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Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Balfonheim has changed little since Reddas' death. Rumor has it that his three subordinates, Rikken, Elza and Raz, have taken up the city's government right where the Pirate King left off, and it remains a haven for adventurers and wayfarers from all corners of Ivalice. Many seem to find it odd that the unofficial pirate capital, once the most chaotic port in the Naldoan sea, would cling so tightly to any given set of rules. Balthier is not surprised. Trust a pirate to do the exact opposite of whatever society expects them to do.

As they arrive at Sea Breeze Lane, Fran takes the lead, sparing Balthier little more than a glance. Her steps are secure but unhurried; she takes her time checking the nameplates and numbers on the front of the townhouses. It does not take a genius to realize she is stalling.

He takes a few steps ahead and stands before her, walking backward. She mostly ignores him, focused on the building facades. "A piece of gil for your thoughts?"

In normal circumstances, Fran would have answered that her thoughts cost much more than a mere piece of gil. Instead, she mumbles, "Jote must curse my blood for all eternity."

"Because your kid ran away?"

"Because my... kid," and it's curious how she adds a small pause around the word, like it doesn't mean the same to her as it means to Balthier, "may topple the pillars of Viera society and unravel century-old tenets."

He chuckles, coming to her side. "You seem to hold your expectations for the boy a little too high, as mothers are prone to doing."

"I pray that you are right," she says with a heavy sigh. "We are here."

The house in front of them, a corner away from Gallerina Marketplace, is indistinguishable from the two that flank it on the left and right. Like most of Balfonheim's architecture, the three-story building is made of stone blocks and mortar, with large wind-catcher structures on an otherwise flat roof. The two upper floors have a balcony each, their ornate copper balustrades covered in light-green patina. All but one decoration can be seen from the street: a bust on the windowsill of its only open window, on the topmost floor. It portrays a light-skinned, dark-haired Hume girl in a low-cut red blouse, chin resting on her palm, her wistful ceramic gaze lost in the distance. Every other lower-class house on the Archadian coast has one of those; the colors vary. Some call these statues "gossip girls", for obvious reasons. Others call them by the less malicious name "sweetheart", because they look like an abandoned lover waiting for their sailor to come back home.

Balthier tries to picture a Viera, a stoic, mysterious creature of the forest, seeing that hideous thing for sale on a street fair and thinking, "this is the one piece of art that will make our new dwelling out of the Wood a home". He concludes the statue must have come with the house.

Fran touches the handle of the tall mahogany front door and finds it unlocked. The door opens to the largest group of Viera Balthier has ever seen outside of Eruyt. Five are sitting on brightly-colored cushions in a conversation pit, tying large piles of herb sprigs into bunches for drying. Three sit at the end of a long hardwood table, engaged in a quiet discussion. Two others, standing near them and looking almost identical, collect the remnants of their meal. Behind the table, through an archway, he sees a couple more moving about in what must be the kitchen. The creaking staircase indicates there are more still, coming from or going to the second floor.

When Fran steps into the room, all eyes turn to her, and all talking dies with a clink of suspended glassware. Then their eyes turn to Balthier, walking in behind her, and Fran tells him, in no uncertain terms, to wait outside.

Resigned, he walks out and sits on the stone border of one of the flower beds in front of the building. The planter contains only light-colored dirt and some dry wooden sticks that must have been a bush at some point. A gardener's failed attempt at nursing hinterland species on a beach-front plot.

The murmurs coming from within the house are too muffled for Balthier to understand. They speak a cacophonous mix of Galtean and Golmorean; he would be just as lost if he had remained inside. He makes use of this idle time to untie his cloak and stuff it in the knapsack. The bag is a canvas and leather monstrosity, roughly cylindrical, procured for its function and not its style. It's heavy, bulky and clumsy, and the lining keeps producing desert dust and some mysterious green lint, no matter how many times he turns it inside out to clean it. Balthier hates that bag with a passion. If they still had the Strahl, he would be able to walk around carrying only his gun and whatever fit his pockets. Being short of a home base has many unexpected downsides.

After an eternity, the front door opens and Krjn, the burly hunter from Clan Centurio, comes out. He catches a female voice snarling, "you should never have left, then, if all you can think...", but the heavy door and Krjn's heavy sigh cut the rest of the accusations away from Balthier's ears.

The Viera greets him with a jerk of her head, to which he responds in kind. She takes out a cigarette box from her belt pouch, places one between her lips and lights it with a small fire spell. She does not offer him one; not that he would have taken it, but his Archadian manners scream at the back of his head.

"I didn't know Viera smoked."

"This one does," Krjn tells him around the cigarette. It explains the roughness in her voice. "When the world is being too much. The smoke dulls the senses." He wonders if Fran has ever smoked; if she did before they met, or if she does when he's not looking. No, he would have smelled it on her by now. "What did she tell you?"

No use beating around the bare remains of that bush. "Is it truly her child in there?"

Krjn nods. "But that matters little. She will not dote on him as your Hume mother doted on you." He considers making a point about the tough love of Archadian mothers, but lets it pass. Krjn takes a long drag of her cigarette. "His lineage may complicate things, though, since his aunt is the leader of Eruyt."

"She did mention Jote would want her head on a stick for this."

"Keep her out of Golmore, and her head should be safe. I doubt Jote will go out of her way to place a bounty for her." There is a smirk on Krjn's lips. Balthier guesses that she made a joke, and chuckles accordingly.

"Fran said..." he clears his throat, waving the smoke off his face, "that the boy might 'unravel the tenets of Viera society', or something of that line." He tries to gauge Krjn’s expression, but Viera are hard enough to read when they don't wear a mask covering half their faces. "Was she exaggerating, or...?"

"Well, there is a reason we do not see male Viera running around." Noticing Balthier's blank stare, she continues, as if this was something he should already know: "They kill any who ever consider leaving."

"I thought they fell prey to natural fiends."

"Jungle fiends prey on anyone, not just males." Her gaze falls on the far end of the street, in bitter reminiscence. "Ask the laumuverðir, and they will weave a tale of honor, of duty. Gatekeepers of the Wood. The first line of defense of Eruyt. Dwelling in the shadows, where not even the wood-warders dare go. A world-walker among their ranks? The mere thought of it must be squashed, for that would bring great shame to the Wood." She drops the cigarette butt on the ground and smashes it with her heel, then turns to Balthier. "But think a second time. All Viera in this building, except for the one that lies half-dead upstairs, can bear children. I have lived longer than this row of houses stands, and all the world-walkers I ever met were wombed. It is not a matter of being a wood-dweller or a stealth ranger. Had a skógarbúi with seed ever roamed Ivalice, we would have heard of her by now."

Balthier deduces "a skógarbúi with seed" means a wood-dweller who is capable of impregnating another. The gears move in his head. "If all exiles are females, your population only grows at the rate of new escapees."

"A rate that has increased, but not enough to scare the elders. Without seeds, fertile soil remains a promise, nothing more." She stands before him with a hand on her hip, a pose well-favored by Viera of all walks of life. "But let a single seed pod fly through the fringe of Golmore..."

"... And that fertile soil could grow another village." Politics, of course. Expatriate Viera scatter around the world, like leaves carried by the wind; lone wanderers stripped of their home, powerless in their isolation. Yet, for a Viera born outside of Eruyt, Ivalice would be their home—and the feeling would spread to others, who may flock into a community around the newborn. Plus, it's easier to scare your youth against leaving when the outside world promises loneliness and disconnection. If they were to learn of a Viera village thriving in the middle of a Hume city, such as Little Golmore, that could trigger questions, power disputes, and all the wonderful warmongering things Humekind is known for.

Finally, the front door opens. The Viera that steps out glares at Balthier out of the corner of her eyes, directing her words at Krjn. "She asks for the Hume."

Balthier does not know what he expected to find, but this is not it.

The boy... he has been referring to him as "the boy", because this is Fran's son, and if his partner has a son, it has to be that: a boy. But of course, the boy in question is over fifty years old—unmistakably an adult, even for Viera standards.

For Hume standards, he looks anywhere between sixteen and forty. His features are delicate, though different from the ones that populate the main room downstairs: something about the thicker eyebrows, or the more angular shape of the jaw. His white hair falls over his bare shoulder in a messy, thick braid. One of his ears sports a violent diagonal gash; the dark patterns on the tips are an exact copy of Fran's. He could pass as her twin with minimal effort.

Fran is sitting on a straw chair by the bed, elbows resting on her knees as she stares at her child. Her long claws fidget with the frilled ends of her arm guards. "His name is Vídyr," she tells Balthier, and he realizes she had never mentioned it until now. He must have earned the name long after she was gone.

Vídyr looks unhealthy. His skin is a dull, grayish brown, and his arms are bandaged for much of their length. The blanket drawn up to his armpits hides the rest of the damage from view, but the bony state of his shoulders indicates his frame used to be fuller. "How is he?"

"They had to amputate his left leg from the knee down, and two fingers of his left hand. They serve him Potions in place of water, but still some healing remains incomplete."

"He has your stubborn blood. He will be fine." He rests a hand on Fran's shoulder, pressing the tight muscle under his fingertips. "What do they want from you?"

"They say he asked..." She straightens up; the patient stirs on the bed. Balthier walks to the window. Close enough to provide comfort, far enough to provide privacy.

Vídyr blinks his eyes open. "Ert þú Fran?" He whispers in a low, raspy voice. Potions do not make a good substitute for water, it seems.

"That I am," Fran answers in Galtean with a nod. He nods back, solemnly. "I was told you have sent for me."

Balthier has read his share of dramas that portrayed family reunions. This one involves no tears, no tender embraces, no declarations of parental love. He has to admit he is a little disappointed.

"The skila told me to seek your aid," Vídyr says, the Galtean consonants bursting and slithering through his teeth. Another Golmorean word Balthier knows, and this one is quite uncommon. Skila: something or someone that was returned. He never learned for sure if the word could be used for sentient beings without causing offense. In context, it means Fran's younger sister, Mjrn.

At the mention of her sister, Fran turns to Balthier, and Vídyr directs his attention to him for the first time.

"Is this your Hume? She told me you had made family with them."

Fran shakes her head, the corner of her mouth curving slightly upward. "Only with this one, but she did meet friends of ours. This is Balthier."

"She mentioned that name, yes. Hello."

Balthier raises his chin at Vídyr, and he copies the gesture. Then silence, because—unusually, in the case of the Hume—neither man knows what to say.

Fran is not in the mood to wait for them to find a common interest. "Why did she send you?"

"Leaving was my wish," Vídyr states, defensive. "She only aided me."

"Some poor aid that was," she gestures to his missing limb. For someone who has all but eschewed the role of mother until now, she is doing remarkably well. "I hear rumors of Eruyt. What gives?"

Balthier has not heard any rumors of Eruyt. He knows Fran keeps a lot from him; it was part of their agreement, long ago, to respect each other's privacy. But they tend to open exceptions to family matters, because complaining about their ridiculous relatives is one of the foundations of their bond. So either this is something Fran has just heard from the other Viera, or she is outright bluffing.

Vídyr sighs and takes a pause, side-eyeing Balthier. So there are rumors of Eruyt. "'Tis not of import. Some of the wood-dwellers have grievances against the elders, that is all," he admits.

"The wood-dwellers?" Fran lifts an eyebrow. "Or Mjrn?"

"Is she not a wood-dweller?"

"She is the skila," Fran hisses, and now Balthier is sure it was meant to offend. He has never heard her speak of Mjrn in such an angry tone. "What is her plan?"

"There is no plan. It is as I told you: I desired to leave, I asked for her aid, and she aided me. Nothing more," he insists. Realizing she will not budge, Vídyr lets out a sigh. “She said I could trust you to help me find my way in life outside the Wood. So she told me to travel east, to the sanctuary at the top of the snowy mountains, and seek those who call themselves 'sky pirates'. They would know where to find you, or your Hume.” He throws another glance at Balthier. “I reached the temple, but no pirates were to be found there. So I crossed the Hume settlement down the mountainside, till I got to the coast. There, I was taken aboard a vessel that crossed the Naldoan sea and navigated inland, traveling upstream a river.

"They moored in a Hume village. I would have stayed there to nurse myself—the mountains and the sea had been cruel on my health—, but the dwellers were hostile towards me, and their borders were guarded by iron-clad Humes, whom the skila had advised me to avoid. So I escaped through the uplands south of the village, in hopes that I would find a sky pirate in some other Hume settlement." He looks down, skittish. "But by then I had exhausted my good fortune. If not for Yjrn, I would be no more."

"Yjrn is the one who runs this house. We helped her slay the Vyraal with Vaan and the others," Fran tells Balthier, to refresh his memory. He remembers a Viera wayfarer who requested their party's aid on a hunt in the Cerobi steppe. She'd given Fran a nice bow as a reward. "Yjrn goes hunting often by the windmills. She found him lying unconscious on the banks of Feddik river. At first she thought he was dead."

"Nearly I was," he adds. "The beasts of the Steppe are much stronger than those back home."

"Stronger even than your peers?" Balthier asks.

Vídyr glares at him. His words have hit a nerve.

"Megum við tala án hans hér?" He asks Fran in a whisper. Balthier knows megum við means "may we", but the rest is lost on him.

She shuts him off immediately, flipping her hair. "Whatever I learn, he too shall know." She gets up from the chair and nods at Balthier. He takes it as his clue and walks to the door. "Now rest. The leg-maker comes tomorrow for the fitting. You will be required to stand."

"I can stand with aid,"  Vídyr protests.

"Even a dead man can," Fran tells him, and walks out of the room.

Chapter Text

If anything, their stay in Little Golmore grants him and Fran a few small pleasures. Namely, warm meals, long baths and soft beds. A sharp upgrade from Cactoid meat roasted over a campfire, armpit stench, and a piece of tarp stretched on the hard ground.

Still, Balthier can think of a few improvements. Their wine is nice, but a bowl of steamed vegetables with a pinch of seasoning? Not what he would describe as his dream dinner. A side of sautéed mushrooms would have elevated the dish while still keeping it vegetarian. And herbs! Good grace, why have so many dried herbs if you're not going to use them?

As for the bed: he must say he likes the mattress. Not too soft, not too hard. And he will admit the lavender sachet does aid one's sleep (and is one use for the herbs). But it has Viera proportions, being inconveniently large even for a tall Hume like him. He could lie across it and still keep his feet within the mattress frame. The pillows are also too thin for his liking; he has piled three of them.

(He has no complaints about the bath. In fact, all bathtubs and all bath towels should be Viera-sized.)

It's their third day in Balfonheim, the second morning he begins there. The last two nights, Fran has chosen to stay by her son's side; when asked, she merely says she must "stand guard". She has yet to clarify who or what she is guarding him against. Possibly a horde of sex-deprived Viera. That, or she is just trying to compensate for fifty-odd years of neglectful parenthood.

Balthier wakes up well-rested, but the vast expanse of empty bed next to him dampens his mood. The old Balthier would not have found fault on a bed this large. On the contrary—he would have slept sprawled like a starfish in the middle of it. Less than half a year sharing a bed (or a tarp on the ground) with Fran, and already he misses her warm body next to his during the night. The long-legged devil has spoiled him rotten.

At last, he finds the courage to get up. As he stretches and rubs his eyes, he notices his faithful white shirt displayed on a hanger by the door. The embroidered vest and the leather pants are nearby, folded on a chair. All pieces smell fresh, their ripped seams mended; the shirt has been pressed, and an attempt was made at removing the Slime-juice stains on the cuffs. He didn't ask for any of that—wouldn't have dared to, knowing his status as a barely tolerated guest. Someone must have pulled her rank on the rookies.

Looking and feeling like himself for the first time in a while, Balthier climbs the stairs to Vídyr's bedroom. It's on the third floor, right above his. Why they would put a sick man who just lost a leg on the uppermost floor of their house is beyond him, but half a decade partnering with a Viera has taught him not to question their choices.

At Vídyr's door, he is greeted by a made bed and a sleeping mat neatly folded by the window. The only occupant of the room is one of the young Viera twins, the long-haired one—Lesha, or Zesha; he has yet to commit their names to memory. She is on the cleaning crew today, mopping the wooden floors. Balthier considers thanking her for his clothes, but decides to let it be.

"Have you seen Fran?"

She stops dead and answers him with a curt shake of her head, gaze averted, holding the mop close to her body as if she could hide behind it.

He is made more welcome in the kitchen, his next stop. There, he finds the owner of the house and the pixie-cut twin, peeling vegetables for lunch. (Yjrn calls this twin Zesha, so the long-haired one is Lesha. He should remember next time.) As he munches on a loaf of bread (having realized it's almost noon and he is starving), they inform him Fran was last seen at breakfast, and that she mentioned something about going for a walk.

Outside, he finds Vídyr and another Viera sitting on the border of the tall flower bed. The girl has a golden ring pierced on the outer helix of her right ear. Her short hair is very straight, the front ending right below her chin, the back exposing her nape. A bright-pink streak frames the right side of her face. Her outfit is what one would expect from a Viera, except where it isn't: over the traditional bikini top, she wears a black leather jacket cropped just below the bust. The tactical belt pouches hanging around her hips cover more skin than her actual shorts, which is par for the course, but she substituted the usual stilettos with practical, thick-heeled ankle boots.

For his part, Vídyr is dressed in true Balfonheim fashion: a blue shirt with large lapels and bishop sleeves, a waist sash, and those ubiquitous full-legged pants tucked into weatherproof boots. The knee-high shoe hides his prosthetic leg from view. The whole attire looks out of place, like the pieces belonged to someone bigger. Balthier wonders if they purchased those clothes for him. Maybe there's a trunk, kept somewhere in the house, where they collect mementos from past male visitors. Or maybe the Viera boy just needs to grow into his Hume costume.

"Taking your new leg on a stroll?" The pair turns to him and stands up. Vídyr seems much healthier than when Balthier first met him; the mother's eye fattens the child, or however the saying goes. He looks down at his left leg and tentatively stomps the pavement. The prosthesis is provisional, a simple model in lightweight wood with metal joints and only the most basic magicks for comfort. He has also been provided with a walking cane, though his casual hold of it indicates it was unnecessary. "I have yet to see Fran. Has she told you her plans for this morning?"

"She left toward the Steppe not long ago. Said she wished to see the merchant's wares," the girl tells him, chin raised. Her voice has a petulant tone, like she's challenging him to disprove her. It reminds Balthier of a certain Dalmascan street rat.

He sits on the other flower bed and lets the balmy sea breeze and the gentle autumnal sun kiss his cheeks. The knapsack stayed in his room. For the first time in months, he is free to walk about without weight on his shoulders. Thanks to Little Golmore, he doesn't have to worry about where he and Fran will sleep tonight, or what they will eat, or whether they will meet their untimely end in the jaws of some low-tier beast. Balthier closes his eyes, happy to be idle for once.

When he opens them again, Vídyr is gazing mournfully at the dead bushes. "A sad sight, isn't it?" Balthier says.

The boy pokes the dirt with the end of his cane. It does not get past the cracked crust on the surface. "The substrate is too hard, little more than sand and rock. These salikas stood no chance."

"Too much wind as well, and the air carries salt from the sea. Balfonheim is not the easiest environment for plants, as you can observe." He gestures to the rest of the street. Except for a potted agave at the neighbor's doorstep, no greenery is in sight. "They should limit their botanical endeavors to cacti. Maybe a palm tree."

"A tree?" Vídyr chuckles. "In this square of dirt? Surely you jest. Have you ever seen the root system of a mature tree?"

"Not all trees are Golmore giants, you know. A dwarf palm is yea high." Balthier raises a hand to his shoulder, parallel to the ground, but the youngsters' attention is diverted to something behind him. He turns around and sees Fran in the corner, approaching the house. "There you are," he smiles at her as she comes closer. "Your son takes to you. We were just talking about gardening."

"It should come naturally to him. Laumuverðir are wood-tenders," says Fran. "They are the ones who shape the vines and roots of Golmore into paths, and who cut the canopies so the sunlight may chase the Malboros away."

