Categories > Games > Final Fantasy XII > Claret Sky
18. That which converges
Balthier/Vaan - post canon
Disclaimers still apply.
Nothing to say really. It's almost over.
--
The Silverflow reflects moonlight outside the Strahl. It hovers, its shadow indistinct on the snow, and Balthier scrubs his hand over his face and tells his passengers to rest.
He sits under the brightest lamp to dissemble his gun, and he remembers Penelo laying her head in Vaan's lap and rubbing at the tear tracks on her cheeks.
He sees the smile on her face, though, as they speak of hunting rats in the Garamsythe Waterway, snatching ripe starfruit from irate vendors, and braving sandstorms to bring back Sky Jewels dropped in the mouth of the Zertinan Caverns.
Balthier too remembers the children, Filo and Kytes, but he recalls little more than too much energy and too many questions, and so he excuses himself.
He runs his cloths over the smooth barrel of his gun as he listens to the quiet hum of his ship, and he thinks of a mummer's farce he viewed as a child, about a hero who spoke wild tales of his exploits and could not slay the dragon. It had been funny, then.
--
Balthier thinks he sees the wrong side of sunrise too often of late. He presses the heel of his palm into his eyes, the Strahl dim and quiet around him, and he glances up sharply when the hatch descends.
Vaan's steps are quiet on the metal slats, and he pauses when he sees Balthier. There is an awkward shift to his stance.
There are red abrasions on his fingers, tracing his knuckles, and Balthier frowns.
He walks into the cold stillness and churned snow outside.
Balthier does not know what he expects to see, but the compulsion to look moves him before he can wonder. There are scratches on the largest of the stones covering the graves. They do not make words, but they are familiar. Balthier places them a moment later, and he turns to look back at the Strahl, her gate still swung open and revealing muted light within.
It is thief-sign, the simple pictogram that indicates safe-house.
--
Vaan avoids his eyes for the rest of the morning, a deep crease between his brows as if he puzzles, and Balthier tells himself to focus. The Stilshrine of Miriam spreads under the cliff the Strahl settles upon, and his companions are sombre when Balthier turns to face them.
"We do not know what we expect to find, so tread carefully. Keep together." Balthier nods to Vaan. "Vaan, you take point. Remember, it would be best if we attempt to isolate the enemy and remove them one by one."
Fran inclines her head, and Penelo tightens her fist around her battle pole.
"Let's go in," Balthier says.
Machinery slides smoothly, and the hatch of the Strahl descends, tapping lightly to the ground outside.
Balthier does not notice Vaan's steps slowing until he has lagged behind, and he turns around.
"Balthier," he says.
Fran and Penelo step out onto the snow, stamped down with the pressure of the Strahl's descent, and Balthier pauses, watching Vaan in the filtered light from the door.
Vaan stares at him, brow furrowed, and his jaw is tight.
He waits, but he hears only the scratching of the wind, and Balthier shakes his head. "Vaan, if you're worried that this is goodbye, I'll have you remember that my role is not yet obsolete in this little production. I'll not do anything reckless."
Vaan gives him a pained look, and he steps forward.
There are fingers twisted around Balthier's collar and a mouth pressed hard against his. Balthier inhales sharply, the surprise being so much that he cannot do anything but press back, tasting the warmth of sun mixed with the bitterness of desperation. He makes a noise in the back of his throat, and he raises his hands, reaching out to cup Vaan's jaw.
Vaan pulls back before his fingers make contact, and his lips brush over Balthier's mouth as he speaks.
"I know."
Balthier dimly registers that his shallow breaths do nothing to ease the lightness in his head and the twists to his vision.
"Vaan, hurry up!" It is Penelo who calls, outside in the Silverflow.
Vaan's lips are reddened when he tightens them, and there are heavy spots of colour over his cheeks. He nods sharply to Balthier before he darts away.
--
The Dead Bones showers Balthier with dry debris when its skull shatters under his shot.
