Title: Seeing You Off
Warnings: Deathfic. Blood, pain and general feelings of crappiness. Angst, drama…hell, someone's dying. It won't be happy.
Disclaimer: As much as I wish on a shooting star, I don't own FFIX, and it ain't never going to happen.
Summary: He had saved him from the Iifa Tree, but Garland's curse could not be avoided. The least he could do was make sure his brother genome did not die utterly alone, as he'd feared.
Author's Note: Born from the what happened to Kuja? thought that hit me when I finished the game. They were never clear on that, but since Garland said he was 'programmed' to die…-sob-
There had been blood. Blood and pain, sharp and wet and crowding his senses until he could act on instincts alone. His hands were numb, skin raw and broken from the fights, and his limbs cried for relief, sending waves of needle sharp pain every time he flexed a muscle. The blood was everywhere, stinging his eyes and filling his noise with the metallic stench that stuck to the back of his throat and made him gag. He'd seen blood before, of all colours and of all races of all monsters, like so many liquid jewels, but he'd never been overwhelmed, never felt it so powerfully. The frantic heart beating painfully against his ribs, the harsh breathing, the feel of his hands slick with blood struggling to maintain their grip on torn flesh, they were all painful reminders that he was too alive to let go now.
The body was heavy against him, heavier than it ought to be, and limp as if lifeless, pushing him to check on the feeble pulse regularly, anxious. Afraid that if he were to remove his fingers, the beat would stop. He wanted to whisper words, to force his consciousness to remain with him, but only ragged breaths escaped his throat, empty of any coherence save as a testimony to his flagging strength.
Darkness was all around them, draped over their bodies like a shroud shielding light and hope, but he could feel his skin prickling as fresh air cooled heated flesh, could smell green and sweetness and life over the blood. He breathed deeply, wishing to catch more of the salutary sent, but froze, body tense as he coughed the blood that had gushed down his lungs. His grip on the body loosened and he slipped out of his precarious hold. Panic gripped his heart with a cold fist and he brought the man back to his chest, arms shaking under the effort of holding him so tight, but he would not let him go no matter the physical pain.
His movements became desperate, tripping and slipping and tearing his flesh on the thorns surrounding him, but he would not stop, cradling the body to his own and sheltering it, trying to will its injuries to stop bleeding, at least for a little while, because the sent was making him sick and his hands were so wet he had to jounce him too often to keep hold and he knew he was hurting him. His flesh was so cold; his breathing so still and quiet, and there was blood on his lips, blood that would bubble and froth with each breath. Please, let it not drown his throat, not now, not until we are outside again, in the open and with light and the wind and away from the pain, he wished, thought, hanging on to the feel of the still body in his arms to remind him to go on.
The first spot of light shot in his eyes and burned his retinas like fire, but it was a relief from the blood stinging his eyes, blinding him. He looked down, and the light was reflecting on the silver hair dancing in the slightest beginning of a breeze, caked with blood and sticky, but it was moving and the body wasn't so still anymore, wasn't so lifeless. Suddenly the darkness wasn't absolute, he could see again and hope and he knew he was near. He could see slivers of blue tinged with red, could smell the fresh wind without choking. The breeze tugged at his torn clothing, urging him on, beckoning him to go faster, because he had no choice if he wished to live. If he wished for the man slipping from him to hold on and live, to wake up again and see the sky, beautiful and forgiving.
So he hurried, and the light floated around him to embrace them both, no more walls of black and grey, no more thorns, only open air and space and the darkening sky. Everything was silent and desolate as he marched on, fleeing the shadows and the pain yet never leaving them, and he only stopped when he knew he could not go on, when his knees folded beneath him and he fell, hugging the body to protect him. He could feel softness under his cheek, cool and forgiving him for failing, asking him to please stop and rest, he had done enough. But he pushed against it, rose to sit because his legs would no longer serve him, and laid the man down, cursing his numb hands that could not be careful enough.
He lifted the man's head, forcing the blood in his throat to move, glad and worried to hear him cough feebly and swallow, but he knew it was only a small reprieve before more blood flooded his lungs. He brought a small vial to his lips, forcing them open so that he could pour the red liquid, hoping that it wasn't too late, that it would work its magic and keep him hanging on to life more strongly. He swallowed again, with difficulty, and he had to force his mouth closed so that he would not cough it out. Only when his skin regained some colour, the smallest, palest tinge of life in the cheeks, did he release the jaw, knowing he had made it, that he would be alright for a little longer. He poured another mixture between his lips, clear blue and glowing with power, and he could swallow it more easily, without aid. Wounds closed, became tender scars, and his breathing evened out. His pulse was still weak, but regular and alive, only tired and resting for being pushed so hard.
