The crown, Balthier thinks, sits heavily on her head in more ways than one; her brow is furrowed, her eyes shadowed, as she comes into her quarters. she looks up, though, when she sees him waiting for her, and manages a wan smile.

He comes to her, takes the crown from her head and sets it aside, presses gentle kisses onto the drawn ridges of her forehead, strokes them smooth with his lips, before tipping her face up to his with his fingertips. "For tonight, my leading lady," he murmurs tenderly, "forget your crown."

If her smile is a little weary as she stretches up to press her lips to his, it is at least genuine, and that is no small thing.