Because sometimes, goddammit, I will latch onto an improbable pairing and not let go until I have justified my insanity.
Warnings: massive and immediate endgame spoilers, offscreen homosexual activity, pairing on crack.

Privately, the gunner was certain that the rock was the only thing holding him upright. The viera hung limp and unconscious against the man's back in some sort of improvised sling (upon closer inspection the sling appeared to be about half of a once-proud banner of House Solidor, knotted solidly atop his right shoulder) and the crutch braced under his right arm had been made from two lengths of ship's railing, lashed together and padded with more strips of the banner. He was all over fluttering bandages and his face was more blood than not, like a red mask. It was a colorful spectre, this one, and somewhat impious should you happen to be Archadian.

The apparition blinked once to clear blood and sand from his eyes and then brought his left hand out from behind his back, revealing the gun. His shaking left hand was bound around it by yet another strip of Solidor silk, yet his finger was steady enough on the trigger. "State your business," he called, his businesslike tone marred by a hint of hysterical good humor.

The gunner considered himself a brave man of Bhujerba, especially after surviving the horrors of the day. He did not fall back a step, merely raised both hands to show that they were empty. "The Marquis Ondore wishes me to convey his greetings and his respects," he called back, carefully. "Also his congratulations on a job exceedingly well done."

"Well, now," said the colorful spectre, not lowering the gun. "That's kind of him. Tell him I said thank you, and now--" the man jerked his head at the gunship "--perhaps you'll be on your way. I've miles to go yet."

The muzzle of the gun tracked around in a wobbling circle, and the man's jaw tightened. Now the gunner did fall back a step, just one. "His Excellency also wishes me to convey to you an invitation," he said. "Such a hero of Dalmasca ought be welcome wherever he goes, says the Marquis, and should he choose to go to Bhujerba, the Marquis will indeed make him most welcome."

"Will he now," said the man.

"Indeed he will," said the gunner. "His Excellency wishes me to reassure you that he also recognizes your apparent need for... secrecy, and will of course respect your privacy in this matter."

For a moment all was still and quiet, save the low moaning of the winds across the Westersand. Then the man abruptly smiled and let the wobbling gun fall to his side. "Ah, well," he said, "that's all right, then," and without further delay he collapsed onto the sand, falling flat on his face.

The sun had already sunk underneath Bhujerba by the time Ondore heard the familiar steady ticking sound of a cane on the marble floors, drawing closer. Absently he curled his own hand about the heavy knob at the top of his own cane and read on while he waited, reaching the close of a chapter and putting his book down just bare moments before the ticking stopped and the door to his office swung open.

"Ah, friend," he said. "You will, of course, pardon me if I don't rise."

"I'm surprised you still have to ask," Balthier said, limping into the room, leaning heavily on Ondore's second-best cane. "No need to stand on ceremony on my behalf, eh?" The cane ticked about in a precise circular pattern as Balthier turned around and shut the heavy door behind him again.

Ondore watched this display with a tolerant smile. "This day seems to find you a bit better than the day before," he said, just as he had said nearly every night for the past year. "I trust you are still... recuperating well."

"I'd like to think so!" Balthier said, turning himself about in another precise limping half-circle and crossing onto the heavy carpets. The click of the cane's metal-shod tip metamorphosed into a series of dull thuds. Neither of them said anything else until Balthier had crossed to Ondore's desk and completed the gingerly extravagant ritual of lowering himself into the chair opposite the Marquis, arranging his legs and his borrowed cane with precise care. "This invalid nonsense is for the birds, if you'd care for my opinion on the matter."

Ondore made the soothing noises that were expected of him. "Although I must admit that I do enjoy your company," he added. "Perhaps you might see fit to recuperate more slowly?"

For a perilous moment they eyed each other across the desk, both struggling not to burst out laughing and ruin this long and delicate charade. Balthier was the first to break eye contact, reaching over to pick up the bottle of madhu from where it waited on its tray. "I suppose I wouldn't mind at that," he said, and poured for them both without asking. "I'll miss your lovely accent and sharp mind when I'm back in the lowlands."

"Haa," said Ondore. "You flatter me. I do not know what it is you hope to flatter me into. Is my hospitality somehow... lacking?"

"Impeccable, as well you know," Balthier said, saluting Ondore with his glass. He closed his eyes and took an appreciative sip of the madhu before continuing. "It's true that Fran and I want for nothing."

"I am glad to hear it," Ondore said. After a moment, he picked up his own glass, cradling it to his chest with his free hand. "And Fran? How is she?"

"Perfectly well and itching to be on our way," Balthier said with an exaggerated sigh, slapping his free hand against the leg he tended to favor. "If only I had her stamina, eh?"

Ondore waved his glass negligently and finally allowed himself a sip. "I am sure you will recover your stamina in time. Perhaps you might consider taking a bit of... exercise?"

"Your suggestion is duly noted," Balthier said. "I have been pacing the halls as best I might, mind you, but it's hardly exciting. Dull as dirt, in point of fact."

"Ah, well," said Ondore. "I suppose that excitement must wait until you are recovered, yes?"

Balthier sighed. "What a bloody shame," he muttered into his drink. One eye flicked shut and open again so quickly that Ondore almost missed it, despite having seen it many times before. "In any case," Balthier said, putting his half-empty glass down. "Shall we pick up where we left off?"

"By all means." The ivory matranj board and its half-played game waited on one side of Ondore's massive desk; Ondore put his glass down and slid it back to the center. "Your turn, as I recall."

