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Chapter 1 – A Timeless Crash

The desert stretched endlessly — a sea of gold and silence, broken only by the hiss of wind over sand.

Methos woke face-down in it, head pounding, mouth full of grit, and a faint suspicion that once again, immortality had failed to come with dignity.

He groaned, rolled over, and blinked against the blinding sky. No familiar skyline. No ringing sword in his ears. Just heat. And… two suns?

“Perfect,” he muttered. “Another apocalypse with good lighting.”

He sat up slowly, brushing sand from his coat, and frowned. His sword — ancient, hand-balanced, irreplaceable — was lying half-buried a few feet away. He reached for it, only for a boot to plant neatly atop the hilt.

“Now, now,” a smooth voice drawled, “that’s no way to greet your rescuer.”

Methos squinted up. The man standing over him looked like trouble wrapped in fine leather and charm — sun at his back, coat sweeping dramatically, pistol gleaming at his hip. The sort who smiled like he already owned the room, and possibly the planet.

“You look lost, old boy,” the stranger said, hand on his hip.

Methos shielded his eyes. “Old, yes. Boy, not for several thousand years.”

The man raised a brow. “Ah. Delirium. I’m familiar with it.”

“Charming,” Methos murmured, dry as the sand beneath him.

Balthier crouched, studying him like an artifact. “You’re far from any city. No water, no shade, no sense of survival. Either you’re suicidal or extremely well-traveled.”

Methos met his gaze, unimpressed. “The latter, though I see you’re trying to make it the former.”

Balthier smirked. “Still has wit. That’s promising. And this?” He nudged the sword with his boot. “Antique? Collector’s item?”

Methos sighed. “Family heirloom. Five thousand years of sentimental value.”

Balthier chuckled. “I’ll add that to the list of your symptoms.”

By the time Methos stood, the heat was already burning through his boots. The desert shimmered in all directions — and the only patch of shade came from a sleek silver airship resting a short distance away.

“Nice toy,” Methos said, nodding toward it.

“The Strahl,” Balthier corrected, preening a little. “My ship. Fastest in the skies, smoothest in the sands. And I’m Balthier — sky pirate, gentleman, and, apparently, your only route out of this wasteland.”

Methos dusted himself off. “Pirate, hm? At least you’re honest about it.”

“Honesty is a luxury,” Balthier replied easily. “But I do enjoy offering rescue to interesting strangers.”

Methos eyed him, then the ship. He could already feel the sun cooking through his scalp. “Fine. I’ll bite. Lead on, Captain.”

Balthier’s grin turned rakish. “Excellent. I knew you were a man of taste.”

Methos muttered, following him toward the Strahl, “I’m a man who’s too old to walk anywhere.”

Inside, the ship hummed with polished metal and faint perfume — every surface gleaming, every detail immaculate.

Balthier swept a hand toward the co-pilot’s chair. “Make yourself comfortable. Try not to bleed on the upholstery.”

Methos settled in, stretching his legs. “You’re remarkably generous for a thief.”

Balthier winked as he took the controls. “I find generosity keeps people guessing.”

Methos smirked, leaning back as the Strahl rose into the burning blue sky. “You’re going to regret finding me, you know.”

Balthier’s voice was smooth, confident. “On the contrary, old boy. I suspect you’re going to make things very interesting.”

And as the Strahl soared toward the horizon, Methos couldn’t help but agree — though not for the reasons either of them yet understood.

Chapter 2 – The Pirate and the Relic

The Strahl glided through the clouds like a knife through silk. Sunlight shimmered off the polished hull; inside, the air hummed with the low rhythm of engines and ego.

Balthier lounged at the controls, perfectly at ease. “So, my mysterious passenger,” he said, “you’ve been remarkably vague about where you’re from. Not Rabanastre, not Bhujerba—so where does one find men who fall out of the sky carrying swords and an attitude problem?”

Methos sipped the tea he’d found cooling in the galley. “That depends on the century.”

“Century?”

“Long story,” Methos said, voice even. “Terribly boring. Involves lightning, bad luck, and worse company.”

Balthier glanced over, intrigued. “Lightning, you say? Sounds dramatic. I adore drama—as long as I’m the one delivering it.”

