WARNING: Do not read if you do not like character deaths!
***Disclaimer: I do not own Final Fantasy, The Highwayman, or anything inherently cool. I do, however, own my brain, so anything original in here is mine. Anything cool is probably not.***
A/N: This is my first songfic, written before I knew what a songfic actually was. As such, it doesn't follow the usual format of a songfic, because it doesn't actually use the lyrics of the song anywhere in it.
Remember that this is an AU; I created it specifically for the environment of this story - my stories are usually not this dark!
Probably a good idea to listen to Loreena McKennit's "The Highwayman" before reading, just to set the mood.
The wind was a howling demon, raging across the desolate rocky wasteland outside the city. The moon hung above, looming large over the landscape like a pestilence, its white light like a corpse-candle. Clouds scudded overhead, afraid to appear for long, fleeing before the approaching storm. The smooth sand of the waste reflected the moonlight and was palely visible between the harsh shadows of the jutting rocks.
A single shape moved in the entire forsaken place, a dark shape moving swiftly around and among the spires, heading as straight as possible for the bulk of the distant city. A roar of engines tried to accompany the traveler, but the sound was left far behind along with the dust. Moonlight glinted off pale hair, bleaching it further into a ghostly white. The traveler's motorbike was dark, his clothes so dark they made him one with the night, and his hair was invisible against the unearthly-lit sky, but his eyes were burning bright. Twin glowing blue orbs sought out the road in front of him, noticing every bump and pitfall, and practiced hands expertly swerved the bike around the obstacles.
He glanced back only once, seeing nothing but the haunted landscape. He grimaced, that being the closest he ever came to smiling, and continued on into the city. He slowed once he reached the narrow streets, both to steer easier and to quiet the engine, which subsided to a slight purr. Winding his way despite the unlit streets, he soon reached his destination - a two-storied wooden building, not fancy but still clean and well-kept, with the doors open and streaming light. He shied away from the light as if afraid, and coasted the bike around to the back, where the shadows were so thick only his eyes were visible faintly. Not bothering to dismount from the bike, he pulled up to directly under one of the second-story windows and tossed a pebble toward it. A second pebble brought no response, so he sprang open the front compartments on his bike and withdrew a long, slender sword from the many nested there on the racks. Closing the bike, he reached up and tapped at the windowframe with the tip.
Finally the shutters swung open and a pale face peered out and down, smiling when blue eyes looked up. The owner of the face leaned out farther, dark hair cascading down her neck and flying in the night breeze.
"You came," she breathed.
"Yes, but I must leave again, likely for a while. Know that I will be back to you. If not tomorrow, then tomorrow night, when the moon is full, I will come to you. I will come to you though hell lies on the road." His voice was husky and full of determination, and she knew that he meant every word he said.
"I will see you again," she said, pressing hard against the windowsill so that it became hard to breathe.
He looked up, his hand reaching toward her but falling short by many feet. He whispered her name as his hand closed on air, grasping it as if he touched her hand. She swiftly swung one leg out over the sill, leaning down toward him, her hair falling like a black river down the wall. He stood up on the seat of his bike, placing one foot on the sill of a lower window, and stretched upward. Their hands were still a foot apart, but her hair was long, and he caressed it. She bowed her head, letting her hair down farther, and he buried his face in it, breathing in the sweet fragrance and feeling its softness against his skin. He pressed a kiss into the dark mass in his hand, then, before she could respond, he had slipped back onto the bike and was turning over the engine, slipping away into the night with barely a whisper of sound.
She clasped her hands to her lips, breathing a prayer after him. Gazing up at the unfriendly moon, she smiled, even at it, and her smile was as a bright light in the shadow of death. She strained her eyes one more time in the direction he had taken, but all was dark and silent. She blinked slowly and sighed, closing the window and turning back inside.
Outside, after both had gone, a shadow moved, a blackness greater even than the night, and a soft chuckle escaped sneering lips. Moon-pale hair glinted in the starlight and green eyes flickered dangerously - jealously.
"The highwayman and his lover. How tragic."
