A/N: In my fan-canon, Berserk cannot be dispelled or quickly shooed off with a remedy. As it is physically dealt and a psychological affliction, I imagine it to be one of the more grievous status ailments, that one is forced to just wait out. Please take note: This is largely inspired by Spikey44's fic "Questionable Status." I hope my writing isn't so close to her concept as to resemble plagiarism; It's not my intent at all to offend her or any fans of her work.

If you'd like something suitably angry/sexy to listen to while you read, I highly recommend "Want" by Recoil.

Impatience

The Cassie arches its thick sinuous neck and gives a sigh. Fran looses a final arrow and it drops, a malboro flower blowing across the patterned stones. Coughing, she tries to stoop and catch it in her fingers before it tumbles into a gap in the cracking pavestone.

But then the whispering sets in. Language she'd long ago forgotten how to hear. A call to avenge.

Tr'Liith devours all she touches. It is true even here, thousands of kilometers from the jungles. Fran can feel the spark of tree-muscle and vine-sinew under her skin, between her bones. My fingernails are too clean, she complains to herself. I smell resin, but should I touch the air with my tongue, I will taste blood. I could run into the tower and set it flaming with my footsteps. Where are the ghosts and demons of lore? I will burn them. Rend them. Why is the light so harsh? When did the walls spring back and part to bring in the sunlight? And what is that scent running under the salt air? Mist, ashes, betrayal... blood...

"Hey, Fran? Are you okay?"

Vaan does not know how to speak. His tongue forms horrible angles in his mouth; even round sounds have sharp corners. How nice it would be to cut that badly-versed tongue from its bed, she thinks. I have not a dagger, but my fingernails will do.

She turns and curls her fingers, trying to think of the quickest way to wrest Vaan to the ground. In mid-lunge a wave of vertigo strikes her like a fist, and takes what feels like a year to pass. Her ears ring with tinnitus, and her nose is choked with the scent of blood running through veins. She's surrounded by hume-children, their thick vital blood rushing through their bodies, marking the time until their mortality catches up with them... even the captain, approaching the high noon of his years, is radiant with youth despite his jadedness.

What does youth taste like? She imagines the coppery tang of blood on her tongue and nearly faints with longing.

"Nnnnh."

A hand brushes her arm, picks up a soothing rhythm over her skin; she smells gunpowder and leather, a faint trace of esuna balm.

"That will never do, now, will it? Breathe, Fran. Shhh."

She relaxes a fraction. This music is familiar; its cadence is one she's danced to before. But then one of Balthier's enamel rings touches her skin, like ice on hot stone, and she recoils, hissing in pain and anger. Why is she on her knees? Where is her bow?

"You..."

"Hush, Fran. It's only me. Be still. Shhh."

His fingers run lightly over her skin in time with his breathing, but she can't find her own breath. Her armor presses into her body like a straitjacket, and her calves flex against the constraints of her greaves.

"What's wrong with her?"

That voice. She lunges toward it, furious at its sharp edges. Her ears throb with offense.

Balthier shifts her weight toward him slightly and takes her hand in both of his, stroking each of her fingers individually to distract her.

"I believe you're upsetting her, Vaan. Best keep your thoughts to yourself . . . Gently, my heart. Shhh."

A couple of meters away, Basch coughs; the sound rips into her like a jagged edge and her ears twitch violently. Her breath catches on her teeth as she begins to hyperventilate; she will pass out soon if she isn't allowed to attack. Balthier draws her in closer, holding her fast against the crisp smooth cambric of his shirt with a slender, calloused hand to the nape of her neck.

"I strongly suggest that you all hold very still. It would appear that my leading lady's been berserked."

His voice is like caramel, butter-smooth and unconcerned, but she can smell his anxiety. He is frightened of what lies at the peak of the Pharos, and of her. A great purring panther of malice rises in her chest. How she loves it when her Bal'thjr is afraid... She thinks of his breath catching in his throat as some great beast pins him to the ground, and smiles to herself. He continues to hold her, murmuring wordlessly in a comforting manner, his voice rumbling against her cheek; she imagines tearing his throat out with her claws, and moans tenderly at the thought of his blood. Thick, red, smooth, flowing over her fingers, dripping onto the stones.

He chuckles; the bobbing of his chest makes her tense.

"Plotting my demise, are we? I'm flattered you'd make the effort."

Must he be so insolent? The wood hisses at him, from far beyond her. Be you silenced, hjum bal'thjr, and bleed.

She tries to scratch him, but he grabs her wrists before she can lash out and clucks his tongue sharply in disapproval. He's too quick. His head is too clear. She wants to kick his beautiful, smirking face in. She wants to tell him that he's about to die, but her tongue can't find his language anymore. She squeezes her eyes closed against the wave of bloodlust and hisses again instead.