At the mention of his old life, Vídyr looks down with a frown, his grip tightening around the handle of his cane. The first few months after escaping one's personal hell are the worst. Suddenly the freedom you dreamed of is not as perfect as you thought, and the memories of those rare and precious good times gang up on you, armed with spears of regret. Balthier knows that feeling all too well.

"I say we walk down to the Governors' Manse," the Viera girl suggests, breaking the awkward silence. "Vídyr needs a change of scenery, and the exercise will do him good. Then the four of us could sit at the Whitecap for lunch. What say you, sky pirates?"

Balthier and Fran shrug in perfect synchronicity. Satisfied, the girl laces her fingers behind her head and takes the lead. Vídyr walks beside her, leaning the cane on his shoulder and testing his balance on the prosthetic leg.

"Do they only serve dishes with sea creatures there?" He asks her, glad to change the subject. "I hear they are disgusting."

"They are," she chirps. "I dare you to try one."

She goes on, bouncing on her feet as she describes the texture of fried octopus tentacles and how to slurp a fresh oyster out of its shell. Balthier slows his steps, letting the two gain some distance; Fran falls into pace with him.

"Are they letting adolescents leave Golmore now? Times must be dire at the village," he mumbles.

"Nivi is three-and-thirty. Not much younger than I was then, and older than you now." Fran's teasing does not rattle him; time runs differently for Viera. "She and the twins left the Wood during the war. They have seen little of Ivalice other than Mount Bur-Omisace and Balfonheim."

"That explains the sparkle in her eyes. The Hume world has yet to break her." Ahead, Vídyr tries to twirl his cane. It would have been an easy task for him in the past, when his left hand was whole. With his ring and little fingers missing, however, it is no small feat that he manages to spin it twice before the cane hits the cobblestone pavement. He is crestfallen for a moment; Nivi giggles, making light of it, and he joins her in the laughter. She picks up the cane and maneuvers it like a spear, thrusting it in the air with both hands, then steals a glance at Balthier and Fran while she gives it back to Vídyr. "She is quite intent on gaining his favor," Balthier concludes.

"Our favor more than his. She hopes to become a sky pirate." No wonder, then, that she reminds him of Vann. Balthier should better watch out. The last thing he needs is a bunny-eared hatchling imprinting on him. "As for Vídyr, I have..." A yawn cuts her mumble in half. "... Other concerns."

"Bad night?"

"The new leg put him in a talking mood."

He lets out a dramatic sigh. "I slept poorly as well. My bed is too big for a lone Hume." His gaze roams over Fran's body from her backside to her face, ending with a one-eyed wink. She rolls her eyes and shakes her head, her typical reaction, but there is a little smile on her lips. After taking a look around, she rests a hand on his elbow.

Interesting, Balthier thinks, a warm sense of satisfaction bubbling in his chest. Public displays of affection are not part of Fran's vocabulary: a simple touch from her is comparable to another girl jumping on his arms. She must miss him terribly as well. If he plays his cards right, his bed will feel less cold tonight.

That, or she wants to keep him within reach while she casts Vanishga on them both. There's also that possibility.

Fran tends to avoid relying on vanishing spells. They are pointless in a fight—one funny look at the enemy, and the user becomes visible again. They do not mask sounds or smells, either, so their effectiveness is very limited. But Vanish can be a good tool on occasion. Right now, since they are merely walking, the spell should stick long enough for them to cross the Gallerina Marketplace without attracting any unwanted attention from the crowd.

Next time Fran should include her son in the spell's range, however. Balfonheim residents are not prone to staring at strangers; the town has more people with a bounty on their head than without, and Reddas intended it as a safe port for all. "Not my circus, not my monkeys" is the locals' core philosophy—only individuals with an extraordinarily exceptional appearance would be targeted by children pointing at them on the streets. As it turns out, having long rabbit ears and wearing men's clothes qualifies as an extraordinarily exceptional appearance.

When Vídyr and Nivi pass the first market stalls, the looks and murmurs catch him unaware, and he cowers behind his taller companion. Balthier has learned that stealth rangers are a solitary lot, living invisible amidst the trees. Back in Golmore, he would have interacted only with his peers, and even then, mostly via distant high-pitched sounds or markings left on the paths. On rare occasions, he may have exchanged a word face-to-face with a wood-warder on guard duty, or a salve-maker who ventured out of the village to gather ingredients. Being out in the open and seen by all is new to him.

But Vídyr does not freeze in place, nor does he turn tail and run back home. In fact, after that initial moment of strangeness, he takes it surprisingly well. Unschooled in social skills, he looks up to Nivi and follows her lead. Having lived in Balfonheim for a few months, she is already familiarized with the neighborhood. Some people they ignore; others they greet with a nod or a hand wave.

She points to a sign by the Quayside Magickery stand, announcing a wide array of new items on sale. As they approach, the merchant woman behind the table widens her elderly eyes and smiles. "Is this the one they brought from the Steppe?" She asks Nivi, looking at Vídyr in wonder. "I saw them carrying you in! You were in such a rough shape, dear. Glad to see you doing well. Oh, pardon me, does he not speak the language?"

Disconcerted, Vídyr turns to Nivi, silently inquiring about how to react. "He still has some healing to do," she takes over, pointing at her long ears to imply he is suffering from hearing loss.

Balthier tunes out their conversation and checks the items on sale over Vídyr's shoulder. A pack with 50 tufts of Phoenix Down lies forgotten in a corner of the stand, just outside the merchant’s field of vision. Yet, if he so much as lifts a finger in its direction, the effect of the Vanishga will wear off. He sighs and lays his hand over Fran's.

"You bought nothing on your morning stroll. Was Dyce's selection today not to your tastes?" He whispers to her as they walk away from the other pair.

"His selection was fine. I meant to hire the ears of the Cartographers' Guild." Where there's a Moogle, there is knowledge, or so the people say. The proverb is not a testament to the tiny race's wisdom, but to their penchant for talebearing. For a small fee, the little snitches will activate their vast network of cousins and siblings to excavate news from all corners of Ivalice. Balthier and Fran, being outlaws who occasionally enjoyed rubbing poleyns with married folk, knew it was best to stay on the Moogles' good side. "I sent a message to Mjrn."

"Do you believe she is behind this?"

"At the very least, it has her influence." Pulling on his arm, she directs them to the side of a stand, out of the way of the passersby. From there, they watch as Nivi asks Vídyr's opinion on necklaces. "He says leaving was his wish, but his timing is conspicuous. The mating rites are on the coming full moon. The stealth rangers will move into the village for three days and three nights, and the festivities will hold the attention of all. It would have made sense for him to use the distraction. Yet he escaped on the full moon before that, at much greater risk."

Fran may be invisible to Balthier’s eyes, but he can read the tone of her voice and the pressure of her grip around his bicep. "You have a theory."

"The others speak of observing the rites in Little Golmore. They wonder if he is willing to attend to his duties."

"Is he?"

"Willing? No, resolute," she huffs, and he feels the ends of her long ponytail brush the back of his sleeve. "It was all he would speak of last night. That he must regain his strength for them. Whether I know how many wish to mate. Whether I think it feasible for him to seed four per night, if he hydrates well."

Balthier cringes. "Such a healthy conversation to have with his mother."

"The subject bothers me little. What bothers me more is his devotion to this mission." Nivi has finalized her purchase and is thanking the merchant. Fran pulls at his elbow again and they resume their promenade toward Saccio Lane, now walking ahead of the other pair. "If all he wished was to leave the Wood, he would not be so concerned with siring a kit as soon as he set foot outside."

The gears move in Balthier's head once more. "You think Mjrn helped him leave, so that the world-walkers would be able to bear children out of Eruyt."

"Aye."

"To undermine Jote's power, as vengeance for making her stay." She hums in agreement. He rubs his forehead. "And I thought my family had a flair for the dramatic."

He looks over his shoulder. The two youngsters are searching the crowd, sniffing the air. As they come closer, guided by their noses, Fran disables the vanishing spell with an attack action: a swift smack on Balthier's behind. He jolts, also made visible by her gesture, and raises an eyebrow at her. She does not turn to him, but she is smirking. He can keep his hopes up.

"So, how was your first visit to a Hume market?" He asks Vídyr after recomposing himself.

"Very fruitful. I have now two new spells that cost me zero gil," the young Viera grins, waving two rolls of parchment in the air.

"They were paid for, just not by you. Careful, that gift could still become a loan," Nivi threatens, rolling her eyes at him. Then, with the sly smile of someone who is about to reveal a juicy secret: "I was just telling him. When the twins and I left the Wood, I filled our bags with Golmore goods. I was certain we would cross paths with a homesick Viera at some point in our journey. Had I known we would come to live in a world-walker's village, I would have found a way to bring more. Needless to say, I made good bank on them."

"Behold! We have an affluent trader in our midst," Balthier jabs. He motions to her neckline. "I see you got yourself a collar as well. Jade?"

"Yes. It increases one's ability to evade attacks." She crosses her arms and raises her chin. It's unclear if she is frowning or if her eyebrows are just like that.

Balthier grimaces, narrowing his eyes and letting out a disapproving whine. "Only by a negligible margin. What about those spells?" Vídyr hands him the scrolls. He unrolls the ends to see the magicks' names, considers them for a brief moment and bobbles his head side to side. "Silence is a decent one, but Immobilize was a waste of your riches. I bet it was on sale because nobody ever buys it."

Now that is clearly a frown on Nivi's face. "I happen to find it quite useful, unlike anything you had to say so far." She snatches the scrolls out of his hands and stuffs them in the pocket of Vídyr's pants, directing her next words at him. "Let us walk to the quay."

While the two take off ahead, Balthier looks up at Fran. "This is why I don't take apprentices," he mumbles. Sure, Nivi's entrepreneurial mindset may be remarkable. That she seems to approach the pirating life from that angle, instead of pursuing it for the promise of adventure, is also worthy of note. It doesn't mean he will start taking abuse from a Viera teenager. The fact that Fran seems to find that possibility endlessly amusing only strengthens his resolve.

The Viera pair reach the balustrade along the quayside court. Nivi jumps on it and points at the ships approaching the port. Vídyr moves with more caution, hanging his cane on the handrail and nodding politely at Nivi's anecdotes.

Fran holds Balthier's arm again. This time no vanishing is involved. "She reminds me of a young sky pirate I once knew."

"Vann matured during the war. Even he would find her an insufferable brat now."

She chuckles. "I was thinking of the prodigal son of House Bunansa."

"Fran, please." He scoffs. "I was already Balthier when you met me."

"But still an insufferable brat." He hasn't heard that ring of laughter in Fran's words in a while. Their stay in Balfonheim looks more promising by each passing minute. "You matured in the war as well. My sanity rejoices."

They stand by the balustrade near Nivi and Vídyr. Unless those two are intent on eavesdropping, his conversation with Fran should slip under their radar, even though Viera ears can hear anything in a two-mile radius: they quickly learn to block the background noise, lest it drives them mad. In any case, Balthier lowers his voice. "About these mating rites. If I am not mistaken—and after five years of cohabitation, I would hope I'm not—your kind does not go into heat."

"We do not. Our wombs are fertile year-round, much like those of Humes," she answers plainly, withholding further details.

"Can't he postpone his little project, then? Your compatriots have made it this far without a male. They can reign their hormones in for a few more months." Balthier rests his arms on the balustrade behind his back, grinning. "If their cravings get too bad, I know plenty of Hume gentlemen who would not oppose wearing a bunny-ear headband in the bedroom."

His flirtatious tone fails to elicit the reaction he was hoping for. Furrowing her brow, Fran raises her voice a notch above a whisper. "Spare me your mockery, the matter is grave. Only when our kind was on the brink of extinction have Viera dared to breach the calendars of the Wood. We cannot risk bearing an infant out of the proper time; they are frail at birth, and the effort of rearing them taxes the whole village. 'Tis not called a rite for naught. Mating is not a pleasure game that one may play at will."

She turns around, whipping her ponytail. Behind her, Vídyr and Nivi are staring out of the corner of their eyes, their ears very erect. A huff from her, and they turn their gaze to the sky and start discussing the chances of rainfall that afternoon.

Fran lowers her voice into a whisper again, arms crossed. "After this full moon, another rite will not be for five years. I doubt such wait would fit Mjrn's plan, whatever it is."

Balthier raises an eyebrow. "I have a growing suspicion that you regret returning her."

She narrows her eyes, but does not comment. Instead, she turns to the Whitecap. "I will see to that table." Nivi scuttles after her, having chosen the sky pirate she would rather imprint on.

Balthier doesn't follow them. Fran clearly got angry at him for scorning her traditions; better to let her stew by herself and process her emotions without looking at his face. Besides, it gives him a moment with Vídyr. The last few days must have been strange for the boy, being thrust into a female-only enclave after living alone or among males for his whole adulthood. A man-to-man chat should come as a blessing to him.

(And his friendship should likewise come as a blessing to Balthier. Earning the children's affection is a surefire way into a Hume mother's heart; he doubts Viera mothers are any different in that regard.)

The ocean flows onto the horizon, immeasurably vast. From the quayside, the peaks of Paramina and Bur-Omisace are all but faint shadows. Giant merchant ships moor on this port coming from all over Ivalice, filled with fine export goods for the Archades gentry. In the distance, they resemble fragile toy miniatures. Near the coast, humble fishing vessels float under the close watch of the gulls.

Vídyr is leaning with his arms against the balustrade, gaze lost at sea. He seems ill at ease, despite the idyllic atmosphere.

"Not an easy mistress, the Naldoan," Balthier remarks, half to him, half to the air. "Reminiscing on your journey?"

He hesitates for a brief moment, unsure if Balthier was addressing him, then finally shakes his head. "I was barely conscious for most of it, and the little I saw, I wish I could forget. It is an awful crossing." Yet, the fresh breeze invites him to take a deep breath, followed by a sigh.

Close to them, down on the quay, two middle-aged men load a small raft with fishing supplies. They are aided (or, to a more honest extent, hindered) by a lanky boy who must not yet be in his teens, and a little smidgen of a girl, wearing her short curls in pigtails. The men have the deep marks of sea life on their faces. They watch the children fondly.

"An inhospitable environment to raise their young," Vídyr mutters.

"Hume children learn early in life to adapt to the circumstances. It is what our kind does best, adapting. No wonder we have infested even the most secluded corners of Ivalice."

Vídyr looks at him out of the corner of his eyes, fidgeting with the hems of his sleeves. He hesitates again, measuring his words, not quite ready to make a confidant out of his mother's partner. Balthier is a male, but a Hume; the latter must outweigh the former in his mind. "Our kind is averse to change. If the Wood remains the Wood, so the Viera must remain the Viera," he declares. Then he mumbles to himself, in a much quieter voice: "One branch pruned out of time, and our whole world collapses."

Balthier wonders if he is referring to the mating rites. From what Fran said, he appears to be on board, but it might be societal pressure talking. For all he knows, the boy could have risked life and limb to get out of these rites—only to find himself isolated in a strange land, prey to the same demands.

"You are no longer in the Wood," he reminds Vídyr. "For good and for bad, the rules that bound you there do not work here. Like a Hume child, you will need to adapt." He turns his back to the sea and jerks his chin in the general direction of Little Golmore. "Those salikas could not change their ways; you saw what happened. No amount of pruning would have saved them."

When Vídyr smirks, he is his mother through and through. "Though it begs the question of how a salika might become a dwarf palm."

Balthier chuckles, conceding defeat, then puts his arm around Vídyr's shoulders and directs him to the restaurant. "That you will have to ask your fellow world-walkers. I must warn you, though, that you will hear many answers."

Chapter Text

On their fourth night in Balfonheim, Balthier is awakened by the noise of something shattering. He sits up on the bed with a jolt, futilely patting the empty sheets by his side. After a brief respite the night before (to enjoy her so-called "pleasure games"), Fran has left him to sleep on his own again.

Now fully awake, he listens, jumping out of bed and picking up his gun on the way to the door. Feet thump near the window on the floor above his head, followed by a scream.

He elbows his way through a crowd of armed Viera on the stairs. As he reaches the third floor, Krjn's voice booms along the walls, coming from Vídyr's room. "Stop!"

Balthier pushes past the two Viera standing in the doorway and takes a long look at the scene before him. A heap of blankets lies next to Vídyr's bed. To the right, near a dresser, a ceramic jug is broken into several pieces on the floor. A puddle of water runs towards the window opposite the door and meets another puddle—this one of blood. The blood oozes out of a young man's throat, slit by a dagger that now lies three feet from him.

In the middle of the room, Vídyr keeps a flailing Bangaa in a chokehold. Balthier recognizes him as Monid, a hunter from Clan Centurio. Krjn stands before them, sword in hand. She picks up the dagger before Vídyr or Monid have a chance to reach for it. "I know him. Let him go," she orders. The Bangaa rolls away from Vídyr, gripping his throat and coughing.

Balthier takes another look at the dead Hume. The sleeping mat lies empty next to him, blankets kicked aside. "Where's Fran?"

Vídyr points to the window with his chin, shuffling towards the bed and holding his left thigh. Mithuna in hand, Balthier steps over the body and looks out the window.

Fran is down in the backyard with a borrowed crossbow. She climbs on a barrel to inspect the neighboring yards over the tall perimeter fence. There's another Hume directly under Vídyr's window, legs and arms sprawled, his neck twisted at an unnatural angle.

"Are you all right?" Balthier shouts at Fran. She nods, but doesn't look up at him, still checking for threats. Lights turn on in the neighboring houses, faces appearing by the windows to investigate.

He turns his attention back to the room. Krjn has dragged Monid to a chair and is tying his hands behind it with a cable tie (popularly known as "a hunter's best friend"). He lets himself be handled without complaint, any will to fight gone from his body. Balthier is not qualified to estimate a Bangaa's age, but at that moment Monid looks very old.

While he was looking out the window, Yjrn entered the room. She helps Vídyr sit on the bed and they speak Golmorean to each other in hushed tones, then he pulls up the left leg of his pajama pants to show her his stump. He must have bumped it around somewhat during the fight, but the bandages look clean; his wounds are fully closed, at last. Assured that he is unharmed, she holds his head by the nape and presses her forehead against his, their long ears entwining. Vídyr starts to protest, but she shushes him and pats his thigh, insisting on her touch.

Viera are not the most physically affectionate of races, but Balthier knows that gesture. When they rescued Mjrn from Venat's claws in the mines, Fran greeted her sister with a long forehead touch. Balthier himself has been on the receiving end of those, though he suspects his Hume ears hinder his ability to enjoy it in full. 

He wonders what it means for Yjrn and Vídyr. As the one who saved his life, she might have taken on a mothering role for him, filling the void left by Fran. But there could be less virtuous intentions at play. Maybe she expects him to give her priority in those mating rites. Or worse: at the end of the day, she has to think of her venue, and having the only known male exile as a tenant would be a valuable selling point. Balthier can imagine the advertisements running on Archadia's most popular newspapers. Lo, world-walkers! Enjoy your stay in Little Golmore—we offer you the best location in Ivalice, all the amenities you need, and the prettiest buck outside of Eruyt.

Shaking the sordid deductions from his mind, he crosses the bedroom and stands by the door. The tenants have dispersed; the menace is under control, and their one surviving enemy has been neutralized. Interrogating him does not sound as enticing as a battle. Nor should it be: Montblanc's men are well-known for their secrecy. If Monid were the kind of detainee who responds to intimidation with sarcasm, at least they could extract some level of entertainment from the ordeal, but Balthier's few interactions with the Bangaa left him less than impressed.

It is Krjn who questions him, of course. "Never expected this from you, Monid, not after your Benito stunt. Housebreaking?"

"Not for common thievery." Vídyr stands up with the help of his cane, despite Yjrn's objection. She shakes her head and leaves the room, muttering to herself in Golmorean as she passes by Balthier. "Fran heard them whispering as they came into the yard. Their target was I," the male Viera continues, coming to stand beside Krjn.

