It's been a while since I played through the "get Celes off the island" scene. I'm doing this off the top of my head, so if there are any glaring errors, that's why. I also don't really care if there are glaring errors.

Disclaimer: Asking a fan fiction writer if they own the characters to their story is like asking a volunteer worker if they received a paycheck.

Parting the Sorrows

There was not much in the world for Celes Chere, former Imperial general, runic mage, and Returner—all that the dying planet had to offer was barren land, polluted water, and abundant death. Evidence of all of these were scattered about the tiny island, from the rocky ground with its brownish mockery of growth, to the reddened waves that crashed along the shore, to the skeletons—both of man and beast—that littered the area, grotesque reminders of the world's sad state.

As if anyone could forget.

One more to add, she thought to herself, of the dead, and of her departed "grandfather." It was ironic that she had not been able to keep him alive for more than a few days, while he, in his age and illness, had been able to sustain her for a full year, and build a craft for her to escape in. Or on, as the case might've been.

The aforementioned craft—really nothing more than a crude little raft—thunked against the steps of the little hovel's basement, swinging the whole unwieldy thing at an awkward angle, and pinning her against the wall. She held in a curse, and straightened herself and the raft, once more hauling it up the steps. After a final tug, she let it fall to the floor with a heavy thud. Her eyes moved to the figure lying on the bed, not five feet away—Cid, her so-called Granddad, exactly as he'd been hours ago. This time, however, she did not run out of the tiny building. Though, there were a few tears shed.

It was worth noting how a small thing could change a person's outlook on life. Scant hours earlier, she had flung herself off a cliff, hoping for her own demise. That hope had been failed, and a new one had been born directly after, brought by, of all things, a wounded bird.

The tiny creature had chirped insistently at her, shoving its beak against her ear, and making as much of a racket as its miniscule lungs would permit. What got her attention as she sat up, however, were not the bird's antics, or the fact that such a seemingly gentle creature could survive in such a world as that, but the thin, frayed piece of gray-blue fabric that had been carefully wrapped around its middle. After unraveling the bandana—for she was certain that was what it was—she took a careful look at it. For the most part it was plain blue, with remnants of careful embroidery along its edges. She pulled in a deep breath, and then let it go in surprise, and rising hope.

While she had not spent all that much time with the self-titled treasure hunter, the combined scent of well-trodden earth and too-strong coffee had become a familiar one. No matter how clean he tried to make it, Locke Cole would never get those two smells out of the well-worn bandana. It was proof that he was alive, or had been not too long ago, Celes was certain of it.

A good look at the bird proved Locke's apparent concerned justified. Blood was caked against its feathers, and it hurried out of her reach each time she tried to get a better glance at the wound. Its attention was drawn back to her, however, when her hands began to glow a soft, inviting green. Soon the injury was little more than a memory, and the creature had winged its way back into the sky, but not without what seemed to be a parting chirp. As though they understood greetings and farewells, she mused.

She sucked in a breath and looked aside, at nothing at all, really. While her thoughts had been far from unpleasant, she'd rather not spend too much time dwelling on them—it proved ultimately useless. Shaking her head a bit to clear it, the woman moved towards Cid's prone figure.

There was no way she would leave him like this, neglected in death and without due honors. With an expression of purpose lining her face, she moved to the bed, and moved Cid off of it as though he were a treasure more valuable than any found in the Empire's old treasuries and museums. The bed's frame proved to be little more than a box with taller planks used for the head- and footboards, and a few whacks at both with the already dulled axe that Cid had used in the making of her raft were enough to even out the wooden planks. Tossing the tool inside, she grabbed hold of the frame, and began to drag it towards the door, tilting it when necessity prompted her to.

Within a short while, she had the box in the little clearing behind the house, beside a patch of dirt and rocks. She eyed the patch a moment, knowing that the hard part had just come. Letting out a short breath, she grabbed up the axe, and began tearing at the dirt, inwardly bemoaning the lack of a proper shovel. There was no deterrent for her, however, once she had established her goal—everything than she could get her hands on to move the soil was used, and by the end of it, her body was screaming from the pain and exertion and overall brutality it'd had to deal with that single day.

That was not enough to make her quit. The hardest part, physically, was over. After dropping the wide, rickety fencepost she'd been using just then, she began to drag the box into the pit. Rubbing her sore, abused arms, she turned towards the house, to collect the only person she'd ever considered as family.

He was, thankfully, lighter than she expected, and in moments she had him out in the clearing, resting in the box turned casket. A final trek to and from the building resulted in the purloining of one of the bed's sheets—there was, sadly, no better covering, as all the wooden surfaces in the house were too thick for the now useless axe to cut through. As she laid the thin, once-white fabric over the man, she paused. Goodbye, Granddad, she said inwardly. "I'll see you later." With cheeks stained yet again by tears, she moved away, and began pushing the soil back over him.

By the time she'd finished burying Cid, and had collected what few possessions she had, and had dragged the raft to shore, it was sunset. Staring at the reddened light, she wondered if she had it in her to go just a bit further, to the waves. She had done so much that day, and a bit of rest—

She staggered, and stumbled to her knees, swaying momentarily. No. Now was not the time to give in; she could rest all she wanted on the raft—it was, after all, just a bit further. Willing herself upward, she pushed with the last of her strength, and flopped back down on the tiny craft, which had finally, after planning from a clever scientist, and perseverance from a young, hopeful woman, broken away from the island's shore.