Author's Note: Third time writing Penelo and I think I like her best in this. I actually got to go inside her head. As a girl whose had crushes (and, really, what girl hasn't?) and whose had crushes on older men, it was fun to write. P.S. I really like this. Seriously, like burning. And freezing. Maybe at the same time.
I wonder why I start so much fanfiction after the Shiva.
Special Thanks to: my awesome betas, or, er, people who kindly beta'd for me! That's Jamie and Yunie! You guys are wonderful!
Disclaimer: I do not own Final Fantasy XII.
Hot and Cold
Chapter One: Aestus
There is a mighty roar that sends the earth to trembling; the chimera vaults forward. Vaan is tossed aside. Basch hurries to protect Penelo. His concern is in vain: both are knocked to the ground, Penelo crushed beneath him. Fran is forced to lower her bow and laces her fingers together until they glow a brilliant green – the spell is complete, and Penelo rises to consciousness. The chimera's back is to the others as it swats at Ashe, who rolls from its claws and slashes its foot. Blood pours from the gash, the creature's scream lost in the crackle of a gunshot. It falls, dead, scarlet pooling from its head in a repugnant halo. Balthier places the gun in its holster – it was a grave battle, but no one misses his subtle smirk.
Hours later they are back in Rabanastre, their journey's temporary end. Wounds are fresh from the chimera and from the Shiva. Ashe orders a room for herself and disappears immediately; Fran takes care to bandage Vaan, Balthier and Basch, while Penelo insists she can heal herself. Vaan and Penelo decide to take rest in their room while the others occupy their time at the bar, nursing their wounds with drink.
Vaan collapses immediately into bed, murmuring about how bravely he fought and how he hopes she was watching, because he really is getting better. Penelo listens with half an ear, interest piqued only when the word "sword" arises, but is asleep too quickly to remember much at all.
Hours later, when the sun has sunk beyond the dunes and the moon shines through the window, Penelo awakens in a sweat. The dream is vivid in her mind, chipped into fragments: a chimera, tenfold the size of the one they fought that day, batting at her with mighty paws. A sword in her hand, the hilt alien, cold, unfamiliar. It is too heavy for her to lift – it weighs so very much, more than a sword should, and even with both her hands she cannot lift it from where the tip dips into the earth. She looks up just in time to see the beast rear and come down on her. There is a flash of white, red…
Penelo shakes her head, wiping sweat from her brow. It is not the first time she has had the dream. The enemy is always different, but the battle always the same. She glances across the room to where her staff rests against the wall. It is a formidable weapon, but dull at both ends, only suitable for slaying small foes. Yet as their journey wears on (and there is no end in sight, not one in her vision) the monsters grow greater and more terrible; she fears the day when her staff will not be enough to protect her. She burdens the group with such a plain weapon, but has no gil and no talent with anything else.
A mournful sigh bursts from her lips, one of worry and fatigue. She settles back into the pillows, brushes hair from her eyes. The dreams rob her of sleep, tiring her on their journey, until she is always pulling up the back of the group. She knows she must put an end to them, knows the only way how… It brings a blush to her cheeks, turning them a cheery pink that warms her body. That is an obstacle to tackle tomorrow, when the sun is smiling down again. Now it is late and her muscles reek of exhaustion; she falls into a dreamless sleep.
Vaan is the first to rise – it comes as no surprise, as he is always the first to do so when they are sleeping in town, while he is the last to lift himself off the bedroll when they are camping. His fumbling wakes her, so she dresses and they leave their beds unmade.
Downstairs, the others greet them within the half hour. Conversation drifts begrudgingly over breakfast – Ashe says nothing, and it seems out of respect neither does Basch. Their end of the table is stoic and morose and puts Penelo on edge, even as Vaan talks heatedly about a mark hunt in the area.
Balthier concedes to accompany him – to everyone's surprise, so does Ashe. Penelo knows her to be full of anger, so maybe it is a good thing that she takes time to swing her sword, to release her frustration. Basch offers to go with them, but Balthier insists that three is enough. It is clear to everyone he just wishes to be alone with the princess. Basch looks about to say something, but when Ashe agrees, he falls into reluctant silence. Penelo can see the displeasure splayed clearly across his face – he catches her looking at him, so she casts her gaze back to her plate, as if her one remaining strawberry is thrice as interesting as the situation unfolding before her.
That afternoon, ammunition stocked, sutures tended, blades sharpened, Vaan, Balthier and Ashe set out. Princess and pirate walk in silence while Vaan strides ahead, chattering about the last mark he hunted in the Estersand to the great disinterest of his companions.
Penelo stays behind, lost without a purpose. Fran has left them to overhear the good word of gil in the marketplace. The fact that she is working incites jealousy in Penelo, because nothing puts her at less ease than being a pair of empty hands.
Basch seems to sense her inner quarrel and asks her along on his trip the sundry shoppes. Penelo gratefully accepts and keeps a step behind him as they wade through Rabanastre. He walks as if he has never left, as if two years bound and beaten are naught but a flickering snapshot of his life. She admires him, watching from behind; he walks with confidence, with purpose, something she tries to emulate but only looks foolish doing. Instead she resumes her usual bounce.
