Title: Skyline [1/?]
Author: Melly
Pairing/Characters: Balthier/Fran, vague Ashe/Basch and Penelo/Vaan
Rating: PG-13 for mentions of sex and swearing
Summary: After Balthier almost dies falling from the Bahamut, both he and Fran are forced to contemplate the unavoidable mortality of their partnership.
A.N: This isn’t my first fanfiction, but it’s my first one in the Final Fantasy XII fandom. I love constructive feedback, so if you like this, I’d really appreciate it if you’d let me know. Also, if you do happen to like my work, feel free to friend me at my writing journal angelic_ink Enjoy!



Falling was nothing like flying. Fran expected it to be vaguely similar, the same sense of weightlessness, but she found that they had nothing in common save the feeling of her stomach rising to her throat. It wasn’t their intention to jump off the ship, no, not until it was closer to the city so they could leap safely onto the wall or the roof of a tall building. That was the plan. He always had a plan, but this time…. She was in his arms, unable to walk, a sudden jolt sent her plummeting towards the earth, debris and broken glass all around her. He was nowhere in sight. She was falling with her back towards the ground, looking up at the enormous ship drifting destructively towards Rabanastre, the sky filled with smoke and cinders.

She felt a sudden, jarring blow to her back, and then she was tumbling, sliding down dirt and rocks, her hands and feet scrambling to find a hold, before she was thrown into a deep sandbank, finally coming to rest. Fran lay in the sand for a while, trying to regain her senses and relishing the feel of solid ground beneath her. She checked herself for injury: her left leg was still bruised and cut from the beam back on the ship, she had a few scrapes from the rough rock, three of her nails had broken off, and her back was badly bruised. She had no broken bones or injuries to her head. Her bow was undamaged, but she had lost her arrows. That was no matter. She would get some more when she went with Balthier back to—she sat up and looked around her. He wasn’t anywhere within her sight. Now that the adrenaline and survival instinct were wearing off, the uncomfortable, aching emptiness that accompanied his absence returned.

Fran sat on the sandbank for a while, dusting herself off and thinking. Her first priority was to find her partner. That was always her first priority: Balthier. Then she could think about getting more arrows, healing and resting, finding out about her other companions, and getting the Strahl back. But where could Balthier be? Fran did not know if he even fell off the Bahamut as she did. No, she thought. He is off the ship. I am certain. Fool of a hume probably jumped after me. That notion brought both a smile to her face and more anxiety to knot in her stomach. She needed to start searching, but as she tried to get up, her leg buckled out from under her. She had forgotten the inhibiting wound on her leg. She cast a Cure spell, the last bit of magick she had left. At least she could walk, and she would be careful to avoid the beasts that roamed the sands.

His scent was nowhere in the air, just the smell of hot sand, smoke, and Mist leaking from broken skystones. Fran wrinkled her nose at the acrid odors. She would not be able to find her partner that way. She decided to walk up the tall sandbank to her right, thinking she’d be able to scan the terrain from its crest. To Fran’s surprise, once she reached the top, she could see the walls of Rabanastre. She had not landed far from the city.

She was about to turn back to search another area, when something at the bottom of the dune caught her eye. It was pressed against a small boulder jutting out of the base, part of it out of her sight. Fran stared at it critically for a long moment, trying to puzzle together exactly what the shape was, when she detected the scent of gunpowder. It was so slight, she was sure her hope and worry were playing tricks on her senses, until the glint of golden embroidery confirmed her faint suspicion. In her haste, she slid most of the way down the hill, kicking up clouds of sand that settled in the creases of her clothing and in her hair. She stumbled to a stop next to him, almost pitching over into the boulder, clumsy from hurriedness and concern. He was unconscious and ashen, breathing barely audible even to Fran’s keen ears. She had to act quickly, but without any magic or potions to speak of…

She went through his pockets, searching for anything that could be of use. She found a scarlet feather in one of his pockets, and set it aside before searching the other. Just as she closed her hand around the smooth, cool glass of a potion bottle, she heard him stop breathing. Her calm, her control, her leveled reasoning, her composed action, it all shattered when he ceased to take another breath. She had never been faced with this situation before, never handled anything that a good Curaga spell couldn’t handle. The precarious razors edge her partner teetered on, it shook her more than she expected. Panicked, Fran scrambled for the feather she found earlier, the last resort that could still be too late. How did this possibility not occur to me? She placed the feather on his chest. </i>What made me think he could stay by my side forever?</i> She waited. How did I delude myself this way? She waited. He will not be with me eternally. I cannot have him forever. The emptiness welled and bubbled like a spring inside her, consuming and harrowing. But I must. She put her hand to his cheek, feeling rough stubble and cool skin against her palm, pleading.

The feather on his chest suddenly burst into light and she snatched her hand back, startled. The brilliance spread, and settled over him like a blanket before fizzling out into ash. His eyes fluttered open.

“Fran?” he murmured.

“I am here.” She felt relief even in her bones to hear his voice.

“What happened?” His eyes moved from her, to the sand, to the ash dusting his body, and back to her.

“I found you here, injured. I used a Phoenix Down. You nearly died.”

“Key word is ‘nearly’ isn’t it?” Balthier smiled weakly. “Can’t get read of the leading man, can you?”

“Do not speak that way.” It is that kind of talk that makes me believe things that cannot be. He looked a bit taken aback by her brusqueness.

“I’m sorry, Fran,” he said after a pause “I forgot how worried I must have made you.” He struggled into a sitting position. “Are you all right?”

“I am fine. I was fortunate, and not hurt much by the fall.” Fran looked out across the sand. “The city is not far.”

“And probably in turmoil.” Balthier followed her gaze. “We can use the chaos as a cloak for a few days, but once the Princess turns Queen, she’ll start looking for us.”

“You do not desire to see her?”

“We have better things to do, Fran. If I wanted to play court jester, I would have stayed on the Strahl.”

“And when are we getting her back?”

“First things first,” Balthier used the boulder as leverage to push himself to his feet. “I have to recover enough so that I can actually walk. Then I have some business to attend to in Archades.”

“Your father’s labs?”

“Something like that.” Balthier’s legs looked ready to give out on him. “Fran, give me a hand, will you?”

“There is a potion in your pocket,” Fran said. “That will help.” Balthier searched his pockets and pulled out the bottle.

“Ah. Thank you.” He uncorked it and took a swing, grimacing at the aftertaste. “You’d think they’d make these things taste better. Or at least give them flavors. Like cherry or something equally less revolting.” Fran did not speak until he was finished with the potion.

“Are you able to walk now?”

“I can make it to the city, and that’s all that matters.” Fran nodded, and started to turn towards the city when he reached out and touched her shoulder.

“I’m sorry for what happened. I didn’t mean for it to.”

“It is not your fault we fell off the ship.”

“I know but…if it was me in your position today…I don’t know what I would have done, if I lost you. I can only imagine you felt some of the dismay and fear I know I would feel.”

“It was…” she searched for a suitable word. “Unnerving.” He gave her a small understanding smile, before he gently pressed two fingers on her cheek and ran them softly down her jaw line. A reassurance. He meant for his touch to calm her anxieties, to convey that he was all right, that everything would be all right. But Fran knew differently. If he did not die today, he would die sometime, almost certainly before her. She also knew, that some part of her, some part of her heart or soul or self would die, the second Balthier perished.