1Author's note: This story has been posted here and at AO3. Forgive my messiness, it's been years since I've written fanfiction and I'm re-learning it all over again.
These prompts where picked by taking a colored pencil out of my bag at random. They're not in chronological order, just some random vignettes.
lilac
The malboro doesn't exactly take them by surprise, but it didn't need to. They had both been so distracted by the overwhelming smell of flowers and so out of practice hunting that the few seconds of time they had was still not enough to stop it, and before they knew it they'd been immobilized by the thing's bad breath. They both collapsed into the field of flowers before they could react, and for a moment Fran was sure the thing would attack as she lay there prone, partially blinded and mute from the terrible gas, the stench still swimming around her so thick she could practically hear the fumes clogging her ears up.
But the green wriggly thing, after taking a minute to gurgle and hiss at them for bothering its peace, pulled itself away on its many tentacles and left them to go stink up another place that might appreciate it better than these two ungrateful hunters.
It was a good five minutes of silence as Fran waited for the effects of the gas to wear off. It clouded her head and made her dizzy, almost sleepy, and she fought the urge to doze off. Fortunately the putrid stench acted as something of a smelling salt and helped keep her awake. There was a nasty film on her face and chest and she did her best to wipe it away, coughing and sputtering quietly, hoping for her own dignity that it hadn't gone down her throat.
From her place on the ground she could see only flowers. There where millions. Neither of them had seen the Steppe so full of them, and they didn't know why. Some pink, some white, a few yellow and orange here and there, but overhwelmingly they where purple. Lavendar, lilacs, poppies, she didn't know all of the species, she just knew they where in a sea of purple. The smell was both lovely and gagging from the sheer volume of it, and a lot of the fauna seemed just as upset by it because they hadn't seen a single creature on their way out to the mark. That is, except for the malboros, which where just as impervious to the floral odor as they seemed to be to just about everything. In fact the flowery perfume seemed like it was giving them an edge, covering their stench so you could stumble upon them much faster.
When she could move freely and her head was clear, she looked for her partner. Sitting up from the bed of purple, she looked around, expecting him to be shaking off the stench, perhaps complaining about the potential permanent damage of malboro breath on white shirtsleeves.
Instead what she saw was her partner, the famed sky pirate and notorious adventurer theif, peacefully asleep in a bed of light purple petals. It looked like Fran took the brunt of the attack, and shielded Balthier from the more effluvial aspects of malboro breath, leaving Balthier to take some of the poison gas and pass out asleep. Though he looked a little green around the edges, he was breathing peacefully.
She checked his pulse, found it healthy. He'd probably want her to wake him up right away, but Fran felt weary. While she would not show it outwardly, being knocked out be a single malboro attack was not a moment of pride, and she contented herself to sit in the flowers next to him, listening to him breathe, and just thinking.
The landscape here pulsed in even the genlest of breezes, nudging the flowers to bend and sway. It was a living place, and she knew there was undoubtedly a voice here much like the Wood, and it was probably in ecstacy judging by all the blooms. But thinking of the Wood made her think of Jote, of Mjrn. She longed for them still, and seeing them had been wonderful and difficult, and seemed to tear open wounds she had thought she healed. Even more devastating, because knowing her sisters where safe and healthy was a comfort, the Wood had completely healed over whatever wound Fran had created when she left. If she had left a wound at all. Now she was as foreign to her old home as she was to the fields of flowers here.
Not time to dwell, little one, my little Fran. A memory she hadn't let surface in decades. A mother's voice, one she knew well a long time ago.
Fran took a deep breath and, trying to channel some of her partner's personality, sighed audibly and loudly, tipping her head back. It was theraputic, she had to admit, though her mind was still turning over all of the events of the past year. She wished she could run away from it.
Instead of running off into the flowers and never returning to hume civilization, a second society left behind, she gazed down at her partner. He was on his back, one arm flung out to the side, the other on his chest. Like he'd dozed off at a picnic. His face was beautiful in sleep, though she liked looking at his eyes, a very pretty hazel. Like leaves floating on the breeze, sunshine coming down through the trees... his eyes where a whole forest, the longer she looked at them.
