Gift fic for: hamimifk
Title: What Once Was Shall Be Again
Recipient: hamimifk
Writer: naliarenegade
Series: FF XII (pssst, naliarenegade, can you let me know who the characters are so I can tag it appropriately?)
Once upon a time, she would have stood by you. She would have smiled as you silently crept up behind her and wrapped your arms around her waist, placing hungry kisses along her jawline. She would have released a contented sigh when your hands started to wander and she would have said your name in a whisper. Once upon a time, she loved you.
Once upon a time, both of you would have stood side by side. You both would have righted the injustices of the world with smug faces and hungry bellies. You both would fly the endless sky and never again touch the ground. Once upon a time, you were both in love.
Once upon a time, you found yourself standing beside her. You gave her opportunities to snark at your foolishness, for her you would play the jester. You would have smiled at her and said something to make her laugh. Once upon a time, you loved her.
And the thing is, you never stopped.
Now you sit at Larsa's right hand side and help him run Archades, protecting him in Basch's stead. You are his friend, his adviser, his bodyguard and his confidant. But you do not love him.
You know the young emperor is infatuated with you, but you feign activity when he hints at more. He is too young, too hume and you are not Archadian enough. You retreat to your quarters, closing your eyes to the reminders of your past. Your gun rests beside your mahogany desk next to your pack and you know that the docking papers for the Strahl are stored within. You wonder if Fran has already released your bird from its cage. You wish she would steal you away as well, but you know your duties.
You sit at your desk, daylight fading from the sky and when it is finally dark you light a lamp, hand moving mechanically. You hate your work, the diagrams and equations. You hate not being in the sky. You hate the passive violence of this hellhole. You hate the drab sameness and the lack of non-humes. You hate Archades, this place that is not your home.
Pulling out the latest designs for that taxis, your hand brushes the design for the Strahl, so meticulously drawn by you partner's hand that you had hesitated to take it when she gave it freely to you. You don't hesitate now, instead you pull it out and gaze at it, but you don't see your beautiful bird. You see a jumbled mess and smile. You bird is like your partnership. First a jumbled mess, then freedom and now a shattered dream, a life lost.
You pull out new paper and draw your bird as you remember her, because you know the Strahl inside and out. You thought you had known Fran just as well, but you don't, you never did, did you?
It is dawn when your eyes drift shut and you fall asleep at your desk, no doubt getting ink all over your face. You're tooo tired to care, and that scares you. It is noon when Larsa's knock wakes you. You haul yourself to the door, yor mood fouled by wakefulness.
Larsa blinks at your ragged appearance. “Are you unwell?”
“Yes,” you growl. His expression is uneasy. He hasn't seen you act this way since the journey four years past. You let out a breath and rub your unshaven face, smudging the ink on your cheek. “I'm sorry, Larsa. What do you need?”
The boy smiles when you say his name, he too is tired of formality, of the pretension this city breaths. “There is a meeting,” He says with a smile, “In a few hours and I would appreciate your presence.”
It never occurs to you that it might be a set up. You nod and give him a mocking bow. “It it will please your majesty.”
Larsa laughs at your antics, his boyish expression at odds with his full grown figure. He nods and says, “In the Jungle room, then, at three.”
You shut the door. Your world spins and twirls. Lights dance behind your eyelids while you stumble to the bathroom. Bile rises behind your lips and you heave into the sink- you don't remember the last time you ate properly, now your body is rebeling. Sweat pours down your face and mixes with your tears.
Once upon a time, your companions would have waited outside the door as Fran came in to ease your pain. You would have blamed the food and she would have understood, would have brushed your shoulder with hers, would have brushed away the tears. She would have understood your illness was born of Archades. Born of this place that sucks you dry with a smirk and small talk, with information and ambition, with politicks and greed.
You are too noble for this place a dreamer in a land of realists and now you will pay the consequences and suffer for the desire to end your existence. A desire that clashes with your will to live.
Your shaking hands strip off your sweat-soaked, silken shirt and black, cotton leggings. Kicking off your boots, you turn and open the shower door. You don't see the puddle until you've fallen. You don't feel the razor until it has lodged deep in your palm. It becomes hard to see, to think, but you reach up with your good hand anyway and turn the knob, determined to feel the water's heat in your bones, praying it will unthaw your numb heart.
You don't feel anything as you struggle to simply sit under the spray. You don't feel the razor, still in your hand. But you see the water run red and this unnerves you. How long has it been since you have felt pain? Better still, when had you stopped feeling it?
You carefully wrench the blade from the bone and watch the blood run off the blade. All you see is that blade, wrought from Dalmascas Steel, the best of the best. You remember when Fran gave it to you, a token of appreciation for saving her life. Or perhaps it was a hint to show you that you needed to shave. Probably that. She hated facial hair. It drops from your hand, clatters to the tile and you slump over. Your world goes black.
