4. Madness (300 words)
Ffamran sat across from his father, fingers clenched around his dinner fork. His brother and sister occupied the seats next to him. Lucen's hands quivered, and sweat made his gaunt face glisten. Marigan stared, hollow-eyed, at her plate. Compared to most of father's subjects, they'd fared well, but the experiments took their toll.
He alone remained untouched by nethicite's taint, yet that didn't stop it from destroying his life. His father's madness was a river lapping at a dam, wearing away at the wall in its path. One day Cid's last glimmer of sanity would yield to the rushing waters, and Ffamran had no illusions about what would follow.
"Ffamran."
He tensed. "Yes, father?"
"I've decided to make you a judge."
Silence.
"Are you not overjoyed?" Cid asked. "It's quite an honor, and Emperor Gramis approves."
Mutinous thoughts bloomed in his mind. He could ram his steak knife through his father's throat, or smother him in his sleep. It would be a mercy. If his father perished, he would be spared from the madness that had sunk its teeth into him. Death was preferable to that sort of shame. Or it had been, once.
Death is too good for him. The thought sprang from the darkest corner of his mind. Ffamran set his fork down, slowly, and rose from his chair. "May I be excused?"
Annoyance flitted across his father's face. "Bah. Go on, then. Ungrateful fool . . ."
He left the dining room, returned to his chambers, and started gathering his things. Within ten minutes, he abandoned his home. Within an hour, he reached the aerodome in Archades. Within a day, he stole an airship and adopted a new name. But it took years for him to repress the vast wellspring of sorrow drowning him from the inside.
5. Apprentice
"He is not my apprentice."
Basch raised an eyebrow, glancing at Vaan. The little thief stood a dozen paces away, his back straight, speaking to Penelo in an affected accent meant to mimic that of the Archadian gentry. It was aggravating.
"I'm sorry," Basch said, though his eyes twinkled with humor. "He so aspires to be like you that I'd assumed . . ."
"You know what they say of assumptions," Balthier said, lifting his chin imperiously. "He's no apprentice. At best, he's an errand boy."
Basch said nothing, but the amusement in his eyes spoke deeply of his skepticism.
6. Departure
"Do you really have to go?"
Reks faltered as he reached for his armor. His brother's uncertainty cut deeper than a dagger. "What choice do I have?" He shrugged. "We're too old to beg."
Shame touched Vaan's face; he hated begging for scraps, but when you had no parents, you did whatever it took to survive. "We don't have to beg . . ."
"No, Vaan," Reks said, staring at his reflection in the polished breastplate. "No more stealing. If we got caught, they'd cut off our hands."
Vaan sighed. "You'll come back, though. Won't you?"
"Yeah. Course I will."