She is more relaxed behind him than beside him, where she can look at him without worrying he might look back. His eyes, she has found, are penetrating. Even when warm, they make her run cold, then hot with humility. He is horribly good at catching her when her gaze lingers too long on him, and she fears she is obvious.
Of course, so is he, walking straight through Rabanastre with his head held high. Captain Basch: the infamous traitor of Dalmasca, the kingslayer… such names make her sick. Others too, or so they claimed years past, but now it seems as if no one even remembers his face, only the slander attached to it. It is sad, but fortunate as well, she supposes… Mostly, she finds it is sad.
Naturally, she is obvious in a different, far less grave way. Being obvious was never a problem around boys, not for Penelo, whose only friends were Vaan and Kytes. Both are lovably oblivious to things beneath the surface, so while Penelo's crush on Vaan bubbled then burnt, the only one to make her ashamed of it was Migelo. And Migelo's opinion on matters of the heart, gnarled and wizened by age, splintered by cynicism, meant very little to her.
But Basch is sharp, honed to notice every detail, so she feels naked in his presence. Unfortunately, as he seems to know everything (an annoying trait shared by Fran), he also knows how uncomfortable he makes her. And bless him (though curse him, for it only makes her feel hotter), he wishes to befriend her, so he drifts back through the crowd until they are walking beside one another.
Vaan and Penelo often fall into step with each other. Such things happen after growing up and going everywhere together. But she finds that she and Basch are at constantly differing speeds: she skips more than walks, while he glides sturdily. She feels she has to concentrate more when she walks beside him, as if she would trip over her own feet, for they become unfamiliar in his presence.
"I do not wish to cause you unease," he says. His voice is deep, the deepest she's ever heard. It is the only one to reach her ears against the din of Rabanastre's square. "A quick gait is something I've retained from the military. I often forget others have a slower pace."
Penelo cringes inwardly. "Not at all! It's not your fault! I mean, I could walk faster."
He smiles a bit, a slight upward quirk of his lips that she would not have noticed had she not found them so vexing. "You are too kind."
Penelo positively glows, so pink are her cheeks. She turned her eyes to her feet; they look clumsy and small next to his and she misses walking behind him, where she can shimmer without an audience. "Thanks."
The rest of the trip passes in silence, something that makes her only so happy. She is quiet as they cross from shoppe to shoppe, content with listening to Basch's voice as he haggles. They are soon stocked with potions and antidotes, some that cure illnesses Penelo has never even heard of.
Battle is new and strange, as are the instruments of it. Penelo is presently of little use, but she spends her time browsing the aisles, studying the tags and colors and consistencies of potions. One day the task will fall to her to restock; she tells herself she will be prepared. Still, she is unable to push out of her mind how pretty they all look – and how the most gorgeous seem to cure the most deadly sicknesses. Penelo does not want to think what "calculus" implies, or what type of creature could cast such a spell. She thinks glumly of her staff and how little good it is likely to do against creatures capable of weaving magicks she cannot even pronounce.
When they reach the weapon shoppe, she seems to float from shelf to shelf, bewitched by blinking steel. The glaives are not so pretty as the potions, but hold their own allure. Where potions are wise, steel is strong. Each weapon looks as a gallant soldier, stiffly aligned for her inspection.
Basch's voice is a deep thrum in the background as she stops at the swords. Hilts of white gold shine down on her, reflected in her eyes, saucer wide. One captivates her most: it is simple, less expensive, less lovingly crafted. There are no jewels on the hilt, or filigree, or ornate golden dragons. It is merely a blade, humble, honest, with a hilt laced of leather that calls to her. She thinks of how it will feel with her palm wrapped around it, slicing through air and beast with equal ease. She reaches tentative fingers to touch the blade, mesmerized, as the steel sings a siren song.
A large hand comes over hers. The noise of the shoppe filters back into her ears: seedy shopkeeps, brigand barterers, the quiet hiss of something slipping into a thief's pocket.
"Be careful," his tone rises above it. "They are sharper than they look."
Penelo nods, numb, and lets her hand fall back to her side.
Basch surveys the sword with the scrutiny he would hold for a recruit (or the skepticism he holds for Balthier). Pensively, he says, "It would suit you, I think. Plain but sensible. A wise choice."
Her eyes fall from the sword to her hands, twining nervously in front of her. "I don't have any gil." When she realizes she sounds pleading, she quickly adds, "And I have my staff."
"Your staff is plain, but not sensible. Not for battles to come, at least. You will need something keener, with more bite. A sword would serve you well."
She feels hot to the tips of her fingers, listening to him talk, fluctuating between feeling big and small as he compliments her, then offers advice. "I'll meet you back outside, okay?" She turns from the sword. It pulls at her, beckons her back. In an act of personal defiance, she marches stubbornly in the opposite direction.
It is hot outside, but not so hot as inside, where Penelo feels as if she's swallowed the sun. Why did he have to go and do that? He is so much older, so much wiser. He knows she could not afford such a thing as a sword, not even a simple one – and she has no idea how to wield it! Why did he persist in feeding her desires?
