There had been others, yes, many others who thought that the sun set and rose around her; many others who whispered her name in their sleep at night or in the heat of the moment. Many others knew the contours of her body and the sounds she made when she breathed. There had been many others before him, and there would be many others afterward.
Balthier knew all of this, and regarded it with a humor. He'd ask how many there'd been, and smirk when she couldn't tell him. When he asked for names she'd give a few, names that meant nothing to him but brought back pangs inside of her. Balthier laughed at her and asked if she'd be able to remember his name.
"I usually don't know the supporting roles," she'd say, and he'd cheerily role his eyes.
Afterwards Fran would retreat to her quarters. She'd a many a time claimed that her past had been left behind her, but their memories couldn't—wouldn't—fade. Not all of them had meant something, but some of them…
The first real meaningful man had been an Archadian, traveling the world. She'd met him during said travels, and he told her that he needed her. She was hesitant at first, but the way that he seemed to gravitate himself around her, the way that he constantly needed to be beside her…his name was Edmund. He died of a bad poison just outside of Rabanastre. She cried for days—an emotion taught to her by Edmund himself. To grief wasn't to be Viera, for Mother Wood taught them that all they needed was around them.
There was another one, from Rozarria, named Orlando, who insisted on showering her with expensive, ornate gifts. That wasn't something that she liked, but it was tolerable. There weren't too many of her kind in Rozarria, and he practically worshiped the ground that she walked on. He died of old age and, while she was saddened, she moved on, by now well used to Humes and their deaths. Each time she'd think that she'd found the Hume definition of love. And each time he'd die, or find himself a nice well-to-do Hume wife.
Yes, there were many others, but would it ever feel like this? Would there ever be another who shared with her the glory of the skies? Could anyone else make her feel this free?
Maybe in another fifty years there would be another one. No, there would definitely be another one. And maybe he'd laugh when she couldn't tell him how many there were. And then he'd ask for names and she'd say, "First there was Edmund. And many years later, Orlando was a favorite."
"Is that all?" he'd ask.
"There was Balthier. There were many others. But there was always Balthier."
0FIN0
I love this thing. I wrote it over the span of two days in science, math, and French class.
Nay do I own the epitome of gaming pleasure.
Please excuse the errors: I typed this up while caring for my pregnant dog (who wasn't in labor, so I lost a nights sleep for naught) very early in the morning, and so I wouldn't be surprised if my lack of sleep and lack of a beta-reader for FFXII fanfiction comes back to bite me in this thing.
There is a disturbing lack of fanfiction with Fran in it, and if you happen to know of any good ones, then please tell me!
