They've their own rhythm. BalthierxFran.
She takes one last breath and turns to leave this place for the last time. Her sister stands before her, calm and ancient, as she was even when they were small.
"Your hume," Jote says, and though Fran strains her ears to their utmost, she cannot find the disdain that oft accompanies the word on Jote's tongue, "your sky pirate."
Fran waits; she had not shed the patience of the Wood with its trappings, even in the bustle of the larger world of Ivalice.
"I see that your steps match his as they did not the beat of the Green Word." Jote inclines her head and walks away, her steps even and slow on the walkways of their village.
It is, Fran thinks, as close to a blessing as Jote will come—more generous by far than she expected.
Balthier is waiting for her at the crystal, and she detects the change in his smile as she approaches. He has been on edge since first they came here, bristling with a protectiveness he sought to hide. She needs it not, and he knows she needs it not, and therefore he will not act on it, yet there is some comfort in the thought that he would, if her need were dire.
"Another road opens before us," he says lightly as he falls into step with her, and she thinks that Jote was right; their steps match perfectly.
"Mayhaps it will lead us to a more open sky." She glances at the canopy of leaves overhead.
He slips his arm through hers, as though they stroll leisurely upon the terraces of Archades rather than the bumpy paths of the jungle. "I long to see open air again," he replies.
"Then let us set forth to find it."