Disclaimer: I don't own Final Fantasy VIII and I do not mean to infringe upon their creation by letting people assume it is my own. I am not getting paid for this. This is for my own enjoyment and, hopefully, the enjoyment of others. I also am not Flannery O'Connor, but I am indebted to her work as inspiration.
Author's Notes - Haven't done this in a while so please bear with me. It will probably be a short fic if anyone at all looks at it. If no one bothers, then I probably won't bother finishing it, at least on Please review if you find I have done something disappointing or lame, or if you find you like it. I am just like anyone else and I do appreciate the thought of praise. Thank you for making it this far!
Fool's Gold
By giggleplex
Without his glasses, The Misfit's eyes were red-rimmed and pale and defenseless-looking. "Take her off and throw her where you shown the others," he said, picking up the cat that was rubbing itself against his leg.
"She was a talker, wasn't she?" Bobby Lee said, sliding down the ditch with a yodel.
"She would of been a good woman," The Misfit said, "if it had been somebody there to shoot her every minute of her life."
- Flannery O'Connor "A Good Man Is Hard To Find"
It was a cold night. The camp was not still, but those still weaving themselves between camouflage tents, moved lethargically through the mud. No one was speaking. There was little to talk about.
However, he knew that before morning came and illuminated the camp to it's eventual demise, there would be plenty of confessions. Softly spoken, all regretful.
He had seen it all before. He was somewhat of a thrill-seeker with a particularly hazardous penchant for finding himself into deadly situations—but he hadn't died yet. Or perhaps he had . . . he couldn't remember the last time he spoke to someone. Even as he signed up for this doomed military attempt for Timber's independence, he simply signed his illegible name on a line and picked up a gun on the way out the door.
He didn't even really believe in Timber's independence. Just like he didn't believe in the Balamb militia, or the duty of the Galbadian army, or an attempt for anarchy in Deling City. He was a wanderer who knew nothing but how to fight. It gave him something to do, at least—until whatever scheme in which he was involved failed, as always.
He loved the certainty of doom, it made his loneliness seem at least somewhat bearable. Maybe he really did have a death-wish. Whatever the reason, he did not reflect too closely upon himself, and never had.
One thing he was certain of; he hadn't done a good thing in his entire damned life.
Treading softly, his military-issue combat boots still managed to kick up thick grime as he made his way over to their feeble water source. It was nothing more than a rusty faucet stuck precariously in the ground, and it bled brown-tinted water. He took no notice of this, and turned it on so that the stream of water came out the end of the faucet instead of leaking through the pipe.
The water ran through his bare fingers. The remains of dried mud came to life with the moisture, so that dark rings formed on his palms. Without bothering to wipe off his hands, he cupped them for a moment and splashed water up into his face. It was cold enough to be icy, but it made three sleepless nights seem like one, albeit for a few seconds.
Wiping off his eyes with the back of a grimy canvas coat-sleeve, he unwrapped the blue scarf that tied back his dark hair. When he held it underneath the faucet, he noticed his unwashed hair was oily enough to stay back on its own. With a sigh, he ran a hand idly through his hair.
There were a few other recruits hanging around the so-called "watering hole". They stood with their arms crossed to still their shaking hands, and tapped impatiently as a way of focusing their jittery, uncompromising bodies. Wide eyes darted between them, each of them looking towards each other as if waiting for one to begin a slaughter.
Tying the dripping scarf around his forehead, he noted to himself that it was a good thing none of them had guns at their hip, or they would have shot the hell out of each other hours before.
"Hey get the hell outta here with your damn tapping and shaking before I give you somethin' to shake about!"
He looked up calmly at the sound of the gruff voice. A tall, broad-shouldered man with matted blonde hair rose from his tent and sent a threatening glare towards the skittish rebel soldiers.
They scattered at once.
The man wore the same colorless uniform as the rest of them, but there was a peculiar aura about him that surrounded him with a sense of higher authority than a simple soldier. He thought it had something to do with the way the man held his shoulders or narrowed his eyes or stood with his boots spread apart and his weight settled on his right leg.
When that narrowed gaze turned on him, he could feel the heat of those green eyes as a physical force that denied all logic present in the camp at the time.
The gruff voice rang again, and was earthly and solid to all that the gaze unsettled him. All doubts of his existence as a living being fled away.
"D'you have a cigarette?"
The addressed slipped a hand into his pocket and brought out a reasonably dry package. Flipping open the lid with a muddy thumb, he drew out two cigarettes and offered one to the blonde man.
He took it nonchalantly. "Light?"
