Chapter Text
Chapter Thirty-Three
Eruyt, the Viera Village, in Golmore Jungle
Year 706 of the Old Valendian Calendar
Not fast enough. Ghis’s blade plunged through the air, straight for Ashe’s heart. Balthier wasn’t fast enough. Not there. Vossler was there. He was there every time. It had bugged Balthier to no end. But he always messed up. Vossler didn’t. He saved Ashe. It cost him everything, but he wasn’t afraid to do it. Balthier could only imagine doing something like that. Just another kid, Vossler had said. Maybe he was right.
“Shouldn’t we try and get out of here?” That was Vaan’s voice, but whether it was real, or just part of the convoluted dreamscape Balthier had been trapped in, he couldn’t tell.
“Don’t be hasty,” came Basch’s voice. “I doubt we’d make it far.”
“Yes, why don’t we try talking with them?” Larsa’s voice joined the conversation. “I’m sure they’ll listen if we’re calm and sensible.”
“They won’t,” said Fran. “They won’t listen to you. I doubt they’d listen to me.”
“But we have to do something, don’t we?” said Ashe. Her voice sounded very close.
“Something, yes,” Basch said, “but nothing hasty.”
“But what are they going to do with us?” Penelo said. She sounded very scared.
“If they wanted to kill us, you’d think they’d have done it already,” Larsa said. “Don’t worry, Penelo; we’ll be fine.”
By this time, Balthier was aware he was no longer dreaming. His whole body felt stiff, and his head ached horribly. A groan escaped his lips as Balthier tried and failed to force his eyes open.
“Oh!” Ashe let out a gasp. “I think he’s waking up. Balthier?”
As Balthier’s eyes opened, the first thing he saw was Ashe’s face, blurry but distinctive, backed by rich, golden light. He wondered where the light came from, because the last thing he remembered, they were walking through the dark paths of Golmore Jungle.
“Balthier! Are you alright?” Ashe asked, her concerned face coming into focus at last.
“I’m… fine,” Balthier said, more out of instinct that any real appraisal of his condition. He sat up, holding one hand against his pounding forehead. Everyone was there, apparently unharmed, kneeling on the wooden floor. The roof of whatever room or cell they were in wasn’t high enough to stand. The walls and roof of the small, domed, almost igloo-like structure were woven of branches, with green leaves sticking out in places. Warm light shone in through the cracks in the branches, and through a doorway, outside of which stood three Viera welding spears, glaring through the opening at the prisoners. Balthier decided they were definitely prisoners, and this cramped space was definitely a cell. How they’d gotten there, however, and where all those Viera came from, he had no idea.
“You’re awake,” Basch said, as if this wasn’t obvious. He sat one side of the doorway, on the opposite side of their cell from Balthier. Along that wall sat Vaan, Penelo, and Larsa. Fran knelt by the doorway’s other side, and Ashe sat with Balthier where he’d been lying unconscious for who knew how long.
“Where are we?” Balthier asked, still rubbing his head.
“Those Viera dragged us off,” Vaan replied. He sat leaning against the wall. He looked almost nonchalant compared to Penelo, who knelt beside him, eyes wide, glancing constantly out the door at their guards. “This is their village, Fran said,” Vaan continued. “Penelo thinks they’re going to roast us on kebobs or something.”
“No, I don’t!” Penelo said. “They won’t!” She cast a questioning look at Fran. “Right?”
Balthier sighed. “Does anyone know what’s actually going on?”
“The hunters who brought us here are speaking with the high priest,” Fran replied. “He’ll decide what to do with us.”
“And who is this ‘high priest?’” Balthier asked.
“The wood priests weave the myst,” Fran replied, keeping one eye on their guards outside. “They control the trees’ growth to create the village, use myst to light it, and create barriers to keep monsters away. They create our village and rule it. The most skilled of the priests is the high priest, who also leads us all.”
“And now he holds our fates in his hands?” Balthier said, nodding, though the action brought a fresh throb to his head.
