Chapter Text
Penelo wakes before the sun, to a low hum in the air and her bed gently swaying, and even before she’s opened her eyes the jolt of excitement runs through her, on her feet before she’s truly awake. It’s not a bed at all, but a hammock strung up between two supporting struts, in a storage space that’s been hastily converted into a bedroom for her and Vaan on the Strahl.
The Strahl. An airship. An adventure.
She’s been an early riser all her life, waking to see her father off or even join him on early morning deliveries. Since the annexation, Penelo’s needed the quiet of that first early hour, a few moments to herself, to put her thoughts in order and prepare for whatever the day might bring. With all that’s happened now, this time alone seems more valuable than ever.
Vaan is burrowed beneath the covers on the other side of the narrow room, and he doesn’t stir as she silently gets to her feet. It seemed prudent to sleep in her clothes - they’re still cleaner than they’ve been in months, and thinking of that, rubbing her fingers over a mended hem makes her remember the Lord Consul and Bhujerba, Rhiale and her sister - and Larsa.
A whole life’s worth of living packed into a few hours.
The Lord Consul killed Reks. Had him killed. By the same man who helped him murder the king - Judge Magister Gabranth.
The thought makes her shiver, as if there was any space left in her to be more afraid of him. Vaan didn’t seem to understand her hesitance, her lack of any newly kindled hatred for the Lord Consul or Archades.
The Judge Magister didn’t even kill Reks, not really. He killed a soldier whose name he didn’t know, because he happened to be there at the time. It could have been anyone.
Reks had died for reasons that nothing to do with him, the same way that her parents had died, in a war that had never really been a war, and yet still managed to take away everything she loved.
Penelo tries to feel anger, or hate - she tries, she really does, but all she ends up with is dread. It’s too vast to try and pick it apart, the machinations of empires and the men who live in them and Penelo feels very small and very fortunate that’s she’s still alive.
A little more than alive, if you’re being honest.
The other letter the Lord Consul had given her is still safe in her possession, carefully hidden away. Penelo’s thought to destroy it a half-dozen times now, cursing her cowardice, her indecision - how dare she even think she could negotiate with a kingslayer? How dare her loyalty to her home, her family be anything but absolute? Could she really look Reks in the eye and explain such hesitation?
Vayne Soldior murdered King Raminas, and all but buried Lord Basch alive, branded him traitor for a crime that wasn’t his. He’s everything you’ve heard he was. A monster.
He is, isn’t he? Balthier certainly thinks so, and no doubt has even more evidence than he’s had time to share.
Except Penelo had dined at Vayne’s table. She’d seen him smile, and laugh at the Doctor like any man might tease a friend - and he’d asked about her family. He’d wanted to know how much pain he’d caused her, and his response had been neither cruel or indifferent.
The Lord Consul could have threatened her, or worse, as easily as breathing. He didn’t need to fake his concern - what was she to him? - but if it had been real…? How could any of that have been real?
Larsa believes his brother to be the best of men.
Oh, it will hurt him to learn of this, and some foolish part of her hopes he never does.
Not that it’s any of her concern. None of it should matter, when Reks is still dead and the king is still dead and now Princess Ashelia is alive to avenge all those wrongs, to make things as they should be. Why can’t Penelo just be angry, the way Vaan wants her to be? The way her Highness is, Ashelia’s own determination fierce and unwavering toward their foes.
Penelo’s hand slips down to where the Nethicite rests in a hidden, inner pocket. She had known it was rare and valuable, but it was only in listening to the Marquise talk, with Vaan telling her about their time in the mines that Penelo understands the gravity of what Larsa has entrusted her with. Such a secret for a girl he barely knows. It seems such a reckless gesture that a part of Penelo thinks it must be a fake, or that she’s being deceived, a tiny piece of some vast, new intrigue but for all it seems the most likely possibility, Penelo can’t really believe it.
Larsa Solidor would not lie to her, if she knows nothing else she knows that, and Penelo will keep this secret safe for him, forever if need be. Whatever the future brings, even if they never meet again, that day in Bhujerba will be the best day of her life for the rest of her life.
