a kind of integrity, cont.
“Barely twenty, if a day - and no, I can’t imagine how that makes him such a shipwright, but so it is. Our little prodigy of the skies.”
Once again, all that she thinks she knows of Balthier is turned calmly on its ear. All the ridiculous posturing, the gestures she thought so odd for his age are quite obviously /of/ his age, and it is the thoughtfulness, his strategy and skill that belongs to a man of far more years. How long could he possibly have been living this life, then? Surely it cannot be long. It has always been a question, but now she cannot even begin to put together an answer - and where, then, did the Strahl come from, and how in the world had he come to acquire it?
Skylark is still watching her, very closely, and Fran realizes what this is truly all about.
“You are wondering what my intentions are.”
“I’ve heard many tales of the nobility and grace of your people. The viera may come into our world, but you hew to your own rules, and on the whole they are kinder and far more noble than our own. I hope you will continue to be a… good influence on Balthier, or at least keep him in one piece. We are all rather fond of him.”
The question of exactly why is not always easy to answer, especially as the door creaks open, and Balthier stumbles out of his room blinking bleariy, rumpled and unshaven with a sheet wrapped loosely around himself and all the grandeur of some young, disheveled god of poorly thought-out ideas.
“Good morning, my lovely ladies.”
“Afternoon.”
“And a fine one it is!”
-----------------
The toothbrush does indeed exist, resting in the bottom of her bathroom cabinet, and no one on board ever claims ownership. Perhaps it truly does belong to a Judge Magister. As the second year on her life on the Strahl approaches, Fran has every reason to believe it so.
Despite Balthier’s reputation for an excess of ill-timed bravado, not every job is as risky or fraught with peril as his best-embroidered tales would imply. A fair portion of what they do isn’t even illegal, or at least not interestingly so. Some smuggling, a few escort missions, of either people or goods. A sky pirate trustworthy enough to complete a mission without defaulting midway for the highest bidder can be a good avenue to quietly transport what is already in danger of being hijacked, or kidnapped. Balthier has carried diplomats from Rozarria and complex, ancient magicks from Nabradia and treasures to and from from any number of private sources, those items that need to be relocated out of the common flow of air traffic. Generally, it is an unnecessary step, a level of redundancy to calm the nerves of extremely cautious clients. And then there is the day they agree to transport a bride to her wedding, and she falls in undying love with Balthier along the way and refuses to leave the ship when they arrive, much to the chagrin of her groom-to-be and the rest of the wedding party. Most of whom are heavily armed.
The next few hours are made up of very bad plans just as quickly composed as discarded, including Balthier’s insistence that he and Fran are already wed - the girl is happy to share - or that he has only a month to live - she is sure her love will see him through - and a considerable amount of his ranting in the cockpit that the next time he redesigns the hull he will remember to add sections he can jettison at will. It all ends rather anticlimactically, when the moogles corner the girl while Balthier is frantically trying to avoid being blasted out of the sky by the mother of the bride. Fran only hears a fraction of their low, urgent conversation, but it ends with the bride-to-be quickly deciding to return to her beau, giving Balthier a wide berth and several alarmed looks on her way out the door.
The moogles refuse to explain themselves. Fran asks if Balthier would like her to bring a belated dowry, and if he ought to provide her with a ring in return. He storms off to spend a few hours in the engine room pretending none of it ever happened.
Fran puts her share of the rewards from those missions that /are/ successful towards her growing collection of understated yet finely-crafted weapons - knives, swords, a few bows, though none are ever quite the match to the one she brought with her from Eryut. Balthier is responsible for much of the other decoration in her quarters, gifts she’ll open the door on now and then to find he has secreted in - a kaleidoscope, a set of cut-paper flags from Bur-Omiasce, or a detailed map of the stars, all the hume constellations spread out across a paper sky. Almost from the start, he has kept her well-stocked in fruit, the mundane and the exotic both, whatever he thinks she hasn’t tried - and always at least one pomegranate.
It is gestures like these that keep her from opening the hatch and pitching him to earth on the day they pick up what Balthier assures her is simple cargo, a crate of fair size to be moved from one of Rozarria’s eastern ports through to Rabanastre. Their employer demanded the swiftest route, across Jagd-studded sands, and Balthier is one of those who is skilled enough - rather than desperate or simply stupid - to reach the other side safely. This is usually enough to justify a high price, and so Fran thinks little of what they are carrying or why - until a soft scrape catches her attention, and a louder thump, and she and Balthier look at each other, and back to the cargo hold just in time to see one clawed foot smash through the boards containing what they thought was, at the worst, a shipment of unregistered magicite.
It is a drugged chocobo - or was - and by the sheen and sparkle of its feathers and the fact that they’re carrying it unawares Fran can only assume it is a prize bird, worth a great deal. It is also rather surprised to find itself in the skies - surprised, and very, very angry.
The moogles scatter instantly, locking themselves in whatever room they can reach as the bird pries itself free from the container, claws scraping against the deck as its wings flare out. Not nearly enough room to present its fury properly, and so it lets out a murderous scream and charges toward the cockpit instead.