Categories > Games > Final Fantasy XII > Claret Sky
16. That which seeks
Balthier/Vaan - post-canon
Disclaimer still applies.
Finally, some action.
--
"For some odd reason, I can't quite shake the idea that we are no longer welcome here," Balthier says. He widens his stance, firing upon the faceless bulk of Daedalus.
"Hm," Fran says, and there is a hint of amusement in her voice. Her arrows bite into the gaps between pieces of the guardian's armour, and it shifts back. "Perhaps we lack the Queen."
"I dare say she wouldn't be too popular now, either."
The sharp spits of a Dispel staggers it for a moment, and Vaan rushes forward, the Zodiac Spear crushing through breastplate and stone.
Daedalus sags, and Balthier pulls his arm back, resting the Fomalhaut on his shoulder.
There is quiet, broken by the gulps for breath, until Penelo gasps, and it is almost a shriek.
Daedalus looms over Vaan, its sword held up in preparation for a crushing cleave, and the Zodiac Spear remains imbedded in its chest.
Balthier's shot strikes at the ruptured edges of armour around the spear. The guardian jerks, again and again, as Balthier fires without respite. Stone chips fly, faster and faster, until Daedalus crumbles from the centre of its torso, cracks spreading outward, and dust flies into the air.
Blood thrums in Balthier's ear as he eyes the pile of rubble and armour, awaiting any further sign of movement.
"This was no test," Fran says into the silence, her voice solemn. "It meant to kill us or face destruction in trying."
Balthier nods. "Let's do be careful."
--
Balthier ignores the images playing upon the roiling mist as he walks.
He sees a bespectacled face, peering down on him indulgently, and his hand clenches around his weapon.
"Balthier."
The warning is quiet, and Fran glances at him sharply. Balthier loosens his grip, letting the gun fall to his side, and he walks away from the spectre.
--
The light surrounds him, cold and white, and his boots echo as he paces a slow circle. The thrones sit still and silent, and Balthier feels the oppression, sinking down on his shoulders.
"Are they here?" Penelo asks, her voice a whisper.
"I can't see them," Vaan says.
Balthier shares a glance with Fran, and he raises his voice. "Occuria! We have need to speak with you!"
His words reflect back to him, fading and muddling.
He waits for several moments more. "For those who term themselves gods, you certainly have not the control over your servants one would expect." Balthier tenses his shoulders, ignoring the sharp look Vaan sends him and Fran's murmur about goading them perhaps being unwise.
The voice that replies is quick and cracked with age.
"We have no wish to treat with you, arrant hume. The Undying speak not to those who wallow in the breakers of chaotic hist'ry."
It echoes, seemingly originating from each point around them. Balthier looks, but he does not see anything. "Come now. We come as potential allies and think little of old grudges."
"Allies."
Mist roars, twisting and buffeting as violent gales.
The voice does not shout. It does not need to, carried by the blasts of Mist. "Presume you that we ally with those who, with every thought and delib'ration, cut themselves free of the trappings of order?"
Balthier braces himself, crouching slightly to keep his feet. He turns hurriedly to see Fran's tilt and buckle. He catches her in his arms, curling a protective hand over her elbow, and he supports her weight with his as the voice continues, spite clinging to its every word.
"You humes, ever short-sighted, yet possessed of such conceit that you spurn the ageless wisdom of we the Occuria. You covet the power of proffered Cryst, reaping but never sowing, destroying all that you understand not. A sinister baffle in the pattern of time."
"It's you the Scions of Darkness are targeting!" Vaan shouts over the tumult. "Don't you think it would be beneficial for you if we stopped them?"
Dead calm descends as if the air is siphoned away.
Space ripples before Balthier's eyes, and the weaves of white like swirled feathers take shape. It hovers, glowing, recessed eyes fixed on Vaan.
"Son of Dalmasca, who so oft strays from his path," it says, drifting closer, "in your lack of adherence you may yet find power to cut free the Scions. Provident it is that you fall ever outside the weave." It pauses, as if thinking. "Very well. The Scions use men of Ivalice, knowing that those reside no longer within the bounds of author'ty. Through possession of sons of man they gain power to resist their summons. Perhaps you may cut them away and bring them eternal peace."
"Cut them?" Vaan's brow furrows. "Is there a sword I'm to use?"
"Your sword lies without our dominion."
Mist flickers again as it begins to fade, and Vaan reaches out a hand. "Wait! Where are they? The Scions?"
"Where they hide. In the place where once housed the Sword of Kings, blade of the Dynast King."
--
Balthier looks ahead into the pale of the horizon as the Strahl streaks through the air.
He thinks briefly that it is somewhat ridiculous having travelled this distance only to find that their destination is the same as their origin, but Fran is pale still from the Occurian's temper tantrum and not present to share his bemusement, and so he lets the thought slip away. They take the curve of the land as their guide, and they travel the silent airspace above Jagd Difohr. Mist approaches the Strahl with tentative fingers, but curls away in the eddies trailing their passage.
Vaan reaches out from where he sits in the co-pilot's seat, and he taps the keys that cause a minute adjustment in the tilt of the Strahl's left wing. There is a gentle shift, and a sense of weightlessness.
Balthier listens to the smooth flow of wind over the Strahl's nose as she soars.
The sun is rising, setting the cusp of arcing land and sky ablaze with streaks of crimson.
Vaan is quiet by his side, his breath soft and even, and they fly.