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Balthier has parked the ship a day or so from their destination, though this is as far as they dare push into an area patchworked with Jagd deadlands. He did not seem particularly pleased at the situation, and even less so with his stowaways. Penelo doesn’t think he’d kick them out without warning, but she’s not entirely sure why she and Vaan had been allowed to leave Bhujerba in the first place. A gesture of gratitude would not be out of place.
So Penelo makes pancakes.
Well, no. First, she steps carefully down the main hall, past a long row of closed doors. It seems she really is the first one ready to face the new day.
Penelo had left the cockpit the night before with Balthier and Her Highness still trading annoyed barbs at the unfortunate need for their temporary alliance. Balthier kept a firm weight on the word - ‘temporary’ - like a tool for hammering down any future debates. The princess glared back, ill at ease and refusing to imply even the slightest bit of indebtedness to the sky pirate. Penelo very much hoped no one would expect her or Vaan to pick a side.
Except Vaan’s already made his choice, hasn’t he? Maybe even before he’d spent all those hours at the side of Dalmasca’s heir to the throne. Penelo had tried to get him to talk to her about what he’d done at the palace, how dangerous it had been, but he’d shrugged her off as he always did. Uninterested in the past, when the future now shone so bright.
Isn’t it good, if things go back to the way they were? The princess takes the Shard, and regains her throne, and the Archadians… leave?
As if it could ever be that simple, or that bloodless, and Penelo wraps her fingers around her arms and forces herself to breathe, to just be still. Whatever the future may hold, there is nothing to do at the moment but those small things she can.
The Strahl’s mess is… exactly that. One long, metal table stands relatively clear, and the kitchen itself is the most modern that Penelo has ever seen, stove and sink and icebox all crystal-powered. Very impressive, or it would be if more than an inch of it were visible under the careful architecture of dirty pots and filthy pans, with an arsenal of silverware jutting here and there to deter any direct assault.
Penelo’s seen worse. Penelo had brothers.
She peeks gingerly into the icebox, not so surprised to find an army of ales standing careful guard over some sad, mummified vegetables, and what she hopes is a fresh container of eggs stacked on top of what appears to be an engine block, wedged in among a collection of half-burned candles, two wheels of expensive aged cheese, a pair of screwdrivers and a scattering of silver coins that drop out of the bag one by one, though Penelo moves fast enough to catch them before most can hit the ground.
A mixture of the inedible and the mundane, studded here and there with delicacy and ridiculous extravagance. For every apple or pear there is a tin of goose livers with cherry or a jar of caviar, all spilling from a box marked with Archadian seals - pilfered rations intended for officers, perhaps. The whole teetering wall of it mortared with enough airship parts, pieces and tools that Penelo could probably build herself another ship given enough time.
What she first mistakes for a stone inexplicably wrapped in paper proves itself to be a block of chocolate half the size of her head. Penelo will blame any nibbled corners on sky mice.
She’s always enjoyed putting a room back as it ought to be, even if that proves her a absolute bore - she’d happily helped her father and Migelo tidy storerooms all day, finding space for huge orders coming in on top of orders yet to leave.
A careful inventory of the cabinets reveals flour, salt and sugar - all in unmarked containers, of course - along with sacks of spices in luxurious amounts, nearly a dozen volumes of books on history, magicks and engineering - no two of them from the same series - and a wealthy merchant’s trove of perfumes, wine and brandies from all corners of Ivalice, wrapped up in a bolt of rich, sapphire velvet.
The cleaning takes a while, carefully shifting piles on top of piles in the small space, but finally Penelo’s managed to unearth enough plates and silverware for the table. All of it mismatched, but every fork and knife pure silver, down to the three - no, four salt cellars she finds in the pantry, each stacked inside each other and topped by a truly wretched-looking drinking mug.
Penelo works quietly but industriously, greatly aided by a door set in the opposite side of the hull. It is an odd feeling to open it to the empty sky, sweeping out the dust and dirt into the faint glow of dawn, the familiar desert chill making her shiver and Penelo wants to laugh, thinks for a moment she might cry - a morning like any other, but here she is, hovering effortlessly among the clouds, the desert spreading out to a far horizon lined with low, unfamiliar hills.
This is living. This is what it feels like, when you’re really alive.