So that was Fran's fear: an attempt by an external agent against Vídyr's integrity. Ordered by Eruyt, possibly, or by anyone else who might have an interest in eliminating (or seizing) a male Viera. Vídyr was seen when they brought him, barely alive, from the Cerobi Steppe. News of his arrival in Balfonheim could have reached as far as Rozarria by now. The attackers must have been lurking around Little Golmore, watching the windows to pinpoint his room and waiting for a sign that confirmed his survival. Their promenade around town was that sign. The walking cane must have made them think it would be an easy job.

"Did you truly believe you and your cronies would be a match for Viera warriors?" Vídyr glares at Monid and flares his nostrils. "Who sent you? How long have you been planning this? Confess, lest you shall end like him." He points to the dead man with his chin and tightens his grip around the cane handle.

If Monid can see Vídyr's threatening stance, he has chosen to ignore it. The Bangaa just sighs and continues to face ahead at the blank space between the two Viera, his shoulders slouched as far as his tied hands allow. There's probably a thousand-yard stare behind his eye patch.

"Save your spit," Balthier tells Vídyr. "He will not answer you. Though his scruples may leave something to be desired, he is still a Centurio hunter. Tattletales don't last long in his field."

Monid lets out another heavy sigh. "Life ain't easier after the war, Krjn, you know that. The good hunts have dwindled; the rare game's all gone. 's not like Lady Ashe plans on distributing her wealth after the coronation. I had to think of my lil' one." He turns his gaze to the blood that pools around his mate's face. "Arlo couldn't afford his ma's medicine no more. What will I tell the poor woman now? He was all she had."

Balthier spares another glance at Arlo. He appeared to be in his mid-twenties. Probably younger, by the acne scars; manual labor and chronic hunger take a toll on one's demeanor. A Lowtown kid, for sure. Could have been a friend of Vann's.

Krjn shakes her head, arms crossed. "He knew the risks, and so did you. You know what the people in this town think of headhunters." Balfonheim is far from a legalist state, but the city does have its laws. The harshest, one that predates Reddas' time, determines the capital punishment for attempting to redeem a bounty against a Balfonheim citizen within the city limits. They have no proof that the attack was an actual hunt, and the jury is out on Vídyr's citizenship status, but the locals would not wait for an official sentence before sending a Dalmascan to the gallows. "You had my admiration once, Monid. For that reason only, I will let you choose your fate. I take you back to the Clan, who will meet you with shame; or we hand you over to the authorities, who will meet you with death."

Another deep sigh, and Monid hangs his head. "I'll take shame. Unlike death, shame is an old friend of mine."

Vídyr complains about letting him off the hook too easily, but Krjn ignores him. From her utility belt, she takes a phial of Prince's Kiss and a Nihopalaoa necklace and presents them to Monid; he assents, resigned. She puts on the necklace, pours the content of the phial on his head, and in the next second he falls into a deep slumber. Her job done, she pockets her accessory and leaves the empty phial on the dresser.

As if the presence of trash activates them, the cleaning crew arrives at the scene. There's Lesha again with the mop and a bucket, and another girl with rags and blankets. They squirm past Balthier into the room and inform Krjn that they were sent to collect the dead Hume. She instructs them to keep an eye on Vídyr (much to his dismay) and steps out, pulling Balthier aside.

"I'm taking him to Rabanastre," she tells him in a quiet tone. "I doubt Montblanc will provide any intel on this, but I have his high esteem. It's worth a try."

"I wish I could offer you a ride," Balthier sighs. "You don't happen to have news of the Strahl, do you?"

Krjn smirks. "Worry not. The boy is tending to it well. The novelty has faded now, but it did become something of a tourist sight for the first few months after Lady Ashe's return."

"I always knew my girl deserved top billing." He smirks back at her, hoping Vann didn't let those tourists come too close. "Any chance you might get your hands on a teleport stone? Fran and I consumed our last coming here."

She shakes her head. "They have been in low supply as of late. Dyce no longer sells them, nor the Skyferries. To think in the old days you could shake the Urutan-Yensa by their feet, and teleport stones would drop from their pockets by the dozen. I would have hoarded them if I knew." She clicks her tongue, arms crossed. "Montblanc should have some, but he only hands them out in person."

"Well, we are at the sky pirates' capital. If you want transportation without questions, this is the best place to find it in all of Ivalice."

Krjn ponders on that for a moment. "The Whitecap will still be full at this hour. I should have no problem finding a pilot."

"Be prepared to scrap your pockets, though. No self-respecting pirate flies cheap, especially for a rush job."

"Are you hiring a ship?" Nivi approaches them. Like most of the tenants and Balthier himself, she's wearing sleepwear. Hers is a short light-yellow camisole, with little red Chocobos embroidered along the square neckline. The colors clash horribly with the pink streak on her hair. She also carries a long spear and seems unafraid to use it; the juxtaposition is jarring. "I thought you and Fran were sky pirates."

"Yes, well. We have been temporarily dispossessed since the end of the war." He turns his attention back to the older Viera. "I will go with you. My negotiation skills need proper flexing. I've haggled enough with backwater merchants for the rest of my life."

Nivi tilts her chin up, looking down at Balthier even as she directs her words at Krjn. "I am going as well. Maybe at the Whitecap I will meet a proper sky pirate—one that actually owns a vessel." She smirks. He wonders if Fran told her anything about the Strahl. He wouldn't put it past his partner to clue the girl in on where to hit him. Fran was sadistic like that.

He eyes her up and down and lets out a disgruntled whine. "Cheeky, are we? You won't get far in life with that attitude, miss." It might be his gluttony for punishment speaking, but he foresees that insolent pest will grow on him at some point. Probably when she admits the error of her ways and acknowledges his superiority.

Krjn rolls her eyes. "Get dressed, you two. We leave immediately."

When they reach the first floor, the other Little Golmore residents are already gathered in the main room, in a heated discussion. It's a stark contrast to the meditative atmosphere Balthier witnessed in Eruyt. The Viera there spoke in whispered riddles and moved in slow motion, seeming to walk on clouds. These Viera talk over each other, gesticulate, tap an anxious foot against the chair leg. It makes sense. These are the ones who couldn't stand the quietness of the Wood.

"That's preposterous," says one of them. "Where would he be safer?"

"Anywhere but here." Fran stands in the middle of the conversation pit. Some of the others sit around her, like a court of Judges.

"He was perfectly safe until you arrived with your Hume," one of them growls, mumbling something in Golmorean between her teeth.

Some who are standing square their shoulders. Zesha looks particularly offended, hands on her hips. "Bold of you to say so, Rhen, when we all know you would be the first—"

"Drop it," Fran orders. The girl crosses her arms, but shuts up. "An attack was to be expected. A male escapee weeks before the mating rites is a direct threat to Eruyt's power. The elders will not take it. Jote will not stop until he's dead."

"We cannot say for sure it was Eruyt." When Krjn speaks, the remaining murmurs fall silent. "The Humes may know little about our kind, but they are observant enough to notice this is the first male Viera they see walking about. All that is rare comes with a price tag to them."

The murmuring rises again as all eyes in the room turn to Balthier. He takes it as his cue.

"It could have been a garden-variety kidnap attempt. I am sure you would all pool your last resources to pay for his ransom." He scratches his chin. His jaw is already in need of another shave. "In a more sinister possibility, their solicitor may have intended to keep Vídyr to themselves. Archades is plenty of eccentric millionaires who would love to add an exotic pet to their collection."

Fran shakes her head, her eyes focused on a forest on another continent. "It was Jote. I know it was."

"It matters not who it was." They turn to Yjrn, who comes from the backyard wiping her hands on her night robe. Like Krjn and, to some extent, Fran, her voice commands the room whenever she speaks. "I have two Hume bodies to dispose of, and a headhunter tied to a chair. Fran is right. This place is no longer safe. Not for Vídyr, nor for any of us." The Viera in the room look at each other and at the floor, in absolute silence. Yjrn turns to Krjn, an honest request for guidance in her eyes. "You are my senior, Krjn. What say you?"

The Centurio hunter exchanges a look with Fran and Balthier. "I have an idea."

Chapter Text

Twenty minutes of his life wasted, Balthier thinks, nursing his beer and his wounded ego. Twenty! Twenty minutes of fake smiling and making small talk about shipbuilders, artisanal beer and the weather. Only to leave the table empty-handed and with the crassest proposition in all of Ivalice ringing in his ear.

Balthier is well aware of his dashing looks. He knows heads turn to follow his swagger in every tavern where he sets foot, and he is proud of that. But he is no longer the 19-year-old deserter who might have welcomed the attention of a random, below-average pirate in a bar. He has standards now, and he isn't about to lower them that easily. The good-for-nothing wouldn't even pay for his drink!

Being taken only as a pretty face is not the worst part, however. The worst part is that they fail to see him for the historically significant pretty face he is. Not a single Whitecap patron has done a double take as he passed them by, and that is what hurts him more. At the very least, he'd expected to hear a murmur circulate among the crowd: is that him? Wasn't he dead? Instead, all he hears is Fran's sharp tongue whispering 'beware what you wish for' inside his head. He has striven too hard to remain anonymous. Of course it would come back to bite him in his rather shapely arse at the worst possible time.

At the saloon, Krjn and Nivi move on to their fourth table; the mission has yet to be successful on their end as well. The bar is not the fullest he has ever been to, but it is pretty full. Watching the merry drunks, one wouldn't guess Balfonheim had been at the fringes of the battle scene merely two seasons ago. All these people, and none look his way. The first notes of a headache ring inside Balthier's skull.

To think he and Fran had spent weeks, no, months crossing the Dalmascan deserts in nomadic penitence. Parched, sullied, underfed, with Fran wasting Cure spells every day on the sores from her chafing armor. And all for what? Nobody knew them; nobody cared. No one seemed to remember they had ended a war—that the two of them had single-handedly saved the city of Rabanastre from a gruesome fate under the Bahamut's wreckage. How did the world repay them for their service? With disdain, disregard, utter oblivion.

"Bunch of ingrates," he mumbles to himself, peeling off a corner of the label on his ale (one he had to buy with his own gil, like a peasant). To think the leading man and his faithful companion would become the only unsung heroes of that saga. After all, Ashe was about to be crowned queen; the Marquis rekindled the fires of his waning political career; Vaan was probably still being carried in the arms of the riffraff; Basch was—no, wait. Basch didn't count. To the public eye, Captain Basch fon Rosenburg was still a kingslayer, and dead. The one being sung as a hero was Judge Magister Gabranth, the actual dead kingslayer. At least someone had it worse, reputation-wise.

"Do I know you from somewhere?"

Oh, come on.

Balthier looks over his shoulder, eyes already rolling. The clown of the hour is smaller than him, but seems to be about his age; he sports a dirt-blonde buzz cut and facial hair of questionable taste. His ears are covered in piercings, stretchers on both lobes, and his sleeveless top exposes a tattoo of a dive talon on his left bicep. Add in the wristbands, cheap rings and bad posture, and you have the typical background actor in a Balfonheim scene. On a positive note, he is giving off the mixture of curiosity and fascination Balthier had expected to be met with when he arrived at the tavern.

Still, one pretentious flirt per night was enough. He clicks his tongue and turns his attention back to the saloon. "Try a less cliché opening line next time, mate."

The clown insists. "Seriously, you look familiar. Sky pirate?"

"No, the reincarnation of King Raithwall himself," Balthier retorts, fully turning to face him. "We're at the Whitecap. I'm bound to be either a sky pirate, a sea pirate, or a tavern wench."

The man narrows then widens his eyes in quick succession. "You're not a sky pirate." Before Balthier could ask him which of the two other options he had in mind, he completes his line of thought: "You are the sky pirate. Balthier—the hero of Rabanastre!"

Oh. An admirer, at last. Balthier makes the minimal protocol effort to hold back a smug grin while the stranger continues to gush.

"I knew it! They said you had died at the Bahamut, but I knew in my heart or hearts the great legend of the skies would have survived that."

"Yes, well, keep your voice low. I have no interest in the limelight—I've been flying under the radar since that fateful battle." Balthier comes to stand closer to him, brushing elbows over the bar counter. "So you are a fan, huh? A sky pirate as well, I take it." He points his chin at the man's tattoo.

The stranger smiles and makes a little curtsy. "Thorpe Hellmound, at your service. Though the folks around here know me by Three-Inches. It's a long story."

This is the cue for Krjn and Nivi to re-enter the scene. "What is a long story?" Nivi asks, approaching them.

The pirate popularly known as Three-Inches eyes the younger newcomer up and down. Not for the first time in his life, Balthier feels second-hand embarrassment for his entire gender. His behavior is sickening to watch; the girl is barely an adult. "Well, now that we have such a lovely audience, I suppose I must at least provide an abridged version of it."

He then pulls at the hem of his cropped trousers, revealing that he wears a metal prosthesis on his right leg. His is a slightly more sophisticated model than Vídyr's, though not the top-notch types used by elite athletes or the military. His actual, flesh-and-bone leg ends mid-thigh.

Now in the spotlight, the man tells them the tale of his misfortune. It is, as one would expect from the likes of a Balfonheim buffoon, a convoluted spiel filled with irrelevant side characters, augmented facts and outright fabrications—such as a single untrained man, armed only with a Chopper dagger, taking on a diresaur and leaving the encounter with 75% of his limbs intact.

"Do you know what was the first thing I heard, when I woke up in the healer's tent?" He briefly pauses, staring at each of his spectators to ensure he has their undivided attention. His story must be coming to an end. "'There's one lucky fellow', they said. 'Had the diresaur bit him three inches further up, his life would be a lot less joyful.'"

The last words come out marred with laughter as he makes a chopping gesture at his upper thigh, having the most fun with his own misery. Krjn catches the joke right away and humors him with a brief chuckle. Balthier would have refrained from any comments, but Nivi is staring alternately at the man's crotch and the line where his prosthesis begins, a cloud of mathematical formulas flying around her head.

"Quite a fisherman's tale if I've ever heard one," Balthier announces to the group in general, cleaning his throat, then turns to Krjn in an attempt to change the subject. "Any luck?"

She sighs. "Nothing. The two who were willing to take a rush job have set such absurd prices, they clearly cannot be bothered to do it. One would be led to believe Balfonheim folks are making it big after the war."

Swallowing a mouthful of bar peanuts, Three-Inches slips into their conversation. "What kind of rush job do you need?"

Nivi puffs out her chest. "Cargo transport."

"What type of cargo?"

Krjn also puffs out her chest, for entirely different reasons. "The type you do not ask questions about."

Realizing the negotiation has started on a not-so-favorable foot, Balthier decides it would be wise to interfere. "We need to make a round-trip to Rabanastre. Three passengers and four travel trunks."

"How big are those trunks?"

Krjn, still playing bad cop: "About the size of a coffin, and about as heavy as one."

"An empty coffin, or filled?"

"Filled."

"Oh." Three-Inches lifts his eyebrows. It looks like the talks will end at this point, but after a long gulp of ale, he continues: "When?"

"Posthaste," Balthier answers. "Can you do it?"

The pirate lets out a dramatic sigh and rubs the back of his neck. Balthier knows the dance well; he has led this waltz countless times. "I'll need my beauty sleep. Earliest I can do is mid-afternoon—we would be reaching Rabanastre by nightfall."

Balthier exchanges a look with Krjn. They enter into a brief non-verbal conference with head bounces, pouts and shrugs, then he turns back to Three-Inches. "What's the damage?"

He counts on his fingers. "Three passengers, four trunks, posthaste, to and from Rabanastre... that should come to about 6,000 total—"

"That's not too bad," Nivi mumbles to herself. Balthier inhales sharply.

"—If you don't mind me wagging my tongue around," Three-Inches completes, crossing his arms. "My silence will cost you another four grand."

"10 thousand gil to and fro Rabanastre?" Balthier bristles. "And I suppose you won't offer a discount to a war veteran."

The pirate grimaces. "Sorry, but you folks are bringing a lot of demands to the table. The Imperial guards are still on edge. If we must bypass customs, some hands will need to be greased." He shows his palms in an apologetic gesture. "It's my final price."

Krjn doesn't say a word, merely shaking her head and turning to the exit.

"Well, it was nice meeting you." Balthier shakes his hand. "We'll let you know if we change our minds."

As the trio steps out of the Whitecap, Nivi pulls them aside. "Are we leaving, then? I thought we had to find a sky pirate at all costs."

Balthier crosses his arms and looks at her sternly. "Not that cost. A free pirating lesson for you, kid: never say a price is 'not too bad' right to the seller's face."

"It was indeed the cheapest fare we were offered, even with his confidentiality fee," Krjn hesitates.

"If money is the only issue, I can pay for it," Nivi offers with a shrug. "I have my savings, remember?"

"Why would you waste your savings on our trip?" Balthier points between himself and Krjn.

The girl frowns. "What do you mean, your trip? Who is the third passenger?"

"Fran, of course."

This new piece of information makes Nivi produce an indignant high-pitched sound. Her eyebrows shoot up and she flails her hands around, gesturing to their group. "Fran is not even here!"

"She and I are not attached at the hip, but we make a point of staying in the same continent. Besides, did you truly believe she would let our cargo leave her sight?" He turns to the main street and starts walking back to Little Golmore. Seeing that Nivi has yet to understand what is happening, he tries a gentle pull at her forearm. "We'll try again with the morning crowd, when the humbler—"

She slips out of his grasp with full adolescent fury and marches back to the tavern door—only to have an exiting patron's face bump right onto her chest. The patron, to Balthier's utter lack of surprise, is none other than Three-Inches. "Still around, eh? Have you convinced them, sweetheart?"

"Yes, well, we have a counteroffer." She recomposes herself, brushing back her pink hair strand and pretending to tuck it behind an imaginary Hume ear. Balthier wonders where she learned that trick. "We agree on your price—five grand on boarding, the other five after our safe return—on the condition that you let us bring in one more passenger without extra charges." The girl crosses her arms. It is unclear whether her goal is to appear more imposing, squish her breasts together, or both.

From the hypnotized look on Three-Inches' face, it's working. "I am tempted to accept, but you must promise you will be one of the passengers."

Nivi's smile to him lies somewhere between sweet and predatory. It reminds Balthier that, despite her immaturity, she is actually older than him, and a (probably deadly) warrior on top of that. "I most certainly will. Three Viera and one Hume in total."

"Then it's done," Three-Inches declares, shaking Nivi's hand, then Krjn's, then Balthier's. "Meet me at the aerodrome with your fourth friend and your cargo at... around three PM?"

Chapter Text

It rains the next morning, a heavy shower that washes away any vestiges of a housebreak from the backyard. The pitter-patter on the closed windows follows Balthier around Little Golmore as he wanders, empty-handed and mostly ignored, watching the tense shoulders of the residents that pass by him.

The morning is dedicated to packing. Part of it is to prepare their cargo (living and otherwise) for transport to Rabanastre, but some of the residents have also decided to leave. The place is no longer the sanctuary it had once promised to be.

Vídyr has been relocated to another room at the front of the house. It appears to be the largest; the bed is even wider than Balthier's. Behind the sheer curtains and the locked shutters, the tempestuous Naldoan sea crashes against the nearby quay. This must be Yjrn's room. She moves around without hesitation, familiarized with the contents of the drawers and trunks.

Since the assembly the night before, she and Fran have only left Vídyr's side for bathroom breaks, never at the same time. Not that the boy would have been alone at any moment. The whole community takes turns around him, like guards watching over the most precious artifact in the Imperial Museum. Besides Yjrn and Fran, there are always at least two, sometimes four Viera women in the room. Despite the crowd, one hears little chatting, zero laughing, and an excess of sword hilts being clenched. Nobody has gone back to sleep, including Balthier.

