One More Notch

by Krist./Shikhee

“Absolutely not.”

“Come now, princess. Just this once.”

“Perish the thought.”

“Perish nothing. I shan't be driven away so easily.”

“Suit yourself.” That snooty pout, the folded arms, the haughty, uplifted nose and beautiful face turned away to gaze at the pub's other corner, far away from the glinting eyes of the pirate. Those shining, sea-foam eyes glinted in the candle-light and crackled like the sparkles of flames. A fierce tenderness, an iron will to be tempered, tamed – and what better way to do so than a dance?

He wouldn't be dismayed by her stony disapproval. It never stopped him before – dear Fran could attest to that. He would try again, and keep trying, until his hand came out on top. He preferred such a position, anyway. “Even your countrymen – pardon me, boy and girl – know how to celebrate.” He gestured towards the giggling duet, their flaxen hair spinning and bustling like halos around their flushed, jubilant faces. The princess's eyes twitched momentarily, but her face did not soften.

“Basch is not celebrating,” she said calmly.

The pirate feigned a pained grimace. “Please don't limit yourself to the celebratory schedule of a knight. Such a dour lot – stratagems and weapon purchasing, that's revelry to them.”

The princess's smile was fleeting, brief and gone in a blink of an eye. He made sure to look hard so as not to miss another: she was weakening.

“Nor is Fran, I notice,” she said, though softer this time, not nearly as harsh as before. This boded well for his efforts.

“Chalk that up to Viera mysteries, princess. For all the years I've traveled with one I still can't fathom them any better than I had before.”

“And women, too, I should wager?” She turned to him now, leaning forward slightly with her arms still folded tight to her bosom. “You surprise me, Balthier: I thought you knew better than to persist where there exists no hope.”

“Pardon?” He raised his eyebrows, his confusion genuine at how frank she had spoken.

She sighed and continued, speaking as if it cost her a monumental effort to explain. “I shall not dance with you. It would be much too. . . unbecoming.”

“And flaunting yourself with terrorists in your best rags isn't?”

“This is the furthest thing from rags, I should have you know – !”

“And yet you wear it so well. You surprise me, princess. Worrying about keeping face when so many barely recognise yours.”

She put a hand to that lovely, lovely face and scowled, uncertain. She shook her head as if warding off an irritating, passing fly, and said nothing.

He continued, undaunted and further determined, circling lower and closer. “Surely they taught you to dance at court? Being the youngest of seven, and the only princess, leaves for a limited education, yes?”

“Eight, thank you. My brothers did not die to have you forget them all – or mock them, for that matter.”

“I mean no offense, princess. Though, about your education. . .?”

She shut her wild eyes and sighed, lowering her hands now to her lap, revealing the elaborate and intriguing brocade sweeping over her chest. “Yes, I was taught to dance. I was expected to, when Father had guests or fetes. T'is how. . .” she faltered her, her face trembling and threatening to crack. The pirate leaned back, afraid of what might pour from the weakening foundation. “. . . how I met Rasler.” She lowered her head as if in pain.

The pirate was not going to let her stony attitude spurn him, much less any lingering memories of a dead husband. He took a hearty swig of his ale and clapped his hands together, smacking his moist lips and staring brightly at her. “That settles it, then. Consider your acceptance of my request to be a tribute to your beloved – think of me as your lord husband, then, and mayhap you'll like it.”

“I don't know who should be more horrified: Rasler's ghost or myself.”

“A ghost feels no shame, princess.” He smiled, bright pearly whites flashing at her.

Again, her smile flickered. A teasing, flitting thing like a flighty bird he hotly pursued. “Nor do pirates.”

He inclined his head, still smiling, hoping to the gods she was, too. “You flatter me.”

A moment of shared silence passed betwixt the two, the two most unlikely of pairs in the entire bar: brigand and royal, sharing a table, a talk (she had denied the offer to drink) and, gods be willing, a dance or two before the night was done. The pirate lifted his head as the princess tilted hers, slightly, just so slightly, to the side, disturbing the fine flax of hair that rest on her head and hung over her shoulders. She narrowed those steel eyes and surveyed him carefully, making the pirate feel oddly scanned. He waited her judgment, quite assured at his successful efforts of convincing her.

Finally, at long last, she stood up. Straightening her scandalously short skirt while doing so, extending a slender, pale hand out to his, the ring given to her on her wedding's day shining in the light, the princess said, “I'll join you.”

The pirate grinned and made to reach for her hand with his own, the twin of the ring she bore likewise glinting on his finger – a token, a promise, a payment for his partnership.

“To Rasler,” the princess said with her heart in her voice as their hands clasped.

“To joie,” the pirate responded, and gently lead her away.

The dancing – ah, how to describe the dancing! A flash of colour – her crimson skirt, her cream blouse, the gold of her leg braces, the white of her teeth, how it swayed, clashed, splayed over the leather of his breast, the white of his sleeves, the ebony of his legs. Flesh grasped at flesh – tentatively, demurely, in polite grasps and quick releases, soon holding on longer, straying braver down to a wrist, a forearm, resting a heart's beat too long at a hip, a waist, chancing to dance over a thigh with the tips of fingers, barely grazing the surface and yet leaving such an imprint as to burn itself into mem'ry forever. Her back touched his chest, only to spin away, twirling, light as a feather and flighty as a will-o-the-wisp, his hands grasping, groping, daring to catch her again and draw her close. How she laughed – and such laughter! It was more musical than any sound the minstrels could hope to make, more jubilant and ethereal than all the harps in Faram's Choir, like the pealing of bells, like the tinkling of chimes shifting in the breeze. And the smiles, the smiles – such smiles, lips parting and spreading wide, opening to share in with the other, creating bonds and ties. Skin bled sweat and hearts poured joy, so much joy, and the music – what music? - could no longer be heard. The sound of beating hearts, the sound of laughter, the pealing of heaven's bells and the tapping, soft rapping and shuffling of feet, of hands grasping and clasping, the rapture their bodies screamed for only their ears to hear – that was all the music they heard. T'was all the music they needed.

The princess and the pirate each went to bed that night, their hearts in their throat, hands still clinging, still grasping at the mem'ry, their rings warmed and burning like a fire, blazing their cooled flesh. Yes, the music they made was all that they needed.