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The moogles arrive just as Penelo is flipping over her test pancake, which looks hearteningly edible for being her first on an unfamiliar pan with an unfamiliar stove. The air is peppered with cheery greetings and surprised, even more cheery ’kupos’ as the smell of breakfast fills the air. Pancakes seemed the easiest, most sensible option - Penelo’s made them more times than she can count for their small group, and whoever else Vaan or the others might bring with them for a meal.
Cheap, filling and flexible, although as Penelo pours smaller portions out for moogle-sized cakes, one of the mechanics disappears into the icebox to return with half of a rasher of bacon, a basket of berries, a small jar of fresh butter and several other delicacies Penelo hadn’t quite been brave enough to pilfer without permission.
She mistakes the tiny chirp for a squeaking hinge at first, but it is a tiny, furry baby moogle clambering over a precarious stack of boxes, ambitious flaps of its miniature wings only seeming to send it further off balance. Penelo leans down quickly to scoop it up, a startled ‘kupo’ for her efforts but the tiny creature does not seem upset by the change in scenery, happy to settle on her shoulder and watch her work, with the occasional pinprick tug of claws in her hair.
The snap-hiss of static is familiar, a moogle fiddling with a knob in the wall, though Penelo hasn’t heard it in years. Nothing close to the coin it would take to secure a radio and nothing much in Rabanastre to broadcast these days, though even listening to the chatter of the airships had been a delight in her younger years. Now, though, she’s on a proper ship and it’s no real surprise a sky pirate’s radio is top of the line, the signal boosted enough to catch the entertainments the commercial ships bounce between themselves, fit to entertain the passengers and keep the crew from running mad on the long, dull runs.
It’s been a long time since she’s heard any music from outside Dalmasca’s borders - this a song from Rozarria, with a slow and easy beat beneath the nimble counterpoint of the strings. Making pancakes is a mindless enough task, and so Penelo can just enjoy the moment, the moogles chattering at the table, cheering when she appears with second helpings. The baby at her shoulder is enraptured as she drops a few fresh berries into the next batch, squeaking in delight when she offers it a taste.
Everything she could ask for in a day, with the sun now fully over the horizon, warming all it touches through the still-open door and so Penelo is certainly dancing and perhaps even humming a bit when she turns to find Basch and Balthier watching her from the doorway.
She doesn’t drop the pan, but it’s a near thing. Basch reminds her of nothing so much as a wild animal, strong but wary, and unsure. Testing each step in a world that had once been familiar - but when she smiles, he smiles back.
Balthier looks from her, to his now tidy if not quite gleaming mess, to the moogles still lingering over the remains of their breakfast.
“A lesser man might consider this mutiny. Is there coffee?”
“All right, food!” Vaan appears, lunging past them with a hand already outstretched toward the nearest plate and Penelo’s whacked his knuckles with the spatula before she even thinks to do it. A habit born of too many times watching him kill rats with one hand while finishing his lunch with the other. More than that, there’s royalty on this ship - a ship that isn’t theirs - and at least one of them ought to observe some rule of precedence. Between the meeting at Bhujerba and the subsequent ‘kidnapping,’ there hasn’t been much time to agree on titles, and Penelo errs on the side of manners.
“Good morning, captain. Morning, milord.” Penelo dips a curtsy as far as she dares with the moogle still on her shoulder, the baby staring curiously at Basch’s long hair, little claws flexing eagerly.
“I am no one’s lord,” Basch says. The words still creak out of him slightly, unused to the practice. “and ‘ere I were, we are now comrades in arms. Call me Basch, if you will, as my friends do.”
“Do feel free to keep calling me captain.” Balthier says blithely. “Milord would also suffice. ‘Master of the air and king of the skies,’ perhaps? I do like the way it trips across the tongue.”
“You may call him Balthier, if you are feeling generous.” Fran enters the room as gracefully as she does everything Penelo has ever seen her do. It’s more than a little intimidating just being around her, even if the viera is never less than courteous. “If you wish, there are other names-“
“Ah, Fran.” Balthier moves toward the table, and more importantly the steaming pot of coffee a moogle pushes his way. “How would I ever survive without you to defend my honor?”
The princess arrives last, while Penelo is serving Basch, and he hands off his plate to Ashelia as if he’d planned it that way. It’s just like a story, his unswerving fealty, although her Highness doesn’t seem pleased by it, taking the plate with a small frown. Vaan said she’d spent the last two years with the resistance, so it can’t be that the food is too lowborn, can it?