Fran nodded. Her gaze held a real fear Balthier had only seen a few times.
“I doubt they’ll actually execute us, right, Fran?” Balthier asked.
“They…” Fran shook her head, sighing. She scooted closer to Balthier, hissing low so no one else could hear. “They see it.”
“See what?” Balthier said, confused. He was still too groggy to deal with riddles. “Fran, what are you talking about?”
Fran just sighed. Balthier frowned a few moments more, then it struck him. Of course, the Viera all knew the song. Fran had said she didn’t care for ancient tales, and even she knew of it. And if they all felt the same way she did when they first met…
“Oh,” he said. “That’s bad, isn’t it?”
Fran nodded.
“What’s bad?” Ashe asked, frowning. Balthier sighed; he’d forgotten she was close enough to hear.
“Nothing. Don’t worry about it, princess,” Balthier said, hoping she wouldn’t make a fuss. She seemed about to say more, but a call from outside cut her off.
“Fran! You’re to come with us.”
One Viera guard stuck his head into the doorway, holding a spear in one hand. He pointed a finger at Balthier. “Bring that thing along.”
“‘That thing?’” Balthier sighed. “I’ve been reduced to ‘that thing?’”
“Silence, creature,” the Viera snapped. “Come. Quickly.” He drew back out the doorway, leaving them alone again.
Balthier let out a sigh. “Not much choice, then, I suppose. Come on, Fran; let’s go.”
Fran stared at him a few moments, then down at the floor. She really did look scared. At last, she nodded and slipped out the door. Still aching all over from whatever crude sedative they’d used to knock him out, Balthier pulled himself to his feet. The cell must’ve been designed to be torturingly restrictive, more like a dog crate than a room, very cramped with six people inside; the roof was so low it kept Balthier in an awkward crouching position, but at it was so small it took only a few graceless steps to get him out the doorway and into open air.
The sight of the village outside astonished him. Balthier now understood what Fran meant by the priests ‘controlling the trees’ growth to make the village.’ The town was high in the trees, streets made of branches as fat as roads, houses carved from living tree trunks. High above, a cloud of myst showered gentle light down on the village. A row of cells woven from living branches lined this road, far above the central mass of the village.
Then the band of a dozen Viera, armed and frowning furiously, attracted Balthier’s attention.
“Come on,” said the one who’d called Balthier and Fran from the cell. “The ceremony is prepared. The high priest awaits.”
The band of Viera led Balthier and Fran through the winding tree-branch pathways, down into the center of the Viera village.
“You know what they’re going to do with us?” Balthier asked Fran, who walked beside him. He kept his voice down to avoid being shouted at by the guards surrounding them.
Fran was about to reply, but the company halted before she could. They stood on a large central plaza; a great number of Viera gathered there, all watching from a safe distance.
“High Priest Jote!” called one of the guards, who seemed to be in charge. “We’ve brought the prisoners! The traitor and… it.”
Fran brought her head up suddenly. “Jote?” she said, frowning.
“Step forward!” The guard grabbed Fran’s arm, jerking her up in front of the procession. He didn’t grab Balthier, just stepped aside to let him go through. Sighing, Balthier did so.
In the center of the plaza stood a Viera woman, silver hair flowing loose around her shoulders, face set in a fierce frown. Fran gasped.
“Jote! Sister, you are high priest?”
“No outsider is a sister of mine!” Jote snapped, marching up to Fran. “Viera who abandon the wood are Viera no longer. You knew that when you left.”
“I knew my path lay elsewhere,” Fran replied.
“Then why have you returned?” Jote asked. She continued before Fran could reply. “But that is not why you have been brought here. I merely wanted you to watch, traitor, as the evil you side with meets its fate.” Not waiting for a reply, Jote walked past Fran to come face to face with Balthier. She stared at him with narrowed eyes. “How fitting that our fated foe wears the likeness of those wretched hume-creatures. Are you prepared to face death, evil?” she all but snarled.
