“Adfero and Sentio—”
“Exsentio,” Ashe corrected immediately. She seemed surprised by her own brashness, blinking away her embarrassment with a shy quiet, an observation that Balthier filed away for consideration at a later time before replying.
“You Dalmascans are so commodious with your translations. The Ex part of Exsentio was a symbol, not an uncial.”
Ashe’s expression, the one of shyness and hope, so strangely like a child who was too young to be as old as her life’s experiences had lead her, but still wanting, still begging—always begging, dammit—didn’t change. It was the expression he could not resist, but he did not censor his aggravated sigh, either.
“Fine then. Adfero and Exsentio”—if she noticed the pointed look he gave her at that brief break, she did not show it—“were brothers. One particular thread of the tale describes them as twins, but I find that too advantageous to be right. The youngest and final two sons of the Dynast-King, your chap Raithwall.”
“Like every story worth being told, there was a girl. Hair of liquid sunlight, face that could launch a thousand ships, bosom worthy of a palace, what have you.” Ashe gave no indication of being impressed by his description, giving Balthier pause for thought. Growing up as she did—he remembered one night over a bleak fire, her tales of more brothers than some houses had wooden filaments, teasing and torturous in a way that would toughen anyone; tales often cut off in the quick before she got too lost in her own memories—he wondered of the impression it would leave on a child, the sudden transition of being surrounded by family to having none. And then, that word—child. Did he really think of her as such? Her glance from just a few moments earlier, encouraging him to tell the story the way she desired, was nothing if not childlike. Requesting a piece of her infancy to be given back to her on the eve of Adfero Exsentio, which were anachronistic to the point of being two different things between Dalmasca and Archadia. Would she have asked the same of Fran, or Basch, or—had he not proved a snake in the grass, biting above the ankle—Azelas the same thing?
Clearing his throat, Balthier realized he had drifted a bit. Not as much as he may have remarked upon himself for, but enough to merit her majesty’s curious glance. He continued, “She was a simple village girl, probably dull as a stone but legends are not written about the size of a lady’s mind. Melaras, they called her, and she became a source of competition between the already hostile brothers Adfero and Se—Exsentio. Both aspired to win her over, showering the maiden Melaras with gifts and namesakes and battles won in her honour. It never occurred to either of those boys to pluck her virgin strings, which could add some much needed colour to a rather ordinary tale.”
Ashe drew herself up to full height, shoulders straightening like a battle-ready feline at his words. She settled a moment later and he couldn’t help but wonder what she was thinking—was she going to be offended he didn’t tell it like St. Queen Amasis? Balthier hoped not. His version, rife with hidden gems of innuendos and rife with colour commentary, had to be more interesting.
“When each brother learned of the other’s interest in Melaras, it spawned a rift between them. If you supported one, you could not support the other, immaturity of that sort. It threatened to tear the nation apart, if Raithwall did intend to give land to each of his sons—not the most democratic way to govern, if I may add—so he sanctioned off two of the isles where he had sent settlers in the decade past on opposing sides of Ivalice. To Adfero he bequeathed the Copper Isle, and to Exsentio, Gedrann’s Isle. Around the same time as the princes took up governing the settlements, Exsentio won the hand of the fair Melaras, and made her his willing bride. Poetry, I hear, was the medium of choice for winning her over although I suspect it didn’t need any sort of rhyming scheme or motif of attraction, as long as had a good grasp on the basic uncials of the old tongue.” His ill comments concerning the maiden’s lack of intellect did not go unnoticed by Ashe, and he couldn’t resist wondering why he was going so far out of his way to besmirch said attribute. Not for his own amusement, surely? He did not fancy himself cruel enough for that, but—No. It was not worth further consideration.
He snuck a glance at her, out of the corner of his eye, feeling more pleased at his rendition seeing the faint wisp of a smile on her lips. He liked her smile, Balthier decided, as rare as it seemed to be.
