Title: Trust Amidst Turncoats
Rating: K , or PG if you will.
A/N: Balthier and Ashe interaction. There is a chance my outward summary made it out to be somewhat comedic, but I really am not funny, so. Please enjoy! Or don't!

xxx

Raithwall’s Tomb was humbling, moreso than Balthier thought it would be. ‘Lo, to drink in the salt air of the desert, pure and as undiluted as the crunch of sand beneath his slippers, to let his eyes sink into the grand structure that lay above him, stone carved with impeccable design and love – love for wonder and amazement, love for the king it held within its womb, love for the Humes ‘twould one day make peace with this structure, and the desert…

…and for the treasure, the bounty within awaiting pillage and plunder, his fingers itched and he thirsted more than he could imagine.

Beauty, he thought, and were the sky pirate the type to be embarrassed by something as fluid as thought and imagination, his cheeks would have flushed rosy. Balthier was no poet, he did not chime and chirp like a schoolgirl for verse and sonnet – he was his father’s son, forever a cynic, cost over value. Gold was a beauty he could comprehend; it needed no lavish words to make its worth apparent – it was his desire, his justification for pressing onward with the stubborn princess and her band of vagrants. But his thoughts strayed from the gold, to the outline of the hidden cathedral as it cut a stony swath amid the eternal forgiver, sky – the sky that called him back to Her breast for every moment he had to endure the earthly pressures of sand and stone. In that moment, he did not crave the lady sky, and he closed his eyes to this knowledge, feeling a coarse breeze against his face.

When he opened them again, his vision was (not unkindly) obscured by the cut and figure of the princess – of the woman – who commandeered his ship, his journey, and his attention. She was engaged in idle conversation with Azelas and Balthier was content to let his gaze drift from the outline of the back of her head to the bit of smooth and tanned flesh peeking out from the cut of her overcoat, to the subtle curve of her hips and the small nature of her skirt and further downwards. Beauty, he reflected lazily, with the perspective of someone exploring a crater in their mouth where a tooth used to be. This way of thinking was not new for him; Balthier was no stranger of the pleasures that lied behind a woman’s lips and underneath her skirt – but not a princess. She was stubborn, demanding and constantly barking out orders or shaking her head in what he knew was disdain – for the antics of Vaan, for the cautious wisdom of Basch that would deter her intent. She would even regard Fran with impatience, an act that would get Balthier’s back up within moments. Only Azelas held her regard. Despite all this, seeing her hazel eyes widen in admiration and hope at the monument that awaited them, the sheen of her hair and the wonder in her expression – Ashe, he thought then, trying out her name for the first time – Balthier saw only beauty, cut drier than he was used to and attempting to hide.

He was a sky pirate. It was his duty and skill to find opportunity and attractiveness where others found only waste. A pity to consider himself a salvager as if the princess was something to be salvaged, clinging to her royal disposition as if it were her life raft amid a choppy sea of loss and betrayal.

Even in the break down of all things, there was beauty.

xxx

“’Lo there, you!” Vossler had, moments ago, looked up to see crimson streaking across the sky. It would be night soon, and he could sense weariness from the younger members of the party though they were loathe to admit it. He departed from the group, approaching a series of tents indicating wares and station of some sort of merchant. “We require your lobby for the night…”

“Dyce,” the merchant supplied, peeking out from a tent adjacent to where Vossler had been standing. “The name’s Dyce.” He came out, both hands full with barely tied satchels containing what worldly possessions he still had. “No can do, friend. The avion will be back soon, and to let the beast take my camp yet again…” the merchant – Dyce – sighed, and fixed Vossler with a serious look. “I’d move on if I were you, pilgrim. Worship is all well and good but the tomb belongs to the beast that guards it.”

Dyce’s eyes skimmed past Vossler, to the rest of the party. “Six men your size may be able to fell the beast, but women and children – you’d be better off reclaiming the road from whence you came.”

“We are not here for prayer,” Vossler said, his notoriously thin patience dissipating. “There is something of need in the tomb’s halls, and we have traveled too far to turn back. If we exterminate the avion for you, will you grant us stay in your camp for the night?”