Balthier heaved a sigh. “I am not evil incarnate, alright? Can we discuss this before you start dragging out your gallows?”
“We do not discuss with evil,” Jote replied. “The myst shatters. The prophecy is fulfilled. The ancient evil will die.”
Balthier sighed; holding back just didn’t seem to be an option anymore. “I didn’t choose to be like this, you know,” he began, holding Jote’s smoldering gaze. “I’d never even heard of prophecies or ancient evils until Fran told me. I’ve only ever wanted to live a normal life. Yes, I always knew I was… different, and there are things I can do, and yes, it is hard to control. Harder than you know. And I have hurt people. I’d change it all in a heartbeat if I could, believe me. But I can’t. And right now, I have a mission. Fran and I and our friends, we’re trying to stop a war, one that will unleash powers I’ll bet even you couldn’t hide from. I’m trying to save this world, not destroy it.”
“Your words ring true,” Jote said after a few moments. “But words mean nothing. Evil deceives, first and foremost.”
“Then what does mean something?” Balthier said, patience wearing thin. “How can I convince you I am not evil?”
“You cannot,” Jote replied. “The sign is there. That is the end.” She turned from him to face the crowd of gathered Viera. “We have longed a thousand years for this day, my people!” she began, holding out her hands as she addressed them. “The warnings of our ancestors told us to watch and wait, and now we they were true. The evil will come, and we will destroy it, before it rises again. That time we have awaited, and that time is now!”
The crowd erupted into cheers, and Balthier got a terrible sinking feeling. Jote turned from the crowd to face him again, her face hard with stony resolve.
“No!” Fran shouted. One of the other guards held her back. She struggled against him, to no avail. “Jote, you can’t! You don’t-”
“Silence!” Jote snapped. “This is Viera’s duty. You forfeited your right as such long ago.”
Jote produced a knife, a leather sheath over its blade, gemstones embedded in its hilt. She slid off the sheath, revealing a bright silver blade, ancient letters carved along its curved length. Balthier’s eyes widened; he’d expected gallows or guillotines, something that left him a moment for negotiation, or at least the journey to them to talk sense into his executioners. It struck him then, eyes fixed on that ceremonial knife, that he was mere seconds away from having his heart gored out in front of an eager audience, and no escape path lay open. One of the guards behind him grabbed Balthier’s arms, holding him still and keeping his hands out of the way. Balthier was brought to forcible acknowledgement of how incredibly strong these Viera really were.
“Hold on a moment!” he stammered, but no one listened.
“The legends have warned us, and now we know those warnings were indeed true! This duty has waited eons, and now I fulfil it!” Jote called, holding up the blade for all to see. “Thus, we banish what would threaten our peace. Thus, we carve light for our world! Thus, we carve future for Ivalice!”
The crowd was silent in rapt attention. Jote’s eyes showed no great eagerness, but not a drop of hesitation as she raised her knife.
Then he felt it. Balthier knew the feeling well by now, and that fact alone was disconcerting. Something cold, a drop of ice deep inside, cold and dark and resonating with force, ready to spring out. Power awakened, more than enough, Balthier realized, to blow away Jote, her knife, and everyone watching, eager and ready to do just that. But, even if they did all want him dead, this was a defenseless crowd of men, women and children. He couldn’t…
Evidently, Balthier wasn’t the only one who sensed the waiting surge of energy. The guard holding Balthier let go, stumbling backward, panic rippled through the gathered crowd, and Jote cut short her strike, pulling back with a gasp.
“Balthier, don’t!” Fran shouted.
“I’m not trying to!” Balthier replied, grimacing as he fought to hold it back. The force behind that waiting explosion had never seemed so powerful, so impatient to burst out a wreak havoc. Balthier got the sense there was something within him that couldn’t understand why he hadn’t eradicated every threat and gone on his way already.
“Jote, hurry!” the guard, who’d neglected his duty to keep Balthier still, shouted. Jote wordlessly raised her knife again, fear now filling her eyes. Balthier held up his hands defensively, through every movement sent a shock of electric pain through his body as he struggled to keep that force contained.