"All right now, sky pirate." She plucked a lavendar sprig and waved it beneath his nose, gently tickling. He wrinkled his nose, and lifted one hand to swat it away, murmering under his breath. Fran moved the flowers to his ear, tickling along the lobe, admiring the strong bronze gleam of his earring glinting in the sun. Oh, how lost they where, she thought to herself. In the flowers like babes, confused, a single plume from a malboro hitting them like a sucker punch. But watching his eyes flutter open, seeing the tension never quite leaving his expression even as he pulled the flowers from her fingers and went to flutter them against her leg in retaliation, she took comfort in the fact that no matter how lost she felt, somehow the gods had not forced them apart. She would not let them.
"Perhaps we where a little premature in our bid to get back in the saddle," Balthier said with an air of resignation. He traced the flower sprig along a scar on her leg, and she could still imagine the pain of that one. Some mornings she woke to it throbbing, and she didn't know if it was physical or in her head. She traced a finger along it now and felt nothing.
"It was quite a large malboro," Fran offered.
Balthier nodded. "A monster, one for the record books. We're lucky to escape with our lives."
Neither of them much liked the thought and he regretted the phrasing of it. The swirling of emotions that sprang up at those words took a moment for them both to push down.
Both of them longed to lay in the field forever, inhaling the smell of flowers for eternity, though neither would admit it. Feeling anxiety at the thought of slowing down, Balthier forced himself into action.
"Well, no use lollygagging," Balthier said with a sigh. He pulled himself up, somewhat stiffly, but trying to feign energy. Fran did the same. Time to press on. If they couldn't take out one measly malboro mark by the day's end, what kind of sky pirates would they be then? About as good of sky pirates with no ship, Balthier thought to himself, even though he had no desire to fly. First one must crawl before he walks. And then walk before one runs. And he will just have to see to flying if he can get that far.
slate
Balthier was let out a string of explicatives as he and Fran toppled end over end into the cave. The shelf beneath them gave, and the sudden lurch was enough to break one of their rope anchors, setting off a chain of snaps and breaks that let them plumet downward into the darkness. Fortunately it was only about a fifteen foot fall, and the rope anchors didn't give way all at once, slowing their fall enough that it wasn't fatal. Still, Balthier let a few more foul words out as he brushed the rubble off of him, staring up the way they came. A much harsher climb would be in store now. The light of the sky still shone through, if a little distant, but the cave itself was dark stone, very dim and cool.
Fran had pulled herself from the rubble and unhooked herself from the climbing rope with a determined speed. She'd gone straight for the cache location, and for a moment Balthier was a little hurt. She hadn't paused to ask if he was alright. And he realized he hadn't asked after her, and felt ashamed. As she pried some rocks loose with a long knife, he examined his hands. Rope burn had stripped some layers of skin off, red and raw, and trying to grab on to the rock ledge as they fell had torn up what was left, leaving his hands stinging and bloody. Bollocks. It had taken them ages to climb through the highwastes and locate their old cache, and now the going would be even slower. He pried a piece of gravel out of his flesh with a hiss, then went over to where Fran had pulled a sack from out of the cave wall.
She sliced the fabric open and a wooden chest fell out onto the ground. Without mentioning his hands, he helped her carry the thing into the light. It was just like they'd left it years ago, with a little more slime and mud but otherwise in good shape. Fran used the same long knife to pry the lock from the front of the box, the key still in the Strahl somewhere, far away and now quite useless.
Inside was exactly what they came for; a sack of coins, a sack of jewelry, a map of an old tomb they suspected a rival had used as a chache for treasure. This would be enough to fund travel and food for the next few months, at least whatever they couldn't steal or con for themselves.
"You're injured," Fran said. Balthier had been holding the map in his hands, and Fran was gazing down at them.
"Just a scratch," Balthier said, feeling a little defensive.
"Let me see," she said, putting down the coins she'd been counting out.
Balthier balked a little, and Fran noticed, and he thought she winced a little. Both of them was waiting to see how the other would react, not wanting to push, not wanting to face it.
Finally Fran stepped forward, taking the map gently from his hands. She folded open his palms and he winced this time, not fond of the sting of gravel under his skin. But her hands on his felt good. He had the sudden urge to press her hands up against his face, and he had to physically stop himself from doing it on impulse. Instead he took a deep breath, spread out his palms, and closed his eyes. Just breathe, grumpy old man.
Fran plucked a few more pieces of gravel with precision and delicacy. "We have bandages, I will wrap them for you."