“If this doesn’t please you, I could make something else, your majesty?” Penelo says with another small curtsy, because whatever Balthier’s allegiances, Ashelia is still the rightful ruler of Dalmasca, and fealty is Penelo’s obligation. The princess blinks at her, still with that slight scowl. Nothing welcoming, certainly nothing like Vayne Solidor’s quiet amusement - but then, Ashelia is honest. That ought to be better than any false kindness.
“It’s fine, thank you.” A pause. “It would be better if you called me Ashe, and treated me as any other. It will raise fewer questions, and we are… allies now.” This last part spoken with a slight scowl in Balthier’s direction, though he doesn’t see, too busy looking over the blueprints the moogles have brought along.
“About that,” the sky pirate says, “I do wonder how we ought sneak past the Archadians with all that treasure on our return trip - let alone the Shard?”
“The Empire is there?” Ashe says.
“If they aren’t now, they will be soon.” Balthier says. “Unfortunately, the Strahl is of little use over Jagd sands - unlike most of the Archadian fleet. They have found their way to two shards already. It would prove quite valuable for them to keep an eye out for, say, a stray princess attempting to unearth the third.”
“But if the door’s still shut, why don’t we just leave it in there?” Vaan says. Ashe frowns, but Balthier speaks first.
“Unfortunately, Draklor’s just finished their final conversions on the Alexander. With the power in that ship, it would be no great effort for them to just smash the whole place to rubble, magicks and all, and pick through the wreckage for their prize.”
“You seem quite knowledgable of all this.” Ashe says coolly.
“If it happens in the skies, it is my business.” Balthier agrees. “And Raithwall’s tomb is legendary for a reason. Enough within those doors for even the most profligate knave to retire on tenfold. With the Shard in your possession, I believe Rozarria would be pleased to offer their aid without any holy writ or Bhujerba’s glowing praise. Which is why great Archades will no doubt do anything they can to keep it from you. All of which will surely impede Fran and I from walking away with the rest of the spoils. So I ask you again - what exactly is our exit strategy?”
Ashe tenses, her gaze skittering away. “I… I’m not certain.”
Penelo finishes with the pan, making a plate of her own, leaning back against the counter. The tiny moogle reaches out for her first forkful, and Penelo tears off a piece for it, rewarded with a happy chirp.
At the table, Basch is eating very slowly, savoring each bite. The way of a man who’d been denied any simple pleasures for a long time. He notices her attention, and smiles again. It is a gentle thing.
“The food is very good. Thank you.”
“Yeah, Penelo’s always cooking for us.” Vaan says, loading two more cakes onto his plate. “Back home, half the kids just call her mom.”
Thank you, Vaan - that’s exactly how she wants these nobles and sky pirates to think of her. Dull, dependable Penelo. She tries not to scowl, spearing at her own pancake with a bit more force than is necessary.
“I do believe there’s room at the table, if you’d care to join us.” Balthier offers, and it’s only then that Penelo realizes she’s been eating standing up, because it’s always the way of things back home. There’s usually more people than seats, and she’ll be busy cleaning, or running after the next errand that needs her attention before she’s even done chewing.
It means more than it should, the small gesture of consideration, and as Penelo sits down the moogles clear their plates and begin cleaning up their share.
“Is that a dish rack? In what world do we have a dish rack?” Balthier asks no one in particular.
“We cannot move forward without the Shard.” Ashe says, “and I will not be indebted to anyone to gain what is rightly mine.”
“Noble words, highness.” Balthier says. “Though I fail to see much profit in them. ’Tis no concern of mine either way, though I’m sure the Marquis would gladly open his doors, should you once more require refuge - especially with the Dawn Shard fresh at hand.”
“You doubt his intentions, when he did not even wish for me to leave.” Ashe protests. “As he said, it is my birthright - Bhujerba could not wield its power, and even if they could, to what purpose?”
“Possession is nine-tenths, no doubt.” Balthier says. “A relic that valuable is useful as the means, with or without a particular end. I imagine Ondore thinks much the same.”
The princess frowns. “You will not speak so of my uncle, thief.”
Balthier grins. “Says the woman so hasty to wander off with my ship.”
Penelo sees one of Fran’s ears give the briefest twitch - amusement, perhaps?