You desire more than a sword, remarks a clever voice in the back of her mind. Penelo groans and turns her face toward the sun. She can see it through her closed lids, feel its brightness and warmth; it helps to cleanse her thoughts. The last thing she needs at the moment is her conscience spouting inconvenient truths.
He emerges seconds later, satchel of sundries hefted over one shoulder … sword swung leisurely over the other.
"What are you doing?" Penelo whispers, as if bearing witness to a terrible scandal. "You should return it!"
"Nonsense," Basch says, placing the sword in her hands. She can feel the steel through the scabbard, cold to the touch. It is heavy, but much lighter than the sword in her dreams, which fills her with odd relief. "It will profit everyone for you to have this. A little gil is nothing."
There is happiness raging through her veins, clouding her head. Somehow, she sorts through it and tells him, "But I don't know how to use it!"
"Then I will teach you," he says simply with another subtle smile. She curses herself for protesting at all. "We'll be in Rabanastre a while yet, then we travel through the Ozmone Plain. It crawls with fiends; they will be ideal fodder for your blade. Unless, of course, you have further objections?"
Penelo, silenced, shakes her head vigorously. "Of course not!" She brings the sword to her chest, cradles it, feels the chill against her skin through her clothes. "Thank you," she mutters, and she has never meant two words more.
"Think nothing of it." He places a hand on her shoulder, but she does not shrink beneath his touch. "Now, we've two more shoppes to visit before we return. How do you suppose Vaan and the others are doing?"
Penelo knows he is really asking, "How do you suppose Ashe is doing?" She lets her arms fall to her sides, sheath firmly grasped in her hands. The heat is gone; the chill of the sword seeps into her like ice water. Nonetheless, she manages an upbeat, "I'm sure they're fine."
Basch nods and they are off again, weaving through the crowds, Penelo's heavy heart in contrast with her light steps.
For the next few days, the sword rests against the wall, silently at attention beside her staff. It takes the others two entire days to hunt down Vaan's mark, and when they return the rest of the party is treated to Ashe and Balthier's combined tempers. There is, however, a slight, unidentifiable gleam in both their eyes, and their stride is less stiff than when they left. Penelo barely picks up on it, but it seems to be beyond Basch's view, though Fran raises a questioning brow.
The viera's reconnaissance tells them the quickest path through the plains. As they are fully stocked, they wait only a day for Vaan, Ashe and Balthier to rest before beginning the pilgrimage anew. Rabanastre is to their back by noon as they travel through the Giza Plains. It is the rainy season and misery is abundant. Balthier and Ashe were amicable when they left, but they are surly again, the pirate most of all. He is not without reason, with water sloshing in his shoes, his shirt transparent and plastered to his arms. She does not envy him, but she envies Ashe a little, for Balthier's gaze rests on the fabric stuck to her skin in the most appealing places. The two are being dreadfully obvious, she thinks (not that she is one to talk), but a glance spared at Basch betrays no knowing from him. Fran does not seem to mind anymore, only rolls her eyes once or twice and ignores them as only one with such a tempered will can.
Penelo is getting increasingly frustrated. Though Vaan's complaints are loudest, they are all having an awful time making their way. The fiends are many, but inconsequential and weak, so there is no excitement in battle. It is a chore to dispense toad, and rabbits nipping at her ankles. She wonders if she has been doing this too long, as she feels no remorse in knocking the little puffballs away with her staff.
Her sword is strapped to her back. There is no time for training in the rains, for which she is grateful – they all wish to take their leave as soon as possible. The cold water turns it to ice; Penelo can easily sense the steel through her damp clothes. It chills her, sets her teeth to chattering, her bones to aching, her fingers to quivering. She fears she will turn blue with all the time they are wasting slaying vermin.
Yet there is comfort in it as well. Her staff is safe in her hands, secure. She dreads training with Basch, afraid her blazing cheeks will reveal her yet again. He must only see her as a silly young girl, an orphan with a love complex. Fear knots in her stomach, colder than steel, insistent and impossible to ignore.
The path is longer than it would be in the dry season, the ground saturated with water and mud. Her feet find no purchase, so she slides along, flailing occasionally, too aware of her gracelessness. Ashe does not seem to have this problem: she slips on occasion, but otherwise walks with the same confident stride. Fran appears completely unfazed, though Penelo muses her armor must be colder than frost. Balthier hides all his spills expertly, and Basch trudges onward as if the ground is dry beneath him. Her only comfort is Vaan, who is more frequently on his back than his feet, with grime caking his arms. They stumble together, the slowest, occasionally grabbing onto each other to keep from falling. Penelo is presently pleased that she is walking behind Basch than beside or ahead of him, where he could see her totter and curse and cover herself in sludge.
Finally the raindrops lessen, the clouds overhead begin to scour and disperse. Beneath them, the green of the grass grows more yellow. Penelo keeps her eyes to the ground until she no longer feels rain on her head, though water drips from her wet hair to the ground.
"We have reached the Ozmone Plain," announces Ashe, standing straight. Penelo thinks she looks regal, even soaked to the marrow. A true queen.