He had nothing more to himself, his reserves smashed or lost to the darkness they had escaped, but it didn't matter. His charge would live. He could rest now, could surrender to the gentle tug of sleep. Invisible fingers closed his eyes, and he blinked the stinging blood away for the last time, and he stretched on the soft grass that welcomed him again, inching close to the man beside him, but not too close, wishing for the combined warmth but wary of bloodying him more.
It was dark again, but this one was a warm, gentle cloak that was pushing the pain away, shielding him from the aches and blood, and he knew that when he woke, when the darkness left, he would be under the sky where the two moon and stars are always shining down.
He could hear voices. Dim, worried. Anxious, but soft and caring. His eyes would not open, but that was ok. He enjoyed listening to their melodious sounds, gentle whispers that lulled him into a sense of contentment. He knew the other man was alive, could feel him beside him, sleeping, resting. He managed to move his fingers, only the slightest flexing that could be easily attributed to fitful sleeping, but gentle hands, warm and loving, were immediately there, and when he would not stop, would not stay in that comforting grip, they carefully put his hand on someone else's, a slim and cool hand, unmoving but alive and relaxed.
He is alive, they said. He is alright, they assured. He trusted them, believed them, but he would not rest again until he felt him, knew in his flesh that he had succeeded. He returned to sleep then, like the voices were asking him to, and was glad when they did not move his hand away.
The first time he opened his eyes, he couldn't see anything. It was as if he had never done such an action, except that when he brought his hand to his face, he could feel the eyelids drawn up. He panicked for all of a second before the contours of his fingers appeared, gradually, and he felt like laughing at himself for being so stupid, but his throat was raw and painful, so he did not.
He kept his hand before his eyes, watching as it grew clearer with each passing moment, his vision changing to accommodate the darkness. Soon enough he could see details of the room, and when he turned his head, he saw Kuja sitting in a bed just beside him, head turned away from him and watching through an open window.
It was night outside, as expected, but the two moon, red and blue tainting the sky purple, were lighting the sky so that nothing was really in darkness. He was happy to see his 'brother' well, but his skin was so pale, it worried him nonetheless.
"Hey." His voice was as croaky as his throat hurt, and he cleared it. It had the opposite effect, sending pain like fire running down his oesophagus, so he made a mental note to ask for water as soon as possible.
Kuja turned his head slowly, clean silver hair gleaming in the moonlight sliding off his shoulder and blue eyes staring down at him in the same haughty manner that defined his whole being.
"I'm glad to see you awake," he spoke, words slow as if he didn't grasp them completely, or was uncomfortable with them. "You've been unconscious for a week."
He forced himself to sit upright, feeling his whole body aching and whining against the movement. After a quick inspection, he saw that he had no bandages, no more injuries. Scars covered his body and he knew any sudden gesture was liable to open them.
"Who took care of my wounds?" he asked, puzzled. No injury healed so fast by itself, if Kuja's account of the days was accurate. He knew for a fact that he'd had no potions whatsoever on him to help the healing process. Thinking about that, it got him wondering at exactly where he was.
"The people here, at first. I used a few spells once I was strong enough," Kuja answered, his eyes drifting back to the window but his face remaining so that he could see his expression clearly. It was carefully neutral and guarded.
"I owe you one then. Thanks," he said, finding that talking became easier as his throat loosened. He still wanted water badly, though.
"You saved my life. You owe me nothing." There was something in his voice, something he couldn't quite put a name on, but it sounded weary and sad and maybe even resigned.
He grinned then, wide and as cheerful as always, and he crossed his arm over his chest carefully, mindful of the tender scar running the length of his right forearm.
"You saved my butt more than once, so the scales still aren't even," he declared, looking far too cheerful for owing someone such a favour as a life. Kuja did not reply, staring out of the window with calculated attention.
He blinked, feeling the mood but not understanding its purpose, its reason. They were both alive, after all. Still, he was conscious of his little knowledge of the man's mind, so he shrugged and brushed it off with ease so that he could think about it later.
"Where are we, anyways?" he asked instead, trying to gain the man's attention with a more practical subject. It seemed to work, as his frozen countenance loosened and he seemed to sag more comfortably against his pillows.
"The Black Mage village. They found us while investigating the Iifa Tree," was the simple answer. Kuja looked at him again, but his eyes betrayed nothing, blue and cold as ice, just as they had been before he was defeated, before he saw a glimpse of sorrow and pain and sadness that were crushed by the Iifa Tree's attack.
"The Black Mages, huh?" he repeated, crossing his arms behind his head and slouching, eyes turning upwards in contemplation of the ceiling. "They don't exactly live very close, what were they doing all the way to the Tree?"
Kuja shrugged, a gesture that seemed oddly human in the man's statue-like demeanour. He could remember him being livelier, with grand motions and an arrogant gait that never failed to flaunt its power.