"Ah, as I'd feared... Insensate and mad for blood. A pity; we may be detained here awhile."

Insensate? Hardly. Her senses batter her, taunt her with hot blood, immutable stone, roaring terrible water.

"We shouldn't tarry, Balthier. Perhaps we should set her at the head of the party and let her cut our path, as on Leviathan?"

The princess. Ever practical, ever commanding, foolishly steady even as the world rises in arms around her. Oh to see her bleed on the stones. Fran arches; Balthier presses her closer and clucks his tongue again.

"There is no path to cut, my lady. Our way into the tower is clear. She is more likely to attack you or I than to go searching for fiends."

Wisdom from the captain's lips once more. After all he's seen, his blood would surely run true, a shade of red like a galbana. Such color has its charm, and Fran tires of blue. Blue sky, blue water, blue mist running like death through the sky, toward the tower peak. A little blood would break the monotonous haze and soothe her eyes.

Balthier's voice reaches through her rage, a downy thread of sanity for her to grasp.

"Well spoken, Captain. Perhaps you should all make your way inside... we'll join you shortly."

Fran gives a slight murmur of approval and curls closer to him. His voice is warm and smooth, and flocked at the edges like velvet. It makes her want to sleep...

"But, Balthier..."

Will the boy never cease?! Fran arches, nearly slashes Balthier across the cheek in her haste to wrest out of his arms and attack. He presses her nose into his throat with a firm hand; his scent consumes her.

"You'd best move on if you don't want your blood under her fingernails, Vaan. I can handle her; rest assured."

A pause; she can smell their hesitation, and hear their hearts beating. The sound makes her salivate.

"We will find you once she's restored to her senses," Balthier insists. "Onward ever upward, hmm?"

She can't understand him anymore. Valendian is lost to her, drowned in her lust for blood. She After a moment she hears the others move away. The sound of their footsteps reminds her of battle-drums, and she has to breathe through her teeth to keep from crying out.

Balthier's fingers run through her hair. He is rocking her, humming an old Bhujerban drinking song. Her fingers curl into talons.

"Sjor, tr' e an drjt nin kr'eth, bal'thjr..."

Back, or the claws of death find thee, interloper? She is embarrassed by the threat, poetic though it may be, before it's even all the way out of her mouth. What a hateful thing it is to be under a berserker rage. Chuckling, Balthier pulls her in toward his chest. His lips graze her temple; it is a warm, chaste touch. Her muscles unclench and she collapses against the cool embossed leather of his vest, relieved.

"I'd save that sort of talk for the bedroom if I were you," he whispers into her hair, amused; but the meanings of these words are long lost to her, and she whimpers.

"Shhhhhhh..."

His fingertips wander over her cheekbones, across her jaw, down her throat. A vein in her neck jumps at his touch.

"Can you stand?"

"Nnh?"

"S'r nin tl'ath?"

"...Eih."

Hearing her own tongue from his lips calms her, just enough that she can rise to her feet. He follows, moving slowly so as not to spook her. His heartbeat throbs in her ears; she clamps down on the urge to kick out at him, and lets him take her by the hand instead.

The granite of the courtyard is too dead, too smooth. She wants to cut into it with her fingernails, dig through it to reach the insects crawling beneath, crush them all in her hands. She is bereft of fiends to cut into, bereft of the feel of blood slick on her hands; she wants... needs...

A'liith...

"Let's get you out of the sun, my heart. Follow me. Kjun a'. Te, te."

Obediently she staggers after him, into one of the side alcoves of cool grey stone that flank the courtyard. He turns and takes her by the forearms; his grasp is gentle but absolute.

"Te, te, te. Tr'ne sl'veth."

The pain will pass. Yes, but if she could just...! The hiss leaves her unbidden and she lunges at him in spite of herself; he catches her full-on and presses her nose into his throat again.

She turns her head away from his neck a moment. His left hand is easing slowly over her waist to slip beneath her stomacher, and she watches it out of the corner of her eye with interest. Desire has its place, she muses, and the hume habit of relieving one frustration with another intrigues her. Perhaps...

His fingertips slip over her belly and she shivers. The roar of the sea blends into the roar of blood in her ears; gunpowder and anise, leather and laundry starch dance under her nose. Eventually, The urge to bite and kick gives way to another urge entirely as his fingers slip lower on her belly, and tease at the point where leather meets skin.

"Nnnh. Nin'ueth..."

He chuckles; his eyebrows lift in amusement. "Ueth' a?"

Yes, you heard my words, hume-child. I want you. Are you deaf, or merely an insufferable tease? She runs her fingernails along the embossed leather of his armor, slipping her touch lower to tug at the lacing of his fly. His mouth tics in a satisfied smirk.

