FicWad

Claret Sky
Sunnepho

Disclaimer: All characters and settings are property of Square Enix. No profit is being made from the writing of this fiction, and no copyright infringement is intended.

--

1. That which is catalyst

It is blood red, the nethicite, and it shows warps in the way light travels through it. It must have been one of the first to have been manufacted, and it was clearly intended to be decorative, given the heavy gold disc it is set in, carved with an artist’s interpretation of the Occuria, godly faces twisted in piety.

Balthier crosses his arms, eyeing it wearily.

He has searched through what feels like miles of underground treasury to find this. There is dust firmly ground into his shirt sleeve, his shoulder feels the strain of his gun’s recoil, and now the blasted thing is set into the wall in the middle of glittering gold carvings.

Balthier scans about, but there are no visible signs of traps. Lifting his hand, he touches the nethicite, and it falls from the wall easily.
It is heavy in his palm, and gold lines seem to have faded somewhat.

Balthier hesitates for a moment further, and he walks away.

--

He is nursing a goblet of Bhujerban Madhu he has purchased with the gil from the monster spoils when the Archadian soldiers stop in front of his table and try to arrest him. Balthier arches an eyebrow, leaning back in his seat. He is acutely aware of the other patrons in the Cloudborne straining their ears in the sudden silence.

“Can’t say I know what you’re referring to,” Balthier says, quite innocently.

“An eyewitness account puts you at the site of the theft. The stolen item is property of the Archadian Empire, and you would do well to return it now. Retrieve it from whatever fence you have sold it to, and your sentence may be lightened.”

Balthier scoffs. “Who would be willing to buy nethicite in this age?” There are murmurs at the mention of the material, and what Balthier could see of the first soldier’s face has gone purple.

“Then you do have it!”

“Ah,” Balthier says, a corner of his lips curving up, “would that I did. Imagine what a pretty penny it would sell for. Unfortunately, I do not.”

The soldier reaches for his sword, stepping forward angrily, and Balthier brings his knee up sharply. The table overturns in a thunderous crash of breaking pottery, sending shards and spray flying in every direction. Amongst the shouts and furious fumbling, Balthier slips out the back door.

--

The Strahl is distinctive, he knows, and so he hides her in the shadows around the Tomb of Raithwall. Manufacted nethicite has all but vanished over the years, and it is only with consummate skill that Balthier is able to coast through the cloying Mist and skid to a halt in the sand. He will regret this later, when he retrieves his ship, he knows, but for now, she will be difficult to find in the Jagd.

He fills a small travel sack and leaves the Strahl on foot.

It is on the second night, when he is covered from head to toe to protect himself from the desert sands and the biting chill, that he wakes and feels the cold edge against his throat.

Silently, he looks up at the armoured figure, all blinding brightness and black shadows under the moonlight.

He thinks that the Empire must really need that last piece of nethicite if it has sent a Judge after him.

“You will come with me to Archades to stand trial,” the Judge says, and his voice echoes tinnily behind his helm.

Balthier’s forehead furrows. The voice is familiar, teasing at the edges of his memory. Perhaps it is someone he once interacted with, when he was in a similar line of work.

“It is the middle of the night,” he protests.

The sword digs just a bit deeper, and Balthier ignores the tickling of a drop of blood welling out from under his skin.

The Judge steps back after a moment. “I’ll wait until dawn.” He sits, resting the blade of his sword on the ground in front of his legs.

Balthier does not sleep for the rest of the night.

The sky is red overhead when Balthier feels the prod to his side, and he pulls himself to his feet.

He sees the Imdugud first. It screeches shrilly and flaps its bat-like wings, diving down at Balthier.

Balthier reaches to his side and bites back a curse when he feels nothing. He has forgotten the Judge taking his weapons and magick. He steps back, preparing to dodge the monster.

The Judge steps forward, the glow of Telekinensis outlining his form.

It is the way the Judge wields his sword, the odd dip to his sword arm that no manner of training could beat out of him, that Balthier finally recognizes. The Imdugud spirals down to the ground, dead before it lands, and Balthier’s eyes widen and his jaw slackens.

“Vaan,” he says.

--

Balthier looks over his shoulder often at the armoured figure following him, close enough to stop him if he ran, but far enough to keep his hands in full view. The helmet impedes the Judge’s vision, and after two Alraune manage to sneak up close enough for their chitters to be heard before the Judge notices, he removes it.

The blond hair still burns white under the sun, and it is limp with sweat at the temples, but that quickly dries, and the wisps flutter softly in the desert wind.