"They could explain better than me." 'I haven't asked' hung silent in the air, and then he remembered that he had been the one creating the Black Mages, setting a deadline to their lives. He could understand how awkward it must have been for both parties. And the genomes… They had been of an inferior kind, he the special one with the power and they the mindless vessels. Yet they had taken care of them.
"Guess I'll have to ask, then," he declared and thrust the sheet off his legs, only to stare at the scars covering them like so many stripes. They ran from the middle of his calf to a little over the middle of his thighs, crisscrossing and swelling pink flesh that proved just how bad he might have been when he had been found.
"Ouch, now I don't remember where all those come from," he said, a little breathily, as his mind slowly recalled thorns. Thorns that were in his way, branches as sharp as his Ultima blades, but for which he had had no free hands to spare for cutting. So he had walked on, avoiding those he could, ignoring those he couldn't as they sliced his legs. Somehow, his arms had been spared as he found all sorts of means to avoid those at that level, because injuring his arms would mean injuring the body he carried, and that had been out of the question.
"Don't stand, you are still weak. They'll be there in the morning, you can ask them then," Kuja warned, but as he ignored him, forcing himself on his feet only to fall back on the bed when his knees buckled, a ghost of a smile flitted across Kuja's face.
He laughed, scratching at the back of his head in the familiar nervous gesture, and resumed his sitting position against the bed headboard.
"Guess I'll do that, then. But what about you? Aren't you even tired?" he asked, tilting his head to the side with puzzlement. He could see now how Kuja's face was stretched, the regal features sunken and exhausted, but refusing to acknowledge it.
The genome shook his head negatively. "I prefer not wasting my time with sleep," he answered, and he knew he also meant that he could not sleep.
"What do you mean by that?" he asked, frown heavy on his brow as the gravity of the man's tone hit him, dissipating his cheerful mood like a guttered flame.
Kuja stared at him fixedly for a long moment. His hand reached up to brush away a vagabond strand of hair and he turned back to the window, looking so much as he had been before while still bent on destruction and death that he reached for his thighs reflexively, feeling air where his dagger holsters should be.
"Garland's curse is coming into effect. I was programmed to die when you were perfect, more powerful than me and capable of doing the work in my place. I won't escape that fate."
The words rang painfully in the silent room. He could only stare, hearing but not believing. He'd forgotten about that in his moment of relief at being alive, at having saved Kuja from the Iifa Tree. But here it was, the reason why he had sought to destroy the Crystal, the fear that had torn him into wishing death upon all, so that he wouldn't be the only one to go.
"But we killed the bastard!" Even as he spoke the vehement words, he knew his protest was useless. They were hollow words, spoken out of grief and pain so suddenly sharp he wished to be among the thorns again, because then they would make him forget the present.
Kuja laughed, a bitter sound that had no mirth in it, raising the hair on his arms and causing goosebumps to run over his flesh.
"It doesn't matter. Dead or alive, I am what I am." The truth stung, even more so because he had been aware of it all this time but had refused to acknowledge it, pushing it aside for foolish hope that brought more pain when crushed.
"When..?" He could not complete the sentence, but he needn't use any more words. Death hung heavy in the room where two men throbbing with life rested peacefully.
"Tonight. Soon."
His face must have showed an emotion too powerful, too vivid for Kuja, for he turned back to the window fully, hiding his face from him, and thus any sign of weakness that might cross his frozen features.
"What! How come..? Why didn't- Never mind, but why so soon?" Something was tightening his heart, a grip that was grasping it so painfully hard that it was a chore to breathe. Time had punched him in the guts, vicious and victorious. He was glad his throat was parched; it gave him a means to pretend his voice had not become so raspy by emotion.
Kuja shrugged again, and his shoulders slumped even more, as if weighed down by the force of both of their grief.
"You beat me. I've got no more right to live, according to why Garland created me." Kuja looked down at the vague lumps of sheets that hid his legs, and his eyes were empty of everything except regret. "I've already lost my legs, and it's steadily getting harder to move my arms."
He was stunned, speechless and feeling so pathetically useless in the face of Kuja's fate. If only Garland hadn't died so soon, if only he'd been able to reveal how to stop this…programming. He shook his head, unable to speak, knowing that words were useless.
"There must be a way to stop this." He already knew there was none, but maybe he hoped speaking the words would produce a miracle.
"Maybe. But it's too late now," Kuja said, turning to him this time, ignoring the beckoning window, and he shrugged again. He could now recognize the gesture as strained, not tired. It's getting harder to move my arms.
He forced his legs to move properly, turning to sit at the edge of his bed, closer to the paralysed Kuja. The genome raised an eyebrow at him, ready to comment on that state of his health again, but his determination and anger and sadness were showing freely in his eyes, and he said nothing.
"It's never too late!" he cried, desperation clear in his own voice, the uselessness of his words stabbing at his heart.