Methos smirked over the rim of his cup. “You talk too much to be as clever as you think.”

Balthier’s grin didn’t falter. “I talk because people listen. It’s a rare gift.”

Methos set the cup down. “Mm. So is modesty.”

They sparred verbally for the next hour: Methos with dry detachment, Balthier with theatrical precision. Fran, listening from the co-pilot’s seat, eventually muttered, “Two roosters. One ship.”

“Correction,” Balthier said, still smiling. “One rooster, one ancient relic.”

Methos tilted his head. “Relic, perhaps. But some relics bite.”

Before Balthier could answer, the console shrieked with proximity alarms. A shadow passed overhead—another airship dropping fast, cannon ports glowing red.

Balthier’s expression brightened. “Ah. Company! You do bring excitement, don’t you?”

Methos sighed. “It follows me around. Occupational hazard.”

The Strahl jolted as the first blast hit the wing. Methos barely caught the edge of the console before the ship tilted.

“Who are they?”

“Rival sky pirates,” Balthier said, pulling the ship into a dive. “Apparently offended by my charm.”

“Understandable,” Methos muttered.

Balthier glanced back. “Can you shoot?”

Methos looked unimpressed. “I can do worse.”

Minutes later, they landed on the other ship’s deck in a crash of sand and smoke. The rival crew surged forward—armed, shouting, alive with the kind of confidence that came from not knowing what Methos was.

He moved before anyone could blink. One clean swing, the kind that came from centuries of practice. The nearest pirate dropped—headless.

Balthier froze mid-duck behind a crate, blinking. “That was… efficient.”

Methos wiped his blade on a sleeve that had seen better millennia. “Occupational habit.”

Balthier straightened slowly, trying to decide between being alarmed or impressed. “Remind me not to underestimate you.”

Methos sheathed his sword. “Remind me not to work with amateurs.”

Balthier smirked, still catching his breath. “You say that, but I suspect you’re enjoying yourself.”

Methos glanced toward the burning wreckage. “Enjoyment is too strong a word. Let’s call it mild amusement.”

Balthier laughed—low, delighted. “You’re going to fit in just fine.”

The Strahl roared back into the open sky, smoke trailing behind like punctuation to their chaos.

Chapter 3 – The Map of Immortality

The Strahl drifted through the clouds, the steady hum of engines blending with the occasional clink of tools from the lower deck. Fran had gone below to make repairs, leaving Balthier and Methos alone in the cockpit — a dangerous arrangement for anyone who valued peace and quiet.

Balthier leaned back in his chair, boots propped elegantly on the console. “So,” he began, “you slice men’s heads off without flinching, wake up in the middle of nowhere, and shrug at explosions. Either you’re very brave, or very bored with living.”

Methos didn’t look up from the old map he was studying. “Option three: too old for theatrics.”

Balthier’s grin sharpened. “Ah, there it is again. You do that — talk as though time’s a parlor trick you’ve already solved.”

Methos folded the map carefully. “Let’s just say I’ve had… practice.”

“Practice?” Balthier leaned closer, eyes alight with mischief. “What sort of man says that like he’s speaking from a few millennia of experience?”

“The sort who’s tired of explaining,” Methos replied.

Balthier’s curiosity only deepened. “You mean to tell me—”

Methos sighed. “Yes, yes. Immortal, unkillable, very inconvenient. Now do stop gaping before you swallow a fly.”

Balthier blinked once, then laughed — a sharp, delighted sound. “Well, this is unexpected! The find of the century, sitting on my ship and drinking my tea.”

“Your tea’s terrible,” Methos said mildly.

“All great discoveries come with small flaws.”

Methos arched an eyebrow. “And what, exactly, do you plan to do with this discovery?”

“Oh, nothing sinister,” Balthier said innocently. “Just the occasional academic curiosity, perhaps a bit of business speculation.”

Methos gave him a flat look. “You’re thinking of selling me.”

Balthier held up a finger. “Only to the highest bidder.”

“Romantic,” Methos muttered.

Balthier chuckled. “I am known for my passions.”

“Yes, and I imagine they all end with explosions or bankruptcy.”

“Sometimes both,” Balthier admitted cheerfully.

Their banter was interrupted by Fran’s voice from below: “The nav crystal’s missing.”

