ATmac05: Hello Everyone, first of all I wanted to give a sincere thanks to everyone who is still reading the story and has the patience to keep up with it. (Especially since FF13 has already come out—it completely froze on me and broke my Xbox so it has not gained my affections) I really have no excuses for the long wait except for college and life. But I'm trying to get back into my writing swing. And lastly, it was a very assertive review that prompted me to write this again, so reviews really do help! They let me know people are still reading and that people still care, and in this case, they hold me accountable. But so thanks and here's the tenth chapter—I hope it doesn't disappoint.
A Pleasant Lie: Chapter Ten
Regrets: A Mother's Agency
Balthier had expressed a formidable sincerity when he told Fran in that cold corridor of the Draklor Laboratories that he would apologize to his mother, for he meant every word of that statement. Such proximity to his father was seldom experienced on his part, and so the hatred he had acquired for his father was a cold and distant one. It was akin to the hatred one feels for a tyrannical monarch or a criminal who executes a heinous crime. The hatred is only so potent and affirming because it is so black and white. If one does not know that the criminal had a family then said criminal can be hated without reservation. This sharp, incisive, and black and white hatred was the kind that Balthier had retained for his father, and he was quite comfortable with it.
But being right across the table from Dr. Cid did remind Balthier of something—that that criminal did in fact have a family. It was in the midst of lunging for the scientist's neck that Balthier was reminded that that man was his father, and remembering that he was his father undoubtedly led to the realization that Dr. Cid was married to his mother. This recollection might seem apparent, but it was not. This recollection was startling because Balthier realized that for all the pain that horrible man might have caused him, he had probably caused Alvaria (his mother) all the more. For Balthier Dr. Cid was just an obligatory sperm donor, a necessary avenue to life, and in life, a hazy and absent source of money, wealth, and prominence. Dr. Cid's opaqueness to Balthier's reality made him negligible, and so Balthier was able to live his life as he saw fit, regardless of his father.
But Balthier's mother had loved this man. She had spent years putting the final touches on the picture of marriage that vows begin drawing. Alvaria had meticulously organized every ounce of their home life, because nestled in her heart were delusions that this man would love her more for being the woman that society told her she needed to be. Dr. Cid at one point had probably whispered promises of happiness into her ears, and kissed grandeur along her neck and breasts. She, in response, had gripped security into his back, and let him enter her lower dreams with his thrusts of aspirations. And together, they had probably come together into a proposed life of elegance, bliss, and of course, love.
That was how their marriage had begun, and Alvaria probably assumed that was how it was going to end. But alas, what were once kisses of grandeur became dismissals of ambition. The whisperings in her ears became excuses, and the promises he once offered her had become false. Dr. Cid had given her a home, but he had forgotten to give her a life. He had become despondent and removed. And when she took his apprehension for a depression she unfortunately discovered it to be indifference. Alvaria had thought that maybe her husband did not love her the way he had before because something was bothering him, but an argument one night illustrated that he merely now had other interests.
"Cidolfus…" She had beckoned quietly between pale lips as her husband walked through the door one late night. "I did know not you would be home today." An air of pleasant surprise had heightened the pitch to her voice.
Dr. Cid closed the door quietly and removed his coat. He glanced at his wife briefly, unimpressed. She was wearing a rather cheap looking red gown and no make-up. He hated when she wore no make-up. Her face was bland and expressionless without it. It seemed as if she could not even smile without deep rouge paint across her lips. Nor could intrigue be found in her eyes without the black liner adding a sultry palette to her eyelids. He wondered what he had been attracted to years ago, before he discovered that his wife was quite average without—furnishings.
Alvaria, however, had a beautiful smile that many complimented her on. Many of her friends often suggested that she wear less lipstick in order to reveal it. What Dr. Cid thought was Alvaria's inability to smile was nothing less than her unwillingness to do so.
There had been very little to smile about lately.
Dr. Cid quickly put his coat away and again returned his gaze to his wife, holding it this time. He released a smile that Alvaria received genuinely though it was sarcastic. "I bring home over 500,000 gil a month and you dare spend it on cheap nightgown's like that?" He quipped.
The subtle smile that had etched itself into Alvaria's visage vanished. "Oh? My dear I am sorry you do not like it. I promise you this is at the height of fashion in Archadian circles…" Her voice was tender.
The doctor laughed. "Us Bunansas soar above heights dear wife. Heights tend to apex at some point." He pulled his face closer to hers and whispered, "We are limitless."
Alvaria was silent. The intensity of his statement coerced her into looking away.