Only when the water cools do you awaken. You moan, not from the chill nor the pain from you hand, only from that deep seated annoyance that you still live. You stagger to your feet and the shower is brief after that, a quick scrub and rinse. You step out looking at your hand and the sticky scab that has formed over it. You fill the sink with water, hot water, and soak your hand. You clench it, wincing when the scab rips away. You pull a potion vial from the medicine cabinet and pour it over the wound. White light flashes behind your eyes as your blood turns hot as molten lava. Drinking it would have spared you the pain, but it would have made your head fuzzy and you needed a sharp mind to deal with the assholes in the senate. The light disappears and your hand looks as good as new, but you wonder how many times you have had to patch yourself up. You toss the vial away, barely registering that you made it in the rubbish bin.
Now you turn your full attention to your appearance, which is more that unsatisfying. You shave the fuzz from your cheeks and towels the water away. You look in the mirror again, but still see a haggard and aged man.
You puzzle over your appearance and force a smirk onto your lips, in a vain attempt to see a hint of what you had once been. You go through the daily ritual of reconstructing your pride, that does you more harm than good. You remind yourself that you weed a hero, while trying to forget the friends whom you had let down. You tell yourself of your proud Archadian heritage and abilities, while you try to convince yourself that all of those traits are good for you when in reality they are dishonest. You tell yourself that you are free to do as you please, but you know this to be a lie, one that even you cannot make believable.
Wherever you go in this forsaken city, you are spied upon. Whatever you do becomes the business of all Archades, in a meter of hours. This wouldn't be a terrible thing at all, except, only the most despicable actions give one respect, while good deeds subject one to ridicule. You hate this corruption, no longer finding joy on this ruin. Perhaps this is because you know, first hand, the destruction on innocence that this chaos breeds.
Everywhere you turn you see symbols of your homeland. The poverty in Lower Achades, the rich clothing, the elegant and clean structures, the spy holes in the walls, hell, Archades has even carved itself into your bathroom door!
Red spots appear in your vision as you see that cruel seal stamped upon your door. It dares to place itself here? In your only safe haven in this god forsaken place? You hate it. You hate this city. You hate these lies. You wish that Ashe had chosen to destroy this wretched city and free the world of this sugar wrapped hell.
Only hatred is enough to recover your usual disposition and propel you out those doors. You go straight to your closet, but see the clothes of an average nobleman and you are anything, but average. You are the grand skypirate, Balthier, paying your equally grand debt to society. If you cannot destroy Archades physically than you will help Larsa destroy her socially. No longer will poverty reign supreme. No longer will racism run rampant. And when it is all over you shall give Archades to Fran on a pure gold platter. Then you both shall be happy again.
But first you have to find your old outfit, your pirating outfit, your only freedom in this weakening cage.
Recipient: hamimifk
Writer: naliarenegade
Series: FF XII (pssst, naliarenegade, can you let me know who the characters are so I can tag it appropriately?)
Once upon a time, she would have stood by you. She would have smiled as you silently crept up behind her and wrapped your arms around her waist, placing hungry kisses along her jawline. She would have released a contented sigh when your hands started to wander and she would have said your name in a whisper. Once upon a time, she loved you.
Once upon a time, both of you would have stood side by side. You both would have righted the injustices of the world with smug faces and hungry bellies. You both would fly the endless sky and never again touch the ground. Once upon a time, you were both in love.
Once upon a time, you found yourself standing beside her. You gave her opportunities to snark at your foolishness, for her you would play the jester. You would have smiled at her and said something to make her laugh. Once upon a time, you loved her.
And the thing is, you never stopped.
Now you sit at Larsa's right hand side and help him run Archades, protecting him in Basch's stead. You are his friend, his adviser, his bodyguard and his confidant. But you do not love him.
You know the young emperor is infatuated with you, but you feign activity when he hints at more. He is too young, too hume and you are not Archadian enough. You retreat to your quarters, closing your eyes to the reminders of your past. Your gun rests beside your mahogany desk next to your pack and you know that the docking papers for the Strahl are stored within. You wonder if Fran has already released your bird from its cage. You wish she would steal you away as well, but you know your duties.
You sit at your desk, daylight fading from the sky and when it is finally dark you light a lamp, hand moving mechanically. You hate your work, the diagrams and equations. You hate not being in the sky. You hate the passive violence of this hellhole. You hate the drab sameness and the lack of non-humes. You hate Archades, this place that is not your home.
Pulling out the latest designs for that taxis, your hand brushes the design for the Strahl, so meticulously drawn by you partner's hand that you had hesitated to take it when she gave it freely to you. You don't hesitate now, instead you pull it out and gaze at it, but you don't see your beautiful bird. You see a jumbled mess and smile. You bird is like your partnership. First a jumbled mess, then freedom and now a shattered dream, a life lost.
You pull out new paper and draw your bird as you remember her, because you know the Strahl inside and out. You thought you had known Fran just as well, but you don't, you never did, did you?
It is dawn when your eyes drift shut and you fall asleep at your desk, no doubt getting ink all over your face. You're tooo tired to care, and that scares you. It is noon when Larsa's knock wakes you. You haul yourself to the door, yor mood fouled by wakefulness.
Larsa blinks at your ragged appearance. “Are you unwell?”