Balthier frowned. “Impossible. I locked it in the cargo bay.”

Methos looked up, sharp now. “What kind of crystal?”

“Magicite,” Balthier replied. “Rare. Unstable. Opens… interesting doors.”

Methos’s expression changed — a flicker of recognition, something colder. “Dimensional gates?”

Balthier tilted his head. “Ah, so you do know a thing or two about impossible things.”

“Enough to know that’s my only way home.”

Within an hour, they had a plan — loose, reckless, and entirely Balthier’s fault.

“Partners, then?” the pirate asked, extending a gloved hand.

Methos stared at it as though it were a trap, which, in fairness, it was. “Until you try to sell me.”

Balthier’s smirk widened. “Only to the highest bidder.”

Methos shook his head. “Romantic.”

He took the hand anyway.

The next few days passed in uneasy rhythm — Methos reading, Balthier talking. The pirate had a talent for filling silence; Methos had an equal talent for ignoring him.

Still, the chemistry was undeniable.

Balthier leaned over the console one night, watching Methos polish his sword. “You handle that blade with affection.”

“It’s seen me through worse company,” Methos said.

Balthier smiled. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“You shouldn’t.”

“Oh, but I will.”

Methos sighed. “You’re impossible.”

“Frequently,” Balthier agreed, leaning closer. “And you’re still here.”

Methos met his gaze, calm, unreadable. “I’m old enough to appreciate comedy.”

The Strahl hummed quietly around them, the air between them charged with something sharper than wit and warmer than trust.

Chapter 4 – Skyfire and Secrets

The sky over Bhujerba burned.
Cannons flared in the distance, airships cutting through the clouds like sharks through water. The Strahl darted and dove, but even Balthier’s quick hands couldn’t outrun a lucky shot.

A blast slammed into the starboard engine. The world tilted. Fran cursed in her native tongue. Methos, clinging to the railing, muttered, “You call this flying?”

“Usually it’s smoother!” Balthier shouted back, wrestling the controls. “Try not to die, old boy—it would spoil my record!”

“Try flying better, and it won’t be a problem!” Methos snapped.

The Strahl groaned as flames streaked across her hull. They plummeted toward the shadow of a floating fortress, an abandoned structure adrift above the desert.

They hit hard enough to rattle the teeth out of a lesser man.
Methos staggered to his feet amid the smoke, brushing dust from his coat. “I’m beginning to think immortality was a mistake.”

Balthier coughed, straightening his cravat. “You’re welcome for saving your life, by the way.”

Fran called from the engine room, “We’re grounded until the right stabilizer’s rebuilt. Hours, maybe days.”

“Lovely,” Methos said. “Stranded with a man who quotes himself as often as he breathes.”

Balthier’s grin returned, undimmed. “Admit it. You’d be bored without me.”

Methos gave him a long look. “I’d risk boredom.”

Night fell — or something like it, filtered through broken clouds and the shimmer of magicite veins in the fortress walls. Lanterns threw warm light over the Strahl’s deck as they worked side by side, repairing metal and temperaments.

For once, Balthier was quiet. Methos noticed. “No clever remarks? I was starting to worry you’d lost your voice.”

Balthier smiled faintly. “Merely conserving it for a moment worth speaking.”

Methos smirked. “That’ll be a first.”

They worked in silence for a time. Sparks flickered; metal hissed. Finally, Balthier spoke again, softer. “You make eternity sound exhausting.”

Methos didn’t look up. “Only because it is.”

Later, when the repairs slowed and the lanterns burned low, Balthier found Methos sitting by the railing, staring into the endless dark below.

“I’ve lived through more wars than I can count,” Methos said quietly. “Watched empires rise, fall, and trip over their own egos. Sometimes I think people only remember how to destroy what they build.”

Balthier sat beside him, resting his arms on his knees. “You sound almost sentimental.”

“Don’t tell anyone.”

“What were you before all this?”

Methos’s mouth quirked into a small, crooked smile. “A horseman. A monk. A killer. A scholar. Depends on the century.”

Balthier tilted his head, eyes reflecting the lamplight. “Depends on the company, I think.”

Methos glanced over, surprised. For once, there was no smirk waiting on Balthier’s lips — just a quiet warmth that felt older than either of them wanted to admit.