It has been six years since they parted company on Lemurés, and Vaan is taller and broader, but his chin is still sharp and his skin still smooth.

It is his eyes that are different, and it is his eyes that Balthier turns to look at.

They are hard and sharp like flint, flickering over him and the landscape ceaselessly. They do not change when several Yensa sidle around the towering boulders scattered about and charge them, and Vaan steps forward and dispatches them with cold efficiency.

Vaan flicks the blood from his sword and sheathes it before motioning to Balthier to move on.

Balthier feels his curiosity eating at him.

--

Vaan sets a blistering pace, and they are well into the Ogir-Yensa sandsea by nightfall. Balthier’s steps are lagging by the time Vaan stops them. His armoured boots clank against the metal walkways of the abandoned oil rig, and he walks a ring around a sand-crusted structure before tossing Balthier’s sack into a shielded recess that was once an entryway.

He shares dry rations with Balthier, and he stares out over the rolling sands below.

Balthier cannot take it anymore.

“What has happened to you?” he asks.

Vaan looks at him out of a corner of his eye, but he does not respond.

“I know we lost touch, but what could have possibly possessed you to become a Judge? What happened to your airship? Where is Penelo—“

“Be quiet.”

Balthier falls silent, affronted by the curt tone. He frowns, because there is something bleak in Vaan’s level voice, and he tries again. “Vaan...”

Vaan stands, and he walks away.

--

It is a clear, bright day, and the wall between them is thick as ever. Balthier resigns himself to another day of mindless trekking. He feels too light, too vulnerable, without his guns, and it is perhaps because of it that he is preoccupied. Vaan is worrisomely strong, now, and he has barrelled through everything that attempted to block their path with ease.

Vaan’s gloved hand closes tightly around his wrist, and he feels his bones grind.

Wincing, he looks up, and the Salamand Entite drifts by, its heat baking his face.

Balthier does not move, and he watches as it pauses, almost as if it is looking back at them, the intruders on its domain. It flickers, and it moves back the way it came.

The sense of flowing power makes Balthier’s hairs stand on end, and he glances at Vaan.

A hot breeze on his cheek signifies the Entite passing, and a red glow bathes Vaan’s face.

He is watching Salamand with open eyes and slightly parted lips, and Balthier finds himself staring.

--

The Westersand is overrun with Wolves, and Vaan is surrounded. He moves like a dance, and there is not a single wasted motion. Balthier watches, and his hands itch.

He sees the Sleipnir moments before it rears up and strikes out with its hooves, and he throws himself to a side. A hoof clips him in the ribs, and he grunts. There is a sticky feeling. It has broken skin. He rolls, dodging pounding hooves and piercing spikes, and he swings his leg around hard. It catches the beast’s hind leg and snaps it with a loud crack. The Sleipnir screams shrilly and thumps to the ground, and Balthier feels less than dignified as he drags himself up and away from its thrashing.

Vaan’s sword stabs through its neck, and Vaan is standing over it, breathing harshly.

Balthier nods his thanks. He wonders if he can convince Vaan to return his weapons because of this.

Vaan approaches him, and Balthier thinks again that he looks rather imposing in that armour. There are pieces of beast fur clumping to his sword, and Balthier wrinkles his nose. Vaan looks down at the blade and stabs it down into the ground, leaving it standing behind as he comes closer. His hand raises, and Balthier tenses, but he only pulls up Balthier’s vest.

He lets Vaan prod at the gash in his side, and he lets out a long breath at the tingling sensation of healing magick washing over him.

He thinks that this is not how Judges treat their prisoners, and he smiles.

--

Vaan goes around Rabanastre without stopping.

--

Vaan wears the helmet in Nalbina, and Balthier sees the bows and the avoidance, intermingled with looks of venomous hatred. He wonders at this. The peace has been quiet, subdued of late, but the calm carries with it the sense of pressure, as if it keens to boil over.

When the man in the tattered red cloak roars and rushes toward Vaan with a blade raised high above his head, Balthier watches Vaan step into the charge and run his sword straight through his belly. There is an ugly, choking noise, and the man sags.

It is the fact that no one turns around that makes Balthier feel sick.

There is blood speckled over his boots and people are walking around the corpse, and Balthier stops moving.

He frowns, looking into the blank mask. “He was not a threat,” he says, admonishes, and he receives a swift cuff to the head that leaves his vision swinging and flickering.

Balthier’s foot slips a bit, but he lets the Judge push him forward.