He joins the changing of the guard twice. First when they arrive from the Whitecap, to update Fran on their plans. Then again around noon, to check if she wants anything packed for the trip and to ensure she eats something, for crying out loud. Both times, Vídyr seems relieved that Balthier's attention is directed at anyone other than him.

The second time is also the last Balthier expects to see of Vídyr, as the women are preparing him for dispatch. It is not meant to be a definitive farewell; they just need to throw Vídyr's attackers off his scent for a while. (According to Krjn, if Montblanc can't do that, no one else can.) But it could be months before he meets Fran's son again. He gives the boy an awkward pat on the shoulder before leaving him to his handlers.

Fran has no requests with regard to luggage, so Balthier decides to go without. They will not be gone for long, after all, and will mostly stay in Three-Inches' ship. He considers emptying the terrible knapsack in case they want to bring some mementos from the Strahl, but carrying a flaccid piece of fabric on his back sounds even less appealing than the filled bag. Traveling light it is, then. He fastens the Mithuna to his back holster, adds a variety of ammo to his belts, stuffs some change in his pockets for an emergency snack, and that's all.

The sky is still a milky gray, but it has stopped raining. A good thing, considering they don't know how talented their pilot is. He sits by the empty planter in front of the house and waits for Fran. The former wood-warder stationed at the door gives him the Viera stink eye, but he pretends not to notice.

The neighbors coming in and out of their houses do a double take as they pass by Little Golmore. With all the windows closed, the building looks haunted; the gossip girl bust is nowhere to be seen. Balthier suspects the house never had a guard by the door before, either. He bids the passersby good afternoon and says nothing else. Heaven knows how much they know by now.

He is starting to consider going back inside to hurry Fran when she shows up. She leaves a brief instruction in Golmorean to the guard and the two sky pirates start the short walk to the Chivany Breakwater.

At the entrance of the Aerodrome, an unexpected presence catches their attention: Tetran and Lulucce, the Moogle duo they rescued during their first tour of the Dreadnought Leviathan. The two are engaged in a heated discussion in Moogle-speak. At the first sight of Fran, the discussion dies and they make a scene of appearing busy, rummaging through the many packages and bags that surround them.

"Why are you two here?" The Viera asks them, paying no heed to their pantomime. "Shouldn't you be in Eruyt?"

They exchange a few nervous glances. "W-we must leave for supplies every once in a while, kupo! A merchant has to make their livelihood," says Tetran, pulling scrolls out of a wooden crate and putting them back in at random.

"Is that so? Interesting," Balthier comments as he takes the current scroll from the little creature's hands. "I always assumed you sourced your goods from the traveling merchant near the Temple of Light." He unrolls the parchment and shows them its content. It's an Esuna spell. As far as he knows, Quayside Magickery never sold those and hasn't started now.

The Moogles look at each other again, appearing to establish some kind of telepathic communication. Then Lulucce retrieves the scroll and extends an open palm towards Balthier.

It's the Hume's turn to stare at his companion. Fran nods, so he reluctantly fishes a ten-gil piece out of his pocket.

As soon as the coin touches Lulucce's palm, Tetran opens his mouth. "Our return to Eruyt was denied, kupo-po!" He cries with honest concern. "We do buy our items from the Seeq at Mount Bur-Omisace. We visited him this morning, using the Gate Crystal at the entrance of the village as we have always done. But when we tried to go back, the Crystal wouldn't accept our destination. We thought it could be an issue with the one in the Sand-strewn Pass, so we came to Balfonheim, but it won't let us through from here either. They must have deactivated it on their end, kupo!"

"Just as they did with the one in the Parting Glade, soon after..." Lulucce catches himself, pausing to glance at his trade partner, who assents. "... After the incident, kupo. But they always allowed us passage through the Eruyt Crystal. Kupo! Not anymore. As soon as they no longer need our assistance, the elders stab us in the back."

Balthier frowns. One look at Fran's face confirms they have similar opinions on this new piece of information. "Can't you reach the jungle via Ozmone or Paramina? I'm sure you can find a wayfarer to protect you from the beasts along the way."

"We would waste our trip, kupo," says Tetran, shaking his head. "The jungle paths are also sealed from all sides, and they never gave us a Lente's Tear."

"They have completely shut themselves off from the world since the incident," Lulucce adds. "No one comes in and no one comes out—though I suppose no one would ever come out anyway, kupo-po."

Fran shakes her ponytail as if to shake her thoughts into place inside her head. "I sent a message through the Guild two days ago. If you could not deliver it, I expect to be refunded," she demands, crossing her arms. (Always practical, his Fran.)

"Kupo! Do you question the swiftness of our services, miss? We even have a reply for you. I suppose you do not care to hear it...?" 

Lulucce extends his open palm to them again. Fran glares at Balthier. He lets out a huff, but hands the Moogle another tenner.

Satisfied, Tetran takes a rolled piece of bark paper out of his pocket. A list of short paragraphs is written on it in chubby Moogle handwriting. "Thank you, kupo. Fran, right?" He runs his finger over the list. "Your message to the one named Mjrn was... 'Stray not from the Green Word. Listen to it for us who cannot.'" She nods, confirming. He continues: "Her reply to you was: 'The Green Word has fallen silent to all but I.'"

Fran takes a quick sharp breath. She sports the same inquisitive frown she did when Relj first told her about Vídyr.

Balthier turns to the Moogles, hands on hips. "Was that all, or are you charging us per word? Because that made no sense."

"That was all," Tetran answers, rolling the bark paper and stuffing it back in his pocket.

"Our scope does not cover interpreting messages, kupo. But if you would be interested in a guess...?"

Lulucce shows them his greedy palm once more, but this time Fran just turns away, walking into the Aerodrome in silence. Balthier follows her, the way he always does.

"Well. That was ominous," he mumbles as he comes to her side.

"Quite. I may have been too hasty in my judgment of Mjrn." She pauses her train of thought when they reach the private flights counter. Balthier gives the docent their gate number. The girl offers to walk them there, but they know their way around aerodromes. Once they are alone again, Fran resumes her musing. "Viera who leave the Wood become deaf to its Voice. But wood-dwellers?"

"A disease, perhaps?" He shrugs. "Something that disconnects them from the Green Word. Possibly contagious, if it's affecting the whole village."

"I cannot fathom what would..." Fran lets the rest of her sentence fizzle in a sigh. "Occurian possession was inconceivable until we saw it before our eyes. Whatever it is, she must have sent Vídyr to warn us."

"Except he seems to have forgotten his mission in favor of sowing his seed on novel fields."

She shakes her ponytail behind her and points ahead with her chin. "I shall worry at another time. There they are."

"I would say our friends are overdressed for the occasion," Balthier mutters, already hating the next few hours. Of all possible vessels, of course Three-Inches' ship has to be a Kjata. It's a clunky shoebox with wings—a work beast built with no consideration for speed or comfort, decent for cargo and nothing else.

Nivi and Three-Inches stand near the airstairs. He has added a blue long-sleeved shirt to his previous attire, surely to appear more professional for the girl. She wears her jacket, shorts and boots, but also a traditional wood-warder armor, plus a Bronze shield and her spear. A few feet away from them, Krjn has likewise donned her full warrior apparel, complete with a Crystal shield and a Durandal sword. She drags on her cigarette, in spite of all the "No Smoking" signs scattered around the hangar. The four travel trunks are nowhere in sight, presumably already inside the ship.

"Hello again," Three-Inches greets Balthier as they approach the ship. "And this must be the beautiful Fran? A great honor to fly two war heroes." He kisses the back of her hand. His other hand holds a familiar jade collar; when he notices Balthier staring at it, the man rushes to explain himself. "Oh, about this—the lady had a minor financial issue. She seems to have reached the daily withdrawing limit on her bank token."

"Yes, Mr. Hellmound was very understanding and accepted the collar as surety," Nivi confirms, latching onto Balthier's arm as if they were dear friends. She speaks in a loud sing-song tone, a forced smile on her lips. "Can you believe the transfer would not go through? The Hume system for managing riches is baffling. The coins are there, but the wretched machine acts as if they are not."

"Tch! These things happen to the best of us, right? It's out of my mind already. Ma'am?" Three-Inches shrugs and extends an elbow to Fran. She shoots him the trademark Viera stare, but allows him to lead her into his ship.

Nivi pulls at Balthier's elbow, holding him back. The smile vanishes from her face as soon as Three-Inches turns his back to them.

"The coins are not there, are they?" Balthier whispers to the young Viera once the pirate is out of hearing range.

"I may have miscalculated my account balance after our shopping trip and the bill for our lunch," she answers, grimacing. "I may also have implied to him that you could cover the return leg."

"Oh! So now I am of use," he raises an eyebrow at her, having more fun with her squirming than he would admit. Once she has spluttered enough apologies, he pats her hand. "Don't worry. This is not my first brush with delinquency. We will think of something." 

Nivi breathes out, shoulders slumping, then crosses her arms with her back slouched and looks down at her feet. (Were Balthier the scholarly type, he could write an essay titled "A cross-cultural examination of poor body posture in youth".) After a brief moment, however, she regains her confidence and lifts up her head, smiling. The fact that she hasn't been scolded must have convinced her that her misdeeds will go unpunished this time. "Well, look at the bright side: this could be my first lesson as your apprentice." She pokes Balthier's ribs with her elbow.

He puts his hands on his hips and glares at her. If it's a scolding that she wants, she may as well have one. "Do I look like I take apprentices? You received a complimentary lesson yesterday at the Whitecap, about keeping mum before a tradesman. That was the full extent of my generosity. Now go grab a seat and get out of my face." He pushes her toward the stair as she rolls her eyes.

Balthier watches the girl disappear into the ship's belly and turns back. Not far behind him, Krjn has finished her smoke and crushes the cigarette butt under her heel.

"'Apprentice'," he huffs. "Can you believe her nerve? Kids these days, I swear."

"Indeed," she nods, then lowers her voice. "Speaking of generosity..."

"Our friend? I noticed." So Krjn has done the math as well. Jade collars come out of the merchant's bag for less than four thousand gil; a second-hand one should not be worth more than two grand at the pawn shop. By no account does it cover the down payment of five thousand gil Nivi had agreed to. For someone who seemed so final about his offer back at the Whitecap, Three-Inches has become quite charitable overnight. Unless the girl has negotiated anything else besides the collar, their pilot is acting oddly. "We shall keep our eyes open and hope for the best," Balthier whispers back to Krjn, climbing the airstairs after her.

Chapter Text

The cabin fits four snugly, with two foldable seats behind the pilot and copilot chairs. Nivi takes one of the front seats, despite—or rather due to—never having been inside an airship before. Fran takes the jump seat behind her, leaving the one behind Three-Inches to Balthier.

The safety belt is frayed along the edges, and the buckle fastens only on the third try. He takes a deep breath, filling his lungs with dry, metallic cabin air. It smells of combustion byproducts, grease and adventure.

By heavens, he has missed this.

"So," Three-Inches starts as he flicks switches noisily. His dashboard could use some oil. "How desperate are you to reach Rabanastre?"

Balthier shoots Fran a look. They were desperate to leave, not so much to arrive at their destination. He does not say that aloud. "What do you mean?"

"I am thinking. The open sea is quite a boring airway for a first-timer, wouldn't you say?" The pilot grimaces. "Instead, how about we take the scenic route? The tank is full, and we will catch the sunset along the way. Of course, it would take longer, so if you folks are on a tight schedule, we might have to leave it for another day."

Nivi turns around to glare at her companions. She has, thankfully, kept her mouth shut this time, but excitement oozes out of her pores. The girl's poker face is nonexistent. They will have to work on that if she is truly invested in becoming a pirate.

"How much longer?" Krjn asks from the back, sitting by their luggage on the other side of the cabin doorway.

"An hour, give or take? I'm thinking Archades, Phon Coast, Nalbina—maybe Salikawood if our time is good." He draws a curve in the air and glances at Balthier for confirmation. Nivi bites her lip, her claws puncturing the worn leather of the chair's armrest.

Balthier lifts an eyebrow. "How much extra would that cost us?"

The pilot rolls his eyes. "If it makes our darling Nivi like me better, that is all the extra I need. My rookie self would have become a lifelong fan of whoever would have taken me on such a nice overflight. Alas, such luck never smiled down on me." The engines kick off with a loud whir. The flight panel blinks ahead, waiting for him to input his coordinates. "But, hey. If you wish to chip in on the fuel, I will not stop you."

Balthier turns to Fran again, begging her to have the final word. The sensible thing would be to keep to the shortest route. They have no good reason to waste time, and Three-Inches has already waved a few red flags. But the wingless months since the Battle of Rabanastre have clouded Balthier's judgment.

Fran looks at Krjn, further delegating the decision. "One hour should not affect our plans," the older Viera adjudicates. Nivi produces a sound that, for lack of a more precise definition, can only be described as the Viera equivalent of a squee.

Their route settled, the vessel drags itself clunkily through the thick blanket of clouds that has enveloped Balfonheim that day. For the first few minutes of the trip, they sail over a rolling sea of grey fluff. Little by little, the gaps in the clouds widen under them, and they soon discern the windmills among the rusty shrubs of Cerobi Steppe. "I have traveled this far by foot," Nivi points out.

By the time they reach the capital, the sky is clear. The city lights have yet to shine—instead of them, the windowpanes reflect the afternoon sun, casting a golden gleam over the ornate building facades. For the second time in less than a year, Balthier finds himself playing tourist guide to his long-forsaken place of birth. He points the main sights to Nivi: the Imperial Palace, its shadow casting whole neighborhoods in premature darkness every day; the frantic rush of air cabs and buses around the Senate and the Akademy; the ostentatious rooftop gardens of Tsenoble; and the infamous Draklor Laboratory, parts of its tower still shrouded in scaffolding since the final stages of war.

"Your accent never fooled me," says Three-Inches.

Balthier shrugs. "One may take the city boy out of the city, et cetera."

Nivi peels her eyes away from the windshield and turns to Balthier with an inquisitive look. "Oh!" She raises her eyebrows, realizing what the Humes mean. "Is this your home? Can we see the dwellings of your kin from up here?"

"Easy there, sweetheart." The pilot turns back and winks at Balthier, smirking. "A pirate is entitled to his secrets."

"This is unjust on Fran and I. Our origin will never be a secret."

"Considering your lifespan, you will surely find other secrets to redress the balance," Balthier argues.

They are now above the green fields and rock outcrops of Tchita Uplands. He turns to ask Fran how she feels, flying again after being grounded for so long, but she is not admiring the landscape. Instead, she faces the cabin door: her gaze is lost inside the ship's belly, where Krjn wards their precious cargo. Her attention has not left the trunks since they came on board.

In the five years of their partnership, Fran had never shown interest in her son's fate; bearing a child had merely been part of her duty to the Wood. Her concern for Vídyr's well-being is new, and has increased tenfold after their encounter with the Moogles.

Fran's earlier deductions were mistaken, then. The whole kerfuffle was not a plot by Mjrn to make a political weapon out of her nephew's thirst for freedom. Something else is happening in Golmore, and Vídyr's fleeing may have a significant connection to it. In that case, however, Fran's second guess still stands: the attempt against his safety must have been ordered by Jote.

The ship and Balthier come out of autopilot with a jolt. They have reached the Phon Coast, and Three-Inches is taking them on a low flight.

Phon Coast was Balthier's first refuge, long before he met Fran, before he was even Balthier. In Archades, the high density of buildings and people suffocated him. The capital of the Empire forced his head down and dragged his spirit against its dirty paved grounds, the atmosphere itself weighing on him like a ball and chain. In contrast, even from within the confines of an Imperial vessel (first on a vacation with his family as a child, then on duty as a teen-aged Judge), the seaside air invited him to take deeper breaths and let his mind drift away to peace.

When the fateful day arrived, he escaped to the Hunter's Camp with his newly-stolen YPA-GB47, just as soon as he lost the Archadian guards in his pursuit. The lull of the sea against the pristine beaches quickly erased any whiff of doubt from his juvenile heart. At last, his destiny was his own.

In the chaos of war, Balthier appeared to have forgotten that taste of self-determination that had first led him to the life of a sky pirate. Now it rolls over him like a rogue wave. He longs for his own wings; he longs for the man he becomes amidst the clouds.

Nivi watches the breathtaking scenery with wide eyes, her jaw slack. Fran was right about this one thing as well. Balthier would never admit it aloud, but Ffamran mied Bunansa had made that same foolish face many, many times. The girl reaches out as if she could touch the flock of Dive Talons that fly past them, and her hand almost knocks down the switch that controls the angle of the ship's wings. At the low height they are flying, had her half of the dashboard been operational, such a careless flick of her wrist could have put their lives in peril.

"I hope you're not considering handing controls to the amateur next to you," Balthier mumbles to Three-Inches, undeterred by the fact that the young Viera could hear him from a mile away. As if to illustrate his point, she bumps her arm absent-mindedly against the copilot's yoke.

"Certainly not on her inaugural flight, no," the pirate chuckles, pulling the Kjata back up to a safer height. "But I shan't object to taking her under my wing. What say you, darling? Will you ditch your boring friends in Rabanastre if I promise to teach you how to fly?" Unexpected melancholy tinges his voice and, though he addresses Nivi, his eyes look ahead at the clear airway.

His flirting has reached the limit of Nivi's patience, however, and she stares at Balthier over her shoulder. It is not a cry for help; he knows what women look like when they require aid in dispatching a creep. Her expression resembles more the one Fran makes whenever she finds nanna cheese in the Strahl's icebox. (It's a delicacy, he tells her every time, and every time she tells him that his delicacy smells of Hume feet.)

Nivi clears her throat. "Though I appreciate the offer, Mr. Hellmound, I shall remain loyal to my boring friends," she informs him, sitting back properly on the copilot's chair and toning down her enthusiasm.

After that, the rest of the flight is quiet. The sun sets above the canopies of Salikawood, painting the verdant mass in pink and red tones. Vídyr would have enjoyed the view. Balthier turns to Fran again, hoping she can read his thoughts, but she is still frowning at the cabin door.

They arrive at Rabanastre at night, the city shining like a lost jewel in the vast nothingness of the desert. The travelers yawn, stretch their necks and detach their safety belts (opening the buckle also requires three attempts). Nivi is only moderately reluctant to leave the copilot's seat, and soon they are all together in the ship's hold, handling their very important cargo.

"Wait." Fran gestures with her open palm, walking around the trunks and sniffing them discreetly. She lays her hand on the fourth. "This one stays."

"Is that one going back with us?" Three-Inches asks.

"Aye." The party exchanges glances. Fran insists: "I have changed my mind."

Balthier lifts an eyebrow. Yjrn and the others at Little Golmore would be puzzled to see Vídyr back after Fran insisted so much on removing him from there. But, in the end, taking him out just to immediately bring him back in could be even more effective in misleading their assailants—provided Vídyr and his protectors are diligent with Vanish magicks for the following weeks. "Are you concerned that our friends will not look after your belongings as well as you do?"

"They have been mishandled before. I mean no offense, Krjn." The older Viera shrugs; she is not one to take offense that easily.

Three-Inches shrugs as well, taking the travel changes in stride. "As long as my fare gets paid in the end, you may do as you wish, my lady. My ship is your ship." He continues to help Krjn load the other three trunks on the transport cart.

"A risky proposition, that," Balthier tells him. "Remember, we are still sky pirates."

Three-Inches grins. "A sky pirate would not rob another, and you guys are war heroes." From the top of the cargo ramp, Balthier watches him and Krjn unload the trunks. While Krjn walks ahead with the cart, Three-Inches turns back and addresses him in a quieter tone. "I will help your friend evade customs. After that, while she makes her deliveries, I'm making a quick stop by the Sandsea. There's this lady friend of mine that must be wondering if I'm dead."

"That, or she assumes you ran away with a Viera."

"Those bunny girls are hard to resist, right?" He laughs, walking away. "I have ale in the icebox if you're thirsty. Make yourself at home. I'll be back in a jiffy."