“Yes,” you growl. His expression is uneasy. He hasn't seen you act this way since the journey four years past. You let out a breath and rub your unshaven face, smudging the ink on your cheek. “I'm sorry, Larsa. What do you need?”
The boy smiles when you say his name, he too is tired of formality, of the pretension this city breaths. “There is a meeting,” He says with a smile, “In a few hours and I would appreciate your presence.”
It never occurs to you that it might be a set up. You nod and give him a mocking bow. “It it will please your majesty.”
Larsa laughs at your antics, his boyish expression at odds with his full grown figure. He nods and says, “In the Jungle room, then, at three.”
You shut the door. Your world spins and twirls. Lights dance behind your eyelids while you stumble to the bathroom. Bile rises behind your lips and you heave into the sink- you don't remember the last time you ate properly, now your body is rebeling. Sweat pours down your face and mixes with your tears.
Once upon a time, your companions would have waited outside the door as Fran came in to ease your pain. You would have blamed the food and she would have understood, would have brushed your shoulder with hers, would have brushed away the tears. She would have understood your illness was born of Archades. Born of this place that sucks you dry with a smirk and small talk, with information and ambition, with politicks and greed.
You are too noble for this place a dreamer in a land of realists and now you will pay the consequences and suffer for the desire to end your existence. A desire that clashes with your will to live.
Your shaking hands strip off your sweat-soaked, silken shirt and black, cotton leggings. Kicking off your boots, you turn and open the shower door. You don't see the puddle until you've fallen. You don't feel the razor until it has lodged deep in your palm. It becomes hard to see, to think, but you reach up with your good hand anyway and turn the knob, determined to feel the water's heat in your bones, praying it will unthaw your numb heart.
You don't feel anything as you struggle to simply sit under the spray. You don't feel the razor, still in your hand. But you see the water run red and this unnerves you. How long has it been since you have felt pain? Better still, when had you stopped feeling it?
You carefully wrench the blade from the bone and watch the blood run off the blade. All you see is that blade, wrought from Dalmascas Steel, the best of the best. You remember when Fran gave it to you, a token of appreciation for saving her life. Or perhaps it was a hint to show you that you needed to shave. Probably that. She hated facial hair. It drops from your hand, clatters to the tile and you slump over. Your world goes black.
Only when the water cools do you awaken. You moan, not from the chill nor the pain from you hand, only from that deep seated annoyance that you still live. You stagger to your feet and the shower is brief after that, a quick scrub and rinse. You step out looking at your hand and the sticky scab that has formed over it. You fill the sink with water, hot water, and soak your hand. You clench it, wincing when the scab rips away. You pull a potion vial from the medicine cabinet and pour it over the wound. White light flashes behind your eyes as your blood turns hot as molten lava. Drinking it would have spared you the pain, but it would have made your head fuzzy and you needed a sharp mind to deal with the assholes in the senate. The light disappears and your hand looks as good as new, but you wonder how many times you have had to patch yourself up. You toss the vial away, barely registering that you made it in the rubbish bin.
Now you turn your full attention to your appearance, which is more that unsatisfying. You shave the fuzz from your cheeks and towels the water away. You look in the mirror again, but still see a haggard and aged man.
You puzzle over your appearance and force a smirk onto your lips, in a vain attempt to see a hint of what you had once been. You go through the daily ritual of reconstructing your pride, that does you more harm than good. You remind yourself that you weed a hero, while trying to forget the friends whom you had let down. You tell yourself of your proud Archadian heritage and abilities, while you try to convince yourself that all of those traits are good for you when in reality they are dishonest. You tell yourself that you are free to do as you please, but you know this to be a lie, one that even you cannot make believable.
Wherever you go in this forsaken city, you are spied upon. Whatever you do becomes the business of all Archades, in a meter of hours. This wouldn't be a terrible thing at all, except, only the most despicable actions give one respect, while good deeds subject one to ridicule. You hate this corruption, no longer finding joy on this ruin. Perhaps this is because you know, first hand, the destruction on innocence that this chaos breeds.
Everywhere you turn you see symbols of your homeland. The poverty in Lower Achades, the rich clothing, the elegant and clean structures, the spy holes in the walls, hell, Archades has even carved itself into your bathroom door!
Red spots appear in your vision as you see that cruel seal stamped upon your door. It dares to place itself here? In your only safe haven in this god forsaken place? You hate it. You hate this city. You hate these lies. You wish that Ashe had chosen to destroy this wretched city and free the world of this sugar wrapped hell.
Only hatred is enough to recover your usual disposition and propel you out those doors. You go straight to your closet, but see the clothes of an average nobleman and you are anything, but average. You are the grand skypirate, Balthier, paying your equally grand debt to society. If you cannot destroy Archades physically than you will help Larsa destroy her socially. No longer will poverty reign supreme. No longer will racism run rampant. And when it is all over you shall give Archades to Fran on a pure gold platter. Then you both shall be happy again.
But first you have to find your old outfit, your pirating outfit, your only freedom in this weakening cage.