The lighter was already out and struck before the question was fully processed by either man. The blonde leaned in to light the end of his paper-wrapped cylinder before taking a long breath in, and a long stream of curling smoke out. Both stood in silence.
Distantly, a clap of thunder resounded over the occasional echo of gunfire, both in their minds and in the valley in which the camp resided. Over the cigarette smoke, the scent of ozone and rain lingered.
"Need a place to stay?" The blonde man asked abruptly.
"Need, no. But all I have is a sleeping bag under a bush." His voice was soft and smooth like the feeling of an unused bullet, but less accustomed to use. His gesture was vague, in contrast to the other man's stark certainty.
The other snorted, motioning towards his tent with a jerk of his head. It knocked the ashes of his cigarette to the ground.
"Come on in, then. It's gonna rain soon anyway. Can't smoke in the rain."
They both ducked under the flap and sat awkwardly with long legs propped up halfway to their chins. If possible, the tent looked smaller on the inside than it did on the outside. It was probably meant to house only one, and the gesture of the invitation was not lost on the dark-haired man.
"Thank you." It didn't seem appropriate, but he didn't know what was.
The blonde man chuckled deep in his throat.
"Who are you, sayin' 'thank you' to a soldier when you're could die tomorrow?"
The dark-haired man caught himself from apologizing. He took a drag from his cigarette to mask his silence and rested his arm on his bent knee, studying the way his wrist hung limp over his leg. It was getting dark, and his cigarette was burning down to his fingers.
He stamped it out, and offered another round to all present company. They smoked in silence till the rains came and darkness surrounded them like a breathy cocoon. The tent was stifling with smoke, but at least it wasn't cold.
"Thanks for coming in. Thanks for not sayin' too much." Came an unexpected pronouncement.
The dark-haired man furrowed his eyebrows in the dark.
"What do you mean?"
"I dunno." He heard the long breath out, felt the smoky breath on his face "But don't worry, I just wanted some company, I'm not about to seduce you on judgement day. I know that's a popular thing to do and all, in these camps but I'm not into guys. Not that I'm against guys into guys or anythin' but . . . well, I dunno."
He was too surprised to answer the blonde man.
"Hyne, you must think I really am stalking your or something." He continued after a short pause "Damn, I'm not good at this nervous talkin' stuff."
Now that he mentioned it, there was a slight tremble to the ember of the cigarette. Behind that gruff voice, there was a slight bit of vulnerability shining through. The dark-haired man was surprised.
"No one is."
Another laugh, in an attempt to curb his leaking panic.
"You remind me of someone I know. I hate that guy, but for some reason, I don't hate you."
"I'm not sure whether that is an insult or a compliment." Retorted the dark-haired man dryly.
"It's the closest thing you'll get to a compliment, from me."
His voice was very, very tired and almost wistful.
"What's your name?"
"What's yours?" The blonde man retorted.
The dark haired man looked down and could barely make out the shadow of his leg. His answer was careful.
"I'm a Wanderer."
"Well I am confused as hell, so I guess if you wanna go with something dramatic you could call me a Fool."
Wanderer nodded his dark head, and although the Fool could not see the gesture, he seemed to accept it. Camaraderie existed between the two men who desperately wished they could convince themselves that they had nothing to lose, in between cheap dusty cigarettes and the pounding of rain.
Despite speaking nothing of each other's temperaments or attitudes, they both understood that there was much in common between the two. They may have come to the very same place on the very same night, following different paths, but for that very same moment they were the same.
Fool sat in silence, with his green eyes shrouded in shadow and deep thought. He had, in fact, invited Wanderer in to avoid his thoughts, because they made no sense and they disconcerted him. Frankly, his thoughts frightened him.
Yet he was coming to the conclusion that there was nothing he could do to stop them.
"I hate to ask you this, but it looks like we're gonna die anyway."
"It all depends . . . " Wanderer answered softly "you never know when you are going to die."
"Well fine I guess, if I die, there are some things I'd like to sort out first." He took a deep breath that had nothing to do with the end of a cigarette "I was hopin' you could help me."
Wanderer was never a confidant by choice, and ultimately misused the secrets and deepest feelings of others by his lack of interest. There was nothing that made him feel less like a human than the most human aspects that people could barely admit to themselves. They made him feel disgusted with his own distant nature from humanity, and he avoided those willing to spill them at all cost.
But he was a Fool. He was different. He was just like him. It couldn't hurt, he thought.
"I could listen." Wanderer stated, finally.
