Author's Note: Ah, it's been a while since I put anything up. I have been extremely MIA. However, here is a new ficlet for your perusal. This one was a request by a friend of mine based on the lyrics below. Mostly Balthier/Fran-centric. If you have time, reviews are appreciated!

Here's the day you hoped would never come

Don't feed me violence, just run with me

Through rows of speeding cars

"Speeding Cars," Imogen Heap

She sweeps through the streets of Archades, heels clicking an unrelenting tempo against the cobblestones. She goes unheeding of the stares and mutters that follow her, surround her, envelope her. She is on a mission, and she will not be distracted for anything less than the world's ending. The malevolent petty judgments of the high brow Humes are no more to her than the mild irritation of flies on the plains; though she can see, now, why he loathes the place.

She pauses before a shadowed alley, one velvet ear twisting in the direction of its depths. She pivots and enters the darkness, arriving before long at a lantern caked with oil and grime. It barely casts a light on the unremarkable door it guards. She does not hesitate to open it, folding herself almost double to avoid touching the blackened doorframe. He is there, as she expected, hands full of spirits to make up for that which his eyes lack. Dead and heavy, they do not shift in the slightest as she delicately settles herself opposite him.

"Ah, Fran. If I had known you wished to join me for a nightcap, I would have chosen a more suiting venue." His words are teasing, jovial, but the drink has made him too slow to mask the bitterness underneath.

She stares at his hunched shoulders, the tense lines of his muscles, and her eyes give away nothing. "Tomorrow we breach Draklor."

The sentence is a simple one, but it carries the weight of an explosion. His bloodshot eyes shoot up, and a snarl breaks his carefully maintained countenance. "I'm bloody well aware of that."

"It would be prudent to prepare."

"What do you think I'm doing?" He gestures wildly at the dust covered bottles, the tarnished tankards, and the shadows that are so easy to hide in.

"If you intend to follow through with this, your fear must be mastered."

"I am not… afraid."

She hears the warning and ignores it. "It will not serve you well in those halls. He will use it as a weapon against us all."

His fist pounds the table; his other hand reaches for her, pushing aside his glass, dark liquid pooling in the depressions of the rough hewn surface. His fingers, still strong, still so young, wrap around her slender wrist. He twists it roughly as he leans across the wood. His tongue is thick with alcohol and lies. "I said I am not afraid!"

If he is hurting her, she does not show it. Her crimson eyes remain coolly on him. She watches his face, mottled with rage and terror he can no longer hide; hence why he lurks now in such a place, where none but she would seek to find him. This is the face he allows no one else to see, and this is why she will endure any pain for him.

She reaches her free hand to his cheek, claws gently resting on his temple. Her eyes, as always, are unreadable, but he needs not look there for answers in any case. Slowly, his grip loosens as he sees past his emotions once more. He sighs and shakes his head, the short hairs that darken his jawline tickling her palm. "Fran… I'm sorry."

"I will ever be beside you, Balthier. No matter the direction, we will run together."

"I am forever glad to hear it." He takes the hand he held captive and places it on his face. Cradled in her palms, he closes his eyes. "Run we shall, Fran. Into peril and out again, until we are as free as we claim."

He can't see the smile in her eyes, but in the warmth of her skin and the curl of her fingers, he knows.