Dr. Cid relented. "Speaking of the Bunansa line. Where is the boy?"
"I don't know. He's out consorting with heathens again I presume. Or gallivanting with some young ladies."
Balthier's father scoffed as he took a seat a rather expansive marble dining table. "Alvaria, this really has to stop. I believe we have quite an easy arrangement, I support this family by making scientific waves in Archadia—and the home is your stead. Our offspring is a part of that stead; therefore it is your responsibility to make sure he stays in line."
Alvaria became defensive, as she always did when it came to her son. "Cidolfus! That is grossly insensitive of you to say! I'm at the brink of my sanity trying to keep Ffamran in line! I'm doing my absolute best! The boy is just so trying and stubborn and—"
Cidolfus adjusted his sleeves. "I do not tolerate excuses from my workers, Alvaria, and why should I from you? It was you who wanted this child. I have much more deserving nephews to which I would have been happy to leave my fortunes. You wanted him, so handle him."
Alvaria most certainly did not need make-up to reveal the anger that flushed into her cheeks. "You speak as if he solely belongs to me! Perhaps if he had the influence of male he would be more apt to behave appropriately!"
Dr. Cid suddenly found her anger too closely verging on the edge of disrespect.
"Really now? You always prided yourself on being the proprietor of new-age femininity, are you going to wash all of that away by suggesting that you need a man to take care of a child?"
Alvaria was taken so far aback she almost felt as if she had been literally knocked to the ground. Her voice had risen. "Are you serious, Cid? Raising a child is a task that takes partnership, are you seriously suggesting that I should be capable of handling this on my own?"
He paused, looked at his wife intently, adjusted his glasses and then stood. He did not move upon standing, but rather started to look all around the room as if to assess his surroundings. "You are not doing this all by yourself," he sighed. "I'm doing my part as the male of this household. You should do yours as the woman."
The sound of an expensive vase crashing to the floor made Dr. Cid shoot his eyes towards his wife as if she had transformed. "What is your-?"
She interrupted him, shrieking, the vase shards scattered across her feet. "What has happened to you? What happened to the loving man whom I loved? The man who promised me the world? Prestige? Love? You once cared about me Cidolfus! And now you have degenerated into this heartless corpse that tells me that I cannot pull my wait as a wife? As a mother?"
A part of Dr. Cid almost returned her exclamation with an equally aggravated response, but he remembered that he prided himself on composure. So he calmed himself before simply replying.
"This grievance is yours, dear wife. Not mine. I've given you everything that I possibly could have. If you do not know how to be appreciative then that is your fault. You ask what happened to me, but the question should be said of yourself. Look at you—sniveling and throwing priceless furniture as if you were some daft schizophrenic. Acquire yourself a backbone to wear under that ugly gown before you dare criticize me. You are absolutely lucky that I still choose to entertain your idiotic notions. I love you, woman. But I have grown infinitely fatigued with you. You once asked me about putting Ffamran in the military, I will permit this. But afterwards, I believe we should rethink our association as well. I should find a woman worthier of my affections."
And with that, he took his leave.
Alvaria was devastated, and so she siphoned every remaining fiber of her weakening will into making sure that her house was the best ran in Archadia. If she could not have love then she would have domestic tranquility. The other aristocrats would marvel at her pristine furniture, her avant-garde tastes, and her refined graces and they would say this woman is perfectly happy. Look at her home and manners, only a loving and fitting husband would have propagated such excellence in a wife.
And so Balthier realized that his mother, his poor mother, was the real victim in this reality, and so he endeavored to apologize. It could not suffice for the pain both his father and he had inflicted on her psyche, but it could at least be the slither of love that she was so desperate for.
So he would apologize, and he would mean it.
But like most of his intentions, his mission to apologize to his mother was stymied. Instead of a saddened mother, Balthier arrived home to a cold and foreboding ambulance stationed at the end of the driveway. It hovered slightly about the ground as four cool blue fires shot downward from beneath its hulking mass. Durman parked the car just adjacent to it, but still far enough to recognize its urgency. The driver quickly came around to his master's door to open it, but Balthier had already shot out of the vehicle and was bounding towards his home with desperate speed.
He banged on the door until a maid opened it. Her eyes widened in shock and she tried to mutter something assumedly comforting, or perhaps preemptive. But Balthier just pushed her aside and rushed into his living room.