The Fool shifted his position in the tent, uncurling his long legs lazily so that he may rest on his back. His silver-buckled supply bag was used as a makeshift pillow, and his eyes stared up to the faint silhouettes of raindrops that were visible through the slightly transparent tent.
"I'm such a Fool."
"You said that already." Wanderer noted.
"I've made so many mistakes, too many mistakes. I've let ambition rule my life for the past two years. My dreams overshadowed my reality, and I screwed up big time." He continued as if Wanderer never spoke.
Where his voice was once gruff, now it seemed spent and exhausted. The gravelly texture seemed to exist from the wearing down by yelling and smoking rather than self-assurance. The rhythm and quality of his words had changed too, and Wanderer was sure that this was the Fool at his most vulnerable.
"Are you afraid of dying?" the Fool asked abruptly.
"I don't think so," the Wanderer replied "I don't really think about it."
"I'm afraid—maybe. I don't know. I've never been afraid of dying—I'd put myself in the most dangerous situations I could find, but I wasn't ever afraid because I knew I was too good to die. Too strong, too smart. Damn, I was such a smart-ass.
"Then . . . I failed. I didn't die but I failed and I grew up or something . . . I just woke up one day and looked back on my life and realized, hey, it's time for me to die. So I signed up and here I am. But now that I'm here, I don't know what I want. I guess I'm finally afraid." He let out a short bark of a humorless laugh "I'm afraid of dying, here, all alone."
The Wanderer offered another cigarette. The Fool took it immediately. There were no words, only thoughts as turbulent as the storm.
After taking a shuddering drag and brushing the dark hair out of his eyes, the Wanderer asked, "Why are you afraid of dying? You will die someday, what's the difference if it's tomorrow or eighty years from now?"
The pause suggested that the Fool was thinking very hard about the question, but the Wanderer suspected that the Fool knew exactly why he was afraid before the question was asked. The silence was cautionary, considering.
"I'm afraid now 'cause . . . I've fooled myself into thinking I've got somethin' to lose." He said finally.
"What does a guy like you have to lose?" the Wanderer certainly didn't have anything of the sort. Nothing he would miss anyway, except the growingly monotonous game of survival.
"What is this, some kind of interrogation?"
"Do you know?" he continued to press.
Pauses were apparently regular for a man who had never confessed before.
"I never had this in the first place . . . "
Wanderer started at the voice; what was once a growl was reduced to an empty croak.
"So why am I convinced that I've got her to lose!" The fool sat up abruptly, and even in the darkness it was apparent that his expression was stormy.
Her? Wanderer was amazed. All of this concern for a simple human being, when there were millions in the world and millions probably in the afterlife. All of this for a woman?
"All of this concern for a woman?" he echoed his own thoughts.
To which the fool replied, assuredly "There are lots of things in the world, but they only things that make you happy are other people."
The Wanderer frowned. He felt out of his league, detached. Completely ignorant.
It was as if the Fool had lived a thousand lives, had learned a thousand lessons, but still remained capable of admitting the infinite things he did not understand. There was an innate ignorance that could never be denied.
He heard the Fool sigh once more. Not in regard to the Wanderer's confusion towards human nature, but towards his own ineffectiveness in life. He also sighed for what he had lost, and what he was sure he would.
"She's beautiful. She's pure—and damn well everything I don't deserve, but need so much."
And the rest of the evening was spent in a wallow of confusion for the Wanderer, as he only half-listened to the careful description of a woman with golden hair, bright blue eyes, and a sturdy conscience, un-swayed by greed or ambition. The mismatched tale inspired an image of some sort of unearthly presence that penetrated the deepest depths of the Wanderer's heart. Places where only echoes touched.
She became more than human. She became hope, and she became fear for a man far from her side.
She had no name, but the Fool needed no names to express his most profound and treasured secrets.
One line resonated before the Wanderer nodded off to sleep, one simple exclamation that offered the chance for a peace to be had for a Fool.
"I can't die." He said, his voice becoming edgy, tense"I can't. I've got to get back, I've got to see her I've got to see her bossy face and I've got to hear her scream at my mistakes. I can't die. I've got to get back. I've got to tell her that I fuckinglove her."
The peace of pronouncement was contagious.
Then a single word with no explanation, just the caress of a voice not accustomed to things so delicate.
" . . . Quistis . . . "
For once, the Wanderer did not dream of gunfire.
It may seem a little rushed near the end, but the rest of the story sort of fills in the gaps, trust me. In case you were wondering, Wanderer is an OC that isn't perfect and really doesn't have that significant of a role, Fool is none other than Seifer. Thought I would clarify!
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