She waited long for his return; as he had feared last night, he did not come back during the day. But she knew that she would see him again by the light of the moon. ...though hell should bar the way... She smiled as she went about her work, trying to lighten the fear that was beginning to weigh on her heart. His occupation was no easy one, his skill and speed no surety for his life. It was very probable that hell had lain across his path before and would do so again. His words had been more than the idle murmurings of love.
There was a tread at the door, heavy and intruding. No, many treads. Hopefully, good business. She wiped her hands on her short apron and hurried toward the counter to greet the customers when the door was abruptly kicked open and a squad of soldiers entered, weapons out. Trying to hide the fear that suddenly exploded inside her, she smiled at them.
"What can I do for you, sirs?" she asked, feeling trapped.
They said nothing; for answer, they grabbed her roughly by an arm and dragged her toward the stairs to the upstairs living quarters. Something died in her then, and, with a shriek, she flung herself away, fighting, pushing, pulling, but they held her fast. A fist collided with the side of her head and she collapsed with a whimper, crumpling at the foot of the stairs.
She awoke with the golden afternoon sun burning painfully into her eyes. That was not all that pained her, for when she tried to turn away and shield her eyes with her hand, she found that she was bound tightly upright against one of the post of her own bed. Her head throbbed and the ropes cut cruelly into her flesh. She moaned aloud, but the noise was muffled by a gag that threatened to choke her. As her eyes adjusted to the glare, she noticed that the room was also occupied by the soldiers, most of them stationed at the windows that looked out over the area back of the building, but some sitting on the clothes-chest, watching her. One spat when he saw that she was awake.
"Any regrets yet?" he sneered.
She ignored him and struggled against the ropes. The gag filled her mouth with cotton and her throat was painfully dry; her bonds were cutting off circulation to her extremities. Another soldier noticed her movement and came over to her.
He checked over the ropes once, making sure they held tight, and then adjusted one that crossed over her arm, pulling it up back into place, laughing when she tried to flinch from his touch.
"Stand straight at attention," he jested. "And keep good watch."
Tears blinded her momentarily as she saw that the window she faced, the one most of the soldiers were gathered about, was the one that she had leaned out of just last night - the one with the best view of the yard. She closed her eyes and let her body sag against the bonds, ignoring the pain she caused herself.
She didn't know how long she slumped there, drowning in her fear, not being aware of the metal pressing into her upper arm. She shifted and the coldness itself woke her, and she saw to her horror that the long barrel of a standard infantry rifle was rammed up against her left shoulder. Not comprehending, she froze, wishing the soldier to go ahead and shoot, until she realized that no one was wielding the gun; it was bound alongside her, upright against her body. ...stand straight at attention...
The sun had set now and twilight was gathering. She kept imagining that she heard the soft murmur of an approaching engine, and every time broke out in a cold sweat until it faded into the sounds of the night. ...the moonlight...the full moon... She must warn him. The gun!
She looked down, moving her head ever so slightly, not wanting to alert the soldiers who were watching out the window with an eager intensity. The trigger was there, at about waist-height, so near and yet so far. She strained at the bonds about her wrists, but her hands were so numb that she couldn't tell if she made any progress. She pulled again; thinking she heard an engine, she yanked in sudden panic, then froze as one of the men heard her and turned around. She tried to feign sleep while he stared at her, and as soon as he looked back to the road, she began rhythmically moving her wrists, stretching the rope, ignoring the stickiness that was beginning to coat her hands and make them slippery.
The darkness outside deepened: the stars appeared, and a faint glow over the rooftops marked the rise of the moon. The soldiers were getting restless, shifting position almost constantly, checking their weapons, muttering curses; she thanked the goddess that none of them looked at her. Her right hand was almost free. The slipperiness, whether sweat or blood, helped considerably in loosening the rope, as did the fact that she could no longer feel any pain from her arms at all. A clock somewhere downstairs rang out twelve loud chimes as at last she reached her goal, the trigger, with one straining finger.