"About time," Balthier mutters then curses so quietly none but Fran hear, though it is clear by the curve of his lips that the utterance was none too pleasant.
"We should find a place to rest," says Fran. Displeasure dots her thick accent, the first hint that she disliked the trek through Giza as much as the rest of them.
Ashe nods. "There is a cave to the south. The fiends swarm to the east, far from here. We will be safe." To the others' inquiring looks, she supplies, "I used to ride here as a child."
So, damp and discouraged, they march through the insufferably sunny Ozmone Plain until they come to the cave Ashe spoke of, then set their packs inside and return to dry in the sun. Balthier strips off his vest and lays it flat on a rock; Ashe's eyes never leave him as he does. When he grins at her, aware of her ogling, she looks away, embarrassed to be caught. Penelo is happy watching them – she does not know requited love, but imagines that if any of them deserve it, no one does more than Ashe.
Penelo distances herself from the group (more specifically from Vaan, who is still complaining). She finds a rock to sit on and looks out over the plains. A smile ghosts over her lips – the sword she has left in the cave, staff beside it, and for the first time since leaving Rabanastre, she feels warm. The sun is less harsh here, not the desert sun she is used to, that she's become acquainted with. It does not beat against her skin, but blankets it; the rock she sits on, which in Rabanastre would be hot as iron, seeps warmth into her skin. She is truly comfortable.
"We rest." It does not matter what sun they are under – his voice is deep, penetrating, stolid. Penelo does not turn to look at him. "The sun is dipping lower. We will be forced to make camp here for the night." She knows where he is going with this, and wishes she could just listen to him talk without dread. His words are rich, thick, delightfully smothering. "Tomorrow, we should commence your training."
Never seems like a better time, she thinks but does not voice. "I'd like that," she says instead, which is only half a lie. She cannot see him but knows he nods, hears the soft rustle of grass as he walks away.
The thought of tomorrow makes her stomach turn and flutter. Sighing, she faces the sun, feels it kiss her skin. Her mind clears, her world nothing but smooth stone and sky-borne warmth, and there is time for tomorrow later.
But tomorrow comes sooner than anticipated. Exhausted from a day of useless fighting and with a roast rabbit filling her, Penelo is the first to fall asleep. She is also the last to wake, to the sound of a crackling fire as breakfast is cooking. The others are sitting around it – even Vaan, who is notoriously lazy in the mornings spent outside.
She rushes to sit beside him, flattening her hair with her hands. "Vaan! Why didn't you wake me up?"
He shrugs. "You looked so tired. No one wanted to bother you."
"But my watch!" Guilt pours over Penelo as the rain had the day before. "Why didn't you wake me for my watch?"
"Basch took it," Vaan says simply to Penelo's utter (though marginally well hidden) horror.
"Why did you let him?"
He shrugs again, irritably. For a boy who loves to ask questions, he takes very little joy in answering them. "He said you looked too peaceful. Now just enjoy breakfast, okay?" Vaan rises to fetch them food, while Penelo stares dejected at the ground, too embarrassed to spare a glance at the captain. It does not escape her notice that it is the first peaceful sleep she's had in a very long time. (For this reason, she wishes waking up had not been so distressing.)
Breakfast is consumed and tidied. Their packs are secured, tied and strapped to the backs of Fran, Ashe and Balthier. They head east to Jahara, though it will be a long journey, something Vaan constantly laments about. But it is dry here, so she is no longer forced to endure his unending complaints because there is no danger of drowning in mud. She marches ahead.
Basch joins her – though, as Penelo expects, they are not in similar step. "Fiends will appear soon. The princess is right: they swarm to the east, and east is where we must tread."
Penelo nods, shuddering at the chill of steel braced to her back. Basch casts a glance at it, his face unreadable. "What is it?"
"That must be uncomfortable," he says, and he is correct. The strap of the sheath is not meant to be slung over her shoulder; the buckle digs stiffly into her chest, biting the skin.
"It's all right," she lies.
"Do you not know how to fasten it?"
He has caught her. She had tried in her inn room before they left Rabanastre, multiple times, but no matter what she did, it slid off her hips. It is a sword made for a man, not for a girl so slender.
Basch places a gentle hand on her shoulder, stilling her (though her heart is racing, to her chagrin, and she would prefer it stop completely than continue this ridiculous drumming whenever he touched her). His hands go to the buckle just above her breast; her breath hisses in sharply, but if he notices, he does not say. A weight is lifted as the leather is undone, the sword falling into his grip. He takes the belt into his hands, pulling a knife from his pocket and cutting new holes in the leather.
"There," he says, handing it back to her – she battles a frown, for she half wishes he would put it on her himself. "It should fit better now."
She takes it from him and distracts herself with wrapping it around her waist. "I'm just so skinny," she mumbles, embarrassed.
"It is not a curse," he says warmly, tugging the leather himself when her fingers fumble. "It allows you speed and agility in battle. Skill will take a warrior so far, but there are weapons one is born with." Satisfied with the sword secured at her hip, he nods and continues walking.
