A/N - Many thanks for the support. Very appreciated:)

Dream

Fran is dreaming.

She is walking through a green field, and as it is with dreams, she knows that she is visiting Balthier. Though why she carries flowers she knows not.

She follows the dirt path up and around a hill, noting the grey clouds that mar the otherwise perfect day. She scents rain on the wind and wonders if the leading man would mind getting a little wet. In some ways he is almost as fastidious as a cat, and she smiles, wondering what he would think of the comparison.

Around the corner, Fran sees a grey monument, and knows she has reached her destination. She is suddenly very aware of the flowers in her nerveless fingers, and their purpose.

The stone slab bears his name, not the real one, but the one he chose for himself. It is a peaceful place, too quiet for one who loved to talk, and too plain for one who took such pride in his appearance. All Fran can do is stand there and stare, as if this could somehow reveal the real words carved on the grave. Surely she has made a mistake.

Here lies one who found freedom in the sky...

Yesterday's flowers wilt forlornly, and she snatches them away. Balthier liked beautiful things. He would not want to see the browning edges of petals in decay. He would like fresh ones, dewy damp and boldly coloured, but Fran has already dropped her flowers into the dirt. She had dropped them when she first arrived.

They call her lady, when in reality she is but a girl by the standards of the viera. She is barely into her first lifetime, with many more years to come. Humes have such short spans in comparison. Their lives are fleeting. So hurried are their words, their gestures, their passions. Balthier is much the same, for all that he pretends to lean comfortably against a wall and watch as others hurry through life. Yes, Balthier was much the same.

This is too much for Fran. She who never cries when facing terrible injury, weeps. She feels as if her world has ended. So much sorrow! There is a terrible ache in her chest that becomes hollower with each raking sob. But how to fill this void?

This is how she wakes, her face pressed into the damp pillow, clinging onto it like a lifeline.

Gradually, awareness takes hold of her. She has never dreamed so vividly before. She is not even sure whether she is awake or asleep.

Still, she has to see.

Casting the pillow unceremoniously aside, Fran swings her legs over the bed and hurries from her quarters. Balthier's is not far from hers, because she can often hear him pacing late at night. Tonight is not such a night, for when Fran slides the door open, he is fast asleep.

She had only meant to look, a confirmation of her companion's wellbeing and nothing more, yet she finds herself drawn across the room as if by some unseen force. Soon, she is sitting on the edge of the bed, watching the gentle rise and fall of his chest. Whilst Balthier's daytime demeanor may be elegant and put-together, this man's legs and arms are flung all across the bed. The rumpled bedsheets are inconsequential to providing warmth, bunched up in a corner of the room along with his shirt.

His face is open and relaxed in sleep, rather than the odd mixture of guardedness and flippancy that often crosses his features. Fran wonders how long it will be until the first lines appear on his forehead, and the creases around the eyes. How long will it be until he sleeps like this forever? The ugly thoughts clamour, and she feels the same measure of sadness she did in her dream. The thought of being alone once again...

Balthier stirs.

"Mm, Fran?" he murmurs.

Fran finds herself unable to speak, but she is silent often enough that Balthier does not take it amiss. Or perhaps he is only talking in his sleep.

An arm reaches out and pulls her down. Fran cannot bring herself to resist, not after the awful dream. She lies curled into Balthier's side, her head resting on his collarbone, comforted by the surprisingly firm arm around her shoulders.

As the hours flow by, she forgets about the future and simply thinks of how nice it is to be here, lying together like this. She is lulled to sleep by his scent and his warmth, and this time dreams of linen shirts, and laughter, and the sky.