Dyce gazed furtively at the party once again. The children were as nothing, street urchin would be his best guess, and the Viera was exotic but unimpressive, but the others… familiarity stirred in him then, almost trying to warrant out answers with but his stare as he glanced steadily at the two men and the lone Hume woman… He smiled then, a twisted perversion of plump flesh and crooked teeth. “Aye,” he looked back up at Vossler, not unaware of the man’s armor and blade, both of which he carried as if they were without weight, “If you fell the beast, anything you desire from my wares is yours.”

xxx

It was not until the stars and moon had awoken did the beast make its return, its sense rife with pleasure at the sight of flesh and the smell of blood, tender and rich in its inflamed senses. It dove, eager to best its new prey and make its meal of their remains, screeching with excitement and challenge. It had been so long since it had tasted anything other than the grit of the Desert Walkers, almost bloodless and unrelentingly boney. Every day the hunt grew more and more desolate, the race either thinning or making its way northward to avoid the avion’s lust for flesh. With a scream of ecstasy, pure and uncontained, the beast stretched its wings to absorb the nameless power granted by the tomb, and steadied itself for the grace of the kill.

xxx

With a single movement, the beast struck out its wing and thrust forward. Ashe’s gaze whipped upward a second too late for her movements to follow and her next sensation was of blood pounding in her ears as wind brushed against her face. Flying – she was flying, she decided with a bubbling ecstasy in the pit of her stomach – and then falling headlong, the sand and her own horror coming up to meet her quickly. Float, she thought, biting her lip hard enough to draw blood and trying to will the spell underneath her. She felt only her body’s bitter blood sink into her mouth, followed by an almost painless collision. Pain, unpronounced and a sort she had never felt before, shot through her leg, a molestation of the bone with a single, sound snap. Red blotted like blood in a napkin in her vision and then there was only darkness. Only the sound of the bone breaking stayed with her.

xxx

“Balthier!” Fran called from her battle position, away from the predator as her bow afforded her, hands on Penelo’s shoulders as Cure flowed from Viera to Hume. The sky pirate’s attention was rapt as he swung his gaze around, and Fran pointed her chin meaningfully at the princess.

“Damn,” he muttered, taking off in a run toward their comrade. He heard the avion squawk angrily in his direction and imagined the beast swooping down to claim him from the sand, and fired a shot in its direction. Blood welled and spilled from a flesh wound in its leg, and in spite of their situation and the situation Ashe was in, he grinned a small bit.

xxx

Vossler saw her fall. He saw her be swept up in the limbs and lust of the beast. He saw her fall roughly, limbs contorted and her features curdled in pain. His expression twisted into a grim imitation of his neutral expression, marred by horror and anger. With not a roar but a grunt, he hefted Hyperion and with both hands, dove into the flesh and feathers of the avion, fighting to kill.

xxx

The beast let out a pitiful cry of pain before collapsing into the sand.

It managed a few twitches before its murdering soul was claimed by the Final Arbiter and its body was still.

It did not ask for forgiveness. It did not ask for anything.

xxx

The party approached Dyce, Vossler at the head. The merchant look surprised, almost shaken at the sight of their success, every few moments casting wary glances toward the corpse of the beast that had exhausted his business for so long, as if expecting it to reawaken and attempt for revenge. Vossler sheathed Hyperion and gave Dyce a look somewhere between a grim smile and a wince. “We fought the beast and won. You owe us board in your camp. Food, as well. And some pharmaceuticals and healing spells for our wounded.”

Dyce’s lips seemed to go pale as he pressed them together. At first, his expression was one of defiance, but he looked at these supposed pilgrims – although he sincerely doubted they were that, at this point – and stopped. They were heaving and panting from battle, hands curled still around weapons which they bore with little effort. And one of them was seriously injured, he noted the presence of the Hume woman in the arms of a man. Galtea preserve me, he thought, before nodding. He would likely be in more danger to refuse this ragtag crew of bandits or what ever in Ivalice they fancied themselves to be than to let them into his camp. “Very well. What’s mine is yours.”

With that, he turned and disappeared inside his tent. Basch, Penelo, and Vaan followed, tailed almost reluctantly by Fran. Only Vossler, Balthier, and the unconscious princess nestled in Balthier’s arms hung back.

“Give her to me,” ordered Vossler with an expression he imagined did not leave much room for argument.