“There… may be another way out, once we find our way to the central chamber.” Basch breaks the tension, though he seems uneasy about it. “Highness, I believe your father has been inside Raithwall’s tomb.”
“What?” Ashe frowns. “That isn’t possible.”
Basch nods, his eyes low and deferential. “I remember… there were letters, from before the war. Conversations between your father and the former King of Nabradia, along with the Marquis and even ambassadors from the Rozarrian court. Your uncle seemed certain that your father had visited Raithwall’s tomb, that he had even seen the Dawn Shard and-“
“Impossible.” Ashe says again. “If my father knew of it, he would have brought the Shard to Rabanastre. He would have used it against the Empire.”
Basch hesitates, reluctant to agree. Penelo can see it from set of his shoulders even if he does not lift his head - and Ashe can see it too, her countenance increasingly cold and stormy.
“The Dusk Shard was in the palace vaults. Hidden in plain sight.” Balthier says. “It seems unlikely it found its own way there.”
“My father was no coward!” Ashe snaps.
“No, highness.” Basch says carefully. “King Raminas was truly the wisest and best of men. Yet… perhaps he knew that there are choices in this world that should never be made.”
“If we do not fight, we will be less than servants in our own kingdom. Mere vassals to the Empire.” Ashe says, incredulous. “What worse fate would you spare me?”
“Obviously the one your father wished to keep from you.” Balthier murmurs.
“I will not speak of this further.” Ashe says, rising from the table, working to keep her voice calm. “I will be in my quarters until we are ready to depart for the tomb. If I am to prove myself, we must obtain the Shard, and if the Archadians are so eager, we must not hesitate. All else is of little consequence.”
In the wake of her departure, Balthier reaches out and slides her nearly untouched breakfast onto his own plate.
“Well, I for one feel quite assured of our victory. Plans do just get in the way, as often as not.”
“I apologize.” Basch says. “There have always been more questions than I have had answers to, for a very long time now. Mysteries I have turned over and over in the dark, and still they keep their secrets.”
Balthier nods. “You truly believe King Raminas had been in Raithwall’s Tomb? Alone?”
Basch frowns, but nods. “I cannot explain it myself, and he did not confide the whole of it in me, or anyone. But for whatever reason, I do not think it was his wish that we should take the Shard. I believe he wished to keep it from the princess, most of all.”
“Well, it seems that particular choice is out of your hands.” Balthier says. “And I can only hope that Raithwall’s lesser treasures lack any similar moral dilemmas. Which brings us to the purely practical questions of how we proceed.” He looks to Penelo. “Do you know how to use a blade?”
Penelo shakes her head. Only a hunting knife, and rarely that against anything still alive. It shouldn’t be a relief, to think that whatever dark horrors may be waiting in the tomb, at least she won’t have to fight other people.
“Are you trained in any weapons?”
“The quarterstaff?” Penelo says, although she didn’t have the time or the wherewithal to actually bring -
“I have something that will suit her.” Fran says, giving her an appraising look that Penelo tries not to shy away from.
“It was my honor to fight at your brother’s side, if only for a short time.” Basch says, looking to Vaan. “I owe you a debt, and if you would wish, I might repay some small portion of it by training you in the sword. You have already proven yourself to have courage and skill in defense of your homeland. I would be glad to teach you what I know, the path to becoming a true knight of Dalmasca.”
It hasn’t escaped her notice that Vaan has been carrying a blade far sharper than anything he used in Rabanastre - a real weapon of war. The thought comes uneasily, though Penelo could never have dissuaded him, sword or no sword.
“Yeah! I mean yes. Yes, sir.” Vaan’s eyes are wide, aware of the full scope of the offer - training under the former captain of the guard himself. “Does this mean you’ll teach me how to use magicks?”
“Of course.” Basch says.
“No.” Balthier says at the same time, glaring at Vaan. “No practicing of magicks aboard my ship. No magicks within sight of my ship.”
“If Basch teaches me to be a knight, will you teach me how to fly?
Balthier sighs. “Ask me again, once we’ve survived this tomb and I’m richer than a dozen kings, and I’ll be quite happy to tell you no.”
Vaan groans. Basch smiles. The baby moogle chirps, and attempts to stuff half a pancake in its mouth.