"Mm? Cin nir' kueth, Fran?"

Not of patience, hmf. His grammar is horrible. Drunken with the complexity of his scent, she runs one fingernail along the nautilus curve of his ear.

"Tiur'kuith, a." I am impatient. She prefers the thought of impatience to the vulgarity of the word 'berserk.'

"Isn't that what I said?" he murmurs, distracted, and nips at her throat as he flicks open the clasp on her bustier. She half-purrs and arches to meet his hands as the bustier falls away. Odd, that mating-lust and bloodlust can have such similar effect on the senses, and yet oppose each other so.

Balthier is tearing her apart tenderly with his bare hands; they skim over her skin, then grasp at her hair and pull. One moment he is worshipping her, the next he is torturing her. She thrashes against him, furious. She wants to see him tremble, hear him moan and pant for her; she wants to scratch runnels into his chest and taste the crimson of his blood. She wants so badly she can barely breathe. She arches toward him, forgetting him already. Her body is trying to ignite; she can't see.

"Shhh, Fran. A'voth. Te, te te te. Fran..."

His voice is very quiet now, apologetic, tender. He softens his hands, bends his mouth to her breast and tastes, gently, slowly.

"Fran."

She falls against his chest again, and he runs the knuckles of his left hand across her belly; little delicate shocks of desire chase after them, stirring her. He's trying to calm her, trying to soothe her, but she won't be appeased. He is pure life, he is perfect; this raging desperation demands that she destroy him.

She turns and shoves him to the marble wall of the alcove, chasing him with her body. His grunt of protest echoes slightly from the opposite wall. She catches it with a bruising kiss and sets to loosening the laces of his vest; he obliges her.

The next moment he is naked. She has missed something, forgotten something in her fever to have him... but oh, he is so pale, such a beautiful pale hjum bal'thjr he is, and her hair is caught in one of his earrings, and his teeth are scraping over her shoulders, his fingers teasing her nipples and slipping between her thighs, his breath panting from him like the gasps of the dying.

She smiles mercilessly at his need.

"Nin friith, Ffamran? Fesz... Fesz a'..."

His eyes catch hers; he is inebriated by her, slightly frightened. She moans.

"Nin friith?"

He closes his eyes, presses his lips hard together. He wants to hold back, wants to grasp at his pride. Smiling, she rocks forward and swallows him in one fluid movement of her hips. He shudders in a sigh, and she moans to see him melt, knows he's never let down his guard for any other... not like this.

"Fesz a'..."

She needs to hear him say it. She needs to see him surrender, feel him come apart, taste saline as he weeps in ecstasy.

He shakes his head and thrashes, still fighting her for the upper hand. In retaliation she presses herself against him, flesh to flesh, pins him to the marble, and holds his wrists in one long-fingered hand. She will break him. She'll ride him into oblivion, break him into jagged pieces, and laugh and moan and weep as he finally surrenders.

Eih... Now he is beginning to yield, flushed and panting in spite of himself. He is only a child now, helpless, desperate, grateful. He needs her; she can see it in the way he arches toward her, exposing his long, corded white neck to her, never taking his eyes from hers. He is so beautiful.

Tell me... Tell me now.

"Fesz, Ffamran."

Rocking against him, she feels him throbbing inside of her, knows that no matter who else he's touched, he saves the deepest need he has for her and her alone. She knows he'll never forsake her, knows that in spite of his efforts at nonchalance and smug satisfaction – "Nobody knows men like Fran does" – he belongs to her.

Tell me you belong to me.

She quickens her pace, slows it again. His lips part, and his eyes close as he begins to writhe and buck beneath her, lost.

"Fran... Oh, god... A' nin'friith, Fran..."

I am yours, Fran...

She swallows him to the hilt with her hips, arching her back and clutching his hips between her thighs.

Crimson meets gold. She is his religion, and he is her prize.

"B'lhai...!"

I love you

He shatters at last, weeping. Her mind is white with fire, now; she is dying, and her last breath is his.

"B'lhai, Ffamran... B'lhai."

* * *

Once properly dressed, Balthier smoothes down his hair and turns to Fran.

"Feeling better?"

"Mmm."

"You can understand me? Good, you've come to your senses, then... Ouch. Hm, I'll have some explaining to do for these bruises."

"Nr'vueh, fo'e?"

"Me, complain? Never."

He turns, watches her tie her hair back from her face and replace her helm.

"Recite a little Pheristho, so I know you have your tongue back as well."

She blinks at him, a smile touching the corners of her eyes.

"Hmm... 'Th'affliction of love is terror most perfect; her ecstasy burneth deep, her teeth drawing blood from the stones.' Will that do?"

"Quite," he replies, and turns toward the Pharos, his eye cast to the peak.

Fran can see that he is no longer afraid, and she smiles.