“Exsentio and Melaras went on to have one son and fostered a peaceful, loyal community on Gedrann’s Isle. Adfero was the crushing government of a tempestuous populace on the Copper Isle, living out his life bitter and without a companion. Until in the most intriguing plot device of all, a furious typhoon swept up from the ocean’s depths and destroyed all of Gedrann’s Isle, leaving only Exsentio as a survivor, his bride and son—as well as the village he resided over—perishing beneath the tumultuous sea.
“Exsentio did the most remarkable thing yet; he got himself to the Copper Isle without considering the more logical option of going back to the Capital, where he mourned the lost of his wife and son to an embittered Adfero. The misery-laden brother thought to end his own life, having nothing left to live for—that sounds a bit familiar, does it not?—” Balthier’s response to the stern glance she offered him was a cheeky smile, “—but Adfero would have none of it. He fed Exsentio, gave him warm clothes and a bed to sleep in with the promise that things wouldn’t look so bleak in the morning. In the dead of night, Adfero petitioned Ivalice’s wayward deities, the Occuria, to accept the sacrifice of his life to resurrect Melaras and the child, to make Exsentio happy once more. They accepted, and took Adfero of all his life force in sacrifice. Exsentio and Melaras took over the rule of the Copper Isle, bringing peace to the oppressed pilgrims.”
Her face was unreadable again, giving Balthier cause to curse all women who deigned themselves to be as the princess Ashelia does. He covered it up with his own usual lukewarm expression, “I hope that fulfilled your need.”
“It was colourful,” she responded. “I think—thank you, Balthier.”
He nodded, but didn’t say anything else, and instead wondered about the possibility of getting a cool drink somewhere, he was somewhat dry in the throat from the story.
“It has been years since I was told that story,” she continued, and he noticed she was twisting the one ring she still wore on her left hand. “The allure that something has to a child is very oft different than to a grown person. Stories presenting false hope and empty possibilities—I should know to abstain, now. Thank you for reminding me.”
“‘She cannot abide weakness, least of all in herself,’” Balthier quoted with a lightness he didn’t feel. “Tell me, do you look upon your memories as a source of weakness or strength? When you think of your sainted husband, what do you feel?”
“It is of no regard to you.” Her eyes seemed almost alight with anger—how could she feel so much, so often, and be so constantly spun about? Balthier remembered the last time he was ever truly confused on the path his life should take, and he had took to the sky. Up where there was no clear path save the one cut by oneself, where he had left behind all confusion and worries and regrets. She was speaking again, and he petitioned himself to listen, “—prefer it if you kept to flying and thieving, not trying to ascertain my motives. I do it…”
Balthier delighted in the silence, and took control of the conversation. “Dinner?”
Her expression registered surprise, and he elaborated, “One of Archadia’s best kept secrets is just a stone’s throw away. I sure am famished from all the flying and thieving I do.” She did not answer, and he took her silence as an unspoken consent, for he started to walk. After a moment of hesitation, she followed.
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Silence, unwavering but not unpleasant. Balthier lifted his face to the pleasant musk of the pub, the mixed scent of curry and tomato powder and cheap silk. His eyes did not drift, as he would have expected, from the countenance to the bosom of the closest tavern wench, but instead to the distracted expression of his dinner companion and down to the drinks menu.
She was angry with him. That much he knew. He cursed women collectively at times like these, when men were unsure what they had done wrong or how to charm their way out of it. No, that wasn’t right. Had it been Penelo, or the redhead from Bhujerba whose name he had never sought to figure out, or the tavern wench, he would have slithered out of a female’s ire by now and be back into her good books. It was Princess Ashelia with the annoyance, which could smother an issue until there was nothing left and then find something else to be angry about a moment later.
Finally, her eyes lifted upward and it seemed like she wanted to say someone. Balthier readied himself for another argument, without regret. Fine then. Fine. It was completely all right with him if she wanted to do verbal battle while he was paying for her food. He didn’t need the approval of some irritable, bitter, cavalier, ungrateful—
“You’re wrong.” A beat, and Balthier tensed more than he’d admit in waiting. “Ex was an uncial.”
He couldn’t help it. He laughed. “If you say so,” he flipped open the menu in front of him. “Let’s order, shall we?”
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