Balthier watches the two until they disappear into the aerodrome building. When he turns back inside, Fran has already opened the remaining trunk. Vídyr is sitting up inside it, rubbing his face.

"Have you been awake for long?"

Vídyr shakes his head and immediately regrets the action, pressing the bridge of his nose. "I believe we were landing when I came to." Nivi hands him a water canteen. He drinks the whole of it in three gulps. "This sky travel business is just as cursed as traveling by sea. Viera were not made for this."

"Speak for yourself. I feel splendid," Nivi brags, peeking at her potential mentor out of the corner of her eye.

Fran is more understanding to her son's plight. She offers him a small phial—a remedy for nausea, most probably. "You were under a Sleep spell, and the flight was not as smooth as it goes. 'Tis a cheaply-made vessel."

"Run by a cheaply-made pilot to boot," Balthier grumbles, though even he would have had a hard time making a Kjata fly smoothly. He opens Three-Inches' icebox and, as promised, it contains a single bottle of (cheap) ale. Beggars can't be choosers, and he is indeed thirsty. "What do you say, Fran? The Strahl should be a few berths away. We could take the kids on a proper flight." He leans against the tiny galley counter, lowering his voice out of habit. "We could run away with them, in fact. Nivi gets her start in the business, and Vídyr will be safe from harm."

The corners of Fran's lips slowly turn upwards into a smirk as she approaches him. "Beware, Balthier. Your hunger for kinship shows." She takes the bottle from his hand and drinks a large gulp, letting out a satisfied sigh. "The offer tempts me, but I would rather remain on course. Crave for her as we may, 'tis not the time to retrieve our ship." Leaving the bottle on the counter, she turns back to her son. "You should stand and walk. It will help with the nausea. If you hear anything, hide."

Nivi notices them moving towards the exit. "Are you leaving?"

"We shall be back shortly," Balthier placates her, walking after Fran. He is halfway out of the ship when he decides it might be a good idea to leave the two youngsters with a small mission. "Krjn said she can arrange for a teleport stone, but I would rather not put all my eggs in that basket." He directs his words at Nivi. Seeing how eager she is to become a pirate, she will drink in every instruction he gives her. "See if you can find us a way out of the rest of our fee. Blackmail fodder would be ideal—a compromising secret, perhaps, or something that could get him in trouble with the authorities. I have a feeling our friend has a closet full of skeletons somewhere."

The girl nods firmly, her bright garnet eyes focused on her new purpose. Balthier waves at Vídyr and walks out into the Rabanastre Aerodrome, his heart beating faster in anticipation. The Strahl is there somewhere.

Chapter Text

Balthier feels no shame in crying. He is not easily moved to tears, for the damages of an Archadian upbringing are hard to undo. However, unlike his fellow countrymen, he does not see the act of weeping as a sign of feebleness. Quite the opposite: he admires (envies, even) how unrestrained the Rozarrians and Dalmascans are in wearing their emotions on their faces. Then again, his Archadian upbringing was rather atypical: his father was a man of science, but also a patron of the arts, and Balthier himself could hear the calling of the stage. For bad and for good, his household had never been devoid of pathos.

So if he lets Fran walk ahead when they finally find the gate that leads to the Strahl, that is not a strategy to hide his tears from her. Of course not; he is only offering her the space she needs to cope with this reunion on her own (surely also very emotional) terms.

He does weep at the sight of the Strahl. Just a few elegant, measured tears, for he is neither uncouth like a Dalmascan nor flamboyant like a Rozarrian, and although he is technically alone at the hangar, he has a reputation to preserve. But even the greatest sky pirate in all of Ivalice is allowed to have feelings. If seeing his beloved ship for the first time in five months could not pluck the strings of his heart, then nothing else would.

He takes his time climbing the airstair, running his fingers on the smooth surface of the ship's underbelly. It smells of fresh paint and welding. Fissures on the fuselage that he had hurriedly covered with speed tape before leaving for the Bahamut are no longer detectable, the tape replaced by permanent, better-looking fixes. Nono's greasy paws have always itched to overhaul the whole ship; now that it has finally been given a rest from action, the little rascal must be having the time of his life. Balthier shakes his head, trying not to think of all the rearrangements he will have to make once he reclaims it.

It takes him a moment to adjust his eyes to the Strahl's pitch-black interior. Inside, nothing appears to have changed. He moves with ease around the darkened space, knowing by heart each raised step and each lowered ceiling plate. When the door to the cockpit slides open, however, Fran is not there. A flicker of white light reflected on the windshield catches his eye. Turning back, he sees it's the beam of a flashlight, bouncing on the walls on the opposite end of the ship. She must be in her cabin.

The Strahl, bless her engines, is no skyferry. Its documentation dares to say it offers two cabins, but an honest description would have called them "adapted cupboards". Furnished only with a builder's-grade wardrobe, a dresser and a bunk bed, they barely cover a Hume's need for sleeping and getting dressed. Balthier always wondered how Fran managed, tall as she was, but he kept his musings to himself.

Despite their mutual trust, they were not in each other's cabins much. Fran visited his more often, for his was the room that tended to keep their joint treasures: important documents, gadgets, tools, and any stolen good small enough and valuable enough to escape the ship's hold. But Balthier could count on his fingers the number of times he had been in Fran's cabin, and he would have fingers to spare. It was a matter of respecting her privacy, a precious commodity when one was half of a pirating duo. Also, had he not treated her space as sacred, he would have woken up one day tied to the ship's outer hull.

Thus, it is hard to contain his surprise at the sight of Fran's living quarters. Not that she had left much room for living among her jumble of... stuff. He had always suspected his partner had hoarding tendencies, but goodness. The curio cabinets of many Archadian old dames would have been put to shame.

The two unfurnished corners of the room contain a tower of boxes each, precariously tied and anchored to the walls. On the floor, more boxes, burlap sacks and tall wicker baskets constrain the walking space into a narrow pathway. The path opens to three well-defined ends: the wardrobe, the bed, and the dresser in front of which Fran stands, flashlight in hand. The light dances over the knickknacks that cover the top of the dresser and the walls around her mirror, so filled with memories that the Strahl's bodywork cannot be seen under them.

He comes to stand next to her and picks up a little Moogle figurine, watching for her reaction out of the corner of his eye. She pays him no heed, immersed in her own inspection, so he takes the liberty to riffle through her treasures. A long and narrow box holds a collection of coasters from every tavern they have set foot in. A bird skull acts as paperweight for a stack of hunting bills, their marks long dead or captured. There's a broken music box, and next to it the tools with which she intended to fix it. There are shells, iridescent feathers, cheap perfume and jewelry; colorful rocks and crystals with no resale value or magickal purpose. The wall is covered in posters and postcards, festival tickets from ages ago, drawings and watercolors she has purchased from street artists to support their craft, regardless of its quality.

Five years ago, Fran moved into the Strahl carrying only the armor on her body and the bow and quiver on her back. All the content of that room was collected during their time together, but Balthier can't remember any of these things. She never shared them with him—or perhaps she did, at one point, and he failed to give them the attention they deserved.

These little trifles were important enough for her to carry and cram into her tiny cabin, yet she has not mentioned missing any of them in the last few months. She seems to let her passions go with the same ease as she picks them up from the ground. It makes sense. Ever since she left the Wood, half a century ago, Fran has been a nomad. She could not afford the luxury of carrying baggage before the Strahl, and she knew how fickle that acquired luxury was.

He points to a plant on a macrame hanger dangling in front of the cabin's slit window. The vines threaten to take over the room, trailing over her collections and furniture. "They kept your pothos alive."

"I noticed." Fran rummages through a heap of what appear to be scarves in the top drawer. She owns an astounding number of textiles for someone who prefers to expose most of her skin at all times. These garments, too, are souvenirs, not meant to be worn.

"Though it seems your poor bow has remained stringed for the last five months."

She turns back to her bed, where her Artemis bow—Viera-made, one of a kind, among the best that could be found in Ivalice—has been laid in the exact state as she left it during the Battle above Rabanastre, with all the reverence and care, by someone who doesn't know the first thing about bows.

"Leave it alone. If the plant is alive, that means Vann and Penelo come in here to water it. When they find the bow missing, they will think the Strahl was broken into. Knowing their disposition, they will assume it was their fault. I would rather spare them the needless anguish."

She returns to her search. It dawns on Balthier that she has yet to share her motivations for visiting the Strahl beyond mere reminiscence. "What are you looking for?"

"Lente's Tear."

He hasn't forgotten what Tetran said that afternoon. He also remembers Krjn's words to him when they first arrived in Balfonheim. Keep Fran out of Golmore, and her head should be safe.

"Fran," he whispers in an admonishing tone, hands on hips. "What are you planning?"

She continues to examine the contents of the drawer in silence.

Balthier huffs and turns around in the cramped cabin, shaking his head. "Over fifty years, and your maternal instincts decide to kick in at the worst possible moment."

"This is not about Vídyr." She holds the flashlight between her teeth, freeing her hands to peruse the second drawer and removing herself from the conversation.

"Oh, if not about Vídyr, then what? About Mjrn, who outsources her problems with a riddle for Big Sister Fran to solve? Or Jote, who could not care less about your fate as long as you keep your Hume germs away from her? Had you not 'discarded Wood and village', as you so eloquently put the last time you were there?"

She keeps on searching, like he's not there at all.

He is not used to feeling his blood boil—much less to Fran being the cause of it.

"You love to taunt me for the one time I placed other people's interests above my own, yet look at yourself now," he snaps. "The war has softened your heart, and because of that the Viera hive mind has found a way to weld itself into your system again."

Like a scorned wife, he raises his voice and points his index finger at the air. The Strahl has made him emotional, and the realization that Fran intends to do something very dangerous and very stupid has awakened the good-old Bunansa pathos gene in him. Still, the devil woman won't even deign to flinch at his outburst. He lets out one last embarrassed sigh before leaning against her wardrobe and crossing his arms, resigned. "I like you better as a sky pirate, Fran."

At last, she finds a small velvet bag and takes the flashlight out of her mouth. "I like the sky pirate better as well. But I will not have peace until I learn the meaning of Mjrn's words." She opens the bag and spills its content on her palm. The tear-shaped pendant gleams under the hard light. "Soon as we return to Balfonheim, I will ask if any of Yjrn's tenants wish to join me. She should not begrudge you if you choose to wait for me there."

"What, and let you have all the fun?" Balthier scoffs, stepping closer to her. Anger forgotten, he circles her waist with his hands, loathing the chain mail that keeps her skin out of his reach. "You were forced to witness the gaudy spectacle of my father's curtain call. It's only fair that I endure your family's nonsense in your turn."

Mollified, Fran leaves the flashlight atop her dresser. In the penumbra that swallows them, her long nails scratch his neck gently, her fingers fumbling with the lace on the collar of his shirt. The Tear's leather cord catches briefly on his left ear on its way down, but he lets Fran fix it, his hands still on her waist. The jewel slips into his shirt and its cold surface rests against his sternum. Then Fran's breath warms the tip of his nose, and the edges of her headgear press against his forehead and cheekbones.

He makes a noise of discomfort, pulling back. "One day that thing will gouge my eyes out, and I will have no use for your regret," he mumbles. She huffs and makes to take the headgear off, but halts mid-movement; in the dark, all he can perceive is a flicker of her ear. As she reaches for the flashlight, Balthier hears it too—the sound of steps on the Strahl’s airstairs.

To hell with Vann and Penelo's sensitivities. He hands Fran the bow and arrows and readies his gun. She accepts her old weapon, yet her body language tells him violence will not be necessary. They move to the front of the ship and soon meet the source of the noise: Nivi has entered the ship's hold, followed by Vídyr.

"It's a trap," Nivi whispers, handing Balthier three leaflets. "I found these in his cabin. We followed your scent here. He must be coming back with the headhunters by now."

Headhunting bills. So Three-Inches had never been a fan of the fabulous pair of sky pirates that saved Rabanastre. He was only setting them up—bringing them out of Balfonheim, to a city more lenient with headhunters. That explains why he was so carefree with his payment. Whatever his cut of the bounty was, it would more than compensate the travel costs.

Balthier clicks his tongue and mentally curses his hubris, leafing through the printed sheets. "They never get my nose right. Oh, look, Fran, your bounty was raised."

"'Twas about time," she shrugs, but the sight of the last leaflet steals her voice.

Unlike the others, the third bill is in rough bark paper. Under a portrait of Vídyr's face, a familiar chubby handwriting informs the hunter that their mark is to be brought to the Henne mines—preferably alive. The petitioner and a generous reward will be waiting for them in the Ore Separation Room.

"Well, that settles it." Balthier leads them to the cockpit. From his confident stride, nobody would have guessed he is quietly praying for the Strahl's airworthiness. Surely Nono is not being that stringent on his maintenance. After all, he presumes the Moogle engineers are working for free... unless Queen Ashelia has developed a misplaced attachment for the vessel that saved her kingdom. "Buckle up, kids, we're flying out of here." He sits on the pilot chair and turns to his companion. "Fran?"

"No fuel to the glossair engines," she punches buttons and flicks switches frantically, but nothing comes alive on the ship's dashboard. "Or to anywhere else, for that matter."

Balthier closes his eyes and sighs. "Déjà vu." Still not the end of the world, he thinks, running checks in his mind. It could be that the ship has been sitting on the ground for too long, and its engines are cold. Or it could be low on fuel. That would be a slightly more complicated problem—the sequence of actions involved in fueling aircraft would take more time than they had at hand.

Quickly and quietly, he and Fran run to the airstair. He turns to the back of the ship, watching out for the bounty hunters while Fran checks the forecastle. Even if the issue is fuel, he is still confident they can fly away. The nearest aerodrome is Nalbina; they can get there with less than a quarter of a tank. If they manage to hold the hunters back for twenty minutes, Fran can feed the Strahl just enough. "How fast can we fix it?"

"It would take a while." He turns to her, and she points to the glossair rings. Rather, to where a glossair ring should be. The Strahl's starboard glossair shell gapes at them, open and empty, its underside set apart.

"Lovely," Balthier mutters. "The day continues to bear gifts." The four of them gather under the airstairs, looking out to the gate's entrance on the other side of the shipyard.

Nivi sniffs the air. "They are near," she hisses.

Balthier looks around, noticing the many containers of ship parts scattered around the yard. "Can you run with that thing?" He asks Vídyr, pointing to his prosthesis.

"Where?" Balthier points to a tarp-covered container, not very far from the Strahl. Vídyr and him share a nod, and the boy sprints there as fast as his recent disability allows him. The rest of the group follows him and crouches low behind the container, all sets of leporine ears lying flat against their owners' head. Balthier watches out.

Three-Inches arrives at the gate, flanked by two familiar Bangaa—Ba'Gamnan's siblings. The trio are engaged in a heated discussion that the Hume is clearly losing. At last, Three-Inches appears to convince them to be quiet and they march towards the Strahl, weapons in hand.

"They all went in. This is our chance," Balthier turns to the Viera and whispers, feeling his stomach burn. He cannot believe he is actually glad those brutes entered the Strahl instead of standing guard outside.

"Shall we ambush them?" Nivi whispers back.

"In my ship? Over my dead body. No, we disappear until they lose our scent. Fran?"

"Wait," Vídyr interrupts before she can cast Vanishga on them. "What of Krjn?"

"Krjn is a Centurio hunter, she has no need for us."

"But we need her to get back home. We are out of gil and have no Stones," Nivi argues.

Fran and Balthier share a look. "We must find her," she declares, bringing her right hand to her sternum. As if covered by a magickal cloak, the four of them become invisible—first Fran, then Vídyr by her side, then Nivi, and finally Balthier. "We go back to the Kjata and wait for her there," Fran's incorporeal voice whispers. "Remember you can still be heard and smelled. Refrain from targeting anything—the spell wears off easily."

Balthier crosses the Aerodrome's concourses, suddenly alone. Unlike the Viera, he cannot rely on scent to know his party is nearby; he can only hope they are all walking down the same path. The bounty hunters eventually leave the Strahl, an apologetic Three-Inches in tow. They follow behind the concealed group from a distance, unaware that their marks are just a few feet ahead of their snouts.

As he takes a curve before the gate to the Kjata, Balthier sees Krjn walking in that direction from another side. In the blink of an eye, too fast for the headhunters to see it, Nivi becomes visible as she pulls the older Viera behind a decorative screen, laying a hand over her mouth. Hidden by the screen, they watch as Three-Inches and the Bangaa duo pass them by on the way to the gate.

"I hear nothing but empty promises from you, useless Hume," Rinok hisses.

"They won't have gone far," Three-Inches tries to appease her. "You saw the trunk they left. I'm sure that's the Viera boy. They will come back for him."

"See if I care about this 'Viera boy'. You said you had Balthier!"

As they walk to the Kjata, Krjn shoots Nivi a stern look.

"Good thing we locked the trunk before we left," the girl whispers sheepishly.

"We cannot let this be," Krjn whispers back. "He knows about Vídyr. If we let him walk, it won't be long before every bounty hunter in Ivalice knows of him as well." She sniffs the air, then looks around and stares directly at Balthier, despite him remaining unseen. "Wait by the Crystal at the South Gate. I shall meet you there with our traitor."

"I will aid you," Nivi offers, wielding her spear.

"Godspeed, the three of you," Krjn says to the empty space behind her as they leave their hiding spot.

Balthier hastens to the aerodrome entrance, ignoring the shouting and weapon-clashing behind him. As he swerves away from the oblivious passengers in the boarding area, he plans their next steps. They must get to the Moogling station, and one of them must become visible to arrange for transport with Sorbet. They should warp together, so Balthier is not the best candidate for the job—he doesn't know if the other two are close enough to him for a well-coordinated commute. And while Vídyr can smell him and Fran, he has never set foot in Rabanastre. He doesn't know about the Moogle's teleport service, and has no idea where the city's South Gate is other than "somewhere to the south".

"If you've ever coveted the leading role, Fran, now is your moment," Balthier mutters. He thinks he hears a short laugh to his right, but it could have been one of the docent girls at the skyferry counters.

He exits the terminal and stands by the Moogling station. Before he can catch his breath, Fran materializes by his side and seizes him blindly by the armpit, then drags him (now made visible) and grabs at the air again, making Vídyr appear next to them.

"South Gate, no questions," she barks at Sorbet. The poor Moogle is so bewildered by their sudden apparition that he warps them without so much as a greeting.

As luck would have it, the South Gate is rather deserted. Aside from the Weather Seeq chatting up Gurdy by the chocobo stable, there are only the guards standing by the city gate and the passage to Lowtown. It is strangely comforting to see Dalmascan men in their uniforms, rather than Imperial armored soldiers. Balthier only hopes they are not as much sticklers for citizen orderliness as their anal-retentive Archadian counterparts.

The wait by the Gate Crystal is short. When Krjn and Nivi appear at the Moogling station, hauling a worse-for-wear sky pirate between them, the other three take their cue and hold onto each other, their free hands hovering over the glimmering orange surface. One of the guards, finding their activity suspicious, shouts "hey!", but it is too late. By the time he starts to move, Krjn stumbles forward with a bloodied arm stretched out, the whole group touches the crystal in unison, and they are swallowed by its curative glow.

Chapter Text

They do not come out on Sea Breeze Lane.

Balfonheim's Gate Crystal is outdoors. In contrast, the crystal they materialize by is inside a small, roundish cave chamber, illuminated only by a cheap pendant light that hangs from a wooden beam, far above their heads. Balthier blinks to adapt his eyes to the darkness; when he breathes in, his lungs are filled with stale, humid air. In the brief silence that embraces them, he can hear the distant sound of dripping water.

"Where are we?" Nivi's question echoes against the rock walls.

There's an advisory sign on a wood pillar next to Balthier. Printed on Imperial letterhead, it contains a series of mining safety guidelines by the Officiary of Resources. The date at the foot of the document predates the time they rescued Mjrn by a few days. "The Henne Mines," he answers.