He grits his teeth against the leaden sensation travelling slowly through his limbs, and his arm resists the movement when he raises his hand to gather his magick. There is a grey sheen to his skin that smothers in increments.
The tingling of Esuna sweeps through him, washing away the stiffness, and Balthier exhales. He cancels his own spell to raise his gun instead. He catches Fran's eye, and he nods his thanks.
Zalera spins around, dragging the Shamaness with him. Her head lolls and drops to his winged shoulder with a low moan. He is silent, the rictus of his skull malevolent in its bleak rage. He jerks, a streak of blackened blood arcing to the ground, when Vaan slashes hard into his side. The Shamaness screeches, then, a grating sound that makes Balthier's teeth vibrate, and he concentrates healing magick. He is ready when Penelo shudders and sags to the ground.
As Vaan stabs his sword deep into the folds of the cape lining the Death Seraph's back, Balthier narrows his eyes and fires, his shots ringing in succession. Zalera sheds ribbons of dry flesh and rotten fluids.
--
The summon crest hangs in the air, its curves unpleasantly organic in their glisten. It spins slowly, encased in crystal.
"What now?" Balthier says, pressing a hand against a leaking gash in his shoulder. It knits together with the burn of magick.
"The Occurian said that the weapon that Vaan would need is beyond their control, didn't he?" Penelo is inspecting the crest.
Fran drums long fingers over the arch of the Sagittarius, and she looks down at the fletch in her hand as she thinks. "On failure to adhere to woven path the Occurian spoke long," she says, slowly. "Perhaps it is Vaan who is beyond their control." She pauses. "I hear it speak, the crest."
Balthier listens, and there are no words, but he looks, and the crest is beautiful. His gun feels weighted.
"I can't hear anything," Vaan says.
Vaan looks down at the sword in his hand. The Durandal looks heavy and hardly gleams in the dim, the intricate moldings blurred. He raises it over his head, clasping it in both hands, and the shield strapped to his arm glints.
When the crest shatters, the flash of light burns afterimages into Balthier's eyes. There is a quiet sigh, a calm soft in Zalera's voice.
--
TBC
Balthier/Vaan - post canon
Disclaimers still apply.
Nothing to say really. It's almost over.
--
The Silverflow reflects moonlight outside the Strahl. It hovers, its shadow indistinct on the snow, and Balthier scrubs his hand over his face and tells his passengers to rest.
He sits under the brightest lamp to dissemble his gun, and he remembers Penelo laying her head in Vaan's lap and rubbing at the tear tracks on her cheeks.
He sees the smile on her face, though, as they speak of hunting rats in the Garamsythe Waterway, snatching ripe starfruit from irate vendors, and braving sandstorms to bring back Sky Jewels dropped in the mouth of the Zertinan Caverns.
Balthier too remembers the children, Filo and Kytes, but he recalls little more than too much energy and too many questions, and so he excuses himself.
He runs his cloths over the smooth barrel of his gun as he listens to the quiet hum of his ship, and he thinks of a mummer's farce he viewed as a child, about a hero who spoke wild tales of his exploits and could not slay the dragon. It had been funny, then.
--
Balthier thinks he sees the wrong side of sunrise too often of late. He presses the heel of his palm into his eyes, the Strahl dim and quiet around him, and he glances up sharply when the hatch descends.
Vaan's steps are quiet on the metal slats, and he pauses when he sees Balthier. There is an awkward shift to his stance.
There are red abrasions on his fingers, tracing his knuckles, and Balthier frowns.
He walks into the cold stillness and churned snow outside.
Balthier does not know what he expects to see, but the compulsion to look moves him before he can wonder. There are scratches on the largest of the stones covering the graves. They do not make words, but they are familiar. Balthier places them a moment later, and he turns to look back at the Strahl, her gate still swung open and revealing muted light within.
It is thief-sign, the simple pictogram that indicates safe-house.
--
Vaan avoids his eyes for the rest of the morning, a deep crease between his brows as if he puzzles, and Balthier tells himself to focus. The Stilshrine of Miriam spreads under the cliff the Strahl settles upon, and his companions are sombre when Balthier turns to face them.