Balthier nodded and promptly picked up his remaining slaven, moving it the required two spaces diagonally. The speed of the play suggested to Ondore that Balthier had been considering the move all day. "Although I don't know why I bother," he said, picking up his glass again. "You've never let me win, not even once."

"Bah," said Ondore, contemplating the board. "You cannot be proud of winning if I simply give you your victory. If you truly wish to win--" he moved his own sainikah forward and to the left with a precise click "--then conquer me."

The silence stretched for a moment before Balthier laughed. "As if I had a hope of doing that!" he said. "You grow cruel in your old age, Excellency."

"I merely grow harder to please," Ondore said. "But I think you underestimate yourself, yes?"

Balthier shook his head, still laughing. "All the time," he said, capturing Ondore's sainikah with one of his generals. "Better than to overestimate myself and fall on my face again."

"I had not figured you for one so meek," said Ondore. "I suppose you are as unrecovered as you say."

"Meek!" But Balthier's outraged tone was belied by his smile, and he settled back in his chair. "Say rather that I am waiting in the wings for my cue!"

Ondore hesitated. Instead of answering that right away he turned his attention to the board, finally choosing a moogle and moving it forward two spaces. "As to that," he said then. "A little bird has told me that a fine Archadian skimmer has recently been seen in the airspace over Rabanastre."

Balthier was abruptly still, his eyes falling to the game board.

"Odd, isn't it," Ondore gently prompted. Despite his long acquaintance with this other game he found himself wishing to hold his breath.

After a long moment, Balthier looked up, a small crooked smile on his face. "Fancy that," he said. "I wonder whose it is."

The moment passed; Ondore waved a negligent hand. "As to that, I have no idea. Some say one thing, some say another. A mystery, then."

"I find myself fond of mysteries such as these," said Balthier, and he pushed one of his own moogles forward out of the ranks.

Balthier lost that game, as indeed Ondore had been expecting--he found it difficult enough to even find opponents any more, let alone ones that could give him a proper challenge--but he played their next game with a particularly lunatic zeal that did not quite take Ondore by surprise. Balthier still lost, but the game was impressively close and quickly fought, even paltry attempts at conversation falling by the wayside while the two of them bent their attention wholly to the board.

"Indeed, I nearly found myself conquered," Ondore was moved to say once the board had been tidied away. "If you had taken even one more risk, I should have found myself entirely at your mercy."

Balthier smiled, although his eyes were elsewhere. "Not you, Excellency. You're a clever old goat, and one with every recourse at his fingertips. Have you ever found yourself in a truly tight situation?"

Ondore put a hand on the smooth ball of his cane and gingerly levered himself to his feet before answering. "Once or twice," he said, when that was done. "I will admit to a certain taste for such desperate intrigue, in any case."

"I suspected as much." Following Ondore's example Balthier eased himself upright, one hand on the grip of his own cane and one on the edge of Ondore's desk. As was his habit he waited there until Ondore had moved past him, his own cane thudding on the carpets, before falling into step beside him, not too close. Balthier waited until they were nearly at the door to add, "Have I told you lately how very grateful I am for your boundless hospitality?"

"Every day, my friend." Ondore leaned forward to pull the door open. "Every time you consent to pick up the matranj pieces and indulge this old man, you make it quite clear how grateful you are."

"Ah, well, that's all right, then, isn't it?" said Balthier, following him out and closing the door for him. Their canes beat a weird arrhythmical tattoo on the floors as they moved slowly towards Ondore's own rooms. "I'd hate to be thought ungrateful."

"I assure you that you have not slighted me in the least." Ondore allowed himself a single sidewards glance towards his younger shadow and a faint laugh. "Indeed, you have been quite dutiful."

"Dutiful!" Balthier echoed. He sped up, just a little. "If all I have been is dutiful then I have slighted you. I should make amends."

"Do not let it worry you," said Ondore. Once again they came to a halt in front of Ondore's rooms, and Ondore turned to face Balthier. The echoes died away and left them in silence. "Will you come in?" Ondore finally asked, just as he had done every night for the past five months. "There is a fine bottle of madhu on my bedside table, and the view from my rooms is unparalleled."

"Why not?" Balthier said, for the first time. "A nightcap it is. I would hate to seem... less than gracious."

"... I sense that you have, perhaps, finally made a full recovery," Ondore said, two hours later, when the moon was slipping underneath Bhujerba. His eyes fought to close in the darkness; Balthier's close-cropped hair was wiry and damp under the palm of his hand, like the coat of an exotic animal newly finished exerting itself.

A pause followed. "A miracle, one might say," Balthier finally said.

"Haa," said Ondore. "It seems that tonight must leave me more familiar with these... little miracles."

Balthier shifted against him, pleasantly scattering his thoughts like a flock of birds. "Do you know," he said, "that's likely the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me?"

"Consider it a gift," Ondore said. "For I will."

Ondore woke up alone in his bed the next morning, which did not surprise him. His second-best cane was still there, leaning against the bedside table next to his own, which did not surprise him either.

He rolled over slowly, careful of the stiffness in his old joints, and spread his arms wide as if he wished to embrace the ceiling or stretch his sore muscles. "So," he said, yawning at the ceiling tiles. "Who now will indulge my passion for an evening of matranj, Balthier? It is most ungracious of you."

Matranj is actually loosely based on an Arabic chess variant, satranj, which I found online and adapted violently to my needs.

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