She had hardly a moment to close her eyes to celebrate her victory when she yet again heard an engine on the road. A cold hand gripped her throat, she could barely breathe, and she prayed for it to again be only in her mind, but this time the soldiers heard it too and tensed in place. It was almost with relief that she heard the roar getting nearer, the agony of waiting was much harder to bear than any action.
The soldiers cocked their long rifles, sighting down the barrels into the yard below. The engine's rumble grew louder. She reached for the trigger and caught it, curling one finger around it lest her hand slip away. The soldiers were as silent as the death they were aiming for. ...though hell should bar the way...in the moonlight...I'll come to you.
The engine was there now, at the corner, about to turn and come around the building into the yard. Her breath caught in her throat and she breathed his name, his face clear in her mind. Her finger twitched.
He was eager to see her again. Last night, after taking leave of her, had gone well, and he had finally shaken the pursuers during the last hours of the evening. He was free to return to her, as he had promised, by the moonlight. But this time he would not be content to only kiss and caress her hair...
The front of the building was dark, but that caused him no worry. She had probably closed up early and was waiting for him. He coasted the bike, taking the corner sharply. As the yard swung into view before him, a single gunshot ripped through the night, startling him. Instincts took over and he spun the bike about as a volley started up, all of the bullets missing by far, but the closeness of the encounter was enough to shake him.
He sped back into the darkness, swerving to avoid possible pursuit. He drove until he had reached the wasteland, where, safe from any followers, he stopped the bike, one leg bracing it upright. The shots had come from her house. He needed an explanation.
He waited there until the dawn, sheltered in the lee of an eroded boulder, weighing the risks of going back with the anguish of uncertainty in his heart.
Something moved among the dawn-cast shadows and he leapt upright, a sword in either hand. A cloaked figure landed gracefully before him, bearing news from the city.
"The barmaid - the soldiers came for her last night."
The highwayman nodded, turning away.
"She was the one to fire the warning shot," the relentless voice continued. The black-clothed figure froze and slowly faced the newcomer. "She is dead."
The very air about him turned cold and his eyes were blind. It was without care for himself or the cloaked man that he gunned his bike's engine, tearing through the waste, headed straight as an arrow for the city, for her house. He encountered the soldiers halfway there.
With a blade in each hand, he smashed through the middle of the squad, sending soldiers flying, blood everywhere. He sped through them, then turned and came back, blades, bike, and face crimson and thirsting for more. A single cry broke from his lips as he bore down on them, uncaring for his own safety, as three regained their feet and aimed their weapons. He killed all but the last one by the time the bullets reached his heart. As the sky and world about him turned ashen, he gave his bike one last kick that sent it hurtling toward the remaining soldier. He fell off sideways, but the bike continued on and rammed the man solidly into the rocky wall. The highwayman lay still, his blood pooling on the white ground.
But he would return to her. He had promised.
That very night, a green-eyed man with pale hair and a sneering mouth was in the yard behind the building, laughing to himself. No more would the stealthy sound of an engine disturb him, no more would he have to look at the beautiful face that turned from him in disgust. He had won.
He turned to enter the building when a soft sound reached his ears. He stopped, hissing. It was only a coincidence, some late-night traveler coming home. But the murmur came closer, slowing as it reached the front of the building and then whispering around the corner. It was too dark to see, but a faint shadow moved into the yard, ghost-thin and yet still tangible. There was a soft tapping at an upper-story window, which swung open. No one could be seen, but faint murmurs were heard, words of love and of a promise yet to be kept. Then the engine started again and faded away into the night, but the man was not there to hear it. He was dead in a corner of the yard, fallen on a curved double blade. Even in victory he could not win.
A/N: I'm basing Tifa's hair off of her FF7 original appearance, so if you're thinking Advent Children, you're going to have a funny image in your mind when she leans out the window. Also, your guess is as good as mine as to where the soldiers are from. And I guess Cloud got into the bootlegging business somehow, when Strife Delivery Service just wasn't paying (I guess he smuggles Banora apple-juice - you know how expensive that got after Banora was destroyed?!).