And there was his mother. Her skin polished in her ivory powder, her lips gorgeously infused with a blood red lipstick, and her long blonde locks cascading across on the ground around her head. She was laid on the ground, lifeless; eyes open with an empty gaze. Balthier felt a lump crawling up his throat as he watched a pair of men dressed in gold and black robes lifting his mother from the floor. She was wearing one of the most beautiful golden gowns he had ever seen her in. It was priceless, with small diamonds embroidered in elegant circles all along its seams. His mother was dead, and she had died beautifully. Tears began to return to Balthier's eyes as every curse he had ever thrown at his mother seemed to explode in his head like bullets.
"What happened?" He managed to breathe out.
Versyce, an elderly maid who had been with the family for years but her wrinkled fingers across Balthier's shoulders. "I'm sorry Master Ffamran," she said solemnly. "But your mother hung herself earlier this afternoon. We just discovered her less than an hour ago; for she said she was going shopping. She returned quietly, insisted that we give her some alone time in her room, and we soon found her. We've done all we can, young master. I apologize."
Why are you apologizing? Balthier thought. I did this. My father did this. We killed her.
Fran walked in at that moment. She had been hesitant, for she had felt the disturbance in the Mist surrounding the home soon before they had arrived. She could not quite pinpoint its cause at first, but the feeling was evident as soon as Durman had parked the car.
She surveyed the room. Sad Humes. A sight she was accustomed to seeing. Vieras handle sadness quite privately. When one Viera cries she often cries alone, witnesses and confidants merely look on with stoicism. It is anger that is contagious among Vieras. But sadness, no, it is something to be handled by the one who is most involved in it. Especially for death. Jote used to tell her "the Wood calls us to live its will temporarily, but soon one must return to the Wood, for it always longs to be unified with its servants." So Vieras never looked at death in deep sadness, because it is a merely a return of life, not a loss of it.
But death functions much differently with Humes, she had noticed. They claim to believe in an afterlife, but apparently it is not wonderful enough for them to not regret death. Humes take sadness and let it pass from one Hume to another until everyone joins in on a chorus of sobs and tears. If one Hume breaks this cycle of tears, he or she is either berated or admired. But the chorus must occur.
Vieras think of death as unification with the Wood, but Fran looked at the crying Humes, and saw that death seemed to be currently devoid of its unifying quality. Perhaps another flawed conclusion of the Wood's pedagogy. Only despair seemed to fill the room, and despair often made Humes respond in the oddest of ways.
Balthier in particular was acting very strangely. His face had flushed and his eyebrows contorted in such a way that it seemed as if his young frustration was lodged in his forehead. Fran could only presume that he was holding back tears. It was admirable that he was trying to be so strong, but he needs to cry, Fran thought. Another odd thing she had noticed about Humes is that their separate genders often gave way to foolish notions. In this case, Fran was reminded of the notion that a male Hume should be less apt to cry than female Humes. The Viera started to become sad herself when she thought of this sad and misguided belief. Here was a young man who was watching his mother be carried away to eternity, and this was occurring after an instance of feeling particularly alienated by his father. Balthier was becoming orphaned before his very eyes—what reasonable society would dare tell someone that they could not cry because of that?
"Master Bunanasa!" The front door opening allowed a small breeze to carry this voice from the corner of the room.
Balthier and Fran tightened as they watched Dr. Cid enter his home. He had two men accompanying him, and he seemed rather calm as the servants quickly took his robes and hung them up. His presence changed the whole mood of the room. What had begun as a remorseful silence had turned into anxious urgency as the servants tried to explain to Dr. Cid what happened. Balthier grimaced at the indignity that his father brought out of people. The servants seemed to be trying to explain the situation out of fear of his father more than anything else. Balthier was suddenly filled with an uncontainable anger as he thought of the abuses that Dr. Cid had enacted on his mother, igniting her trajectory to suicide. It took everything, everything Balthier had not to launch a fist into his father's neck. But then his mind wandered to the ways he had hurt his own mother, what right did he have to be mad at his father? They were both accomplices in the destruction of Alvaria mied Bunansa. Tears started to stream across his retina as his mind tried to house both hatred and regret. Without giving a word to anyone he suddenly vaulted upstairs, unable to stand and feel so unequivocally powerless at the same time.
The entire room watched in abrupt shock as they watched the young master bound up the staircase. Dr. Cid scoffed. "Hmph, the boy cannot quite possibly expect to be a suitable adult and not be able to handle the sight of death." Fran saw the insensitive comment hit everyone's expression in the room, but she knew that no one was really shocked.
Dr. Cid walked over to his wife's body, which the paramedics had promptly gathered on a stretcher and were in the process of lifting.
