"Ah, but there you have it. I was never a princess - nor a prince, mind - and I've never been eligible for either status."

Balthier still has his katana strapped to his back (which he isn't bothering checking because fresh water won't cock it up like salt water might, gods was he annoyed on that trip after falling overboard) and his guns (working with gunpowder and wrapped shot, still, nearly flint-lock but charmed against water damage), and he knows he'll likely not get sneaked up on, if only because he cast Libra on himself not long ago. Handy little thing.

"Though I imagine the biggest kink in your theory is that I'm not pretending at all."

He hums a little something, focusing, and reaches out his hand, eyes closed. It glows pale green, then white, and warm, barely-tangible bubbles of white healing magic spread out over the both of them. Balthier's bruises, muscles and ribs alike, melt into his personal biostandard for health, and the remaining energy that's split between them makes him feel alert and well-rested. For Ilde, she'll find at the very least, her physically wounds healed entirely.