He was wrong, apparently. Balthier sniffed his objections. “Her leg is broken. You would have me move her more in such a state?” There was a part of him that did worry for the princess; even in sleep her face was defiant and occasionally she would murmur something intelligible. Oh it must be killing her not to be able to talk, he thought with an internal grin. But she was injured and would need to be tended to as soon as possible were she to desire walking again. Another part of him enjoyed standing up against Vossler’s pomposity and bark. The man seemed ready to growl, so Balthier added, “You do want her to walk, right? She needs little movement and lots of spells.” He gave the leg a brief glance. The bone was protruding from the skin in what he imagined will be a nasty gash. “Fran can push it back into place. She has experience in such practices.”

With not another word, just a withering look that did not begin to convey the depth of his scorn, Vossler turned and walked into the tent.

“Lovely bloke,” Balthier muttered under his breath before following.

xxx

As the world returned to Ashe (for it would not be she who returned to the world) she noticed three things. One, that her head was pounding. Two, the pain in her head was nothing to the searing pain in her leg. Three, Balthier was sitting beside her palet. Tears sprung to the corners of her eyes as she realised the extent of the pain, but she blinked them back. It would be four things when she noticed the flask on a sideways portmanteau beside Balthier and greedily she grabbed for it. Were it a healing potion, a sedative, or Mudder’s Milk, she cared not. The liquid was hot and a sweet burning sensation against her throat, and she trembled in the ecstasy of her relief before she had finished.

“Good job you don’t have a concussion,” a rich voice said from above her. Ashe’s gaze snapped upward and her brow furrowed a second later – she still had a splitting headache. “Vaan wouldnt’ve known what to do. He’d have gone around interrupting people, not letting them concentrate…” When she groaned, part annoyance and part pain, he smiled gently. “How’s the leg?”

She glanced down the length of her body. Her boots and knee guards were off, and her feet wore naught but simple moccasins favoured by Nomads and pilgrims. Her legs were otherwise bare and she felt strangely exposed, instinctively curling her legs inward to deter his view. Pain blossomed and spread like tinder catching fire and she bit down on the inside of her cheek to keep from crying out.

“You flatter yourself,” Balthier decided with a quirked brow. Either he had not seen her pained expression or had and decided not to comment on it. She was not sure which she preferred. “While I will admit your legs are rather lovely, seeing a bone break through flesh rather changes a perspective. And I’d recommend not moving. Here – ” he held out a hand, patiently beckoning toward the flask, “ – It’s a draught for pain relief. I’ll get you another.”

She hesitated for a moment before handing it to him. “Where is Vossler?”

“Captains Azelas and Ronsenburg are inspecting the tomb, making sure the architecture and pillars are sound. It would be quite untoward if Dalmasca’s princess survived a suicide only to meet her death by falling debris,” Balthier answered, moving deftly to refill her flask. “Your man raised a bit of a stir. Seems to think you’re not safe alone with a sky pirate. Thought I’d rob you of your arms and clothing and steal off into the night, or something like that.” He returned with a refilled flask. “Drink slowly. The aroma helps too.”

“I apologise,” said Ashe after taking a long, languorous slip of the provided draught. “Vossler is – ” she paused for a moment, trying to think of the best way to justify his actions. Even with the headache simmering down to a dull throbbing, it was still a trying effort. “ – Allow me to deal with him, should the need arise. You need not worry.”

“Don’t recall saying I was worried,” the sky pirate shrugged.

She scoffed in annoyance, and he turned away to hide his smile. “Lovely night,” was his next comment, leaning back on the chaise he sat on.

Ashe laid down and was silent for a moment. And then: “Not my man.”

“’ow’s that?” He scratched at his ear for a second, as if it was the reason he could not decipher Ashe’s words.

“Vossler. He’s not my man in the way you are implying.” There was a brief lull in conversation before she spoke again. “I do not like the idea of Vossler alone with – with that traitor.” She was not sure why she was telling the pirate this. She did not entertain the notion that he cared about her intents or worries as long as he got his profit, but conversation with him… it was free and easy. She was not expected to have all the answers, to be imparting wisdom as jewels begifted to her as her almost revered role of princess might demand. She was just… Ashe.