“I don’t mean to threaten anyone,” Balthier said through haggard breaths, “but I’m really trying not to blow you all up-” He winced as the force intensified. “And you trying to kill me is not helping!”
Jote hesitated, uncertainty flickering in her eyes at last. Balthier dropped to his knees, unable to hold himself up any longer. He couldn’t let it out. He had to hold it in. He wouldn’t give in, not this time. He couldn’t…
Balthier threw himself around that cold fire, burning black and lightless. He had to hold it inside, because if it got out, it would spell death for anything too close. His head pounded, his chest burned, and that force thrashed against the prison bars he struggled to close around it. Balthier couldn’t tell how long the battle took; it felt like hours, though it might have been only a few moments. However long it was, eventually, the power slinked away, and the terrible pressure it shoved against the walls of his mind finally relented. The battle was over, but the darkness of sleep called, and Balthier didn’t have the strength left to resist.
…
Fran watched as Balthier collapsed. The terrible waves ebbing through the myst had ended abruptly, and everyone gathered there knew the immediate threat was over. The guard holding Fran had let go of her in the panic, and she rushed to Balthier’s side. He was disturbingly still. She knelt next to him, rolling him over to see his face. Contorted with pain, but with life still, breathing, if raggedly. Fran let out a sigh of relief.
Jote rushed over, standing over Balthier’s unconscious form, her knife clenched in one shaking fist. She seemed terrified to come this close to him, but determined to fulfil her purpose. Jote dropped to her knees beside him, ready to strike.
“Jote!” Fran held out a hand towards her sister, and Jote paused. “Please, don’t,” Fran pleaded. “You saw the myst, you felt that power, didn’t you? He could have killed you all, and saved himself, yet he didn’t. You call this evil?”
“But the prophecy!” Jote said. “We have waited long for this, and you know that, Fran! We were warned for a reason. And as you said, it could have killed us!” She cast another terrified glance at Balthier. “Such power cannot be left unchecked.”
Fran sighed, looking down at Balthier’s unconscious face, fraught with the kind of pain and distress he’d never show awake.
“He hates what he is, Jote, and fears it,” Fran said, “more than you or I ever could. He fights to hold it back, as you just saw.” Fran raised her eyes to meet her sister’s. “And besides this, he fights for our world. Light and a future for Ivalice; he wishes for that as much as you! Jote, please, you must let him live.”
“I don’t believe you,” Jote said, but her resolve wavered.
“I know him, Jote,” Fran said. “He means no evil. You must let him live.”
Jote’s gaze flickered between Fran and Balthier’s faces, hands still clenched tight around her knife’s bejeweled handle. At last, she rested the knife on the ground, letting out a sigh.
“Very well.”
…
Headache. That was the first thing Balthier noticed: a splitting headache. His chest felt clogged and tight, but that was nothing compared to the pounding in his skull. He sat up, levering himself with one hand and holding the other against his throbbing head. He felt a bed beneath him, and as he opened his eyes, saw sunlight falling through a window. Only the window had no glass, the room’s walls were oddly curved, with leave sprouting out in random places, and the light had a strange, honey-colored glow to it.
The Viera village. Right.
“Balthier.”
At that voice, Balthier looked up to see Fran sitting on a chair up not far away. She stood.
“You’re awake,” Fran said. “Are you alright?”
“I’m… fine,” Balthier forced out, though he felt terrible. “Just fine.” He drew in another shaky breath. “At the risk of sounding clichéd, what just happened?”
“You don’t remember?” Fran asked, cocking her head.
“I remember the part where I almost got killed,” Balthier replied, rubbing one hand against his head as memories of Jote and her knife rushed through it. “You know, you could have told me how crazy these Viera are about this whole prophecy thing.”
“I said it was a deep part of our culture,” Fran replied.
“But you didn’t say they had ceremonies all planned out and kept special knives preserved solely for the purpose of killing me!”