He remembers wide, sky pale eyes and an earnest voice.

--

His is not the only mouth in which the events of Nalbina left a foul taste, Balthier realizes. He taps his fingers over his crossed arms and watches Vaan pursue a fleeing, snarling Alpha Worgen with an odd viciousness. Vaan has been leaving him for longer periods of time and moving farther away during his hunts, and Balthier contemplates vanishing.

Then he remembers the speed at which Vaan found him across the breadth of two continents, and it is not the first time that he rues teaching nearly all of his tricks to another.

The pertinent question is “why.” Not “why Vaan,” because Balthier knows full well, after what he has seen in past days, that Vaan is one of the only humes capable of subduing him, and Vaan chases in a dogged way that puts terriers to shame. No, Balthier wants to know why. Why Archades, why the dead silence, dead eyes.

He tries. He asks obliquely, he reminisces, he taunts. It is after Vaan splits his lip wide open when he mentions Penelo again that Vaan retreats even further, as if exhausted by his sudden display of temper.

The mask is not impenetrable, after all. Balthier licks at the crimson staining his mouth and thinks about the flicker in Vaan’s eyes, and the blood tastes sweet.

--

There is a slave ship at the Phon Coast.

The clear skies and white sands seem an unwieldy backdrop to the sight of unwashed men dragging a small girl toward the ship by her hair, and the hiss of waves sliding unsuited to the screams.

Balthier feels his hands clench, and he moves toward the ship, but he is knocked aside by Vaan’s armoured bulk. He watches Vaan slam into a slave trader and send him flying into the water before he draws his sword and near cleaves another man in half. Balthier gently tugs the girl out of range of the splatters, and he follows Vaan with his eyes. This is a rage he has never before seen.

Vaan moves so quickly and slashes so hard that the air sings.

Then, the bodies are lying still and the sand is drenched red. The other prisoners are freed, and they bow and cower to the Judge’s armour, but Vaan ignores them.

The girl tugs on Vaan’s gloved fingers, and he jerks, but she is crying, her eyes swollen shut, and she does not care. She cries for her sister and says the slaves are taken to the Lhusu Mines.

Vaan does not hesitate before entering the ship, and Balthier helps when he begins flicking switches and powering the skystones. He lets Vaan steer, relief light on his chest. At the core, some things do not change, and Balthier is inordinately glad for the familiarity.

They are standing at the entrance to the mines when Vaan looks back at him sharply, thinks for a moment, and hands him his gun.

--

They fly to the Imperial City of Archades, after, and Balthier feels the disappointment keenly.

There is a brief delay when Archadian airships challenge the stolen slave ship, but Vaan stalks onto the commander’s ship with a thunderous expression, and by the end, the soldiers are grovelling.

The delay costs them, though, and when they reach Archades, the palace gates are closed. Balthier can see Vaan deliberating forcing his way through, and so he complains loudly.

Vaan silences him, but he acquiesces, and he leads the way to a waiting taxi.

They find a small hotel, and the two beds lie side by side, smelling of fresh linen.

Balthier watches Vaan remove his helmet and his armour, piece by shining piece, and he knows he cannot let this lie.

“Vaan,” he says, and he pauses.

Vaan glances at him, and the lamplight darkens his hair and his eyes until he is swallowed by a sea of dusk.

“Tell me what happened.”

Vaan’s jaw ripples, and Balthier finds his eyes drawn to the blond stubble on his cheek. It is darker than his hair, but not by much, and Balthier’s stomach clenches as he thinks about pale hair against dusty skin.

“You are clearly caught in a situation beyond your control,” Balthier says firmly. “If you tell me, I would more likely than not be able to help you.”

Vaan looks away, and Balthier is frustrated. He leans over, planting his hands on the soft mattress on either side of hips that look strangely slim without the armour, and he sighs. “Vaan...”

He sees Vaan’s eyes under the blond fringe. They dart to his throat, bare now that he has removed his vest and cravat, and they widen just a touch.

Balthier breathes in Vaan’s warm, dusty scent, and he moves closer. The ghosts of breaths whispering over his collarbone increase in speed. He thinks he can use this, but the slamming of his heart against his ribs belies the calculating thoughts, and he suppresses a shiver.

He aches to touch, and it is terrifying.

Balthier sees Vaan gnawing on the inside of his lip, and he sees the minute trembles and straining energy. He feels... he does not know how he feels, but he presses dry lips against Vaan’s cheekbone, anyway.

The skin is soft.

