An open arm is a prison cell

 Title: The first sour taste
foreshadowing, what foreshadowing?
Fandom: FFXII
Characters: The Ronsenburg twins.
Rating: PG
Theme: #88 Food
Words: 200

A/N: I should really put Noah and Basch back in the toybox for the other kiddies to play with. Also, be glad I didn’t put one of the many puns I could have as the title…

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Fandom: Final Fantasy XII
Title: Walls behind walls.
Characters/Pairings: Noah, Bash
Theme: 38 – honour
Word Count: 200.
Rating: PG -13

Closeted behind doors on nights when the dead trail their bone hands around him. Basch lie awake and thinks of walls behind walls behind walls.

The first walls are simple brick; Landis’ speciality. These walls have a dark stain seven bricks up, four from the left, where Noah muttered his first words of rebellion – their father broke Noah’s nose against the brick (retribution.)

As children that was the way things wee, but now as a man within children’s walls Basch flexes his fingers and knows this was wrong.

The second set of walls are iron and he is again imprisoned or a crime not his, but still he takes every blow as atonement for failing to protect his liege. As a breaking man this was right, almost just, but as a spectator years later, this was wrong.

The final set of walls are juddering metal, as the Strahl fights free of aerial debris. He is holding his brother’s encased hands and praying as Gabranth’s head thuds against the paltry pillows, silent, stopped.

As a brother finally, completely, alone, he knows this as wrongness. Lying awake, he thinks, as a man searching for redemption in honour, this may have been right.

 Bone words (FFXII, Old Dalan, Urutan-Yensa)
Title: Bone words.
Fandom: FFXII
Characters: Old Dalan, Urutan-Yensa
Theme: #69 no dialogue
Rating: PG - 13
Summary: A completely insane possible back-story for Old Dalan.
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A/N - I know that this is completely non-viable. Really, I do. But I had to write it. Imagine; The Sandsea as a possible variant of the Wood - the Urutan-Yensa hear the Sandsea as Viera do the wood. They also wear masks as do the Garif; Tribal culture differentiated in that the Urutan-Yensa use aggression, ritualistic training of Yensa to prove ability/worthiness? Also use of whistles and/or hums as primary vocal communication, but retaining the ability if not the desire to use words. Add to that a sense of cultural superiority and what do you get? Urutan-Yensa. .... I sound drunk. Sorry for the long and musing and ridiculous A/N everybody

On paper only. [FFXII, Noah, Basch]
Title: On paper only.
Fandom: FFXII
Characters: Basch, Noah
Prompt: #65 - Useless
Rating: PG
Summary: Noah tries to learn fairness – Basch already has it in abandon.

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Title: His eyes may betray his heart , but his heart betrays his country.
Fandom: FFXII
Characters: Ffamran.
Rating: PG
Summary: One of the first times Ffamran considers leaving the judges.

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Title: Destroying pieces of him (Cleaning up his messes)
Fandom: FFXII
Characters: Rasler, Ashe
Prompt: 23 cleaning up
Rating: PG13 for concept, angst and bad mental places.
A/N: Do not read if you have had a bad pregnancy experience.

( Oh God, another drabble... )

Title: On bitterly learning the art of mimicry from your twin.
Fandom: FFXII
Characters: Noah, Basch
Prompt: 60:switching_places
Rating: PG-13 for mentions of violence.
A/N: Noah, on taking his brothers blows for him and not noticing that his brother learnt how to run from him.

Landis is full of cool valleys; the land as unlevelled as its people. Noah remembers being fourteen, running from his brother for the first time.

He remembers gathering with youths; drinking heavy red wine, stolen, of course. It stings at chapped and weather worn lips, but Noah says nothing. To drink is to be adult, and to be adult is paramount to being a God, a mastery of all things – of whips, bleeding.

Gabranth has taken blows for his brother too many times – tells himself he has no remorse for what his brother is bleeding now from taking for him.

Title: The flex of ghosts (3/?)
Fandom: Final Fantasy XII
Genre: Angst
Characters/Pairings: Balthier
Rating: T to be safe.

 Hey all, I know I said I'd get this done in three parts but it now is running away with me, so there could be one or five more parts to come; I'm not sure. Not quite happy with some of the wording, so feel free to pick at at. This is all from me, so story.

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Title: The Flex of ghosts (1/3)
Fandom: Final Fantasy XII
Genre: Angst
Characters/Pairings: Balthier
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.