--
TBC
Balthier/Vaan - post-canon
Disclaimer still applies.
Finally, some action.
--
"For some odd reason, I can't quite shake the idea that we are no longer welcome here," Balthier says. He widens his stance, firing upon the faceless bulk of Daedalus.
"Hm," Fran says, and there is a hint of amusement in her voice. Her arrows bite into the gaps between pieces of the guardian's armour, and it shifts back. "Perhaps we lack the Queen."
"I dare say she wouldn't be too popular now, either."
The sharp spits of a Dispel staggers it for a moment, and Vaan rushes forward, the Zodiac Spear crushing through breastplate and stone.
Daedalus sags, and Balthier pulls his arm back, resting the Fomalhaut on his shoulder.
There is quiet, broken by the gulps for breath, until Penelo gasps, and it is almost a shriek.
Daedalus looms over Vaan, its sword held up in preparation for a crushing cleave, and the Zodiac Spear remains imbedded in its chest.
Balthier's shot strikes at the ruptured edges of armour around the spear. The guardian jerks, again and again, as Balthier fires without respite. Stone chips fly, faster and faster, until Daedalus crumbles from the centre of its torso, cracks spreading outward, and dust flies into the air.
Blood thrums in Balthier's ear as he eyes the pile of rubble and armour, awaiting any further sign of movement.
"This was no test," Fran says into the silence, her voice solemn. "It meant to kill us or face destruction in trying."
Balthier nods. "Let's do be careful."
--
Balthier ignores the images playing upon the roiling mist as he walks.
He sees a bespectacled face, peering down on him indulgently, and his hand clenches around his weapon.
"Balthier."
The warning is quiet, and Fran glances at him sharply. Balthier loosens his grip, letting the gun fall to his side, and he walks away from the spectre.
--
The light surrounds him, cold and white, and his boots echo as he paces a slow circle. The thrones sit still and silent, and Balthier feels the oppression, sinking down on his shoulders.
"Are they here?" Penelo asks, her voice a whisper.
"I can't see them," Vaan says.
Balthier shares a glance with Fran, and he raises his voice. "Occuria! We have need to speak with you!"
His words reflect back to him, fading and muddling.
He waits for several moments more. "For those who term themselves gods, you certainly have not the control over your servants one would expect." Balthier tenses his shoulders, ignoring the sharp look Vaan sends him and Fran's murmur about goading them perhaps being unwise.
The voice that replies is quick and cracked with age.
"We have no wish to treat with you, arrant hume. The Undying speak not to those who wallow in the breakers of chaotic hist'ry."
It echoes, seemingly originating from each point around them. Balthier looks, but he does not see anything. "Come now. We come as potential allies and think little of old grudges."
"Allies."
Mist roars, twisting and buffeting as violent gales.
The voice does not shout. It does not need to, carried by the blasts of Mist. "Presume you that we ally with those who, with every thought and delib'ration, cut themselves free of the trappings of order?"
Balthier braces himself, crouching slightly to keep his feet. He turns hurriedly to see Fran's tilt and buckle. He catches her in his arms, curling a protective hand over her elbow, and he supports her weight with his as the voice continues, spite clinging to its every word.
"You humes, ever short-sighted, yet possessed of such conceit that you spurn the ageless wisdom of we the Occuria. You covet the power of proffered Cryst, reaping but never sowing, destroying all that you understand not. A sinister baffle in the pattern of time."
"It's you the Scions of Darkness are targeting!" Vaan shouts over the tumult. "Don't you think it would be beneficial for you if we stopped them?"
Dead calm descends as if the air is siphoned away.
Space ripples before Balthier's eyes, and the weaves of white like swirled feathers take shape. It hovers, glowing, recessed eyes fixed on Vaan.
"Son of Dalmasca, who so oft strays from his path," it says, drifting closer, "in your lack of adherence you may yet find power to cut free the Scions. Provident it is that you fall ever outside the weave." It pauses, as if thinking. "Very well. The Scions use men of Ivalice, knowing that those reside no longer within the bounds of author'ty. Through possession of sons of man they gain power to resist their summons. Perhaps you may cut them away and bring them eternal peace."
"Cut them?" Vaan's brow furrows. "Is there a sword I'm to use?"
"Your sword lies without our dominion."
Mist flickers again as it begins to fade, and Vaan reaches out a hand. "Wait! Where are they? The Scions?"
"Where they hide. In the place where once housed the Sword of Kings, blade of the Dynast King."
--
Balthier looks ahead into the pale of the horizon as the Strahl streaks through the air.
He thinks briefly that it is somewhat ridiculous having travelled this distance only to find that their destination is the same as their origin, but Fran is pale still from the Occurian's temper tantrum and not present to share his bemusement, and so he lets the thought slip away. They take the curve of the land as their guide, and they travel the silent airspace above Jagd Difohr. Mist approaches the Strahl with tentative fingers, but curls away in the eddies trailing their passage.
Vaan reaches out from where he sits in the co-pilot's seat, and he taps the keys that cause a minute adjustment in the tilt of the Strahl's left wing. There is a gentle shift, and a sense of weightlessness.
Balthier listens to the smooth flow of wind over the Strahl's nose as she soars.
The sun is rising, setting the cusp of arcing land and sky ablaze with streaks of crimson.
Vaan is quiet by his side, his breath soft and even, and they fly.
--
TBC
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