Final Fantasy XII 1. Assault Striker

This is to be a series of drabbles based off the little figureines in the Sky Pirates Den. It's about the names they're given in there. Ex. Balthier is called the assault Striker, and this about him being the assault striker. I'm doing them in the order they're placed in there, and in the order of which I obtain them.

Assault Striker!

**Back and forth, damage done with none taken**.

_Over six years and a young runaway could not scream louder than he did. _

Balthier was the only one to stare away from a city full of wonders as they encroached on the behemoth Capitol, Archades. He didn't look at the familiar towers that scraped the sky, nor did he share the impressed yet wary airs the princess and her knight held. They were only translucent pillars that destroyed the vast unending sky.

_It's within his movements and the words that pour from his mouth. He couldn't be in plainer sights of what he escaped._

He sports a grim and contorted smirk, as his allies hold sentiments he can barely recall. Vaan speaks, and he doesn't hear, but his reply is the answer to the Dalmascan's question anyways. The stink and reek of the city only grew worse as you went farther inside.

_As open as a book, in which he tried to blot out the mistakes that would forever stain the pages._

He shrugs away tightness in his shoulders, almost nervous. He looks to where he rests his hands on his hips, and can't do much else but ignore the words of the strangers around him and walk oblivious to their awe. He stands taller and his eyes follow the backsides of young woman, to look his part.

_He had learned that not all of those mistakes would go without their uses, and shaped them to his desire._

Steps come from behind and he drawls out her name with refined tones, but they seem to intonate into their own creation of rich textures that would raise the hair of any female.

_Others don't notice, he hides his past deeper than most would care to look._

Ashe stands behind him unfazed, and he does his best to make up for his lack of showmanship, with a smirk and tilt of the head.

_He hides it farther away and plays around the hurt, hoping they will never find it._

Ashe only asks a question, which he does not know to answer honestly. "Do you miss your home?" She wonders, aloud with a sadness he cannot place. Balthier shakes his head; he doesn't know what to make of her blunt words.

"It is no home of mine princess. The sky is my only shelter, and this is only another place where I can steal my wealth from." She's looking at him, and it makes him tingle deep inside, like his answer hadn't mattered; when she already knew his response. She's busy thinking about the decision she has to make and doesn't see the ones he's about to face.

_One other can relate this feeling of running but still being utterly connected._

Ashe fades from his sight and he can feel the presence of Fran beside him. She's the only one that provides him a token of comfort, cold and hard; because in so many ways she is more free than he ever has been, yet still she shares his pain.

_She can see what others do not, and she sees his fear._

"You do not face him for the princess. Do you." Balthier looks at Fran openly he cannot hide from her.

"It's time I took care of business, and find out what he did." Balthier takes a step away in dismissal, but she's still and waiting for him. He knows her ways to well to be surprised and her comfort turns to shards of ice, as it so often does. "Now that the princess is here I have the means to acquire it." He said quicker and with more heat than he wanted. It was to quench her cold and melt it away, but Fran disregarded emotions, she would not let ones feelings cloud their words. It hurt sometimes, when she knew he was trying to hide them from her.

_Innocence is a game he wishes to play, but the past had made it far too fleeting, forcing him to see everything. _

"Are you hiding behind her invisible hand, hoping it will give you strength?" He looks at the ground and takes a deep breath, "You are her hand, and it has power only if you make it so."

He looks back at her his face smooth, glazed in her ice. "I will do what I will Fran. I can't think of it now; not until the time comes." But he is thinking, he hasn't stopped ever since it sunk in at the coast. Every day closer, he could sleep less and less. Until it felt like no sleep came at all. Images streamed through his mind of the past, and he couldn't stop them.

_The gun manifests his needs. He can hit, pierce the flesh like no other—a skill taught to him from before—and never is caught, or hurt by another._

Balthier is face to face with the man he once knew long ago. He has a gun and he's moving to load another shot, he aims and has clear sights. His shot goes out with a jerk and every thought for the last weeks he has had is released with it. He's been imagining this for ages and now as the smoke settles, the weapon aimed at her majesty is fallen, and the monster is kneeling on the ground.