"I was set on Balfonheim," Krjn growls. "Someone requested a different destination and confounded the Crystal." She marches towards Three-Inches, ready to redo all the damage the Gate Crystal has cured. (Meanwhile, Balthier side-eyes Fran, but her expression betrays nothing. He will save his suspicions for a more appropriate time.)

Three-Inches steps back, palms open before him like a futile shield. "Hey, I know you won't believe me, but--"

Vídyr doesn't let him finish, shooting Silence and Immobilize at him before he might attempt to run. The stealth ranger then gestures for them to be quiet and sniffles the air. The women scrunch their noses as well; the four Viera share concerned glances. Unable to move or speak, Three-Inches stares in panic at Balthier. No doubt he hopes to receive some semblance of support from the other Hume in the group. He finds none.

Browsing around the Staging Shaft, Vídyr picks up a discarded burlap sack off the ground. The spells prevent Three-Inches from fighting back, and all he can do is gawk at the group as the sack is slipped over his head.

Vídyr makes a hand sign between his own chest and Three-Inches'; then, he moves his open palm across his face like a sweeping fan, points to Fran and repeats the hand movement. Next, he points to Balthier, Krjn and Nivi, grabs the hooded Three-Inches by the bicep and gestures towards the exit into the Ore Separation Room. Fran nods, and so do Krjn and Nivi. Balthier nods as well, because nobody else has said a word and he will die before admitting ignorance.

Fortunately for him, the plan becomes clear in the next second, when Fran casts Vanishga on her son and herself and Krjn ties Three-Inches' hands behind his back. So Balthier, Krjn and Nivi are to bring their captured mark into the room, then ambush Eruyt's envoy and make him or her answer their questions. It's a decent plan. Three-Inches has a similar build as Vídyr, and the sack over his head hides his Hume countenance from view. He even has a missing leg, in case the elders have learned about Vídyr's injury. And if the male Viera goes in the room with them invisible, his scent should be enough to throw the envoy off.

The newly-founded trio of bounty hunters shares glances, the women adjusting their armor, Balthier taking the safety off the Mithuna. "He will most likely have a magick paling, so save your mana," Krjn whispers. "Stay behind your shield and do not let your guard down even for a moment. Especially you," she points her chin at Balthier. "He might hesitate before his kind, but killing a Hume would bring him no regret."

They enter the Ore Separation Room. The mines have been out of service since they were stormed by the wyrm Tiamat, back when the Empire tried to use Mjrn as an Occurian sock puppet. The survivors of Tiamat's wrath left in a hurry, and it shows: piles and boxes of raw magicite ore are still scattered about, a wall of unused wooden crates still standing at the back of the round chamber. The lack of maintenance is also noticeable, as only a small number of lamps remain unburned.

Krjn and Nivi walk at the front, holding their shields up; standing behind Krjn, Balthier drags a stiff-legged Three-Inches by his side, shielded by Nivi. The other two are invisible somewhere.

"We have your mark, Reynir," Krjn shouts to the dark void, her voice booming on the cave walls. "The boy regrets; he is unarmed and willing to return with you. Withhold your arrows and let us end this without bloodshed."

Their request is met with silence.

"Now what?" Nivi whispers from behind her shield.

"Now we wait," Krjn answers.

And wait they do, for five, ten, twenty minutes, breathing as quietly as their lungs allow while nothing happens around them. Balthier shifts his weight from left to right, using one leg for support to give the other a rest. Next to him, Three-Inches lets out a whimper; the effect of the spells must have run out by now, but sheer fear has kept the man paralyzed, a sudden stench of urine emanating from his crotch.

Trying to distance himself from their soiled prisoner while still keeping him under control, Balthier leans forward and whispers to Krjn. "Your senses appear to be mistaken. I'm afraid our petitioner has duped us."

She shakes her head briefly, her shield unwavering. "He's here," Krjn breathes. "I can smell him."

The wait, however, has reached the end of Nivi's patience. "Enough of playing hide-and-seek," she declares with a huff, turning to the group. "If he will not come out, we must—"

The rest of her sentence falls dead in her mouth. Her shoulders jerk forward; she lets out a whimper and stares wide-eyed down her chest, from where a sharp arrow head now protrudes, blood oozing fast down her front. Before she hits the ground, another arrow pierces Three-Inches' skull like it's nothing. The force of the shot yanks the prisoner out of Balthier's grasp.

"Behind me!" Krjn barks, standing before him. The next arrow embeds itself on the Viera's shield with a dull thump, its tip poking out menacingly on the inside. "The crates!"

From behind Krjn's shield, Balthier sees the outline of the wooden wall in the dark. If he could position himself better, he might be able to take a proper shot. As it is, his best luck would be to aim at the middle and hope the whole thing topples down, but he will have to expose himself to shoot. Even if he doesn't end up with an arrow in the eye, a missed shot might let their assailant escape further into the mine and find a better hiding spot among the cavern beasts.

A flash of bright light to his left makes the decision for him. He glances back and sees the white aura of a Raise spell engulfing Nivi as she gasps awake on the floor. Fran is crouched by her side, frantically pressing Nivi's chest around the arrow shaft to Cure her and stop the bleeding. With the Vanishga effect gone and the luminous Mist her magicks emit, she has become a perfectly visible sitting duck.

Balthier steps aside, takes a blind shot at the crates and steps back behind Krjn just in time to feel the vibration of an arrow flying right past his ear. Half of the pile is now gone, splintered all over the cavern floor, but enough of it still stands that could shelter a Viera. He readies the Mithuna and peeks out from behind his cover for a second longer.

He shoots again, crates exploding everywhere. Another arrow cuts the air; Balthier hears a yelp behind him, then sees a shadow move where the crate wall used to be. At last, the crack of the third bullet leaving the gun barrel is followed by a scream and the thud of a body hitting the floor.

"He's down," Krjn announces, though her shield remains firmly in front of her.

Balthier releases a breath he hadn't realized he was holding and wipes his palms on his pants, first one, then the other, keeping the Mithuna pointed ahead. The ringing in his ears is not loud enough to erase from his mind the pained cry he heard just before his last shot. His saliva tastes sour as he walks to their fallen enemy, making a pointed effort not to look back.

The Viera named Reynir lies on the ground with his back leaning on the rock wall. He clutches his midriff, pained grunts echoing in the silent cave. Until recently, Balthier would have assumed that was a female; now he realizes he cannot trust his ability to tell Viera genders apart, especially mid-battle and in the dark. The attacker wears a mask and shoulder caps similar to Krjn's, but black, like the rest of his clothes: knee-length boots, tight leather pants with triple belts, arm pads, and a cropped top that exposes his now bloodied abdomen. It fits the description of someone who operates strictly in the shadows. The only contrast comes from the long white braid, thick as Balthier's wrist, and the white ears that escape from his black hood.

"Don't move," Balthier shouts, pointing his gun and taking a tentative step forward. An Immobilize spell might have been useful again. If Nivi survives this, he will never hear the end of it. "You must be in excruciating pain right now. We shall heal you if you collaborate."

"You waste your time," Krjn says from behind her shield. "He will not talk."

"He already does." As Balthier comes closer, he notices Reynir's mouth is moving. "Hands where I can see them, and do not try anything foolish. I still have plenty of rounds."

"F... fórn..." The flicker of a word reaches Balthier's ears. It's Golmorean, but not a term he recognizes. He takes another step forward, still pointing the Mithuna at him. "Fórn mín..." An agonizing stream of coughs cuts his words.

"Keep talking," Balthier orders, hoping the Viera ears around him find something useful in the whispers. His eyes are trained on Reynir's hands—the left one twitches on the floor next to his thigh, while the right one prevents his guts from spilling out.

And then he hears Fran behind him. "Balthier, step back," she warns, an unusual quiver in her voice.

He can't stop himself from sneaking a glance towards her. A thin dark line trickles from a cut on her right cheek as she shakes her head at him. Her ponytail cascades over her left shoulder, the ends of her white hair smeared with blood. She still presses Nivi's chest, but light no longer comes out of her fingertips. The girl remains motionless on the cavern floor.

Reynir wheezes, and Balthier turns his attention back to him. A small rectangular device rolls out of the Viera's left hand.

The pain is sharp at first, a thin jab just above Balthier's navel. The sting spreads quickly, flooding his stomach and sizzling down his legs and up his spine. He looks down at himself.

Well. At least it's only a dart.

He moves to pull it out, but his arm fails to obey him. His legs are next. He stumbles forward, falling on his hands and knees right next to his assailant; the Mithuna clanks on the floor, sliding away from him. The whole world moves in slow motion, as if he were underwater. From a thousand miles away, Fran and Krjn call out his name, the thumping of feet vibrating through the ground.

He looks up and centers his tunneled vision on Reynir's face, now much closer to him. He is smiling. "Fórn mín... vítni," the Viera mutters, his voice surprisingly clear; then his red eyes lose focus and he starts convulsing, foaming at the mouth. It's the last thing Balthier sees before the world goes black. He feels hands turning him on his back, hears Fran's distant voice crying "I told you to step back, you fool," and he's gone.

Chapter Text

The air smells of beeswax and herbs when his consciousness returns. It also smells warm, warm as the colors around him: the pale yellow of the straw in the thatched roof above, the hints of brown wood under peeling green paint, the red geometric patterns on the reed mats that hang on the walls. There’s another reed mat half-covering the entrance of the hut, in the manner of a roll-up curtain. The arid ground outside is tainted in the golden-orange hues of an Autumn afternoon.

Balthier tries to sit up, and the jolt of pain from his midriff reminds him of what led to him waking up in a Garif hut. He lets his upper body fall back down on the fluffy nanna hide with a soft groan, then looks down his torso. The puncture wound is undressed—a swollen red plaque has formed around the tiny dry crust, like he has been stung by a large venomous beast.

The Lente’s Tear has slid to his back. Its strap tightens at the front of his neck, and the pendant pokes him under the collar of his open shirt. Summoning his strength, he props himself up on one elbow and adjusts the amulet to its proper position against his breastbone. The worst of the pain comes and goes as he sits upright.

Fran is sitting cross-legged a little further from him, waxing her no longer stringed Artemis bow. Her white hair has been released from its usual restraints and falls freely down her back, washed clean of any signs of battle. She has yet to acknowledge Balthier’s return to the waking world, though he is sure she knew he was no longer asleep before he himself became aware of it.

“Salvageable?” He asks her in a raspy voice. Goodness, is he thirsty.

She does not startle—does not even look up from her task—but the corner of her lips turns up.

“You, or the bow?” Her retort makes him chuckle, sending a new wave of pain along his midline. “With due care and patience, both should keep me company for many years more.”

“An encouraging prognostic, that.” The sudden warmth on his cheeks could be a late side-effect of whatever that dart injected on him. “How long was I out?”

“A day and a half.” At last, she puts the bow aside and turns her full attention to him. “We cured you at the mines, but you remained unconscious. Jahara was our nearest safe harbor—their War-chief has not forgotten our aid in the Catoblepas hunt. Stop that,” she chides him as he absent-mindedly picks on the wound. He restrains himself. “The dart must have been infused with magick. Laumuverðir are known to use those.”

Balthier hums, nodding. The conversation has made him brave enough to move closer to her. “Correct me if I am wrong—” he shifts on his knees along the dusty earthen floor, not brave enough to stand up yet, “—but I thought your son was being hunted because laumuverðir were never supposed to leave the Wood.”

“Reynir—the one who attacked us—was the leader of the stealth rangers. You must have heard his dying words.”

He nods again, scavenging for Golmorean phonemes around his foggy mind. “It sounded like ‘form’. Fórn? Fórn mín. ‘My...’?”

“Sacrifice,” Fran completes. “Fórn mín, vitni að því. ‘My sacrifice, witness it.’“

The reason behind Reynir’s self-inflicted demise becomes harrowingly evident. “A suicide mission. By an elder, no less. They must be desperate,” Balthier muses aloud. His words elicit a grimace from Fran. “From the look on your face, there’s more to it.”

She sighs. “I relayed Mjrn’s message to Vídyr. He has finally entrusted us with the circumstances of his escape.” She diverts her gaze back to her bow, as if to distract herself from her own words. “Eruyt is dying.”

It takes Balthier a moment to register what she said.

“Wait. The village is dying?”

“‘The Green Word has fallen silent to all but I.’ Mjrn’s message was not a riddle or a threat by a possessed soul, but a mere description of facts.” She brings the bow closer to her face, inspecting her work, and chooses to apply some more wax to the carved figure along its upper limb. “The voice of the Wood has been fading to the ears of all the Viera of Golmore. When the deafness reached Vídyr, he sought Mjrn’s aid. She advised him to leave. Whatever is affecting the Wood, she wanted to ensure at least one male would get away from it.”

“A seed bank, to avoid the extinction of your kind.” Put this way, Mjrn’s decision sounds callous. It sounds also very Viera. The continued survival of her race would weight heavier on Mjrn’s heart than vicariously living her world-walking dreams through a younger relative. A Hume may have felt otherwise. “Did he go to her because, as the skila, she would be more sympathetic to his plight? Or is she just his favorite aunt?”

Fran shakes her head. “Neither. It was because she hears what others cannot.” She lets go of the bow and proceeds to clean beeswax residue from her fingers, continuing to avoid her partner’s eyes. “Since she was a small kit, long before I left the Wood, Mjrn has shown signs of being a powerful sorcerer. That is why I asked for her when we crossed Golmore with Vann and the others. Few Viera can craft Lente’s Tears; she was the youngest to ever learn that art.” She picks under a claw to remove a clump of wax. “She claims that, contrary to expectations, the Green Word continued to speak to her after she was returned. It warned her that the spirit of the Wood is dying, and that sacrifices must be made.”

“I imagine the elders did not take that well.”

“They say the Hume world has corrupted her mind.”

“But you and Vídyr believe her.”

She nods. “When our party went there, the Wood was not as I remembered it. The paths were much darker, the foes more vicious. I thought my memories had been tainted by time; that nostalgia had made me believe in a lighter, more vibrant past.” For a brief moment, her eyes meet Balthier’s, and he catches a glimpse of ghosts dancing on the back of her mind. She averts her gaze back to her hands, resting on her lap. “Vídyr says it has degraded sharply since our visit. Some see it as punishment for letting world-walkers and Humes cross Eruyt’s sacred gates.”

Balthier brushes back Fran’s hair, and she flinches when he touches the injury on her right cheek. After a day and a half, and who knows how many potions and spells, it has yet to scab; clear liquid oozes from the cut onto his fingertip. Reynir’s arrowheads must have been laced with noxious magick as well. He can only guess the damage it would have done, had it actually plunged into flesh.

“I owe my life to Nivi,” she tells him, her voice unwavering, in answer to the question he would dare not ask. “‘Twas happenstance. In her state, she could not have known Reynir had an arrow aimed at me. But she pulled at my hair with her last strength, so our foreheads could touch. Had I not relented, had I insisted on curing her, I...”

He places a finger under her chin and coaxes her to look at him again. Her ghosts are still there, clouding her garnet irises. Before the moment is lost, he reaches for her hands and places her right palm against the side of his neck, his own left hand seeking her pulse along that wrist. With his right hand, he cradles her jawline; she holds his right wrist, closing the circuit.

She does not protest when he pushes his forehead against hers, their noses bumping, lips kept respectfully apart.

Fran introduced him to the Viera forehead touch in the first year of their acquaintance. The kveðja (literally “greeting”, in Golmorean) is a chaste gesture, meant to calm a loved one who has been thrown off their balance. The idea is to offer them your own paced breathing and heartbeat as a compass, so they can point their heading back to tranquility. At the time Balthier was an insufferable brat, however, and he mistook her intentions for an invitation to something else. It took him weeks to restore his gait and months to restore her trust in him.

Right now, he wonders which of them is the compass and which is the lost sailboat.

He hopes the gesture still works when both hearts are adrift, because he does it as much for himself as for her, to smother the torrent of alternatives that now seem obvious in his mind. They could have bought the Moogles’ teleport stone. They could have stolen Three-Inches’ ship. They could have ambushed the headhunters in the Strahl. He breathes in and out and pushes his head against Fran’s until he stops thinking, rubbing her unwounded cheek with his thumb.

With the warmth of her breath on his upper lip, Balthier realizes this is the first time he initiates a forehead touch. He shoos this thought from his mind as well, focusing on the blood flow in Fran’s wrist pulsing rhythmically against the tips of his fingers.

When her breathing and heartbeat slow down, Fran brings both his hands to her face and kisses one, then the other. ”Your green ring is missing,” she points out, looking at his fingers.

“I must have lost it in the fight.” That is a lie. His green ring rests safe and sound in Fran’s cabin in the Strahl—on her bed, where her bow used to be.

“Is that so? A pity,” she says with a knowing smile. “And here I thought mine was not the only heart softened by war.”

Balthier rolls his eyes and grins. “For you my heart is always soft as a pillow. That, my dear, will be my downfall, and I will welcome it with open arms.”

She huffs out a laugh and looks down at his lips, closing in for a kiss. On most days he is the one who initiates those, but apparently this is a day of firsts.

The kiss is slow and soft, almost meditative. No eager hands, no forceful battles of tongues, no sucking each other’s souls through the mouth. There are times for those; this is not it. With the attack in Little Golmore, Nivi’s death, Vídyr’s life still in peril, and now the news of Eruyt, Fran is having a rough week. Hell, they are both having a rough year. Much like the kveðja, this kiss is for soothing hearts.

Fran runs the tip of her tongue over his lower lip then tugs at it gently, rubbing her delicate nose against his. The smell of herbs he noticed earlier comes from her recently-washed hair; he takes a detour away from her mouth, along her jaw, and inhales deeply against the curve of her neck, taking in her scent. She lets out a little giggle (the rarest, most exquisite of sounds) then pulls back, resting her hands on both sides of his face and kissing him on the lips again. He complies, losing himself in the distant taste of honey and fruit in her mouth. In this bubble of safety suspended in time and space, no one wants them dead; no one else exists but him and Fran.

It is understandable, then, that they don’t immediately break away at the sound of the rolled-up mat on the door being lifted open.

“Krjn er kominn aftur. Hún hefur fengið... oh, good, you’re awake,” Vídyr strolls inside the hut carrying a small bowl, unfazed by the sight of his mother kissing a Hume. Balthier expects at least the traditional “am I interrupting?”, but it never comes. “How do you fare?”

Bubble of safety burst, Balthier sighs and moves away. “I have seen better days, but…” With a hand on his stomach and an exaggerated grunt, he gets up from the floor, begrudgingly accepting Fran’s extended hand for support. “I’m fit for travel whenever you are.” Vídyr lifts an eyebrow, shooting him a carbon copy of his mother’s judgmental stare. He says nothing, however, so Balthier chooses to ignore it. “Fran was telling me about Eruyt. If there’s anything we can do, let us know.”

The boy scratches his nape. “I reckon I owe you an apology.”

“How so?”

“When we first met, Fran said that whatever she learned, you too would know. I feared what a Hume may do with the knowledge of Eruyt’s vulnerability, so I withheld the truth from her.” He looks down at the bowl in his hands, as if the wisdom he lacks could be found in its content. “I was a fool to believe a Hume could harm our kind any more than we already harmed ourselves.”

His apology raises a dozen other questions, but Balthier figures they will be answered in due time. That seems to be the standard Viera approach to life, in any case.

“No one can blame you for distrusting Humes, and I say so being a Hume myself. In your stead, I would have probably done the same.” With that put behind them, he gives the bowl in Vídyr’s hand a more careful look. Grilled nanna cheese cubes. Balthier’s stomach reminds him that his last meal was in Balfonheim, about 48 hours ago. “Those smell good.”

Vídyr stares at him as if he’s grown another head. “Do you think? ‘Tis true, then, that Humes have no sense of smell.”

“As I told you,” says Fran, making a face.