"We do not know what we expect to find, so tread carefully. Keep together." Balthier nods to Vaan. "Vaan, you take point. Remember, it would be best if we attempt to isolate the enemy and remove them one by one."
Fran inclines her head, and Penelo tightens her fist around her battle pole.
"Let's go in," Balthier says.
Machinery slides smoothly, and the hatch of the Strahl descends, tapping lightly to the ground outside.
Balthier does not notice Vaan's steps slowing until he has lagged behind, and he turns around.
"Balthier," he says.
Fran and Penelo step out onto the snow, stamped down with the pressure of the Strahl's descent, and Balthier pauses, watching Vaan in the filtered light from the door.
Vaan stares at him, brow furrowed, and his jaw is tight.
He waits, but he hears only the scratching of the wind, and Balthier shakes his head. "Vaan, if you're worried that this is goodbye, I'll have you remember that my role is not yet obsolete in this little production. I'll not do anything reckless."
Vaan gives him a pained look, and he steps forward.
There are fingers twisted around Balthier's collar and a mouth pressed hard against his. Balthier inhales sharply, the surprise being so much that he cannot do anything but press back, tasting the warmth of sun mixed with the bitterness of desperation. He makes a noise in the back of his throat, and he raises his hands, reaching out to cup Vaan's jaw.
Vaan pulls back before his fingers make contact, and his lips brush over Balthier's mouth as he speaks.
"I know."
Balthier dimly registers that his shallow breaths do nothing to ease the lightness in his head and the twists to his vision.
"Vaan, hurry up!" It is Penelo who calls, outside in the Silverflow.
Vaan's lips are reddened when he tightens them, and there are heavy spots of colour over his cheeks. He nods sharply to Balthier before he darts away.
--
The Dead Bones showers Balthier with dry debris when its skull shatters under his shot.
He grits his teeth against the leaden sensation travelling slowly through his limbs, and his arm resists the movement when he raises his hand to gather his magick. There is a grey sheen to his skin that smothers in increments.
The tingling of Esuna sweeps through him, washing away the stiffness, and Balthier exhales. He cancels his own spell to raise his gun instead. He catches Fran's eye, and he nods his thanks.
Zalera spins around, dragging the Shamaness with him. Her head lolls and drops to his winged shoulder with a low moan. He is silent, the rictus of his skull malevolent in its bleak rage. He jerks, a streak of blackened blood arcing to the ground, when Vaan slashes hard into his side. The Shamaness screeches, then, a grating sound that makes Balthier's teeth vibrate, and he concentrates healing magick. He is ready when Penelo shudders and sags to the ground.
As Vaan stabs his sword deep into the folds of the cape lining the Death Seraph's back, Balthier narrows his eyes and fires, his shots ringing in succession. Zalera sheds ribbons of dry flesh and rotten fluids.
--
The summon crest hangs in the air, its curves unpleasantly organic in their glisten. It spins slowly, encased in crystal.
"What now?" Balthier says, pressing a hand against a leaking gash in his shoulder. It knits together with the burn of magick.
"The Occurian said that the weapon that Vaan would need is beyond their control, didn't he?" Penelo is inspecting the crest.
Fran drums long fingers over the arch of the Sagittarius, and she looks down at the fletch in her hand as she thinks. "On failure to adhere to woven path the Occurian spoke long," she says, slowly. "Perhaps it is Vaan who is beyond their control." She pauses. "I hear it speak, the crest."
Balthier listens, and there are no words, but he looks, and the crest is beautiful. His gun feels weighted.
"I can't hear anything," Vaan says.
Vaan looks down at the sword in his hand. The Durandal looks heavy and hardly gleams in the dim, the intricate moldings blurred. He raises it over his head, clasping it in both hands, and the shield strapped to his arm glints.
When the crest shatters, the flash of light burns afterimages into Balthier's eyes. There is a quiet sigh, a calm soft in Zalera's voice.
--
TBC
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