Reddas is falling away as he tries to finish business that is not his, and Balthier feels something inside trying to tear free. He wants to shout, _"why?!"_ but restrains himself from looking a fool. Father is talking and he hates every word more and more.

Then he finally sees why, as a creature of mist appears. He feels anger and disappointment rush in his veins as Cid escapes; flying away.

_The assault striker hides and waits to hit you where you wish not to be, and when you retaliate, he's disappeared._

He had more anger than he knew what to do with and it has led him to this. Now his father is dying, and he doesn't know what to do. It's out there where everyone can see it, and he doesn't care. Balthier finds no solace with his father's end, so much pain he feels, when he thought it was left behind. He thought it was forgetting, but it was only running from something that would have always come. There is no escape, and he feels the world crumple, as it did before he ran. But he's trapped forever, with questions that will never be answered, and they tear him apart.

_Fran sees his fear and sees what he hides from everyone else._

She brings him back; Fran alone is the reason why he had stayed in control. His emotions are running on a high and he's at her side with a loss for what to do. He can't lose her comfort, no matter how cold. Not now, when he feels so alone, he won't let her go and her hand presses to his cheek, she knows, even though her words are contrary. _Run, run as fast as you can._ His hand encases hers; he's had enough running.

A smile comes to her lips as he stops caring about his pain, and for another's; it helps him forget.

He won't leave her behind, because _she best be running with him._

_Damage done, none taken._

_You're only running. The bullet always comes back and the pain is more, when you thought you forgot._

It's Fran's turn next! So dont miss out on the Spell Singer!


	2. Spell Singer

Woo! I've been so busy, it's been diffucult writing, but i've been!

Critera/synopsis:

Oneshots, dedicated to the Sky Pirate's Den, reasons for the names they were given (i.e-Basch the blood dancer (I'm pretty sure..) I also try to include the animation they have when you select a character on the screen. So here it is, Fran's turn!

and without further Ado,I give you:

Spell Singer

_Fran the spell singer,_

_She knows many things; life's flow, and time's weaving. Her world she has understood for so long—but can forever last an eternity?—She stings from inside out, and something melts away with each day's passing. Fran hears whispers to go back; back to a place where she can ignore this world's suffering. Wrong says her heart, but her mind says it is best. _

Fran's gaze roved inevitably towards the outside, hearing the stories she had once listened raptly too. Though words were now forbade, she had never ceased to imagine that facet beyond, even if in passing; it provided her and her sisters something to play and while away their youth with.

When the time came and Fran began to realize this place to be truly tangible, the wood feared for her. Admittedly, Fran herself had begun worrying, but the more she tried to keep herself away, the more she found herself walked its borders.

Until one day, Fran stumbled out of the dark cool forest, and she began to feel the price of her fascination, of freedom.

_The burning is like an uncontrolled fire, wreaking havoc within her. At every turn, her weak heart felt it might give into her mind's desires. She hated their suffering and sorrows branding her with unpleasant memories._

Fran could see the poor of Archades in rags—bound to this filthy stench and dirt for the rest of their short, cruel lives, and felt nothing for them; could not—but when thin ragged children had the heart to disturb her peace, she would hand them a coin. Or whatever item on her person she had to spare, but it was no more than that; A passing glance, a nod, no recognition or familiarity did her gaze hold for the poor and down trodden. There was a thin frail man in the sewer that came to her weekly; though Fran knew not his name, an unspoken bond had formed between the two. The thin frail man understood how she saw him, and how she blamed and ignored the poor for what was a self-inflicted plight. He only sat nearby on those days and pondered in the contentment of her presence.

Finally one day, the last she saw of him—coughing a little—he got up, and said; "I've lived my days to their last, Viera, do not sit here and waste what I do not; could not have." Fran watched him from her lashes, keeping her head lowered and legs crossed in meditation. "It's a pain to watch one so gifted to while away on their past…" He spat, angrily; the man heaved for breath, and continued in a whisper. "When you of all races should know; only the future lies ahead!"

With that, the frail man walked away, stumbling as his life drained with every step, until he collapsed. Children began crying and running, calling his name, as if the old man was an uncle or a father to them. They called to her then,

'Silver goddess! (as was their nickname for Fran) Kind Viera, please help our poor Saet to live! Be kind, and please heal him? He is on the brink of dying, and we cannot stand to see someone so dear breath his last! Please!'

