A/N: Okay, so this story is kind of angst, sue me. Comments and criticsm are not only accepted, they are asked for. For an optimum reading experience, download "Love Song For My Mom" by Moby, and listen to it while reading. All kinds of yummy emotional goodness. ^_^ Prologue.
"Remove your hat boy, you're in a holy place, for crying out loud."
Irvine did what he was told, and quickly removed his dark brown cowboy hat, holding it infront of him. The sheer size of the mausoleum left him feeling small inside, and the room was so impossibly grey that it seemed like he and his typical jeans, chaps, duster and bright purple vest were some kind of anachronism, from an era when color was openly accepted and appreciated, into a place where anything but the bleakness of death was considered taboo. Even the Preist himself, in his red and white robes seemed somewhat out of place.
Expansive marble ceilings decorated with elegant arches loomed above him, almost inviting him to ascend into what was beyond. The walls were dotted with holders containing unlit torches, and the Preist quickly strode over to one of them and, with a wave of his hand, casted Fire on it causing it to burst into flame. He removed it from its position on the wall and began to make a circuit around the room, lighting each torch on the wall, waking the mausoleum from its musty sleep. The tomb seemed reluctant to yeild to the torches' attempts to shed more light on the situation, but sleepily complied anyway.
It was then that Irvine noticed the statues.
Some standing little more than a foot off the ground and others close to eight feet tall, they seemed to dance in the flickering light. The cowboy resisted the urge to shiver at their eerie cavorting. Each statue accompanied its respective sarcophagi, and one in particular caught his eye. Without even asking the Preist for confirmation, he knew in an instant he had found what it was he was looking for.
She was beautiful, and one glance told him that she was modeled after her real-life counterpart. Both Irvine and the statue sported the same fine bone structure, the same laughing smile, the same tall and wiry frame.
"She was quite a woman." came the voice of the Priest.
"--I know." Irvine said quietly. He didn't know exactly how he knew; he just did. She was sitting on a slab of marble, one arm behind her, one on the sarcophagus, face tilted upwards. Her face was in an expression of genuine peace, tranquility, and maybe a little...wonder, was it? Her hair, although impossible to tell the color, was braided loosely in back. She was dressed in flowing robes, which seemed out of place on a character such as this. His mother wore clothing similar to his, suitable for the environment he was born into, a desertic landscape with little water and much brush. That much he knew.
But it was the final feature that caused Irvine to actually reach out and touch the statue. A pair of gorgeous wings extended from her back, reaching out and upwards.
"Quite a lovely statue," the Preist said wistfully, "When Alenna died, the citizens of the village pooled their money to pay for its creation. They wanted people to remember her for not only how she was physically, but how she was in spirit." Irvine turned to the Priest.
"I thought wings were symbolic of Sorceresses only," he shook his head, "I am quite sure that my mother was not a Sorceress." the Priest fell silent for a moment, then spoke up again.
"No, not a Sorceress. But we thought it might be fitting to provide your mother with wings to ensure a more safe passage to the Other World," he smiled warmly, "And I think it fits her in life."
"Would--would it be alright if you could leave me and...her...alone for a few moments? I'd like to pay my respects." The Priest nodded wordlessly, placed his torch in the wall, and exited the tomb.
Irvine made his way over to the front of the sarchophagus itself. It was huge for just one woman alone, but he figured there might be several coffins inside this one. He leaned over the huge marble casing and carefully wiped away the dust covering the inscription on the top.
died 25
What was seen is now unseen.
From old life there comes a new.
Yet in our hearts, our minds, our souls,
ye shall forever remain.
Amen."
Gloved fingers traced the recesses of the letters gently, softly, as if probing a wound of an old friend. Lips formed the name for the first time, and Irvine savored the name out loud. It was only a week ago that he had learned that this place, a small village named Morsa, housed the final resting place of his long-lost mother. Only three days ago that he learned that his born name was not Kinneas, but Craft. Kinneas had been his adopted name, given to him by people who loved him but could never understand the bond formed between a mother and her son, even in the last minutes of that mother's life and the first of the newborn child.
For all he knew, his father was still alive and out there. Even the village historian himself could not tell Irvine where his father had gone after his mother's death. All he knew was that he had given his only son up for adoption early in his life, simply because he had big dreams and could not take care of his own flesh and blood.
But now, after all that searching, the first part of his journey had reached an end. Only Hyne knew when exactly the next half would begin, he was still training to be a SeeD, and the time granted to him in which to begin his quest was actually supposed to be used for rest and recuperation. Probably only once he completed his training and become a SeeD would he be granted more time to search.
However, now wasn't the time to think about such things. He only had a little while longer to pay his respects; Selphie was waiting for him in the Ragnarok. And while he knew she would wait for him as long as he needed, he knew this final stage of his visit itself would take a while.
Gathering up his courage, he spoke his first words ever to his mother.
"Mother, I know you can hear me...wherever you are. And I hope that wherever that place may be, that you're happy. I've never been really good at heart-to-heart talks, and I know this might seem awkward now, but this might be the first and last time in a long while I'll get to talk to you again." he straightened up from his position over the huge marble coffin, and got into a more comfortable position: sitting on the floor, with his back against the stone, "Where should I begin? It's hard to find a starting place amongst seventeen years worth of life, and a thousand years worth of events. I know you're probably not very happy with how I turned out. I can't really blame you, I wouldn't want my only son to turn out like me either. I have no one to blame but myself for my actions, but I think now that I've been through all that I've been through I can safely say that I have changed for the better.
"Is that what it takes to make a self-absorbed person realize how tiny and insignificant he really is? Some kind of universe-changing event?
"Well, for better or worse, here I am, repenting of all my sins to a lifeless body...but my own body came from that. Does that make me a son of death? How many sons of death are there out there? Daughters? Now I am not alone. Squall's mother died, and so did Rinoa's. Quistis, Zell, and Selphie don't even know how their mothers died. Or their fathers, for that matter. I suppose I'm lucky to know that he's still around, but if I were to find him, would I actually want to meet him? I blame him partially for what I have become, because he left me voluntarily for his own reasons. But you...I could never blame you. Why? Because I'm the reason you're dead. I'm the reason you've ceased to exist on this plane, when it should have been me. And...I want you to know that I'm sorry. I'm so damn sorry for putting you in this stupid tomb, I'm sorry that I made my father leave, I'm sorry for being the person that I am. I wish there was a way to make it up to you...
"I take that back. Now I realize something. Mother, I helped save everyone. I helped save so many people from horrifying deaths. Does that make up for all the lives that I have taken? Do lives outweigh each other in number, or in worth? How can I know wether taking the life of one person outweighs saving the lives of a thousand others? A million? Is that true? Or do numbers really count? And if they do, am I saved? Am I released from this purgatory, not knowing where I'm to go when I die? Or maybe I'm wrong on both counts. Maybe lives aren't outweighed by quality or quantity, but in different aspects of one person. Each life lost is Earth-shattering in its own way, each death decides how countless other people are to live their own lives.
"Now, I guess, all I can do is wait. Wait to become a SeeD. Wait to find my father. Wait to meet you after all is said and done. But before I walk out this huge marble door, and shut it on you for another amount of deathly silence, I want to know one thing.
"Are you proud of me?"