The lantern flickered, painting them both in gold and shadow. Methos looked away first. “You’re far too good at this.”

Balthier’s voice was soft. “At what?”

“Making me talk.”

Balthier smiled. “Then I’ll consider it my greatest theft.”

The night deepened around them, silent but for the hum of the wounded Strahl, and the two men sat together—pirate and immortal—bound not by history, but by the quiet between it.

Chapter 5 – The Sky Thief’s Gamble

They should have known the deal was too easy.
A stolen magicite crystal, a few whispered coordinates, and a contact who smelled of desperation — it was, as Methos put it, “the sort of opportunity that comes with a free disaster attached.”

The disaster arrived right on time.

Before either could draw a weapon, bounty hunters swarmed the alley, rifles gleaming under Bhujerba’s artificial sky. Methos and Balthier fought like men who’d done this too often to be surprised — back-to-back, synchronized despite the shouting. But numbers won over elegance, and moments later, they found themselves in chains aboard a rusted sky skiff.

Balthier tested his cuffs with a sigh. “You know, I’d planned a quiet evening. Wine, conversation, a victory or two.”

Methos slumped against the wall of their cell. “You should’ve brought better company.”

Balthier smirked. “Oh, I don’t know. You do keep things lively.”

Methos turned his head. “You’re irritatingly calm for someone about to be sold by the pint.”

“Professional hazard,” Balthier said smoothly. “Adaptability is the mark of a gentleman thief.”

Methos raised an eyebrow. “Is dying one of your marks too?”

Balthier grinned. “I prefer to outsource that part.”

When the guards came to extract a sample of Methos’ “immortal blood,” he’d already counted the bolts on the cell door. Balthier had already picked his cuffs with a sliver of wire.

“On three,” Balthier whispered.

“Two,” Methos corrected, and kicked the first guard square in the chest.

The next few minutes were an orchestra of chaos — gunfire, steel, and witty commentary. Methos moved like a man who’d forgotten how to hesitate, blade flashing. Balthier provided cover fire with his pistols, grinning like a madman.

“Next time,” Balthier called over the roar, “we take turns getting captured!”

Methos ducked a swing, kicked the gunman behind him, and retorted, “Next time, I’m letting you die first!”

“Such devotion!”

“Don’t get sentimental!”

They fought their way up to the deck, commandeered the skiff, and sent their captors plummeting into the desert below.

By the time they set down on solid sand, both were exhausted and half-laughing, the kind of laughter that came only after cheating death together.

The desert wind cooled the sweat on their skin. Methos leaned against the hull, breathing hard, a thin line of blood on his arm where a bullet had grazed him.

Balthier knelt beside him, pulling a cloth from his coat. “Hold still.”

“Don’t fuss,” Methos muttered. “I’ve had worse hangovers.”

Balthier ignored him, dabbing the wound. His hand froze when he saw the skin knit itself together, slow but sure.

“Remarkable,” he murmured. “You really don’t die, do you?”

Methos smiled faintly. “Occupational habit.”

Balthier chuckled, still staring. “You’re very attentive for a thief.”

Balthier’s tone dropped, softer now. “You’re very kissable for a fossil.”

Methos blinked, then laughed — the first real laugh Balthier had heard from him. “That’s the worst line I’ve heard in five centuries.”

Balthier tilted his head. “And yet, it’s working.”

Methos opened his mouth to argue, but Balthier’s lips were already there — warm, sun-touched, tasting of sand and adrenaline. The kiss was slow, unhurried, half laughter, half relief — a brief truce between two men who had long since forgotten what peace felt like.

When they finally broke apart, Methos murmured, “You’re impossible.”

Balthier smiled, eyes still closed. “And yet, here you are.”

Methos sighed, leaning back against the ship. “I’m blaming heatstroke.”

“Blame what you like,” Balthier said, settling beside him, “but do remember this was your idea.”

Methos smirked. “I’ll remember it was a mistake.”

Balthier chuckled softly. “The best kind, I hope.”

Above them, the twin suns sank toward the horizon, painting the sky gold and crimson — a fitting color for something equal parts disaster and desire.