“I brought these for you, in fact. Fran said you fancied them,” the boy explains, handing him the bowl. It takes all of Balthier’s restraint not to gobble a handful of cheese cubes at once. “The taste is pleasant, but I found it not worth braving the stench.”

Balthier shrugs, stuffing himself and holding back a pornographic moan. More for him, then. “So,” he says after swallowing a mouthful almost too big for his throat. “Now what?”

“Now we regroup,” Vídyr answers, hands on hips. As he moves around the hut, Balthier notices he is pulling at the prosthetic leg. It’s very discreet, but it’s there. Nice to know he is not the only one whose fitness for travel is open to doubt. “The full moon is in eight days. We must return to Balfonheim and discuss our next steps with Yjrn… assuming no tragedy found them while we were gone.”

He picks up a half-filled backpack and sits down next to his mother to tidy it. The bag is Garif fashion, and looks much better than the one they left behind in Little Golmore. Perhaps he and Fran should get one of these, too.

“If the Moogles are to be trusted, the elders have shut Golmore off from the outside world,” Vídyr continues. “That means they cannot hire a new headhunter, and no other Viera will leave the jungle. Not before the rites, at least; if they are even to be held, in the current state of things. But we know not whether another hunter had access to those bills, and Reynir might not have been the only one who left. I doubt they would sacrifice two stealth rangers, but the wood-warders can be just as ruthless as us.”

“You were speaking of Krjn’s return when you came in,” Fran mentions. She is still side-eyeing the bowl of nanna cheese with a disgusted look. Balthier takes it as a request to remove his snack from her presence.

“Yes, she is back from her Sandsea expedition with War-Chief Supinelu. They collected enough Stones for us, plus a few more to thank the Garif for their hospitality…”

Vídyr’s voice fades in the back as Balthier walks out of the hut. Despite having two females in the group, they have been housed in the men’s camp, like last time. Garif women live with the children in separate, heavily guarded camps; like Viera of all genders, they are never to set foot outside. Rumor has it no one who is not a Garif has ever seen a Garif female.

He wonders what would happen if one of them tried to leave. Rather, he wonders what happened to the ones that did. He cannot conceive that, in the thousands of years of their civilization, not a single Garif woman would have grown tired of their boundaries and felt the call of the world. Perhaps for them, like for the laumuverðir, daring to dream of such was grounds for capital punishment.

He sets his ruminations aside with the now empty bowl next to some other earthenware. The villagers are scattered about, living their lives and politely ignoring their guests.

It‘s easy to find Krjn. She stands alone and fully armored by a low fence overlooking the drier portions of the Ozmone plains, the ubiquitous cigarette dangling from her lips.

“The world has been quite intensely these days,” he says aloud, announcing his approach.

She nods, taking the cigarette out of her mouth. “Indeed. This was my last.” She takes a long drag, the embers burning the tobacco stick almost to its filtered hilt, then slowly lets out the smoke through her nose. Her gaze and thoughts are lost on the horizon as she watches the sun come down behind the hills. Balthier stands by her side, enjoying the silent camaraderie.

When she finishes her smoke, she crushes the cigarette stub under her heel and sticks her hand in a pocket of her skirt. Gesturing for him to extend a hand, she deposits the content of her pocket on his opened palm: a pair of Teleport Stones.

“Am I to be Stonekeeper now?” He questions her, lifting an eyebrow.

“I shall not return with your lot to Balfonheim. My life awaits in Rabanastre. My sister and the Clan are there,” Krjn explains. Noticing the crystal pendant adorning his torso, she points at it with her chin. “Did she make you wear it?”

Balthier looks down at the Lente’s Tear. “It was a mutual decision,” he shrugs. Technically, it’s not a lie. “If she refuses to keep her head safe, someone else must.”

Krjn chuckles and nods, then adjusts the sword on her back and steps away with a sigh. “I shall take my leave. Send my regards to the other two.”

“Godspeed. May you reach Giza in the Dry.”

She has not gone far before turning around and calling him with a ‘hey’. He lifts his chin at her, indicating that he is listening. “Before you leave for Golmore, send me a word at the Clan.”

“Will you be joining us?”

She nods. “Some loose ends still require tying,” she tells him simply, then turns her back and walks away.

Viera and their riddles, Balthier rolls his eyes. He watches Krjn greet the sentinels at the bridge and cross over the Sogoht River, disappearing into the plains. Behind him, the sunset casts a golden glow over the world.

Chapter Text

They arrive in Balfonheim under a downpour. It catches them by surprise—one moment they are in the dry savannah-type weather of Jahara, the next a bucket of water is turned on their heads as the Gate Crystal rematerializes them. A bottomless bucket of ice-cold water.

The city gates are deserted, as one would expect. Dyce, Gurdy and the Moogle from the Cartographer’s Guild are nowhere to be found; even the chocobos have hid in their stables. Which is a good thing, because rain, they find out, also renders Vanish useless. The spell continues in effect, but it does not repel the droplets, nor does it make its target more permeable. And so Balthier and Fran find themselves flanking a highly-detailed, Vídyr-shaped water sculpture. Noticing their stares, the boy looks down at his arms, his hands sketched in the air by the raindrops. He looks like the ghost of a drowned man.

“Should we do something about that?” Balthier half-shouts over the water torrent, but Vídyr shrugs and shakes his head. The last time they tried to hide him from view ended in three deaths and had no bright sides. If he’s seen, he’s seen; if he must fight, so be it.

Wet to the bones, they walk to Little Golmore. The door is guarded by Zesha, the short-haired twin, hunched under the narrow marquee. A rainbow of emotions crosses her face when she sees the trio approaching. She first turns her inquisitive glance at Vídyr’s drenched spectre; then she looks behind them, realizing the group is incomplete.

It is Fran who takes the lead. “Fetch Yjrn. We bring bad news,” she orders. Sobered, the girl nods and lets them in, rushing to find the house owner.

Little Golmore looks darker and emptier. The Viera congregation has been reduced, from dozens of expatriates to only a handful. They all look at Fran and Vídyr, who has pinched himself visible, as they stand in the middle of the room. Balthier leans against the closed front door in the penumbra, arms crossed. The leading man knows when it’s time to remove himself from a scene and simply watch it unfold.

“Well, this is unexpected,” Yjrn exclaims upon seeing them. “Ajna, go get them towels, they must—”

She is cut off by Fran, who says a sentence in Golmorean that turns the whole room into stone.

Balthier doesn’t understand what she said, but the first word was “Nivi”. He can deduce the rest. She has not said “deyja”, the only Golmorean word for “death” Balthier knows, or any of its inflections. Whatever euphemism she employed was very clear, however, for the veil of mourning immediately befalls them. The twins are hit the hardest. Nivi was their world-walking companion, and the closest in age to them. They clutch at each other, tears quickly filling their garnet eyes.

Fran’s speech is not very long. They were gone for a little over two days, after all, and the events of those two days could be summarized as “our plans have failed spectacularly”. But her noble tone entrances the room, and Balthier can imagine the tale she weaves of Three-Inches’ betrayal and Vídyr’s ingenuity, Reynir’s ruthlessness and Nivi’s bravery. He doubts she has mentioned their foolishness in trusting a pirate too soon, or the many ways in which they could have prevented the girl’s death.

His ego would normally protest, but Balthier is glad that nobody seems to have noticed his presence. Golmorean was never meant for his Hume ears. It is a forbidden privilege to hear it being uttered so freely, so eloquently. Plus, he has never listened to Fran speaking her mother tongue for so long, and it fills him with equal measures of reverence and jealousy. She may have discarded Wood and village, and sky piracy may be her new abode, but one fact cannot be changed: this is the language of her home. This is how she first learned to express joy and pain, fear and love. It’s a part of her that he will never be truly privy to, no matter how hard he tries to absorb her culture.

(But perhaps he has not been trying hard enough, Balthier admits. The unfamiliar pang of shame hits his chest. He is already a good partner, but there may be room for improvement still. He files the thought for another time.)

After a brief pause, Fran gives the floor to Vídyr.

“Eruyt er að deyja,” he tells them, no euphemism at all.

A murmur breaks as the wave of shock runs over the circle of Viera. Unlike his mother, Vídyr has no command of the room, and the questions come barreling down at him. The boy can only resume talking after Yjrn orders them all to be quiet. (Yjrn, the only one who did not appear surprised by the news of Eruyt. Balthier takes a mental note of this.)

Vídyr, too, speaks to them in Golmorean. His accent is noticeably different from Fran’s, raspier, more hissed. Whatever he is saying, he sounds much older and wiser than when he speaks Galtean. In his mother tongue, he is surer of his words.

When he stops talking, the room falls into silence as the gravity of the situation sinks in.

“I must… guard the door,” Zesha mumbles between sniffles, breaking the spell. They are all set in motion again—Rhen offers to take Zesha’s place at the door, and the others scatter around the house. Eventually one of them returns with a mop, and another with towels for Vídyr and Fran. (None for Balthier. He tries not to take it personally.)

As the dwellers’ attentions are directed elsewhere, he approaches Fran. She stands by the dinner table, wrapping the towel around her ponytail and giving it a twist. The action seems to take all her remaining strength. Her hands move slowly, knuckles turning white from the strain of tightening the towel. She nods off while she does it, then bats her eyelids and frowns. Balthier has not seen her have a decent night of sleep since… well, if he’s being honest, since they got tangled in Ashe’s war, but it has worsened after Monid’s attack.

“Stay with me tonight,” he tells her in a soft, quiet tone. She side-eyes him through her exhaustion and lifts an eyebrow. “Don’t give me that look. I just want to ensure you rest properly.”

“As if I could,” she sighs, loosening the towel and rubbing her neck with it. “They might attack us again. I must watch over Vídyr, in case—”

“Fran.” He lays his hands on her waist and seeks her eyes with his. “Stop trying to do this on your own.”

She lets out another deep sigh, looking down at the towel to escape from his piercing gaze. “Mjrn told him to seek me. She entrusted me with his safety.”

That is the issue: not that Vídyr is her offspring, for she is about as close to him as she is to Yjrn or any other Viera. But her sisters, despite their estrangement, still hold Fran’s heart hostage.

“Mjrn doesn’t know about Little Golmore.” Balthier reminds her, and that is his trump card. “You are the only one she knew she could trust outside of Eruyt. But you are not the last Viera of Ivalice. Now you have this place—a community of your people. Protecting Vídyr is in their interest as much as yours.” Even more in their interest than Fran’s, considering they see Vídyr as the potential seeder for the first Viera clan out of the Wood, but he leaves that part unsaid.

While she reflects on his words, Vídyr and Yjrn approach them.

“Your tenants. Can they all wield weapons?” Balthier asks her.

Yjrn nods. “The former wood-warders are proficient in combat, and the others can look after themselves. If push comes to shove, we can teach them defense magicks.” Her comprehensive response shows that she has already thought this through. “If Eruyt believes their vagrant weed has been uprooted, they will turn their attention to their inner woes and leave the world-walkers alone. Otherwise, they may still try to forestall a Viera child being born in the Hume world.” She shares a look with Vídyr, momentarily holding a wordless dialogue with him.

“It all depends on what they will make of Reynir's silence,” the boy concludes.

“Keep the sentry at the door,” Balthier recommends. “Some lookouts in the back as well.”

Yjrn nods again. “The neighbors will aid us with surveillance. They were quite vexed with the idea of Rabanastran headhunters crossing through their yards.” Then, she turns to Vídyr with a teacherly tone. “Keep two warriors by your side at all times. Fran, Balthier, you may take the morning shift if you wish, but for now, all three of you should rest.”

As she takes her leave, Vídyr looks down at his feet, rubbing his hands on the wet sleeves over his forearms.

“It must feel strange,” Balthier tells him, “requiring guards after a lifetime of guarding others.”

The boy shrugs, offering them a shy smile. “I cannot say I am happy with my helplessness, but I must heed my seniors' advice.”

“You are not helpless,” Fran breaks her silence at last. “You were strong enough to deter Monid's attack, and a missing limb will not hinder your spell work.”

It may be motherly instincts, or just her recent experience coaching younglings in times of war, but her brief pep talk does infuse renewed energy into her son. He lifts his head and fills up his chest, then gives her a martial nod. “I will do my best,” he affirms, leaving to the kitchen.

Alone at last, Balthier squeezes Fran’s side. “Yjrn is right about resting. How about this: I will run you a warm bath, and while you soak, I will find us s-s—” He meant to say “find us some food”, but his words are cut by a loud sneeze.

“I daresay you need that bath more than I,” Fran says, shoving her damp towel at him, and the little laugh in her voice is a balsam to Balthier’s ears.

***

The next six days are tense. Everyone is on edge—even the neighbors, who knock on Yjrn’s door once a day to exchange information on anything that has happened on the street and the backyards. Crisis is indeed the mother of opportunity: their fear and anger after the invasion has united them more than the several months of peace since the Viera first established their community.

As hinted by Yjrn, her tenants are excellent warriors. They take their time honing their skills and also teaching the former salve-makers a few extra tricks. The training helps relieve the tension, though they still jump at the first noise, especially at night.

But none has been more uneasy than Vídyr. It’s not just nerves; his prosthesis is causing issues as well. He’d had no time to adjust to it before being thrown into fights and having to run for his life, and it shows. Eventually it bothers him so much that he opts to go without it, resorting to his cane and grumpily accepting help from his ever-present guards.

Never being left alone annoys him to no end. Balthier cannot imagine himself in the boy’s place, having two armed women by the door whenever he goes to the bathroom. The closest he ever comes to solitude is on the fifth day, when Balthier and Fran are on guard duty and Yjrn asks to have a word with him in private. For about ten minutes, instead of having to endure the company of two people, he only has to endure one. His humor does not improve after that, though it changes from cranky to solemn.

It’s their last day in Balfonheim before Balthier and Fran leave to Golmore Jungle. Their mission, as outlined by Fran: 1) find Mjrn, 2) discover whatever is happening to the Wood and whatever they can do about it, and finally 3) either put some sense into Jote’s head about leaving the Ivalice Viera alone, or just convince her that Vídyr perished before he could unravel the tenets of Viera society, or something of that line.

They have already contacted Krjn, who agreed to meet them in Jahara the day before the full moon. They will cross the Ozmone Plain by chocobo and set camp at the outskirts of the jungle until the full moon is high on the sky. By that time, if the elders have decided to hold the rites despite everything, the men will have entered the village, and the jungle will be unguarded. It’s their best chance at entering the area. Invading Eruyt proper when everyone is inside will be a whole different business, but Fran is confident that Mjrn will sense her presence once she enters the forest and will go towards them.

“This map is outdated,” Vídyr says at last, after spending their whole meeting in absolute silence.

The three of them are sitting around the dinner table, a large, ancient map of Golmore Jungle unfolded over it with pins marking the locations of the Village, the entrances via Ozmone, and the known magickal seals along the way. Balthier and Fran have been trying to draw out something that may resemble a strategy, but Vídyr has been sulky and unusually pensive since the day before. When he finally decides to cooperate, it throws away all the work Balthier had done so far.

“You could have said that twenty minutes ago,” he grumbles, crushing into a ball the piece of paper where he was listing the steps of their plan. (It contained three bullet points, so it wasn’t that much of a loss, but still.)

“I’m sorry. I just doubt you will be able to navigate the Wood on your own.”

“We have crossed the Wood as recently as six months ago. From Ozmone to Paramina, and then again into the Feywood. The latter of which we also crossed and survived, something you must acknowledge is no small feat,” Balthier argues.

“Yes, but the paths have changed since then. Some of the walkways have become structurally unsound as of late. And the stealth-rangers have closed some of the known routes and opened secret ones, to confound any trespassers. You can thank the Hume war for that,” Vídyr counters, side-eyeing Fran.

She slides a pencil and a piece of paper over the map towards him. “Can you draw us a map, then? Whatever you remember will be useful.”

He does not pick up the items. “They must have changed the paths further since I left.” Straightening his back on the chair, Vídyr crosses his arms, looking resolute. “If I can manage to make my leg stop hurting me until tomorrow, I shall go with you. I’m confident I can find any new pathways they have cut in the Wood, even if I myself have not travelled through them. I could even create a new path with your aid, as a last resort.”

Balthier and Fran share a look.

“Are you out of your mind?” Balthier asks him. “The last time you were there, you still had all your fingers and two whole legs, and look how well that turned out. What exactly do you expect to accomplish by going back?”

“I want to be useful to your mission,” he explains.

“That is because yesterday he learned his seed has taken, and so he believes his Ivalice mission is fulfilled.”

The three of them turn to the kitchen. Yjrn stands by the door, a steaming tea mug in her hands, her right eyebrow raised into the stratosphere.

“Was it not supposed to be a secret?” Vídyr complains, looking betrayed.

“The women are scrunching their noses. ‘Tis a matter of time now.” She blows at the mug and takes a sip.

Balthier looks at Vídyr, then at Yjrn, then a Vídyr again. His only consolation is that Fran (who, at Yjrn’s prompt, did scrunch her nose and sniffed the air) seems about as confused as him.

“But the rites are only two nights from now,” Fran argues. She appears to have connected some dots Balthier has yet to visualize. His consolation dwindles by the minute. “When have you…”

Vídyr lets out a sigh. “That day at the quayside, I heard Balthier question you about the timing of the rites,” he starts. “Even in Eruyt, our ancestors have forsaken the sacred calendars in desperate times, such as in famines or plagues, to keep the village alive. And I left Golmore to ensure our kind would survive.” With the help of his cane and the table, he gets up from his chair and walks towards the kitchen door, still directing his words at his mother. “I can no longer hear the Green Word to guide my choices, so I had to discuss it with an elder. I knew you would oppose, and I was unsure of Krjn's loyalties. Thus I turned to the one who saved me—the one leader we have outside of Eruyt.”

Yjrn scowls behind her tea. “You know I despise the title.”

“You own this place, and you see to all that dwell within its walls. ‘Tis your role, unwillingly as you may take it,” Vídyr berates her, rolling his eyes. He continues. “I thought: any world-walker who were to bear a child would seek Yjrn's aid, if only for the birth. Little Golmore is the one place in Ivalice where a Viera mother and her newborn would feel safe. Sooner or later, Yjrn would know. So, when we came back from lunch at the Whitecap, I made it known to her that I intended to rush the rites, and she agreed it was wise.”

Oh.

“So you—” Balthier points between Vídyr and Yjrn, cleaning his throat, “—rushed the rites,” he concludes.

“The night before the attack,” Fran realizes. After their lunch in town, Yjrn had taken Fran’s place at Vídyr's bedside for a change. Fran and Balthier had not enjoyed the luxury of a shared bed in a while, so Yjrn’s offer was welcomed. They would never have noticed anything out of place in the room above them. And even if any unusual sound had been produced in Vídyr's room, the other Viera would have blamed it on the room below—on his mother and her unnatural taste for Humes.

That forehead touch right after Monid's attack makes perfect sense now. Yjrn was concerned about the father of her potential child; Vídyr was worried the others may question their sudden closeness.

“Are you sure?” Balthier asks, as if the potential father were him. Yjrn nods and sips her tea. Standing by her side, Vídyr also nods with enthusiasm, proud of his accomplishment. “I mean, it’s been only a little over a week. How—”

“My senior carrying my grandchild,” Fran cuts him off. Balthier can’t say for sure if the tone in her voice is malice or harmless humor. “Unusual, but then, this whole situation is.”

“Spare me your scorn,” Yjrn retorts, and again he can’t tell if she’s offended or just playing along. “But I am not past the age, and it meant one less ear in the known. Plus, I have birthed three strong kits to the Wood, all of which survived to adulthood. I was not expecting to do it one more time, not in Ivalice of all places, but here we are.”

Balthier clicks his tongue. If Fran thinks this is unusual, for him it’s downright absurd. Not that relationships with large age gaps are unheard of in Hume society, but they are pretty much universally frowned upon. Then again, if he puts his ickiness aside for a moment, Vídyr is not a “boy”, as he has been calling him. The man is over fifty; he could very well have already fathered children back in Eruyt. This might not be Fran’s first grandchild.