It takes Penelo a few seconds to follow him, for she can feel the cold of the steel at her hip and the warmth of where his fingers brushed her. She wonders if she should start dressing more like Ashe, to be able to feel his skin against hers. Shaking her head, ashamed with her thoughts, Penelo breaks into a run to catch up with the rest of them.
Noon has hardly passed when they encounter their first foe. It is more fearsome than the largest they've battled: a snake that coils up and off the ground, mouth gaping, ivory fangs dripping venom. Penelo is terrified, more terrified than she is of the chimera in her dreams. It is a disgusting brute, with eyes of blood-red, that watches her as the hunter watches the deer.
Basch dips his head to her, so she draws the sword. It tumbles clumsily from its scabbard; it feels heavier than the day she received it, leaden under the serpent's gaze.
"The beasts here are more cunning, as well." Basch stands beside her, his own sword in hand. "You must be quicker."
Yet she feels slower, as if the weight of the sword has spread to her arms and legs. She can never remember being more ungraceful, barely dodging whips of the viper's tail. Basch is yelling things she does not hear – for once his voice is lost on her. Finally she strikes it, green ooze gushing from where she has sliced a thick gash along its belly. It is a blow of luck, not skill, and there is no rush of pride at the beast's violent spitting.
Fran is the one to fell it, with an arrow through the skull that sends it sprawled dead on the ground, immobile as a thick, scaly cord. Penelo feels useless as she slides the sword back into its sheath. Basch says nothing; she does not meet his eyes for the disappointment she fears they will reflect..
They march on. Penelo resigns herself to the back with Vaan, who regales her with how brilliantly he fought the snake. She congratulates him and nods along. There is a pang of guilt, she is not really listening, but the knowledge of failing Basch is more consuming by far. Her staff she has left in the cave now far behind them. She is stuck with a weapon she knows not how to wield, that only burdens her comrades, that makes her seem foolish and thick-fingered. The sword is colder than ever before, a cold that spreads through her whole body. Her eyes never leave Basch's back.
The journey is peaceful until evening, where they settle in the groove between two hills. The sun is merrily sinking in the sky; it will be a good hour before dark. Penelo does not wait, but throws the sword off as if it is a dirty thing, and climbs one of the hills protecting them. She sits at the top, looking over a seemingly endless expanse of rolling earth and green grass and cliffs in the distance. The sword is gone, yet the shame beats the same.
Basch is suddenly beside her, sitting, long legs spread casually in front of him. Penelo lowers her eyes to the ground, watches the dust rustle in the slight breeze. She cannot bring herself to speak first.
"I am sorry," he says, which shocks her, as they words on the tip of her tongue as well. She looks at him, confused. "I should have prepared you, not shoved you into battle. I forget you are a child, not a soldier."
The word "child" hurts her, incenses her, evokes heat in her – she is overcome with the desire to prove him wrong. "I am not a child," she says derisively.
"Of course not," he says, clearly unconvinced, but he tries to be kind. It is not enough for her. She turns her eyes away, fist clenched at her side where he cannot see. She does not notice he has the sword lain sheathed beside him. When he stands it is the first time it is in her sight; dread settles in her throat, a thick lump she is unable to swallow.
He picks it up then extends a hand to her, which she hesitantly accepts. She is on her feet, looking up at him, then down at the sword. He pushes it gently into her hands.
"Draw it," he says, and she obeys. It slides out without elegance, stuttering, jerking, her hands trembling.
"Don't swing it," Basch warns, anticipating her next move. She nods, holds it in her hands idly, wonders what else it is good for but swinging and stabbing and slicing. "Feel it. It must become your own, an extension of your body. Do not see it as a sword, see it as your sword."
She dips her head again, numb. Her eyes close; she can hear it singing as it did in the shop. It warms in her hands, not cold, merely cool. Her fingers flex around the hilt, the leather smooth against them, until she knows the grain and fray of it.
"Good." Basch's voice is soothing, relaxing. It is not yet a part of her body, but she feels it will be in time. Penelo opens her eyes and smiles at him.
Basch smiles back. "I would like to leave it at that, but there will be more fiends on the morrow, and so your training is rushed. For now, all you can hope to do is mimic." He draws his own sword with such fluidity that she feels clumsy again. "You will develop, as time goes on, and you will hone a skill all your own. But for now, watch me, in battle as well. Do what you can."
I watch you all the time, she thinks, but stifles the need to say it. Basch extends an arm, his sword pointing towards the sinking sun; Penelo does the same. It is still heavy and shakes unsteadily at the end of her arm, threatening to fall. But her will is iron, as is her grip, so it never once tumbles from her hand. He swings slowly in a wide arc; she follows suit. It is a weight she welcomes, one she knows will make her stronger. Her heart pumps loudly in her ears as she brings the blade up, down, testing the strength of her muscles.
"It grows dark." The spell is broken. Her heart hushes; she nodes, slipping her sword into its scabbard. It glides easier in than before – a small feat she takes immense pride in. He notices and there is that subtle smile; it is enough to make her believe she's moved a mountain.