Standing there, they looked at each other hesitantly, his hands in hers. Balthier was about to pull away, fetch the bandages when Fran gave his hands a gentle squeeze. She looked more tired than he'd seen her in a long time, a little cut he hadn't noticed before on her forehead, eyes dark and deepset, eager for sleep but unable to get enough of it. He knew the feeling intimately. But she looked at him with a gentle acceptance that she always had. Her voice echoed against the cave walls, reverberating outside and inside of him. "Worry not sky pirate. Anywhere you go, I go with you."
goldenrod
Breathing.
Soft, familiar.
Balthier.
She didn't open her eyes, just listened. He was standing outside the door, and then there was a soft bump as his weight pushed the door against the frame. He was leaning against it, letting the weight of his tired body be pulled down for a moment when she couldn't see him. The sigh that pried itself from his chest was barely audible, but Fran could feel it press against her own lungs in real-time. They where both weary in a way neither of them had felt in so long. She knew the ghosts of the past where clustering around Balthier, choking him as they where her. She knew they both would rather be numb than to think about those ghosts.
Still she didn't open her eyes. Instead she pulled the covers over herself with a shiver, feeling out of place in the too-short hume-sized bed. The sigh from outside replayed itself through her own lips as she weighed the options. Would it be worse to face him, when she had nothing else to say, or worse to not see him when his was the only company she craved? She didn't know and part of her despaired, and part of her didn't care at all. Another part pained, but not at her apathy or weariness, but deep inside her core and her head. That was the poison that had been slipped to her some two nights passed. It still ate at her insides and her inability to keep food down had turned her limbs to lead.
She could, Fran consoled herself, escape the dilemma in sleep. It pulled at her vision, though that could still be the remnants of the poison which her usually strong body was still trying to purge and cleanse. It hurt to close her eyes, but not as much as it hurt to open them. Yes, sleep sounded much better, even in this ill-fitting furniture.
The door opened then, very near to silent. She was facing away from it now. But she could smell a faint floral scent, and the rain on him, that had been pitter-pattering all day. She could imagine the droplets soaking into his shirt, how you could see through it to his shoulders if he got wet enough. How it made his hair fall from its perfectly groomed position. She wanted him to go away, and she wanted him to embrace her the way some humes always try to do, and she felt the frustration slowly turning to anger like a snake wrapping itself tight around her spine, deep inside.
"I've brought you some water," Balthier snapped. From his tone they could both tell it hadn't been intentional, but it still came as a bit of a surprise to both of them. He froze and they both waited, breaths held, for the other to make the first move.
Balthier was the one to break the silence, much faster than she expected. "It's important to stay hydrated between performances, especially for the leading lady." Fran could hear how tired he was just listening to those words, how much he was trying to hold in. He approached the bed and she heart two glasses being set down.
It was him who had lashed out, but it had still pushed Fran past her anger as if she'd done it herself. 'Perhaps we are both trying terribly hard,' Fran realizes. This isn't the first time she realizes and it won't be the last. But now it wakes something up in her, a self awareness that wasn't there a moment ago. She is Fran of the Wood, and this is Balthier the Sky Pirate, and they are partners. They make fate do as they please, and answer to no one. So Fran opens her eyes and pulls herself as upwards as she can, her insides twisting in a protest that she takes no heed of.
There are two plain glasses on the bedside table. One contains water. The other has water in the bottom, and erupting from the top, some sprigs of flowers, tiny yellow ochre bunches on vibrant green stems, bright as sunshine or gold in the otherwise dreary dimness of the rainy day.
"They where growing outside," Balthier says a little sheepishly. Fran could hear the hidden "I'm sorry" dart from him in those words, and could feel the apology nest in the yellow petals. She added her own silent apology to it with a nod in his direction, and it joined his in the flowers.
Fran reached out one long shaky arm across the bed toward the glass of water, determined. How her fingers shook, sending the water in the glass jumping. Balthier was at her side in a moment, his warm fingers cupping her own, stabilizing. His other arm helped brace her as she leaned forward. Even with her on the bed, hunched over in discomfort and pain, when Balthier kneeled by the bed she towered over him.