Fran’s grandchild. Does that make him a step-grandfather? Good heavens, this is insane.

“Very well,” he cleans his throat again. “Congratulations, I suppose, but we shall save the cigars for when this situation with Eruyt is under control.”

“So now we have not one, but three lives that need safeguarding,” Fran says, standing up and turning to Vídyr. “More reason for you to stay.”

“I’m not so certain of that,” he mumbles, taciturn. “Am I not a liability? I’m impaired. I require guards. I’m hogging up their resources, instead of adding to them.”

“A liability that kills a headhunter and immobilizes another?” Yjrn scoffs. “Fran is right. I trust my abilities with the bow, but Lesha and Zesha still mourn Nivi, and it will hinder them in a battle. The others, and the ones who left... I cannot count on them. Some question the need for this place to exist—be it for trying to emulate Eruyt, or for not trying hard enough.” She lays a hand on his shoulder. “Any extra hand will be welcome in an attack."

“Even one with fingers missing?” He lifts up his left hand, covered in an adapted glove with the pinky and ring fingers cut off.

“Even then. And the cobblestones of Balfonheim will be firmer under you than the vine paths of Golmore.”

“Þú ert hliðvörður Skógarins. Þetta er Skógurinn þinn núna,” Fran tells her son. At last, her words dispel his remaining doubts; he straightens his back and shares a determined look with Yjrn.

At the table, Balthier clears his throat, reminding them that he has been left out of their conversation.

The women hold back chuckles, but Vídyr smiles at him in understanding. “She said I must defend my new home.”

Chapter Text

Their journey to Golmore Jungle, as is prone to happen to them, starts badly.

“You’re late,” a fully-armored Krjn greets them by the Jahara Gate Crystal.

“What do you mean, ‘late’?” Balthier argues, adjusting the knapsack on his shoulder. “‘Noon of the day before the full moon’, is what my message said. The sun is right above us. We are precisely on schedule.”

“You forgot to check the Garif’s schedule,” she retorts, pointing to the nearest sentinel with her chin.

“I’m afraid we are out of Chocobos, my friend,” the guard tells him. “You see, this time of the year…”

“The Fall Markets,” Fran finishes his reasoning, nodding. She turns to Balthier. “The men were speaking of those when we were here last week. The Garif villages in the region all gather once a year, at the end of fall, to trade goods and knowledge. I did not know their meetings are also held during the full moon, though it comes with no surprise. They must have taken all the mounts.”

Balthier clicks his tongue. “Well, what now? It will take us ages to travel by foot. By the time we reach Eruyt, the villagers will be kissing the laumuverðir goodbye, and they’ll kill us before we say ‘hello’.”

“There may be another option,” the Garif guard hesitates. “I hear the Moogle girl has been training two new mounts. Perhaps you could reach an agreement?”

“That will be good enough,” Balthier shrugs. “For a moment you made me believe our plans were ruined, Krjn.”

“Save your victory fanfare for later,” she grumbles.

“If your issue is with sharing, Fran and I can take the sturdier of the two, provided you carry this god-forsaken…” He falls silent as they reach the fence around the stables. The mounts are inside the enclosed area on the back of the pen. Gurdy struggles to pull them out by the reins, her tiny wings flapping frantically with the effort.

Reaching into the knapsack on Balthier’s back, Fran pulls out a head of Ghysal greens about the size of a closed fist. He has no idea when or how she stuffed it there. He’d filled the bag to the brim before they left Little Golmore. Trust Fran to always find a way to keep her disgusting snacks at hand.

A greyish-blue beak sneaks out of the stable door, sniffing the air. Gurdy gives the reins another encouraging pull, and the two animals come out of hiding at last, pushing at each other and jogging towards Fran’s extended hand.

“What’s with the new palette?” Balthier asks Gurdy.

“What palette, kupo? They are yellow.”

Rentable Chocobos are always yellow; these are not. The first to leave the stable is light brown, with greenish-blue feathers at the tip of its wings and tail. It reaches the Ghysal greens first, snatching it in one fell swoop of its beak. The other—larger, more aggressive and blood-orange at best—does not take that well, and head-butts its peer’s throat, making it cough the snack out. The two start fighting for the vegetable, shredding it to pieces amidst ear-piercing shrieks.

“I’ll take the brown one,” Krjn decides, leaving no room for discussion.

Getting her on the brown Chocobo’s back is easier than they thought. After having eaten most of the Ghysal greens, the beast is rather pacified, and even lets Balthier fasten the knapsack to its neck.

“Be careful with that bag,” he tells Krjn, “it contains all Fran and I own at this point.”

“I shall guard it with my life,” she retorts, her eyeroll implying the opposite.

Off to the side, Fran does not have the same ease with the other Chocobo. She holds the reins tight and presses her knees against its sides, but it keeps bucking, trying to get her off its back. Traveling on it as a pair through the Plains  will be quite the experience, Balthier foresees.

“What do we owe you?” He asks Gurdy.

“Fifty each.”

“That’s daylight robbery! Only last week I could have a pair for sixty. Not to mention these two are blatantly untamed beasts. If you expect us to test-drive your husbandry experiments, the least you can do is waive the fee.”

“Them’s the rules of supply and demand, kupo-po! If you’re not paying, get off my mounts,” Gurdy exclaims, her little hands closed into fists.

“We offer eighty for the pair,” Fran interferes. “But he is right—these are not regular working animals. This will impair our journey. We are entitled to some sort of compensation.”

The Moogle considers it for a moment, staring at the red bird. It has stopped fighting Fran’s control, but they all know it’s only biding its time. “Fine,” she concedes with a huff. “I’ll take your eighty gil, and if the two make it back in one piece, you can have your money back. Consider it a deposit, kupo.”

Balthier rolls his eyes as he pays Gurdy’s fee. “We are doing you a favor, taking these demons out of your hands.”

“Nonsense, they are good boys,” the Moogle says nonchalantly, checking the banknotes against the sunlight. As if on cue, Fran’s beast attempts a lunge towards Krjn’s.

“Would you rather I take charge?” Balthier offers. Back in his Akademy days, he’d almost made it into the Cavalry. He deems himself a decent Chocobo rider, even though red ones are a novelty to him.

Fran shifts back to open space for him at the front. The bird sees it as an opportunity to regain its freedom and tries to buck, but she grabs at its sides with her claws and manages to stay put. With the aid of the Garif sentinel (but none from Gurdy, who has already vanished into the stables with their money), Balthier mounts ahead of Fran and takes the reins from her. The beast caws and grunts, protesting against the additional weight.

“I have a bad feeling about this,” he mumbles under his breath, spurring the animal into a trot.

The trio crosses the expanse of Haulo Green without much trouble, passing unnoticed by a flock of wild Chocobos sleeping near the banks of the Sogoht river. Other common wildlife specimen of the Plains, such as Vipers and Mesmenirs, do not bother them either. However, Balthier’s mount appears to have some personal beef with Krjn’s, who it keeps trying to head-butt.

“Keep your beast under control,” Krjn barks by the fourth time she is forced to pull her own Chocobo away from its bully.

“This is the most ‘under control’ it will stay,” Balthier groans, holding the reins tight. “Gurdy should better not be bluffing. Those eighty gil are the only reason I’ve avoided violence so far.”

“Blame not the beast,” Fran says, even though her voice betrays her discomfort. “It belongs in the wild, and longs to be free. It hates this situation as much as us.”

“Perhaps I should leave the reins to you then, Miss Wildlife Advocate,” he mutters under his breath. “How long have we been riding? I’m afraid my backside has gone numb.”

Trotting a safe distance ahead, Krjn turns back to answer him. “If we keep the pace, we shall reach the Field of Light Winds before sunset. It’s a good place to set camp.”

The red Chocobo trashes against the reins again, and Fran tightens her arms around Balthier’s torso. “Let us hope our mounts agree,” he grunts.

🙛 🙙

The Field of Light Winds is bathed in orange-golden light, its rocky outcrops drawing exquisite shadows on the grass plains. If they were to climb one of those small hills, the fringe of Golmore Jungle would be seen to the east, just beyond the short Sunlit Path passage. It is indeed a good place to set camp. The wild beasts are too abundant for Balthier’s tastes, but they are not hard to defeat. Plus, game meat will make for a heartier meal than the dried pemmican morsels in his bag.

That is what he thinks, at least, until they reach about half-way through the field.

“We have company,” Balthier mumbles to Fran as a flock of black Chocobos starts to follow them.

“Carry on,” she mumbles back. “They will not harm us as long as we remain mounted.”

“I’m not that worried about them,” he tells her between gritted teeth, fighting for control of their avian mount. Seeing itself surrounded by its peers, the animal has reverted to the same aggressive behavior it displayed back at the stable in Jahara.

As Fran predicted, the wild black flock shows no interest in them as they pass them by.  They do, however, show a pointed interest in Krjn’s Chocobo, trotting further ahead—much like their own beast, who bucks and trashes against the taut reins.

As he fights against the crimson steed, a bitter suspicion dawns on Balthier. Perhaps their mount is not interested in Krjn’s, but in her cargo. After all, Fran has tampered with it. And considering their long experience of self-imposed pilgrimage through deserts hot and cold, he doubts his partner would add only one piece of her stupid vegetable treat to their baggage.

“Fran?” He whispers with dread. “How much of our bag is Ghysal greens?”

Her guilty silence, in that brief second between his question and all hell breaking loose, is the answer Balthier expected and foolishly hoped against.

The next few moments are a blur of grass and avian shrieking, as the red Chocobo bucks him and Fran off its back and charges at Krjn.  The wild Chocobos have the same idea, surrounding their friend. There is no time to worry about her, for now that he and Fran have dismounted, the local beasts treat them as fair game. He has barely the time to roll back on his feet before a Viper lunges at him, quickly dispatched by the hilt of the Mithuna smashing its nose. Not far from him, Fran catches the attention of a Mesmenir and throws attack spells at it.

One shot at a second Viper gets rid of it, and the noise also helps disperse the Chocobo horde enough for them to make sense of the scene ahead. Krjn is no longer on the back of the brown Chocobo, who is engaged in a vicious duel with its red counterpart within the circle of black birds. At last, the brown one flees the group and gallops back to Jahara, battered and bleeding.

Their knapsack remains behind, a lump discarded on the ground amidst the kerfuffle. Sword and shield in hand, Krjn fights off the Chocobos that swarm around her—protecting the bag, true to her word.

“Fran!” Balthier calls, finishing yet another Viper  with an annoyed stomp. “Stun arrows?”

“Bag,” she answers curtly, casting area spells at the Chocobos to level the field for their friend. Even then, the red beast alone is enough of a threat. Balthier has the Mithuna at the ready, pointing at the group, but the risk of friendly fire is high.

Krjn connects a few sword hits to the Red Menace’s body, but it regens too fast for her strikes to keep it back. Finally, the animal slams the side of its skull against the Viera, knocking her off her feet. In a last-minute frenzy, Fran warps away the remaining Chocobos before they could trample Krjn, but the red one escapes the range of her spell. It snatches the sad remains of their luggage and runs away with it, the bag’s entrails spilling out of the ripped canvas and scattering all over the grassy plains.

To hell with the deposit, Balthier thinks, going after the beast as it sprints to the outcrops around the entrance to the Sunlit Path. They won’t ever get their money back; it wouldn’t pay for the bag and its contents, in any case. Having reached the limit of his patience, he shoots at his feathered nemesis from a distance. It hits the animal’s flank; it caws and drops the ripped bag, turning to Balthier and running towards him at full throttle.

Before he could regret his aim, something—someone—jumps down from the top of the rocks onto the red Chocobo’s back. The enraged beast tries as it may to shake them off, but the attacker grabs at it like a slender-limbed tick. Lifted up high, the polished blade of a dagger glints under the late afternoon sun and descends into the animal’s neck.

The grotesque scene lasts about a minute. At the end of it, their enemy lies dead beside its executioner on a bloodied glade.

Balthier correctly guesses that the newcomer is a Viera, even though their ears are folded down under a Hybrid Gator’s skull. The large, rustic mask covers all of their face and part of their chest. Their clothes are ragged and dirty, rope belts carrying all sorts of clutter: braided wool strands, large Wu feathers, a Destrier mane that appears to have been used as a weapon at some point. They are covered in Chocobo blood and do not seem to mind. The wildlife knows better than to approach them now.

Aiding a wounded Krjn, Fran walks to Balthier’s side and scrunches her nose at their savior. The stranger takes off the mask; behind it, unsullied by the blood, a familiar face stares at them in awe.

“Mjrn?!” Fran exclaims.

Well, how convenient, Balthier thinks as his partner transfers Krjn’s weight to his shoulder.

Though they both smile, the sisters do not run into each other’s arms. It could be the blood, but it could also be the unexpectedness of the situation. At least Mjrn doesn’t appear to be under Occurian possession this time.

Fran approaches her with cautious steps. “What are you doing here in the Plains?”

“I could ask you the same question.” Mjrn steps closer as well, eyeing Balthier and Krjn. She wipes the dagger blade on the back of her skirt—her backside is not as drenched in blood as her front—and places it back on its sheath, tied to one of the rope belts. “I must assume Vídyr found you, then. Is he safe?”

“For now, yes,” Fran answers simply. They have yet to touch. She extends a hesitant hand towards her sister’s arm, but gives up mid-movement. “What happened to you? You look…”

Mad as a March hare, Balthier completes inside his mind. Fran never finishes her sentence, but she must be thinking the same. Even putting the Chocobo guts aside, the girl looks frazzled. Her short white bob is tousled and matted; she has bags under her eyes, and they appear to have seen too much. Her arms and abdomen carry the typical parallel scab lines from an attack by a clawed creature. Her stiletto heels were shattered and have been fixed with two uneven pieces of bone; one of the claws on her left foot is broken at the quick.

“I know,” Mjrn rolls her eyes. Letting out a deep sigh, she gestures to the red Chocobo’s carcass. “My tale is rather long, I’m afraid, but I shall share it with you over dinner if you’ll aid me in building a fire.”

🙛 🙙

After curing Krjn’s injuries (“I’ve had worse,” she insists) and collecting what could be salvaged of their belongings (sadly, the knapsack is too far gone), Balthier and Fran set out to gather some wood. When they come back, Mjrn is carving the plucked Chocobo with striking dexterity, skewering the meatier cuts on Destrier manes. With Krjn’s help, they light a fire and set up the branches in a layout that will support the meat. Fran even manages to save an armful of Ghysal greens to add to the roast.

They talk little. After a brief introduction—Krjn had left the Wood before Mjrn was born, so they only knew of each other from hearsay—and sharing campfire recipes, the group falls into silence, until Mjrn feels confident enough to break it.

“Jote ordered my exile,” she speaks at last, pushing back into the fire a branch that threatens to escape. “The elders stripped me of armor and weapons, blindfolded me and led me far into the Feywood, where I was left alone to fend for myself.”

“That sounds more like a death sentence than an exile,” says Balthier. “The Feywood is a maze of violence, even for a fully-armed party.”

“I was a fool to believe Jote could still be reasoned with.” Fran shakes her ponytail, staring into the fire. “First Vídyr, now this. If she can commit such ills against her own blood, nothing I say will ever make her waver.”

“Oh, blame her not. She had little choice,” Mjrn says casually, skewering heads of Ghysal greens on a Destrier mane. “The wood-dwellers deem her too lenient with her kin. First you left the Wood, then brought Humes to its heart. I ran away, and yet was allowed back. And the worst offence of all, your male child escaped into the world with my aid. She must have squandered the last of her authority to commute my sentence.” Noticing the group is missing key information, she adds with a mentally-unstable chuckle: “Rael and Hala wanted me thrown in the Undergrowth.”

“What?!” Fran stares at her sister with the closest Balthier has ever seen to an expression of horror in her face.

“That is archaic,” Krjn huffs, outraged.

“From their reaction, I must assume this ‘Undergrowth’ is a fate worse than the Feywood.”

“For Viera, it is,” Mjrn shrugs, checking on a meat skewer. “All that dies in the Wood falls to the base of the trees, its life force fed to the forest floor. So it is for us as well. When a Viera lets out her last breath, we wrap her remains in Malboro vines and lower them down to the Undergrowth.” After careful consideration, she decides the meat is not yet cooked to her liking and returns the skewer to the fire. “In times long past, Viera who violated the rules of the Wood were thrown there alive. It is said their cries would echo through the forest for days on end, begging for release from their suffering, until they succumbed to starvation or madness.”

“The Mist must be raw and overpowering near the roots of the Wood. It will seep into your veins and drive you insane,” Fran adds, her eyes glazing over, then turns to Balthier. “You saw me under the spell of the Sun-Cryst. I imagine the Undergrowth to be like that, only inescapable.”

“I doubt it is the Mist that does one in. I think it is the Green Word,” Krjn argues. “The further from the canopy, the harsher it speaks. At the base, where the trees come forth, it must roar in ear-splitting waves.” She crouches closer to the fire. “But no one ever climbed back to say, so it shall remain one of the mysteries of the Wood. I believe the wings are done.”

The four of them turn their attention to the Chocobo wings. They do look done. It is probably best not to leave Chocobo wings for too long in the fire. The layer of meat over the bone is quite thin, and there is greater risk that the skin will get charred where it stretches over the joints. Yes, it is better to take them out, they all decide. Mjrn offers to cut them into portions with her dagger, to which they also agree; Fran exchanges her share for Balthier's portion of the vegetables.

They eat, the sound of their munching cut only by the whisper of the wind and the distant hoot of a Zu.

“So, Mjrn,” Balthier breaks the haunting silence. “You were saying you were stripped of armor and weapons. Did you find that dagger in a treasure chest, or...?”

“Hm? Oh.” She looks down at the small weapon, confused, then slaps her forehead. “That reminds me, thank you—Fran, at least I bring one morsel of good news. With Reynir gone, Fyr has taken his place. He is now the leader of the laumuverðir.”

Fran looks up from the stake of Ghysal greens she has just pulled from the fire. She raises an eyebrow. “I fail to see how that is good. The Fyr of my memories had blind faith in the laws of the Wood. An oak would sway before he did.” 

“He softened into his namesake after you left,” Mjrn justifies between mouthfuls. “And ever since Vídyr's betrayal, he has been none other than a rubber tree.”

Balthier lifts a hand. “You do realize I lack the botanical knowledge to understand this conversation.” 

“The rubber tree lets out a white sap when its branches are cut. We say it cries for its estranged kin.” Krjn takes a bite of Chocobo wing and adds: “Vídyr is Fyr's child.” 

Balthier turns to Fran, an eyebrow raised in disbelief, to which she merely shrugs. “Why is it that everything that happens in Golmore involves your relatives somehow?” 

“A Hume I know would call that ‘the leading man's burden’,” she answers, chomping on her seared leaves. “I suppose the leading woman is burdened with the same fate.”

“You have yet to answer,” Krjn turns to Mjrn. “How does your dagger relate to Fyr?”

“He gave it to me,” she tells them. “Fyr was the one who executed my sentence. As he led me through the forest, I felt him hide it under my sleeve. He then whispered to me that the mines should have a southern entrance through the Feywood, for his sentries have found Hume waste in the stomachs of Cerberi. He assumed I would know how to navigate the mines, since I had been there before. It took me a week of carving through my worst nightmares with only this dagger and my claws, but, lo and behold, here am I.” In addition to Mjrn's past trauma in the mines, she must have seen Nivi, Reynir and Three-Inches at the Ore Separation Room. No wonder the poor thing looks off her trolley. “He also told me he would be on duty at the entrance of the Paths of Chained Light on the night before the full moon. That I should meet him there, if I survived, and that he would welcome my aid.”

Fran looks up at her. “Tonight is the night before the full moon.”

“Aye,” Mjrn nods. “So eat well and plenty, but be quick. I would not want him to believe he parted with his dagger for naught.”