“You will not tell me, then?” Balthier drags his mouth down the long lines of Vaan’s throat, and he pauses on the hammering pulse. “In that case...”

Vaan brings up a hand and pushes against his chest, but Balthier snatches it and presses it tightly against the bed.

“At least allow me to do this for you.”

Balthier sheds their clothing with quick, sure hands. He will not let Vaan think his way out. He will not give Vaan enough time to panic. He closes his eyes and concentrates on the hot, slow glide of his tongue against Vaan’s.

His hands skim over hard angles of muscles, and he follows the trail with an open mouth.

Vaan is leaking, a dribble glistening over his taut stomach, and when Balthier licks it away, Vaan arches high off the bed. The skin is hot and musky under his mouth, and Vaan makes a noise in the back of his throat.

He looks up to see tightly shut eyes and clenching muscles. He rears up, Vaan’s cock slapping thickly against his belly, and then his length is crushed against Vaan’s, and the kiss is bruising, pressing Vaan hard down into the mattress.

Vaan strains up against him, and Balthier bites down on a full lip before soothing it with a lick. He presses two fingers into Vaan’s mouth, and it is burning heat and wet swirls of tongue.

Vaan gasps when he pulls his hand away slickly, and he distracts him with a nip to the throat. Balthier presses into another kiss, and he reaches down and begins to prepare himself. Vaan’s hips are rocking against his, and the sensation, coupled with hasty fingers and rough tongues, is almost too much to bear.

Soon, he shifts and sits up, bringing his legs up in front of him, and he presses down on the slick head of Vaan’s cock until it slides deep inside him. It is fast and raw, and it brings stinging tears to Balthier’s eyes, but he looks down into Vaan’s wide-eyed gaze and shudders. Vaan’s lips part, swollen and red.

“Balthier...”

--

The silence is stony the next morning, when Balthier wakes to find himself draped stickily across Vaan’s broad chest. The room is disgustingly hot behind closed shutters.

Vaan pushes Balthier off and scrapes dried crust from his stomach before dressing. The helmet drops and latches with a click rife with finality.

The gloved hand wrapped around Balthier’s bicep is bruising, and he lets himself be dragged away. At the gates, Vaan shoves him forward and signs off tersely, leaving him in the care of calculating stares, and Balthier sighs.

--

The situation quickly becomes clear once Balthier is locked away.

The interrogators do not find the nethicite on his person and cannot force its location from his smirking lips, and Balthier is shoved back into the prison, squinting through newly blackened eyes.

On the third day, he is scratching at the floor of his cell idly and trying hard not to think about sunlight and pale skies when there is a flurry of movement and commotion.

Rich robes are dragging in the dust, followed by pleading soldiers and servants, and Balthier looks up at the Emperor through the bars.

Larsa has grown tall, he thinks. He does not see the Emperor up close in his line of work.

Larsa looks furious, and he speaks sharply, roughly to the soldiers trying to explain that Balthier has stolen an item of great value and has been brought to justice. He orders the door opened, and his expression darkens further when the guards, cowering and stammering, say that the Council does not allow this.

There is a glimpse of white-blonde braids, and Balthier swings to his feet.

Penelo stands behind Larsa, hands folded demurely and eyes lowered to the ground. Balthier tilts his head and tries to catch her eye, but she looks blankly through him before turning to Larsa, docile and slow.

Balthier recognizes the symptoms of a cocktail of spells, and he cannot decipher them all. A hard knot forms in his stomach.

Larsa browbeats the guards until slowly, reluctantly, they unlock the cell door and stand back.

They stink of fear, Balthier thinks, and it is not directed at Larsa.

“I wish only to speak to Ffamran Mied Bunansa,” Larsa says archly, and he gestures to Balthier to precede him.

They exit the prison into the scarlet light of dusk, and Balthier blinks at the sky. They walk, and Larsa’s expression sends servants scurrying out of their path. They walk until they are in a secluded area and the light is ebbing quickly, and Larsa does not turn his head, but he speaks urgently, lowly.

“I will take you to a secret exit, Balthier. You must leave now, before it is too late, and you must take Penelo with you.”

“Too late for what?”

Larsa glances at him, anger furrowing his brow. “The Council do not know I have freed you, yet, but once they find out...”

“Why does the Council hold such sway over the empire that even the emperor must sneak and lie?” Balthier asks sharply. “Where is Basch?”

“Basch is dead,” Larsa says quietly. “He has been dead for four years.”