Chapter 6 – The Rift and the Return

The desert stretched silent under twin moons, wind carrying the faint hum of magic through the night. At the heart of a crumbling ruin, the rift pulsed — a suspended shard of crystal and light, humming with the rhythm of a heartbeat caught between worlds.

Balthier stared at it like a man judging both art and opportunity. “So this is it? The miraculous door to eternity?”

Methos brushed sand from his coat, eyes fixed on the light. “Or oblivion. Depends on the century.”

Balthier smiled faintly. “You make danger sound like an old hobby.”

“It is,” Methos said dryly. “But I’ve never been fond of endings that involve me disappearing.”

Balthier crossed his arms. “Touching. I didn’t think immortals got sentimental.”

“I don’t,” Methos replied. “I get cautious.”

Balthier tilted his head, watching him closely. “You’d be a waste of good conversation, you know. Can’t have the universe eating that up.”

Methos glanced at him, surprised by the hitch in his voice. A smile ghosted across his lips. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said in a century.”

They worked in silence, aligning the device with the scattered fragments of magicite. Light built around them — blue, white, blinding gold.

Methos took a steady breath. “If this works, you’ll end up with a quieter ship.”

Balthier didn’t look away from the controls. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’ll be deaf from all your lectures before that happens.”

The hum deepened. Wind whipped through the chamber, tugging at their clothes, lifting dust in spirals. Methos hesitated for just a second. “You might want to step back.”

Balthier reached out instead, gloved fingers closing around Methos’s wrist. “And miss the fireworks? I’m a pirate, not a fool.”

Methos exhaled a laugh. “You really don’t know when to quit, do you?”

“Never,” Balthier said simply.

The rift roared to life. Light poured around them, searing and beautiful, folding the world into itself.

For an instant, everything disappeared — sound, sand, even gravity. Then came the silence, deep and absolute.

When the light finally faded, the ruin was gone, the wind still. The rift had vanished.

And they were both still standing.

Methos blinked, disoriented. “You didn’t let go.”

Balthier grinned, hair a mess, coat scorched at the edges. “I’m a pirate, not a fool.”

Methos looked around at the calm desert, then back at him. “So much for dimensional travel.”

Balthier stepped closer, his voice low and amused. “Or maybe the universe took pity on us.”

Methos smirked faintly. “It’s been a while since it’s done that.”

“Then perhaps,” Balthier said, resting a hand lightly on his shoulder, “it’s learning.”

Methos met his gaze, the faintest glimmer of warmth in his eyes. “Doubtful. But I’ll take the company.”

Balthier smiled, slow and certain. “You’re welcome, old boy.”

Above them, the twin moons crossed paths — two halves of light, briefly whole — before drifting apart again.

Epilogue – The Sky Between Ages

The Strahl cut through the clouds with its usual grace, engines purring like a well-fed cat. The twin suns shimmered on the horizon, painting the sky in impossible shades of gold.

Below deck, Methos sat at the small table in Balthier’s cabin, pen scratching across a leather-bound logbook. The title, in neat and sardonic script, read:

“Chronicles of a Very Bad Idea.”

The ink glinted faintly in the light as he wrote: ‘Acquired one insufferably charming sky pirate. Attempted dimensional travel. Failed spectacularly. Somehow survived. Possibly my worst decision to date.’

Balthier appeared in the doorway, towel slung over one shoulder, curiosity gleaming in his eyes. “Ah, memoirs? Tell me, am I cast as hero or villain this time?”

Methos didn’t look up. “Neither. I’m listing you under ‘hazardous materials.’”

Balthier stepped closer, leaning over his shoulder to read. “Hmm. I rather like that. Rolls off the tongue.” He smiled. “At least it’s a shared one.”

Methos snorted. “Tragic, isn’t it?”

“Adventurous,” Balthier corrected, pressing a hand lightly to Methos’s shoulder before moving past him to the viewport. “And admit it, old boy — you’d have been bored without me.”

Methos set down the pen, eyes softening as he watched the sky unfold beyond the glass. “I was bored for five thousand years. I’ll risk excitement.”

Balthier turned, the faintest curve at his lips. “I’ll hold you to that.”

Outside, the Strahl soared higher, cutting across the bright expanse.

The sky stretched endless and blue, and somewhere between eternity and adventure, Methos finally stopped running — just long enough to kiss the leading man again.