"We will continue tomorrow." Sword sheathed, he stretches his fingers. "For now, there is dinner and a good night's rest."
At the word rest, she stiffens. "Um, thank you," she says. It has been so long since she last spoke. "For taking my watch last night."
"It was an no trouble," he says, which she knows to be a lie, for no one enjoys watch.
"But you can wake me up, okay? From now on." Her heart feels lighter without the guilt of costing him sleep. "No matter how peaceful I look."
He tenses. For a moment Penelo swears she can see pink on his cheeks, but then decides it is only the setting sun. He mumbles something gruffly and is off down the hill, Penelo trotting happily behind him.
As they travel through the Ozmone Plain, days melting into nights and nights, in turn, into days, her sword becomes warmer, her muscles stronger. She practices with both arms, and today her blade has felled its first. As the others sit around the campfire (the sun still high but their retirement early after Vaan twists his ankle), she is bursting with pride.
"You are doing well," Basch tells her. Both are washing dishes in the stream.
She glows under his praise. "It's because I have you to teach me."
"And I have more to teach you." She is delighted, though she keeps it to herself and shows her happiness only in the tiniest of smiles.
"When?" she asks, concentrating especially hard on scrubbing a plate.
"We have taken dinner early, and it will be many hours before twilight sets. After we are finished here, I'm sure we would not be sorely missed."
Penelo laughs. "Okay."
The dishes are done soon (Penelo's first, for she is too eager even for her liking) and lain to dry. They both pick up their swords and move away from the warmth of the fire, just out of sight. Basch does not mind training before the others, but Penelo likes her privacy (though she is surprised she has any sense of it left after living with nosy Vaan all her life).
"You mimic well in battle," he says. He does not draw his sword but encourages her to unsheathe her own. "But you are light and swift. It is a gift that does not match my own, of brute strength. You can improve only by following the beat of your own body, rather than mine."
Her face is hot, so hot after what he has just said, but he does not seem to notice. "I'm not sure I understand."
Basch seems to think on that for a moment, then wordlessly moves behind her. "You are a dancer, correct?"
"Yes," she barely chokes out, for he is so close she can feel his heat.
His hands move over her arms, one at her elbow, the other loosely over the hand that grasps the hilt. "Then think this way: battle is a dance. Your partner, your enemy, moves both with you and against you." His words are to her ear. He is in no way trying to seduce her, but she feels herself melting against him, back to his chest. "Do you see?"
Penelo's throat is dry, as if she has been drinking in the Estersand. "Y-yeah."
He nods; she can feel the scratch of his cheek against her temple. Shivers are sent down her spine, warning bells knelling. "When you dance, how do you move?"
It is an unexpected question. She is not sure how to respond, or if she even has an answer. Finally, she says with great uncertainty, "The way my body tells me."
"Then that is how you must move in battle." He guides her arm up; the sword makes a slow circle. She can almost see it cut through the air like silk. "There is more than mechanics and stratagems and proper footing when you are in the fray. It is the heat of the moment, where you are dancing between life and death. You must follow the rhythm within yourself."
"A-all right," she mumbles. She is so far gone, lost in his presence. She can smell him, feel him, longs to taste him. They say nothing, merely stand there breathing for a moment, Penelo's eyes half-lidded. The sword pulses in her hand, hot in the most raw, wonderful way. Then…
"PENELO!"
Basch immediately steps away from her, hands to his sides. Penelo blushes madly and wishes Vaan had sprained his head rather than his ankle, so he could not ruin her evening now. Basch begins walking back to camp. For once Penelo walks ahead of him, sword cool and sheathed.
"Yes, Vaan?" she asks irritably.
"Do you have any potions in your pack? My ankle really hurts."
Penelo sighs and goes to her satchel, rummaging through sleep draughts to find a potion bottle. "Couldn't you have gotten it yourself?"
"It really hurts," he says again, expecting sympathy and receiving none. When she practically throws the bottle at him, he asks, "What's wrong with you?"
"Nothing," she grumbles, sitting beside him. She wishes for better company, but Fran is busy with her bow, Balthier and Ashe have disappeared to gods-know-where, and Basch is the last person she wants to be around (a lie: he is most certainly the very first, which is worse rather than better). So she absorbs herself in conversation with Vaan. He has not changed, at least not for the worse: he is still the same upbeat, adorably clueless boy he has always been. His jokes at Balthier's expense entertain her most (and there are many, luckily for her and unluckily for the pirate; she suspects Vaan's playful contempt stems from his crush on Ashe and how she clearly does not parrot his affections), and Fran to some extent, for there is the phantom of a smirk on the viera's face.
The night passes peacefully. Ashe and Balthier return by the time everyone turns in. Basch insists on taking first watch, casting Balthier a curt glance. Perhaps, Penelo muses as she falls asleep, he is finally noticing them. It pains her slightly that he is still not noticing her.
