “Well. Are we practicing, or aren’t we?”

It’s distraction enough, and he takes it for the mercy it is.

Noah has never been so grateful to be beaten into the ground by someone scarce more than half his age.