The cold lump in the pit of Balthier’s stomach grows. “You mean to tell me that the Council has kept secret the death of one of its Judges Magister for four years?”

“The Council members from my father’s time have deep pockets. They began slowly, but they have replaced every man loyal to the emperor with those loyal to the empire. I was foolish not to realize until I could no longer control them.”

“And Vaan? What of Vaan?”

Larsa gives him a look filled with leaden sadness. “When they recruited Vaan, they brought Kytes, Filo, Tomaj, and Penelo here. I do not know what manner of spell they were placed under, but they barely talked. They were like sheep, following a shepherd in his every step.”

“Where are the others now?”

“Vaan was not... amenable to his orders. Not at first. Even with his friends held hostage, he rebelled. He tried to free them. Tomaj died first.”

The chill in his blood swallows him, and Balthier feels his hands twitch. “Mysterious circumstances, I presume,” he says, and it is only a whisper.

“Yes. Vaan came to me, and he raged of his impotence.”

“And after?”

Larsa drifts darkened eyes to Penelo, who is gently humming to herself. “Penelo is the only one left,” Larsa says. He pauses, and the next words come in a rush. “You did not see Vaan’s eyes, Balthier. He died, inside, piece by piece.”

Balthier shakes his head. “I did. Vaan is the one who arrested me.”

Larsa frowns at this. “For a mere trinket? Balthier, why?”

“The rightful owner petitioned me, and I returned it to her.” Balthier shrugs. “No good deed, indeed.”

“You are not suicidal, are you?”

“Does it seem that way to you?”

If Larsa notices his evasion, he does not show it. Balthier puts the matter to a side. Even he does not know the source of his melancholy lately, though—Vaan’s red, bitten lips swim to his mind’s eye—he is beginning to understand.

Balthier sees a high wall set with a small gate, and his pace quickens with Larsa’s.

There are shouts, then, and bright flashes of lit torches, and they are surrounded. Larsa steps in front of him and argues bitterly with an old boar of a man in opulent robes, and crossbows are levelled at Balthier’s chest.

He can see the fingers tightening on the triggers, and he eases Penelo behind him. He wonders if he can push Penelo down to the ground quickly enough, and then there are screams, and fire roars through the soldiers as if their torches had twisted out of control.

“Balthier!”

An airbike hovers before him, and he feels his breath escape him at the relief. He gathers Penelo up with one arm, and he reaches out with the other to take Fran’s hand.

--

Fran has teased apart the myriad of status effects cast upon Penelo, and she has removed them, spell by spell. The endeavour exhausts Penelo, and she sleeps for days.

When Fran catches Balthier hovering, she berates him, and he responds peevishly that she took her time rescuing him. Fran gives him a long, shrivelling look, and tells him that it took her and Nono five days to repair and pull the Strahl out of the ditch he had so kindly left it in, in Jagd Yensa.

Penelo has not woken in the evening of the third day, and Balthier steps out into fresher air.

The Strahl is well-hidden at the very edge of the Feywood, but when Balthier sees the armoured figure and the bared sword, he is not surprised.

“Have they sent you to capture me?” Balthier asks.

“No,” Vaan says. He crouches, sword at ready. “They have sent me to kill you.”

“And you would kill me? Based on the orders of a corrupt government?”

Vaan does not respond.

Balthier raises his hands and watches Vaan calmly. It is possible that he really will die here, he thinks, and the idea is curiously detached and removed. He wonders if he is to explain himself.

Vaan shifts, raising his blade, and it is blood red in the light.

There is a wordless cry, and Penelo dashes by Balthier. She thumps into Vaan’s chest and wraps her arms around his shoulders.

“Vaan!”

She is crying, and Balthier cannot quite make out the words, but Fran has told him that she is likely to remember all that happened during her time in captivity. The horror of the idea is difficult to stomach.

“Vaan! Oh, Vaan...” she says over and over, and Vaan stands, frozen and shaking.

The sword drops from loose fingers.

Vaan sags as if his strings are cut, and he sinks to his knees, Penelo’s tears tapping still at his heavy breastplate.

--

Balthier is waiting outside the door when Vaan exits. The armour is gone, leaving a soft white shirt and tight brown leather strapped to slim hips. He has shaved.

Balthier thinks Vaan has never looked more like a sky pirate.

Vaan draws in a quick breath when he sees him. He stares for a moment, sky-coloured eyes drifting down Balthier’s body.

“We must save Larsa,” Balthier says. He has thought about this for a time. “We must free Archades.”

Vaan’s smile is crooked and rusted.

--

TBC