Fran was blinking in surprise, and walking to their sides. Then, like a switch flipping on, she could see his wasted and broken body, curled and draining of its pallor. Fran was lost, lost for thought or speech. She could only stand and see his dying body with worried and confused eyes.

She wanted to escape, and hear the voice, but it did not come.

_Fran watches as time sweeps through this land, one moment parched, and the next overflown and drowned. The endless quests of power the few hold over the many, despondent faceless people with stolen hopes, wandering a wasteland, she feared to meet. Crimes of passion with their barbaric emotions, misunderstood words, and plot enveloped society; this world was mind numbing with all its pitfalls and hidden traps. Fran could see how they bled, and despite their pain wished not yet to die. Words in her head were sweeter than ever, and she wanted to hear them, for comfort and peace, surrounded by such sorrow and avarice. Tranquility was so hard to come by, when the burning left her feeling barren and empty within._

Fran soon left Archades, traveled far, far away. She didn't know why. Maybe it was those rotten stares, being shunned by the people who had nothing, or maybe it was somthing else. She never used her white magicks after that, prefering potions, and remedies. Fran felt she no longer deserved them; her mind always flashed to when the man collapsed, and only then did people rush to his aid. They cried as if that one man's death was their last straw, and for the first in a long time they felt love for somthing. Though broken and dead, they knew suddenly the sorrow that took its place. It confounded her, why they didn't so much as look at him before then.

_They had love, and maybe it was Fran who also hated how they could throw it away, for something so cheap, lose such precious things, for ridiculous reasons. She envied what they had taken for granted, for Fran could not even touch such a depth of emotion. She wished she had not let that man die._

As Fran read a spell from a scroll, life felt to be more than sedate and calm again, she could sigh in relief. A feeling she wanted more and more; an old familiar thing. Mist ran through her veins and she thought, and believed, that she could hear what had faded and ceased to call. The spell that comes from her soul and the words ready upon her lips are filled with something she cannot readily admit; least to say, it was a longing from her depths. Secretly she entertained foolish thoughts. As she filled to the brim with magicks, but absolution never came, not those words, and she sang the songs her mother taught her, through soul and mind. Nothing happened, and Fran feared the longing had transformed her, so she was even deafer. She did not know if this torture would end; though it was within herself to stop calling, she did not know how.

An arrow flew from her bow, magicked and strong, hoping, to find some comfort. No words returned as she called_, _and she was left gasping and bleeding on the ground. Fran Tried to heal, but her magick was gone.

If only she could reach her pack. A hand grasped hers, and she returned his hold. Wishing she could stop this pain, wishing the warmth that radiated from his frail body would stay. Hoping she could stop calling.

_Fran sings; sings her heart out through the_ _mists. She is wishing this ache away, but wanting to keep what she has found kind._

* * *

"Do you live only after you suffer, Dear Fran? Appreciate what transpires, because you know how bad things can hurt?" He asks, oddly close to melancholy.

Fran shakes her head, "No, many a year I have lived without pain to tell me so. Comfort was my shelter, and I would wonder how I could breathe and think. My sufferings; greater for knowing what such gentleness is, Balthier." She tells him blandly, but her voice shrinks to an unsteady cadence. "Now…now, I feel a void where that should be, and it burns as I cannot replace it."

Balthier gives a smile, lifting Fran from sadness to uncertainty. "Then maybe, I can show you, how such longings can be met, and how to nullify your loss, with what you have also found."

Fran blinks at his sudden, and mischievous change of tone, but soon he sweeps her away, leaving her gasping for breath trying to understand.

_For one moment, Fran forgot the voices that she constantly wanted to find. For a minute, she stopped her singing of the mists, singing of spells. The spell singer stopped her calling, when at that moment, she realized there was something more, something she could not place._

_However, what it was she felt pooling around her being, growing, and brightening with each second he led her deeper, was Love. A kind of love that she had never known, that now connected her to the beings all around. The burning, turned to a flood of completely different things._

* * *

So what does thy reader think? hmm...? I hope this was alright, and I hope it doesn't sound too bad. I really liked this chapter, but there were so many things I could have made Fran do.

but this is how it is for now lol.