She sipped what she could of the cold water, knowing she was so thirsty even as her stomach knotted up as the water slid down. Defiantly she gulped the glass down. "Careful!" came almost unwittingly from Balthier's lips, not expecting her to gulp it down when even small sips had sent her to the bedside bucket to vomit it all back up. But after two days of consuming almost nothing, Fran sighed in relief, letting herself fall back into the soft blanket cocoon. Something was gone from her with the quiet apology, and she wondered if it had been an apology to him or one to herself. Maybe it had been what was poisoning her, because she kept it inside too long. She let her eyes close again, but instead of letting the comforting darkness take over she imagined the yellow flowers, and two little "I'm sorry"'s building a nest in them like tiny birds. She could still smell the faint floral scent, stronger now that Balthier was close. Through the wet and damp the yellow was a sign of life. She imagined their pollen floating around the room, little flecks of brownish gold, hiding in corners, coming to a gentle rest upon on Balthier's flushed, wet face.
The pirate had started to leave the room, shoes making the softest noise against the hardwood floor as he attempted a silent retreat.
"Come here, sky pirate." Fran's voice cracked through the silence. Perhaps she sounded weak enough that he would heed her.
Sure enough he approached the bed again."Yes, my lady?"
Fran did not actually know what she wanted, and she was being pulled downwards towards sleep even now. But she managed to gesture him closer with her hand. He sat down gingerly on the bed.
"Tomorrow I will be well enough that we might leave this place," she says matter of fact.
"You believe so?"
A very quiet "Yes," is his only response. Balthier is glad to hear it, though he cannot stop the small voice in his own head that points out they don't have anywhere to go once she is better. The disquiet shows plainly on his face.
But Fran is pulling him down into the bed, wrapping one of her long, elegant arms around him, pulling him close despite his wet hair and wet shirt. And he finds that, despite the spinning compass inside of him, it is still just as easy as ever to lay down next to her.
cream
"Blast!" Balthier cursed almost comically, though Fran was far from laughing. They where both covered in dust and dirt, much too high up in the highwastes, much too far from anywhere they could resupply or call for help, and Balthier's ankle was at a right bad angle no matter what way they looked at it, and that was without the metal spikes of the trap he'd stepped in. "Blast it, Fran, how do we end up in these messes?"
Fran looked over at the body of the banga bandit who hadn't been pushed off the high cliffside. She wanted to go shove it over the edge so he and his murderous friend could be together, but now was not the time. "Be still as you can," she said to her partner, her long body hovering over him as she searched through his pockets for the first aid.
"In the- black pouch," he spit out, his breathing and his words getting choppy, fighting each other for what limited air was in his lungs. He couldn't help but cringe and writhe as the adrenaline wore off and the pain was ramping up. "Ah, Fran. Why didn't we foresee this kind of befuddlement when we decided to go off on foot? What else where we going to mangle by- ah- traveling here, walking, with only four feet between the two of us? And now- hell- unstrap it-"
Fran almost cut the strap to free it from his body and untangle them, but knew she'd regret carrying a strapless bag later, and forced herself to stay calm. She rotated the bag around his shoulder until the buckle was in reach and flung it loose calm and quick as she could. Pulling the flap open she was faced with a dozen little pouches in various colors. At least he'd been meticulous organizing it, she thought.
"The cream one," he gasped.
She plucked the cream pouch, a sturdy thick leather, held fast with a snapping clasp of some kind, and let the bag fall gently to the ground next to her. She pried open the little cream pouch for the treasure within, a little cream vial, filled with a little cream liquid. Milk of the poppy. Balthier looked at the vial hungrily, his face tight and tense with pain.
"Be still," she said, and helped pull him upwards into a better sitting position against the rocks, away from the edge of the cliff. How the wind sang below the ledge, but it wasn't so bad here. Her hair barely fluttered.
Balthier cried out as his mangled leg was dragged along the ground, though he refrained from cursing any further. When he could put all his weight against the dusty stone behind him he seemed a little relieved, and breathed a little more deeply. "Ah, give it here Fran, this has gone on long enough. You'll just have to chop the whole thing off."
Fran tsk'd at him, but couldn't help but smile. He would be alright, if he was joking even now, with the barbs sticking out of his broken-looking ankle. He was making a point to not look at it, which was wise. It was not a pretty thing, but it would begin to heal with a cure spell once they got the spines out. "Don't worry, pirate. I will save the foot and the whole leg. Sip this now. Only half, or you will be sorry of its absence when the pain comes tomorrow."
He did as he was told and, though he was terribly shaky, took the vial in his own hand to sip the sweet creamy liquid inside.
"It will take effect soon," Fran soothed, taking the little bottle back and packing it back up in its little pouch, which went into the big pouch, which was fastened securely.