"You are taking the body to a hospital I presume?" Dr. Cid said formally.
The paramedic seemed almost shocked by the obviousness of the question. "Yes sir. You can ride with us on the ambulance if you would like."
"No, that won't be necessary. I don't want the body at the hospital. I would actually prefer for you to take it back to my laboratory."
The paramedic lowered his eyebrows and briefly looked at his coworker. "Sir, respectfully, protocol dictates that…"
Dr. Cid smirked. "Listen boy, clearly you are not acquainted with Archadian politics. Because if you were, you would know who I am and would thusly know not to contradict my demands. My wife is to be taken to the East Wing of my laboratory. If you refuse to comply—and surely I assume you to know better—she will be taken there by my men, and you will find yourself scraping for change in Lowtown."
The recipient of the harsh address merely held his mouth open in fear. "Learn to know who the real authority in this city is, boy." Dr. Cid replied calmly. "And I appreciate your compliance. I will alert your supervisor to my request and will give a most gracious account of your valiant efforts here today. Such fine servicemen in this city." Fran had never seen a man humiliate another with just a smile, but Dr. Cid was quite extraordinary in his villainy.
Dr. Cid projected his voice to the entire room. "This is an unquestionably sad event that has occurred here today. But I encourage everyone to remember that death is merely a part of life, and as such, we should approach it with confidence and decisiveness, as one should approach everything in one's own life. Here we have a woman who unfortunately could not approach her own life with the agency that life requires. As a result, she could not handle the pressures of being in control of one's own life. Control is a big responsibility, friends, and self-control an even greater responsibility. I entreat all of you to maintain your self-control so that you will not subject yourself to what my dear wife has done to herself this day. Suicide is cowardice, it is defeat, it is a sign of weakness. So let this terribly sad day be a reminder to be brave in all of your endeavors. I will miss my wife dearly. I loved her so much. But carry-on, my friends. Do not let this day be a hitch in your stream of productivity. For while it stops for some," he glanced at Alvaria's body, "life goes on for the rest of us."
The mist pulsating through Fran was seething; she could not take the heartlessness anymore. She decided to go attend to Balthier.
Balthier was lying on his bed when he heard a sharp knock at the door. Another servant was undoubtedly trying to comfort him. He put his face to his pillow before yelling a muffled, "I do not wish to be bothered!" He lifted his head when he felt his door open anyway. Who dares enter my room without my permission? He thought as his body angrily shot up, but he relaxed when he saw that it was his copper-colored comrade.
"It is not my intent to bother you." Fran replied.
Balthier swung his legs over the side of his bed and sat, resting his jeweled fingers between his knees. "Oh, my apologies Fran, you must understand that I am just very agitated at the moment."
She took a seat next to him. "Agitation is not a feeling I would presume would occur as a result of death. Sorrow, perhaps. Regret. Not agitation."
"Then perhaps it is not agitation, but a culmination of all of those feelings. Because I most certainly feel everything you just stated, Fran. Perhaps I do not know what I am feeling. I am quite unaccustomed to these types of feelings. Feelings that breach sentimentality. I am not a sentimental person, Fran."
"Nay, but you are human. And Humes are capable of more emotion then they would often give themselves credit for."
There was silence for a moment. "I feel shameful, Fran. I failed my mother in ways that I cannot even fathom to organize. I blamed her for my unhappiness. I have been so spoiled! I have been given everything that I could possibly want, and when I wanted more all I merely had to do was utter my last name and the citizens of Archadia would throw anything I requested in my face. And in the midst of all of this I dared to be unhappy! I dared to rebel! And against what? Nothing. I was being a childish and selfish adolescent, marveling in my own insolence. And I brought my mother into my trivialities. Judging her and criticizing her at every moment for every little thing. Little did I know that she was suffering from such immense pain. I've been soulless and heartless. Just an empty tyrant who drove his mother to suicide."
In the middle of his lamentations Balthier had stood and begun accenting his remarks with focused arms and hands. When he felt that he had finished he had stopped and turned to Fran, admittedly he was expecting consolation, but when he was met with her usual face of stone he returned to his seated position on his bed and buried his face in his hands.
What followed was an even longer silence. Fran sat perfectly still and stared in front of her. Balthier sat to himself waiting for her to say something astounding, something that would uplift his spirits and tell him that everything would be okay. Yet nothing came but silence. He began to take the silence for agreement. Maybe Fran knew as well that he had killed his mother and her silence was merely a declaration of omission. This thought grieved him; it hurt so badly to know that someone knew that he had caused his mother's death. It was as if the shared knowledge strengthened his point, and it pained him so terribly that the tears began to grow once again. And he sobbed.