	3. Blood Dancer

It felt appropriate to write it now, I wasn't really planning on it, but it was fun to just vent it out this way, oh how I love short stories, I'm not sure if I was writing this for Basch. In my eyes it fits a lot of characters, if I thought about it, and It's probably more wandering than anything. I found the ending I had made myself was a little confusing, and I tried my best.

Anywho, a little hello from my Fanfictioning hiatus--

Blood dancer

_Amid Landisian legend. Nay. In a legend even older than that, and older than all the memories of wars, fallen hero's, and villains there is a saying. _

_'A man dies three times.'_

_The first, is the when the body ceases to function._

_the second; he is buried beneath the ground._

_And the third, final death a man can die, is that of his memory. Forever forgotten, in the long pages of history, where even a god's name can fade.  
_

A blade swings sharply, freely towards what would soon be festering, ceaselessly bleeding, and gory wounds.

The permanence, the ending of a thought forever; it was as relieving as it was horrible. Serving a higher purpose, to something greater…

_What it would matter if nothing changed; what right it had to live at all if no one noticed it was gone?_

It was a third, terrible and final death, which trumped sharp edges of steel by leagues. He couldn't imagine how he could do it himself, but do it he did. He did not deny that he might be mistaken. But it was what he knew, and what he could do. It was something he could change, and see the lives of others through. _A higher calling a greater purpose. The end justifies the means._

Some would say he danced, but _he knew_ he did no such thing. It was too eloquent for him, someone who murdered--even if it was for a cause.--He would think that at least he should die from his injustices one day, but it couldn't be today.

What, when his time came would do it? Was it someone else, something different that wanted to survive too?  
Then he knew that question he shouldn't ask, and he stopped thinking about it. But, on edges of his consciousness the doubt stayed; a deeper thought best saved for a _more _rainy day.

Then came that day came where he didn't die a death but did. The day he was remembered for dying but hadn't. He wished that day was not retribution for all of the ills he had done. His life had been _unfulfilled_…_not long enough_…_not enough words_…_not enough smiles_…_not enough feeling_...

he should have laughed, or cried, used up all the tears before today…before today, he should have shown mercy.

And he wonders hanging in the dark, how much like the other two deaths this is. Because he isn't alive, not anymore, not with anybody who knows he lives, or anybody who cares, it's silent, and there's never a response to what he says, he know that he dead. His being dead to the world.

Then he is chained and held in place, unable to move within the ground. Where water drips, and nothing lives, he has died that death too.

But he didn't die the third so completely as he hoped.

People still remembered him, knew his name as easily as they knew how to scream or bite or kick, they knew it as well as their anger. They all knew he was dead, but what hurt the most was that they didn't forget. He couldn't die, no one would let him die. In shame and failure, it was sickening.

_No one_ would let him die. No one would forget what he didn't do. In a way being kept on the cusp of death for so long kept him going still, like he couldn't stop. He killed and killed, ending thoughts and memories. Till maybe--he thought in his darkest mood--he would kill anyone who remembered him. _Still common sense kicks in, his thoughts of doing such things are easily breached when the sword in his hand slips through his fingers. _

He's waiting, he knows what a _blood Dancer _he is. What a foul trick, that his memories would play with him.

_He's gasping for breath with a dry throat, his lungs hurt, and his eyes water._ _Or maybe_, he thinks, as a blade knocks his to the ground with the power of lightening.

_that if he..._something crashes into his arm, making warm, hot, toe curling blood splatter the ground. His mind stops, and then slows the world around him, so he can see the grit in his hair and the blood on his cheek, in the cold steel's reflection. _If he died so he couldn't think anymore, if he really died, then maybe...people really would forget. Some couldn't act on the thought of him still being alive. _

He's falling to his knees helplessly, feeling the blood draining from his body. He leans into the sand, feeling weak, frail, and sick. He heaves and air comes out instead. Then when he looks up from the ground that's turning white, the world turns into blue light, and his last thought is this.

_maybe he would forget, too._


End file.

Final Fantasy XII, Friendship, Hurt-Comfort