Penelo's training passes by quietly, though their battles do not. The days grow longer but the fiends no sparser. They begin attacking in groups, and suddenly the serpent does not look so mighty, dwarfed by the beasts that haunt the eastern borders of the plain. Yet with the danger grows the skill, as Penelo becomes accustomed to battle with her sword. She weaves rather than ducks, senses rhythm in the havoc that others cannot. She finds Basch watching her, often in the final moments of battle, with a keen eye. There is pride there, though he still has much to teach her, but she is happier than she ever was in Rabanastre, when her life was safe and dull and careening toward a dismal future.
When they finally reach the Land of the Garif, Penelo's heart feels lighter than it has in days. They are welcomed into the village, greeted by masked beings the likes of which she has never seen. Her eyes wander their painted faces, rapt by their bodies that bend in ways no other creature's can. She knows it is not polite to stare, but cannot help herself: they are beautiful and exotic, and she holds for them the same reverence she held for Fran upon first meeting her. It appears the world is vaster than she could have ever known, populated by creatures more diverse and abundant than just humes, bangaa and seeqs. What other cultures live beyond Rabanastre's walls?
They are offered tents and accept gratefully. Vaan is overjoyed by the sight of actual blankets and throws himself on them. Penelo, with more tact, merely sets her sword by her bed. Ashe is away, seeking the War-Chief, while Balthier and Fran restock on supplies (though Balthier's eyes wander to the treasures proudly displayed by the Garif, which will no doubt earn him only trouble). Basch, she suspects, has gone with Ashe, but she is not jealous. His presence has been constant in the past week, and though she misses it, it is nice to spread her wings and explore alone.
Their village is tiny and simple. There are Garif of every size: the young duel each other with wooden swords while the others observe idly (or so she assumes, for she cannot discern their eyes in their ornate masks); children wind around her, laughing and chasing one another. Penelo realizes how greatly she has missed other people. The air is warm with smoke, the aroma of vegetables frying in spices and meat being turned over, and she has missed real food too (one can only subsist on baked bunny for a time).
A path winds down to a river, full and lush and rushing. Not a proper bath, but any bath is divine. She eagerly awaits the night and the privacy that accompanies it. Penelo is glad they have accepted the Garif's offer to say, for her legs ache from walking.
She passes by a tarnished mirror and stops. Looking back at her is a girl, tanned by days in the sun, with longer hair than Penelo recalls having. There is a cut across her cheek earned from a smarmy viper, but the girl looks brave, hardened… Almost like a woman.
Penelo has never found herself pretty (besides, what does it matter, being a pretty orphan? The only thing that was good for is something Penelo swore never to do), but the girl in the mirror… She is wild, new, enticing. Yet while she stands out, she also fits in: she seems to belong, proud against the vista of weapons and smoke and tents. It thrills Penelo as much as it scares her to say that she likes the girl – quite a bit.
She turns away from the looking glass, feeling she's stared into its depths too long – vanity is not a sin she welcomes. She continues on, though her mind remains in the mirror, where there is a warrior inside waiting to be free.
The evening is alive with music. It is beautiful, drifting to her ears and swallowing her whole. For so long, all she has heard is the bustle of Rabanastre's streets or the screeching of fiends in the night, but never music like this. Such rhythm, raw and seductive.
Everyone is around the fire, even Larsa, who had arrived earlier to strike alliances with Ashe. His presence is sudden but welcome, though it has caused a rift in the princess that leaves her eyes somberly stuck on the fire's coals. Larsa himself is some feet away from the others. She feels for him, but knows distance is what he wishes and needs at a time like this. They must accept him as a whole, and she has firm faith that they will. In the meantime, he is enveloped in thought and deaf to the embrace of strings and drums; Penelo thinks it is best not to disturb his deliberation, so occupies herself with other things.
The Garif invite her to dance (they invite them all, but Penelo is the only one to accept) and she finds a beat in her she had not known was there. It has been weeks since she's danced; it is different than before. She can feel her muscles move, tensing and flexing, sinuous and fluid beneath hot skin. Every motion talks to her, every swivel, every leap; her feet draw patterns in the dirt, masterpieces as she is consumed by the music, the mood, the movement.
She dances until sweat drips into her eyes, then stops and sits beside Basch.
"I have never seen you dance," he says as she drinks greedily. The liquid in her shell-cup is thick, tart, something she does not recognize, but she is thirsty and swallows her fill. "It is lovely."
She knows he means it in a friendly way, but heat flares in her again at his words. Despite her flush, the fact that he says "it is" rather than "you are" is not lost on her. "Thank you," she says, then adds, "You should have danced too."
Basch chuckles; Penelo stills. It is a sound she has never heard, warmer than the music around them. "I know only how to waltz. My skills are useless here."
"Who knows?" She wonders why she is talking. More liquid is poured into her cup, and she is still thirsty. Mindlessly, she goes on, "Perhaps they will play a waltz."
"Perhaps they will." His tone is disbelieving, but rightly so. She only smiles and allows him his skepticism. He wears it well, if too often for her tastes, but there is something in him that was absent when they left Rabanastre. It is new; she likes it as she likes the girl in the mirror. So many new things are inviting, as the music to her ears and the drink to her tongue.