Kuja smiled at the remark, and there was no bitterness there this time, just simple amusement, as if he had expected him to say exactly that and was happy to hear it.
"Sometimes it is," he replied, like a patient parent explaining something complex to a stubborn child.
He felt foolish then. Stupid for trying to make him hope, to force such a painful thing on Kuja at his last moments. Even he could see it; as the minutes inched by, his arms hung more and more limply at his sides, those powerful hands that had cast so much destructive magic now silenced forever. He ached to reach over and rub warmth and life into the pale digits, but he knew it would only hurt Kuja more to be reminded of how weak he was becoming.
"Why did you save us?" The change of subject seemed to startle Kuja. He was more stubborn, usually, but with his flagging legs and little strength, he knew he was incapable of doing anything to help save sit here and not leave him alone until the end. He tried chasing the guilt and sadness off his face, but knew he had failed.
Kuja stared into space for a moment, looking straight over his head as if afraid that if he turned away from him, his neck would refuse to move and he would be paralysed like that.
"I don't know. At first, I thought I wanted you to finish me off, so that I wouldn't become like this. But something happened. I can't explain it." Kuja's shoulders had slumped as if strings holding them upright had snapped. His limbs were now completely gone. "I realized what it was to live, and I couldn't deny you that."
He shook his head, hearing the words but not caring. Kuja saw his expression, the denial still present among the sorrow, and laughed openly, startling him. How could he laugh when he was dying?
"Maybe I counted on you –" His words cut off as his eyes suddenly closed, the lids just falling limply over his eyes.
"Hey!" He sprung from the bed, forgetting his legs and wishing them a good trip to hell and beyond, and managed to lurch his way to Kuja's bed, hands grasping his shoulders, wishing to shake him but doing nothing. He could feel the cold skin beneath his fingers, the feeble pulse, nearly lifeless.
"I'm still alive, I've only gone blind," Kuja reassured, and he found it creepy that such a notion would relieve him when he knew his brother genome would die any minute now, that it was only a matter of the paralysis getting to his head and organs.
"Don't scare me like that!" he nearly yelled, feeling the pain choke him, his hands tightening on the shoulders in a way that would be painful if he could only feel it. No matter what Kuja had done, the destruction and death and pain he had inflicted, here he was, scared of being alone in death, lonely in the sudden dark. He had saved them, had turned at the last possible moment. It was impossible for him not to suffer for his death, and it was only made worse by their genetic link.
"For once, I had not intended it," came the reply, Kuja's voice managing to sound cheerful as he pulled a morbid joke in such a moment. He felt like slapping the dying man, to tell him that if he had the strength to make funny comments, then he was strong enough to get better and live.
"Yeah, well you better not do it again," he said, somehow finding the strength to fake mirth. However, there was no reaction from Kuja. His mouth tightened ever so slightly and his brow furrowed a little, his face starting to lose its mobility as well.
"Did you --? I can't hear anymore." Kuja's voice was becoming weak, the words painfully spoken around a tightening throat.
"Shit!" Cursing sounded wrong to his ears, but he knew Kuja was now deaf as well as blind, and going mute. He could not hear him, could not see him, could not feel him. To the dying man, he might as well have been alone, nobody there as he passed away. His worst fear.
He reached over, putting careful hands on Kuja's cheeks, feeling the flesh, cool but alive, through his own warm skin, and a smile of relief stretched the genome's face, relief so absolute it was painful to watch, to see the proud and powerful man need even such a simple gesture so strongly.
"My voice…" He tightened his grip on Kuja's cheeks, knowing he was losing his feelings there as well. "Thank you…" The words were spoken softly, with great effort, but they had never sounded so honest.
He wanted to tell him to shut up. To stop talking and save his strength, that he'd find a way. But he knew that Kuja needed to talk, that these were his last words before he died, before Garland achieved his vicious vengeance. He needed to hear them while his brother could still feel his hands and know he was listening.
"…for being here – not alone… Thank you, Zidane."
The jaw under his fingers grew slack, the skin turned cold. When he checked his pulse, it was already slowing down, taking but a minute before the last beat was felt in his fingers.
He punched the headboard viciously, glad for the physical pain, but it was not long before his weak limbs would not move properly anymore. Kuja's face was peaceful as he looked down at it. He cried then, silently, because he'd lost a brother, he'd lost someone he respected, he'd lost a man who could have grown to become a friend, he'd lost an enemy that had been forgiven. He'd watched that man, his brother, die, and he had been powerless to do anything.
You were there with me at the very end. Thank you. Thank you so very much, Zidane.
The End
Author's Last Breath: I killed Kuja. I killed Kuja. I killed Kuja. -cries- I hope you enjoyed this piece. It's my first actual deathfic, and I really put my heart in it. –sniffles- I actually had to go on and cry…
A-chan