"At last." Fran broke the silence.
Balthier looked up at her with his drowning eyes. "Wh—what?"
"The Mist was calling for your tears. It felt your pain and wanted to share it with you so that it may relieve you of some of your burden."
"Fran you baffle me with this talk of Mist."
"The Mist is life's essence." Her voice was calm and soothing. "It seeps into every instance of our reality, be it pain and suffering, or happiness. The Mist is strong where emotions are strong, and it is weak when feelings and life run cold. Being so intertwined into every aspect of life, it becomes quite sympathetic to its troubles. It feels your tears, and it wishes to comfort you. Just as it called for your mother, to rescue her from her pain."
Balthier ran the back of his fist across his cheeks to clear the tears before lowering his gaze to the floor. "It would behoove me to believe that my mother died because some supernatural entity wanted her back—at least for my own comfort—but I know that I truly had some hand in my mother's death."
The young imperial looked up when he felt the bed shift; Fran had stood up. Rays of sunset streaming through a nearby window traced up her white sundress and illuminated parts of her body ever so lightly that Balthier was momentarily distracted by her allure. But he was quickly brought out of his distraction when he felt Fran's sinewy arms lift him from the bed and to her chest. His cheek rested against her bosom. But he did not attain the type of pleasure he would've garnered at perhaps a less grave time, because the gesture immediately allowed him to see it for what it was. A hug.
"Ffamran—Balthier, whatever you wish to be called." Fran said softly over his head. "I grow quite fond of you. You are probably the most sincere Hume I've met in a long time. Maybe it is your youth. You must forgive yourself for the pain you might have caused your mother. Understand that it was she who took her own life. Not you. Do not do your mother the disservice of suggesting that she did not even have control over when she was to leave this world. It is painful to leave family behind." She thought of Jote and her beloved little sister Mjrn. "But we must understand that everyone has power over their own decisions. You can whine frivolously now, or you can show your mother your gratitude for all that she did by letting her own up to her own death. Forgive her. Forgive yourself."
Balthier sighed deeply. "But I do not know how to do that, Fran."
"My people like to say that we never figure out how to accomplish things, but Time does. Time will show you how to do all things, Balthier."
Another sigh, some final thoughts of clarity, and Balthier stood back from Fran's release. He cleared his throat and nonchalantly wiped his mouth.
"Thanks Fran. Much appreciated." He said with a smirk. "I suppose you're right. No, I dare say I know you're right. All this wallowing and whining is not very becoming of such a dashing young man as myself."
Fran made no face, but she would've smiled.
"Ah—from tenderheartedness to indifference. That is quite you, Fran." He laughed. "Well let's channel all this emotion into something productive. What is my dastardly daddy up to down there?"
Fran suddenly remembered. "He was behaving quite strangely. He ordered the body to be sent to his lab."
Balthier face tightened. "For what? If that tyrant thinks he can use my mother's body for some trite experiment then some correction may be in order."
"The Mist was very low in his lab as well. I felt the essence of Death as we were leaving."
"Well then that quite settles it. We're going to back to that laboratory to see what my lunatic of a parent is up to."
"And what will we do if we find anything?"
"Alert the authorities, Fran. My father may have some influence, but Archadian history shows that even the richest of braggarts succumb to the law. Especially since most of the city probably wants some stake in his wealth as well. The law will blunt his seemingly razor-sharp political edge. But we're planning this carefully Fran. Meet me downstairs will you?"
Fran followed suit, inwardly taking joy at the young boy's sudden rejuvenation.
Balthier waited for Fran's exit, and when he felt the click of the door closing he relaxed his body. With his eyes closed he took one more deep breath and thought of his mother. He decided that it was not too late to finish what he had originally returned home to do.
Aloud, but quietly, he said. "Mother, I sincerely hope you're listening right now. I did not deserve your ears in life so I am sure that I do not deserve them now. But for all the torment and ill-will I caused you, I just want to say—I'm sorry."
As Fran was walking down the stairs, she felt the Mist of the manor pulsate with feelings that gave her a sense of gratitude and forgiveness. Somewhere, she felt, someone had been forgiven. And—very uncharacteristically so—Fran could not help but smile.
ATmac05: So please keep reviewing with comments and/or questions concerns! I know this story is taking QUITE a long time but as I said it will be finished. I have nothing but time this summer so I'll be doing my best. The next few chapters will be much more action-oriented and are kind of a turning point in the story so get ready.