Vaan, who himself claimed to be rather thirsty, rises to applause and begins to dance. It is sloppy and so amusing that even Ashe smiles slightly. Penelo notices, through the haze of smoke and fire and wine, that she is huddled close to Balthier. His arm is around her shoulders as they both drink deeply. None of what is presently happening bodes well for the morning, but for the evening they are guests, free and happy, so the morning is the furthest thing from their minds.
Penelo dances again and again and again, until one song becomes another and she cannot discern between them. When she goes to sit, Basch is absent. Penelo frowns, kindly denying a shell-cup handed to her by someone or other, and distances herself from the fire. It feels cold without him there. Tonight, there is too much warmth to be shared that ought not be wasted.
She spies him by the river, standing at the edge and looking out. The land rises and dips before them, untamed by anyone, even the Garif. It is dry, but not a desert – a canyon: inhospitable, uninhabitable.
She comes up beside him. Her steps are clumsy, uncoordinated, but she takes no notice.
"Why aren't you at the fire?" she asks. The river bubbles pleasantly, soothing her hot ears. The music is muted behind them, seamlessly sewn into the cool night air.
"A moment of privacy," he says, but smiles at her. "Or reflection."
She thinks of hers, tanned, pretty (though she'd never admit it normally), and is suddenly overwhelmed by confidence. "Have you tried the wine? It's delicious." To both their alarm, she links her arm in his, but she collects herself and decides it feels just fine.
Basch, who has not had so much to drink, sighs and gently removes his arm. "You are drunk."
Penelo cocks her head to the side. Her hair, freed some time ago in a dance, tumbles off her shoulder. She seems to glow in the moonlight, a fact that is not lost on Basch, who is more than a bit inebriated himself. She is a star against the amorphous black behind, a sight all too delightful for his liking. He looks away.
"You should dance," she goes on, unfazed. "I'll ask them for a waltz if you like."
"That is quite all right." Penelo is grateful for such a response: she doubts the Garif have ever heard of the waltz, and thinks that if they have, they must find it distasteful. "It would not be fair to ask. Theirs is a melody of passion."
"Then you should dance to passion." It is said so plainly, he is forced to look at her. She is so drunkenly determined it brings a smile to his face.
"I fight to passion. You battle as you dance, I dance as I battle. It is stiff and unappealing. An insult to what you do so well."
She flushes, though her cheeks are pink already. "Fine," she mutters, tone saying it is clearly not. He sighs again, a sound she hates, but he knows she is too drunk.
"You should rest."
"You should dance." When that does not win her any favor, she says begrudgingly, "I'm not tired."
"You will be. Come." He grabs her delicately by the arm to guide her away from the river. To his shock, she violently shakes him off.
"If you're going to take me," she says angrily, "then take me by the hand."
He is not as surprised as he should be, or as reluctant, but he has drunk wine too and it blurs the edges of his logic. He reaches out and takes her hand in his, small, calloused, cut.
Penelo gasps, a tiny gasp that seems impossibly loud to her. She did not expect him to comply; she herself knows she is being ridiculous, that she is intoxicated by wine and merriment and his presence. But his hand is warm, so very warm, so she threads her fingers through his and walks happily beside him.
They reach her tent, though she does not know how, as she cannot remember most of the short journey there. She has never been drunk before: though it is frightening it is also delightful, this buzz within her that makes her forget fear – among other things. She does not release his hand, but faces him and leans close. She can almost hear his heartbeat, better than the most exotic music, warmer than the highest fire.
"Penelo," he says, and she can hear his voice better than ever before. Every tone of it is apparent, yet slurred. Her thoughts are mixing together as artist's paint, and she does not know if the color is beautiful or hideous. It does not matter; she concentrates on the sound of his voice. He says her name again, more forcefully, over and over again. Perhaps there are minutes between the utterances, perhaps seconds, perhaps half-seconds. Time is irrelevant to her, as is silence. All she hears is his voice, and she seeks it out, seeks it, seeks it…
Until her lips are on his. It is too much and too little at the same time: her eyes are softly shut and she can feel her pulse and every beat in her body and nothing of the world around her. She thinks she must be blazing in the night, brighter than the colossal fire down below, for so hot is she that she feels her blood is magma. The wine in her veins won't tell her how long she burns until he pushes her away.
"Penelo!" Her name is cried in alarm. Fragments of the night: dancing, the river, walking, kissing – flash before her eyes. She feels sick all of a sudden, woozy. He reaches to steady her, picks her up and lays her on her bedroll.
Her eyes are closed; she does not see him leave, only hears as his heartbeat grows fainter. She remembers almost nothing, yet knows in the morning she will recall the kiss and how spectacularly she has botched everything up. Tomorrow there will be regret and mourning and stolen glances and walks of shame and no more proud looks as she dances across the battlefield. Tomorrow will be pain and sorrow and worry and harsh leers at the pretty girl in the mirror. Tomorrow will be regret and avoidance and empty of him. Tomorrow, there will be frost.
But tonight her mind is hazy and thick, a different thickness than his voice, one that makes her nauseous, one that she drowns in. She has no worry for tomorrow, only illness behind her eyes. She is asleep before she realizes she is tired.
Tomorrow is for another day.