Title: The Flex of ghosts (1/3)
Fandom: Final Fantasy XII
Rating: T to be safe.
A small study on Balthier, about running from the strongest of ghosts, about brothers and fathers.
A/N Hey all, another little thing for you all. Not beta'd, due to the fact that I haven't got a beta, but please tell me if you think something's off, and sorry fot the wierd formatting.
Everybody knows that the images that you see in the mist are simply yourself, from a different angle. After all, what or indeed who, else could look so much like you, be wearing your garb and move only when you do?
Everybody knows this, but still many prefer to keep their eyes downcast, on the tangibility of the ground when they walk their path through the Feywood or prowl through the cloying halls of contaminate Nabudis.
Balthier knows why, or he thinks he does. A mark, magnificent in potential, startles and breaks through the carefully machinated formation that Bash, ever the mechanical man, has formulated.
Balthier sprints, full of intent to get it back, that no other may claim what is theirs ( is his, he has to correct himself in his head, annoyed).
The mark, being both larger than he and faster in a wooded place, soon pulls ahead. He follows the sound of scale on bark until even those noses fade to the basic forest static, or as close as is possible in this particular wood.
Balthier is left behind by the creature and, more to his surprise and - should he choose to admit it – growing consternation.
He thought that Fran, in the very least, would have been able to remain at his side. Then again she may have gone to cut the mark off, as it would less likely elude her.
No matter, he thinks. No matter, even as he jumps, startled, by a glimpse of white sleeves in the almost corporeal ether. Balthier mutters Akademy wisdom to himself, knows it less than wisdom now, but for comfort still he says mind over matter, mind over matter.
Balthier will admit that he is a man not meant to be alone.
He will say, freely to any, that a leading man is always in need of an audience. He will admit to cold stone on his forehead, pavement under his knees at the mouth of any ally in Ivalice – he will admit to them when his breath is dank with mhadu that he doesn’t exist without one.
If he is too long alone then every ghost crawls towards him, clinging to his shiny buttons and sulk cuffs with gossamer fingers, begging him to take them to the sky.
Even an hour brings them crawling blindly, and Balthier curses himself for forgetting that they come with a whiplash vengeance, strength in the corner of their mouths and the flex of their fingers in his skin; he curses for forgetting that they are almost real in the Feywood.