Balthier nodded, closing his eyes for a brief moment as the stuff went down. His hands where grasping at his leg fiercely, like it was on fire, and at the same time like it might shatter if he let it move. "You know, Fran..."
Fran leaned close to him, already setting out the other first aide tools. A small potion, a short splint, some bandages that he hoped where enough. She was not as good at banter and prattle as he, but wanted to encourage him to keep talking if he could. "What might the dashing hero say to such a perilous predicament?" She said, using a sentence he'd spouted some days earlier when they had gotten lost higher up in the mountains, searching for the entrance to an old tomb.
Balthier nodded. "Exactly that, my dear. What might we say to this unfortunate incident? Might we curse the gods who seem to laugh at our misfortune, who seem to give gifts only if they're small trifles, like one nice day of weather after a week of biting wind? And then they make sure we can't enjoy them, by having us beset upon by wily banga bandits and explode our feet, which we need, in cruel hidden traps? What say we to such spiteful beings? I will tell you, Fran. We say nought to them, we turn our backs and carry on, and we say to ourselves, we say... perhaps it is getting past the point where an airship may be a welcome sight."
Their eyes met, the dust and mangled limb between them forgotten for a moment. The Strahl had been a taboo topic since the very begining of their sojurne. What had started as a necessary time of bedrest and recover in Giza, after the Bahamut had been a god on the side of mercy and let them narrowly survive, had turned into what Fran could now see as a pilgrimage. They had both set out on foot in search of something. And there had been a good amount of self punishment for them both, these months and months on the road. They had built up their walking muscles silently hoping for penitence. But it had begun to feel different. This past month, Fran had felt the sun on her skin and realized it had been the first time in a long time that she had even noticed. The shroud had been lifted from her eyes and ears, she was feeling herself again. And perhaps this unfortunate barb had lifted something similar in Balthier, though his awakening had been much more wicked.
All of this passed between them in a moment and though they didn't say it out loud, Fran could see that Balthier was thinking about their journey, gaze drifting to the middle distance as the poppy milk began its hazy work on him.
"Once you are healed and can walk again, might we make a heading for Rabanaster?" Fran suggested, genuinely curious.
Balthier tried to shift his body, wincing terribly. He dared a glance down at the damage, at the spikes still sticking out of his aching, burning flesh, which Fran was going to have to pluck in a few minutes. That he didn't feel an overwhelming sense of fear or nausea at the thought meant the poppy cream was working, he thought with some relief. "I think, my dear, if I can manage to hobble down this mountain on what will surely be a stub after you're through with it, I will never want to walk anywhere again."
Fran looked into his beautiful hazel eyes, admiring the way the sun glinted in them despite his pain. His voice was beginning to soften, it would slur soon enough. His vulnerability, even induced by drug and not by choice, eased her own worry.
"It will be a shame," she said, her teasingly casual, turning her attention to her tools, wiping her hands down with alcohol from a different bottle. "Your legs have looked very fit and beautiful since we have been traversing by foot."
Balthier barked out a laugh. Had she noticed him admiring her legs in the sun just this morning? And he thought he'd been subtle. True, they both had developed some stunning definition, though he wouldn't mind losing some of it for the comfort and health of eating three square meals a day on the Strahl again. They would go from fit to gaunt and haggard if they kept this pace up, they both new it.
"It will be a terrible sacrifice," he said, nodding somberly, "to deprive the world of my Adonis-like physique, especially since my ungrateful and apathetic viera partner was the only one to truly have the chance to appreciate it. But a consolation prize for you, Fran, is that your ravishingly gorgeous legs will be getting the workout of a lifetime when you have to carry me down this mountain on your back."
Sitting at his feet Fran just beamed at him, not trying to hide her smile from his loopy gaze. She placed a hand on his good leg and gave him a reassuring squeeze. "Brace yourself, devilish rake that you are. I will fix your foot now. Be still and it will be over quickly."
Balthier leaned back, relinquishing his tight grip on his leg and flinging one arm haphazardly across his face so he couldn't see. "I am at your mercy, my grim healing angel."
