[FFXII] A Drop and a Ripple, part 16/19
The voice is Balthier’s, even though it sounds somewhat distorted. Something hurts. She wouldn’t be able to say what or where, or even what the pain is like, but it’s nevertheless there.
(Why is it…so…dark?)
Her head is buzzing, and it’s very difficult to concentrate on anything besides the diffuse sensation of pain. At first, she can’t determine whether her eyes are closed or open, but gradually, she notices some sort of faint light, as of a dying lamp somewhere. Dull, blackened colours come back into view. Dirtied gold embroidery. That’s Balthier’s vest. Shreds of his shirt collar. His features return into focus next. The faint glint of his eyes in the gloom. His left cheek is black, whether with soot or with caked blood, she cannot tell.
She sighs, and her breath comes out in a whimper.
“Where does it hurt?”
Her entire left side, it would seem. There is a sharp stab in her chest when she attempts to breathe in too deeply, therefore-
“Ribs…broken…,” she forces out.
Immediately, he loosens his hold and shifts his right arm lower to relieve the stress on her ribcage.
“My…head…ringing,” she tries.
“Yes, the explosion probably didn’t help with that. Hang on.”
Strips of memory rise up to the surface of her mind, and she registers that they must still be on the Bahamut. He shifts his hand back up again, and a cure spell distinctly slithers its way under her skin to try to soothe the broken bones. It’s not a very strong one, which signals her that his mana must be running low.
“You’ll have to wait a bit for the next one, I’m afraid.”
His voice is apologetic and slightly strained, as if he were in pain as well. Sure enough, she feels him wince distinctly as he attempts to settle her on the floor with her back to some object or other. Judging by the faintly distinguishable piles of rubble surrounding them, it could really be anything. He stifles a groan as he stands up, half-withdrawing into the darkness around them, tatters of leather gaping around the dim white patch of his right knee.
“What…is it?”
“Just my ankle, it seems. But not to worry.”
He attempts to hobble about a few steps. Most likely to restore enough energy for another spell, but it seems ludicrous and unnecessarily painful.
“Stop,” she desperately tries to focus, “come…here.”
He pauses for an instant, then complies, with a very noticeable limp.
“Your foot…,” she gestures, concentrating as best she can on her mana.
Somewhat awkwardly, he leans into whatever’s supporting her, so that his weight rests entirely on his good foot. She reaches out to wrap her hand lightly around his right ankle. If the swelling is anything to go by, it’s a rather nasty sprain. She manages the strongest spell she can. It feels like a gasp.
“Thank you,” he says quietly, then resumes his pacing, noticeably easier. However, it’s still painful to watch him.
“You don’t…have to…,” she starts.
“Nonsense,” he interrupts, “of course I do. Stay still.”
A few moments later, he returns to her. Kneeling back down with some difficulty, he adds with a smirk in his voice:
“After all, I have to prove myself in the supporting role before you allow me back into the lead, right?”
A smile greets his words, as she leans her cheek against his. Once again, his hand slides along her side, once again, relief worms its way around her bones. The pain dulls a bit, but, along with it, her grip on things does too.
(Tired…)
It’s a little hard to believe that one spell could have cost her this much effort. But the darkness starts to blur, and Balthier’s contours grow hazy again. The last thing she is conscious of is the buzzing inside her head.
“Fran?”
(Why is it…so…dark?)
Her head is buzzing, and it’s very difficult to concentrate on anything besides the diffuse sensation of pain. At first, she can’t determine whether her eyes are closed or open, but gradually, she notices some sort of faint light, as of a dying lamp somewhere. Dull, blackened colours come back into view. Dirtied gold embroidery. That’s Balthier’s vest. Shreds of his shirt collar. His features return into focus next. The faint glint of his eyes in the gloom. His left cheek is black, whether with soot or with caked blood, she cannot tell.
She sighs, and her breath comes out in a whimper.
“Where does it hurt?”
Her entire left side, it would seem. There is a sharp stab in her chest when she attempts to breathe in too deeply, therefore-
“Ribs…broken…,” she forces out.
Immediately, he loosens his hold and shifts his right arm lower to relieve the stress on her ribcage.
“My…head…ringing,” she tries.
“Yes, the explosion probably didn’t help with that. Hang on.”
Strips of memory rise up to the surface of her mind, and she registers that they must still be on the Bahamut. He shifts his hand back up again, and a cure spell distinctly slithers its way under her skin to try to soothe the broken bones. It’s not a very strong one, which signals her that his mana must be running low.
“You’ll have to wait a bit for the next one, I’m afraid.”
His voice is apologetic and slightly strained, as if he were in pain as well. Sure enough, she feels him wince distinctly as he attempts to settle her on the floor with her back to some object or other. Judging by the faintly distinguishable piles of rubble surrounding them, it could really be anything. He stifles a groan as he stands up, half-withdrawing into the darkness around them, tatters of leather gaping around the dim white patch of his right knee.
“What…is it?”
“Just my ankle, it seems. But not to worry.”
He attempts to hobble about a few steps. Most likely to restore enough energy for another spell, but it seems ludicrous and unnecessarily painful.
“Stop,” she desperately tries to focus, “come…here.”
He pauses for an instant, then complies, with a very noticeable limp.
“Your foot…,” she gestures, concentrating as best she can on her mana.
Somewhat awkwardly, he leans into whatever’s supporting her, so that his weight rests entirely on his good foot. She reaches out to wrap her hand lightly around his right ankle. If the swelling is anything to go by, it’s a rather nasty sprain. She manages the strongest spell she can. It feels like a gasp.
“Thank you,” he says quietly, then resumes his pacing, noticeably easier. However, it’s still painful to watch him.
“You don’t…have to…,” she starts.
“Nonsense,” he interrupts, “of course I do. Stay still.”
A few moments later, he returns to her. Kneeling back down with some difficulty, he adds with a smirk in his voice:
“After all, I have to prove myself in the supporting role before you allow me back into the lead, right?”
A smile greets his words, as she leans her cheek against his. Once again, his hand slides along her side, once again, relief worms its way around her bones. The pain dulls a bit, but, along with it, her grip on things does too.
(Tired…)
It’s a little hard to believe that one spell could have cost her this much effort. But the darkness starts to blur, and Balthier’s contours grow hazy again. The last thing she is conscious of is the buzzing inside her head.
“Fran?”