“Like it or not, they are where they are and you are not fit to be running after them,” was Balthier’s succinct response. Ashe did not roll her eyes, but the skin of her eyelids twitched a bit so as to entertain the possibility.

“They served as my father’s elite guard,” she said then, her voice softening with her words. “Vossler and him – ” she spat out the him, as if chewing on sour meat, “ – were part of the Old Order. They had vowed to offer up their lives in protection of whom they served. It was their code.” Her hands, the only part of her body she could claim strength in, curled tightly into fists around the flimsy edges of the palet until the skin turned the colour of milk.

“You don’t believe – ”

“No!” There was more strength in her proclamation than her body should have allowed her, and Ashe’s mouth twisted in a grim expression, wincing from the pain.

There was so much she could not say. That when Rasler was felled, it was Basch who had brought her the news; it was upon his bosom she had clung in the uproar of tears and sobbing. That when the funeral rites had taken place, she had doubted her own legs would not give in to the urge to crumble beneath her, that her mourning would not leave her a shell of a Hume screaming at the ground beneath her, and that it had been again Basch’s arm she had clung to. There had been whispers – dressed in mourning and on the arm of another man, but she had paid them no heed. Basch had not been a man then. He had been her legs and her shield where she otherwise may have trembled. To later learn of his betrayal, to foster two years worth of blood lust and hatred, as pure as her love for her prince had been, only to have her sword, the manifestation of her anger used to cut down all who stood before her, remain unbloodied… Instead, she looked at the pirate, studying his expression briefly and then said, “An identical brother. A mummer’s folly, to be sure. I cannot place my trust in such a farcical tale.”

Balthier shook his head. “You trust your Azelas, am I correct?”

She merely nodded. The pain in her head inflamed at the movement but she paid it little notice.

“He seems to trust Basch. He chose a capable sword hand over mollifying a wary princess. What more do you need know?”

“I need…” I need to lay eyes on the man who murdered my father, she thought. I need to run him through with my sword. I need to see him bleed and breathe his last. But Ashe did not say any of this. She simply said, “I need more of the draught.” And then, “Please.”

Wordlessly, he accepted the now empty flask from her and moved to refill it once more.

xxx

Later, when Vossler and Basch had yet to return, neither Balthier nor Ashe slept. Ashe for worry of what might befell Vossler in the company of the traitor, and Balthier for not wanting Ashe to take up arms and go after them were he to be caught unawares. It was an on-going battle in the silence of night, each willing the other to fall asleep and give their own selves a needed reprieve.

Finally, Ashe began to sit up, unable to take it anymore. “I’m going after them.”

Balthier was standing in moments. “No, you are not. Azelas would have my head plated on his wall if I let anything happen to you.”

She swung her good leg over the edge of the palet, and then her injured one. The bone had been put back into place and the gash healed as best as possible. There was a faint purple, waxy scar where the bone had broken through the skin, but there was naught could be done about that. Ashe set both feet down on the sand below, testing her weight, before fully pushing herself off the palet. She came stumbling forward mere seconds later, pain like fire shooting through her leg and she shut her eyes as so tightly she thought she may bruise her eyelids against the tears. Instead of meeting the sand, as she expected, she was held in place by a pair of strong – warm – arms.

“Easy there, princess.” She opened her eyes, shining with unshed tears of pain, to see Balthier standing in front of her, one arm around the small of her back, and the other keeping hold of her arm – it was an intimate position although he did his best not to stray into any forbidden zones with his limbs, as tempting as it was – and she grew frustrated rather quickly.

“Let go of me!” she demanded.

“Sit back down on the bed,” he countered, his voice was equal parts fierce to her demands.

They were at a stalemate.

“Trust me,” he said then. She realised she did.

xxx

In the span of two hours, she was taught how to walk, for the second time. Balthier’s guiding hand was gentle but his teasing words were laced with enough provocation to get her walking through the strength of her anger.

xxx

Later, when her diatribe of who to trust returns to cut her, Ashe turns to Balthier, waiting for the scathing remark that would have her fingers itch to wrap around the hilt of her sword. He says nothing, his eyes meeting hers in mutual understanding, and in spite of everything, her lips twitch in the beginnings of a smile. She does not seek him out with her thanks, nor does she appear outwardly shamed. She only smiles.

He watches this and sees beauty.