Ritual & Custom
A/N: Timeline uncertain; likely before their encounter with Vaan and co.
There are times when even sky pirates cannot remain in the clouds.
They must weigh anchor, climb down from their high thrones and take their place among the ground dwellers below. They seem to shape shift, blending with effortless ease into the general crowd.
A stranger? Bless you sir, been here all me life. New in town? Sorry to disappoint you, ma'am, know every road of this city since I was a babe. Show me around, miss? Well, I'm sure there are one or two things I haven't seen in this place…
And by the end of every story spun and every excuse given, there are two outcomes. The first is that all goes well and smooth, a heist is pulled, items are liberated and the pirates are once again lords of the skies, free from mortal judgement.
The other is often a race, sometimes involving wild geese, against time, breath and the ability to escape an angry (previous) owner of some invaluable artefact. Such a treasure will have been handed down through the generations after being obtained through sweat, toil and lording it over peasants (only the rich hold anything of value, after all).
Most of the time, they slip through the fingers of their would-be captors. Other times, they pick locks, scale walls and perform feats of freedom that would have Ivalice's best magician begging to be taken on as a disciple, if only to learn the secret of escaping a jail cell with a toothpick, an apple and a strategically placed piece of string.
They're quite proud of that one, really.
But nevertheless, there are days, though few, when nothing is worth stealing and the only thing to do is refuel, resupply and spend a night in town. These are the nights where cheap inns come in handy. They ask nothing except a fee for each room.
This need for a night's stay in an inn is explainable only through quiet observation. If one should have had an opportunity to observe, that is. None do.
So none know that while a Viera readies herself for sleep, she occasionally leaves a window open for some air and a quick escape should the need arise. Her Hume partner sometimes disappears into the night, often with another Hume of the opposite sex in his arms.
She, the Viera, has learned to identify Humes by clothing and smell. The basics of what is considered decent, what is not and who doesn't care have been learned well. So there is really no need to question the overpowering aroma of crushed roses that hangs about their persons and the amount of flesh displayed. It is understood, the same way she has come to understand why accommodation of the Strahl would be pointless in this exercise.
So Fran feels nothing, thinks of nothing and dreams the night away during his disappearances. And many times, she awakes at dawn to the sight of her partner sleeping sitting up on the floor just under her open window.
They both know perfectly well he had hired a room of his own, the reason he isn't there and the necessity of leaving before anyone awakes.
The stale scent of cheap perfume often wears away before the morning is over, always quicker than she thinks possible. It's burnt away by the fresh clean air of the upper skies and the rays of first light beaming into the Strahl as they take off.
But there are also times when they share the same inn room. Usually when there is no other choice, occasionally when an innkeeper believes he (the hes seem to believe this more often than the shes) knows more than he really does. In the latter case, the room often comes with a single bed, big enough for two, just like tonight.
It matters not. Both have known each other far too long enough to be embarrassed by this situation.
Thus when late night falls, Balthier indulges in a certain ritual of his. It usually takes place after he has showered off the grime and dirt and disguise of the day, slipping into a pair of pants comfortable to sleep and to run in. A light linen shirt accompanies it, although it hasn't these past few sweltering nights. He knows Fran doesn't much care (and if she does, it's well disguised).
He watches, fascinated and unmoving from his side of the bed (always nearest to the door with a weapon close at hand). She sits on her side and pulls her face armour away. Her hands reach behind and dissolve her ponytail, letting loose a white waterfall.
Sometimes he likens it to a river, full of rapids and white foam, crashing upon pebbles smoothed over by water and force. Sometimes, he imagines it as reams of white silk lace, ready to be cut out into smaller pieces to decorate ladies' fans, dresses and other coquettish items. And sometimes, he has no imagination at all, seeing it for what it is: Fran's tresses cascading from her head to spill over onto the mattress.
Each and every time, it requires a great deal of strength not to reach over and run his fingers through those long locks. Just to see if it will slip and run through his fingers like clear water, see if it is as light and soft as he can often picture it. It would not surprise him if both are true, even though such notions are against his (relatively) staunch sense of reality.
But Balthier knows that sudden movement at this time is ill-advised. She won't expect him to do such a thing and probably wouldn't appreciate the sentiment, however complimentary. Her expressions of displeasure, whether through looks or claws, are always painful.
He isn't stupid enough to take risks like that.
So Balthier merely lies on his side and by the dim yellow lights of cheap lamps, observes Fran run her long fingers through her hair, deftly disentangling knots and kinks. He doesn't know if she notices him watching; it's all too likely that she does. But she never says or does anything, leading Balthier to take it as unspoken permission.
He notices that after smoothing out her hair, she shakes it out a little, just to complete the task. Then she stretches out on the bed – not knowing how many men would die just to see such a simple motion, not knowing how much Balthier silently prides himself on marvelling at her with the controlled subtlety only a handful of Hume males can achieve – pulling her share of the blanket over herself. He is aware that she isn't comfortable since she's always too tall, or too long, for a Hume bed.
Even so, she wishes him goodnight, shifts onto her side and shuts her eyes.
Balthier says goodnight as he puts out the lights. But whether through moonlight or in darkness, he continues watching her for an unmeasured amount of time, noting how long it takes for her to drift off. Now and again, her ears gently twitch, as if listening for something.
In sleep, they say, souls awaken. If that is true, Balthier can see for himself how much a Viera Fran's soul remains, however far she is from what had once been her home, despite whatever words she may have said. He believes she returns to the Wood at night.
He often falls asleep this way, just watching her dream.
And as he sleeps watching her, so does he wake being watched.
For if Balthier's night ritual is to watch Fran untie her hair, then it is Fran's morning custom to observe Balthier wake.
She is constantly up before the sun; early enough to see her partner's sleeping face. It shows all too clearly that his soul wants what reality cannot, or should not, give. His brows contort into an expression of moderate agony, lips sometimes moving in silent distress. Fran doesn't know what he sees although she can imagine a (paternal) portion of it.
In moments such as these, she is always tempted to stretch her hand out and brush his cheek, trying to offer some measure of consolation. There is often some uncertainty about whether it really is consoling. In this way, perhaps she has become too much like a Hume.
Yet, something restrains her every time. Perhaps she's seen Balthier feign sleep too often to trust him in this aspect. Perhaps not even living amongst Humes for so long can erode a Viera's detachment from the rest of the world. Perhaps it's the memory of perfume, alcohol and disappearances.
Whatever the reason, Fran always just waits patiently, knowing it is dawn when pale light does what she doesn't: touch Balthier. The rising sunbeams illuminate his cheekbones, causes his hair to turn slightly golden. She watches his face slowly leave the realm of sleep and its revelations, watches those eyelashes blink as he stumbles into consciousness. She watches Fframran become Balthier.
And when he's finally awake enough to focus on Fran, he never cracks jokes about her being a bodyguard, or never needing sleep or even succumbing to his charms. He really isn't stupid enough to do such a thing.
Instead, he just smiles and says good morning.
He's lucky today – she smiles, just a little, in return and repeats the greeting.
From then on, it's only a matter of minutes till they leave. There is work to be done, valuables to be stolen. Balthier's memories of white waterfalls are left aside for another time. Fran keeps a vision of gold light on a man's face in the back of her mind. Longings and dreams are put away for more appropriate moments.
Time to take to the clouds again.
.
End.
A/N: Yes, Balthier has extremely admirable self-control. Unimaginable self-control? Well, considering that this is Fran…
I must admit I want him slightly less intelligent next time about running his fingers through her hair… next time, maybe.