Fran got into position, holding the injured foot in one hand as her other hovered over the first of several spikes to be plucked. Almost to herself, almost covered by the wind, she whispered "I would carry you to Bur-Omisace and back if I must, my sky pirate." And Balthier, before the pain hit and the poppy milk took him away, heard her, and he smiled.
olive
Balthier could not afford to think, or to process anything around him, or the pain might take over. He was moving only forward, impossibly, Fran's prone body weighing his soul with fear more than the physical weight could ever drag him down. The fear for her life drove him forward. Her heart beat still, when he had pulled them both from the wreckage, and he imagined his footsteps where connected to that heart, each step a single beat, and if he slowed they would both surely die. These damn feet, he thought, staring downwards as he took another lumbering step forward. He couldn't even hear his foodsteps, or the hot wind coming from the fiery metal beast behind him. He could only heart a faint heartbeat, every time his foot came down, a dull thud of life barely hanging on. He couldn't afford to stop.
So forward he marched, and eventually he felt the pain again, all over, his muscles screaming with fatigue but also deeper pains which he knew where burns and cuts and shrapnel sticking out of him at odd angles. He could taste the blood and he knew he would break soon, life was going to crush back down on him and he'd be done.
Then he was aware of a figure in front of him. Some of the world came into view, though he felt like he was looking at the world through the eye of a needle. He could see some grass, a few green blades and a few burned ones. He could for a second smell the air, fresh and then a gust of burning fuel choked him, then the flash of smoke against blue sky. It made him reel and want to fall over, and when he processed the body in front of him he did fall. He and Fran toppled painfully into a heap, and for several minutes they where alone in the field, three prone bodies dead to the world.
At last Balthier forced himself up. Now her heartbeat was his hands and knees, crawling towards the third figure. He was still in shock, he thought, because it took him being a few inches away to see it was a garif. Dead. Bloodied. Casualty of the crash. Guilt blossomed in his chest and Balthier could feel tears stinging his eyes. How unfair was this life? It was a convoluted mess, he knew logically, but in his heart in that moment the Bahamut crash was a direct result of his father's death and Balthier felt personally responsible for this young garif's death.
He snuffed these feelings out as quickly as he could, years of denial and suppression having honed his ability to numb himself to a sharp edge. His hands, his feet, those where Fran's heartbeat. Her lifeline. He couldn't afford forget, to get distracted.
Looking down, he saw a bright color. It was almost a shock to the system. A small, round object, a smooth green. He wondered if he hadn't been able to process any other colors since climbing out from the devastation- when he remembered his brief glimpse of the sky he almost passed out. He refocused on the small green thing, which he had forgotten existed for a moment. Carefully, slowly, he shifted his weight- it felt like a lifetime ago he'd been coordinated to stand and walk on his own two feet, and now he was almost falling over while crawling. If he could have laughed at that he would have. But after an eternity of focus he was able to shift, bring one hand foreward and pick up the small green object. Much smaller than the sky, he could take it all in at once despite the pain in his head, back, arms, legs, and hands.
It was an olive. One single olive, dry and a little dusty but an olive nonetheless. He looked down again and saw that there where several on the ground beneath him. He looked questioningly at the dead garif. Are these yours? Sure enough, next to the body was a small sack, probably whaleskin, and out of it was spilling a handful of the little fruits.
Possessed by a hunger he didn't know he had, he grabbed up what he could off the ground and ate them in one quick, clumsy movement. His hands seemed not to belong to him, to just float infront of him and function of their own accord, plucking olives off the ground and moving them with some trial and error to his mouth. Then he was set with nausea and gagged, and was sure he'd immediately throw them up. But he kept them down, and after a moment dared another one or two.
The world was coming back into focus, starting from the salty, vinegar taste in his mouth (the center of the entire universe, he was sure) and spreading outwards. He dead garif by his side, and how much blood was all over the ground that he hadn't even seen earlier. His own hands and the terrible blisters, the cracked flesh of each finger, some looking a little charred, those fingers that didn't seem to care about the blisters as they held the little sack of olives tightly. Fran's prone body laying where he'd dropped her. Fran, Fran, Fran. Her heartbeat. He couldn't stop moving.
Crawling towards her, his vision was swimming, so he focused on the olives. Every time he thought he'd pass out he remembered the taste, the look of the little green orbs, tried to remember how they smelled though he couldn't smell anything except the smell of burned things. He got to Fran, turned her as delicately as possible, pulled her into his lap. It seemed like another eternity to get her responsive, stirring even the slightest bit, and he wondered how many eternities he'd be granted before his time was finally up. Just a few more, he asked to no one in particular. Give me a few more eternities so I can feed Fran some olives, and we will figure it out from there.