“The knife is not only for that purpose,” Fran said.
Balthier sighed. “What else do you use that for?”
“Many things,” Fran replied.
“What, have a lot ceremonies like that, do you?”
Fran nodded.
Balthier heaved a sigh. “Is there a reason I’m still alive? I expected to be bleeding to death in front of an audience by now.”
“For my sister’s words, and your noble action, you live. For now.”
Jote’s voice alerted Balthier to where she stood by the doorway. She fixed him with the same look of cold distain she’d held all along.
“Sister?” Fran said. “You speak of an outsider, Jote, remember?”
“I had not forgotten,” Jote said, walking past Fran without even glancing at her. Fran sighed and stared at the floor. As Jote approached, Balthier stood to face her. The room spun for an instant, but he managed to stay on his feet.
“Cut her some slack,” Balthier said. “Fran’s a better person than any Viera I’ve seen here. She may not cower in the trees like the rest of you, but at least she asks questions before declaring an execution.”
“And she trains her pets well,” Jote replied.
Using some effort, Balthier withheld an angry response to that comment.
“Look,” he said. “We’re about to discuss terms of my survival, right? Why don’t we not start by insulting each other.”
Jote huffed. “As I said, you still draw breath because of your actions in the square. I cannot deny that you mean well, but that does not guarantee anything.”
“Then what will?” Balthier said. “If nothing I say or do will make a difference, what’s left?”
“I did not say that,” Jote replied. “There may be something you can do.”
“I’m listening.”
“A group of humans came through the forest a few days ago,” Jote said. “We have seen these ones before; they call themselves the Red Fangs. They usually take monsters or tree samples, and we let them come and go. We have even worked with them, to remove the largest of beasts from our wood. But this time they took one of our rank.” Jote closed her eyes and sighed. “My youngest sister. Mjrn.”
“Mjrn?” Fran rushed up to Jote, stunned. “No! They took her?”
“Such comes of trusting hume-creatures,” Jote replied. She turned back to Balthier. “Go, fight your own kind and bring her back, prove that you can tame these dark forces and bend them for good. Then, I will allow you and your friends passage through our wood.”
“Sounds fair enough,” Balthier said.
“Will the others accept it?” Fran asked, frowning in worry.
“We all saw what happened,” Jote replied. “And I will speak with them.” She turned to Balthier, scowling. “I have thought long and hard about this. I hope you understand I am betraying the hope of my kind for generations and going against my better judgement.”
“I’m very grateful for it,” Balthier replied. “And I hate to ask more, but our friends…?”
“They are outside,” Jote replied.
“Thank you,” Balthier nodded. “Come on then, Fran. Let’s not keep them waiting.”
Balthier’s headache was finally fading as he walked out into the streets of the Viera village. The rest of their group waited in front of the house. Vaan, Larsa, and Penelo stood by the street’s edge, chatting and looking around at the fantastical sights of the village in the trees. Ashe sat on a knot of wood arching up along the roadside, looking tired of waited. Basch stood nearby, one hand resting absently on the sheath where his sword should have been. A couple of Viera guards lingered around, not actively constraining the humans but obviously watching them.
“Balthier! Fran!” Ashe gasped, jumping off her seat. “Are you alright? What happened?”
“The Viera said you were ‘negotiating,’” Basch said. “Can we pass through?”
“They’ll let us pass,” Balthier replied. “But first they want us to go and rescue someone.”
“Mjrn, my younger sister,” Fran said. “She was taken by the Red Fangs.”
“Wait, those guys who tried to kidnap you back in Rabanastre?” Vaan asked.
Fran nodded. “We must bring her back, to prove our good intentions, then they will let us through the wood.”
“We’ll have to backtrack to the Ozmone Plain, and I’d like to waste as little time as possible,” Balthier said, “so let’s get going, hmm? Besides, I get the feeling we’re not particularly wanted here.” He glanced at one of the watching Viera guards. Basch nodded.
“Agreed. We leave now.”