Fandom: Final Fantasy VI
Characters: Rachel, Locke
Length: 3 chapters total
Additional tags: Afterlife, Meta, Worldbuilding
Summary: When Rachel is denied a seat on the Phantom Train, she sets out to find answers.
A/N: This was intended to be a short Rachel-centric mirror to my Madeline fic ("A Silent Aeon"), but it's turning out to include a lot more meta and general worldbuilding than I originally planned. This story contains a lot of original ideas with the intent to flesh out some of the smaller details of the FFVI canon.
The title is taken from a quote from The Fountain - "Death is the road to awe."
The sight of the brown Imperial uniforms stirs something violent within her. She's never actually seen them before – she's sure of that – but she can hear a strangely familiar voice in the back of her mind describing the way they look with such precise detail that it's impossible to mistake these men for anything but soldiers of the Gestahlian Empire. They march into town with a pompous swagger; young men with foreign faces, flashing polished swords as passports to any land they choose. Their boots kick up dirt along the roads and they raise their voices as though even conversation is a competition.
The soldiers demand ale at the pubs and beds at the inns. When they're told there isn't enough room to house them all, they invite themselves into private homes. When two of them enter her father's house, she crosses her arms and stands her ground.
They jeer at her and call her names. They mock her land, her dress and her dialect. They tell her she is inferior to people of the South. One of them touches her hair and grabs her wrist.
She spits in his face.
When her father returns home, he finds her bound to a chair with blood on her forehead and shards of pottery at her feet. The soldiers have helped themselves to food and drink.
Her father doesn't fight further, but falls to his knees and begs them release her. That night, the rightful residents sleep on the floor as the soldiers take the comfort of mattresses and blankets for themselves.
- x - x - x -
She awakens with a start and gazes into the moonlight spilling through the window. Her head throbs under its bandage as lost memories suddenly overwhelm her – of medical textbooks and botany lessons, of pounding drums and wild dances, of silver jewels gifted from faraway lands and talks of marriage. Of a day's ride to the mountain caverns in the East. Of a bridge with rotting and slippery planks. Of the breathless sensation of freefalling.
She weeps silently into her hands as she mourns her lost year. Then, gathering her wits, she stands and opens a chest in the corner of the room as quietly as possible. She holds various bottles and vials up to the moonlight until she finds three precise ingredients, then gathers a book and a small box of utensils and takes them outside.
A botanical text rests on the ground beside her as she kneels by the stream. She prepares a concentrated solution according to recipe, then slips back into the house and lets her eyes readjust to the darkness.
Then she thanks the soldiers for bluntly striking her memory back into place by poisoning them in their sleep.
Her crime is quickly discovered the following morning. Her father wails and cries and pleads for forgiveness on her behalf, but she herself remains silent as she is beaten and kicked until her mouth fills with blood. When they grant her the opportunity for last words, she declares that Kohlingen will never submit to the Southern Empire, and supportive shouts arise from the gathering crowd.
One of the soldiers snarls and brandishes his sword. Her body spasms as the blade pierces her shoulder, and suddenly it's as though the entire town descends upon the band of foreigners, instigating a violent brawl. Dozens of bodies fall weak or lifeless before the remaining soldiers flee, promising vengeance at another time.
- x - x - x -
Her eyes flutter open hours later and the pain that greets her is so terrible she nearly retches. At her sudden stirring, her father clutches her hand and babbles apologies, but she hears none of it. She shakes her head and her eyes roll backwards, and she knows that she is dying.
"Locke..." she rasps, her throat sandpaper-raw. "Where is Locke...?"
She only hears echoes in response.
She repeats his name again, and then her body stills.
- x - x - x -
Her awareness feels dream-like – as though there is a slight delay between her sight and the rest of her senses. When she spins around the world follows just a bit too slowly, and the dizziness that results threatens to throw her off balance. She pauses for a moment to take in her surroundings: she stands in the midst of an unfamiliar forest, its trees unlike any she's ever seen near Kohlingen or illustrated in her books. The ground is cold and damp beneath her bare feet, and a dull mist rises from a nearby lake. For several minutes she remains in place, wondering where she is and how she got here, but unable to clearly process these thoughts in her hazy mind.
A flash of color catches the corner of her eye and she turns to see a group of people walking through the trees not far off. She recognizes the flowing scarves and skirts common to the dress of her hometown, so she hurries to join them, stumbling drunkenly along the way. They smile as she approaches and silently bid her follow.
As they wind their way through the forest, she hears a train whistle bellow. Soon, they're standing in a queue with many others all waiting to be let onto the platform. Her neighbors walk through the turnstile one by one. When it is her turn, she is halted by a man in a white hooded robe.
"Rachel,"he says, his voice reaching each of her ears a split second apart. His face is shadowed by the hood, and her eyes fill with a painful blue light when she tries to make out his features. She bows her head to avoid it.
"You have no place on this coach."
Her head snaps back up in surprise and she blinks away the piercing light.
"What do you mean?" she asks, and looks around to find dozens of curious stares. The hooded man simply gestures for her to leave the queue and she stumbles back, disoriented and distraught. When no one offers advice to her pleading expression, she rushes back into the depths of the forest alone.
- x - x - x -
She wanders for days without finding her way out of the forest. She passes by the silvery lake innumerable times no matter which direction she sets out in, and her despair eventually overwhelms her. She dives in, hoping to somehow drown herself, only to find that its waters revitalize her energy and never maliciously fill her lungs. Beneath the surface, she sees thousands of generations of broken skeletons and ancient, rusted relics, and when she pulls herself ashore, spectral figures have gathered to watch and laugh.
"Not allowed on the train either, were you?" cackles one, his skin translucent and nearly all rotted away. "Welcome to the club."
"How has this happened?" she asks, wringing out her clothes with a sense of shame.
The wisps of skin about the corners of his mouth peel aside as he grins. "You've died, but not been laid to rest in the waking world."
"So I'm stuck here... forever?"
"You'll eventually rot and then we'll throw you in the lake too. But it'll take... a long... long... time."He laughs and it sounds like the creaking of old wooden floorboards.
Horrified, she stumbles to her feet and dashes away, determined to find a way out.
- x - x - x -
The brightness of the sun is nearly unfamiliar by the time she escapes the forest. Though the light pains her eyes, she feels none of its warmth on her skin. She finds her body casts no shadow on the ground, and it is only then that the fact that she is truly no longer a part of this world solidifies in her mind. Her relief at having found her way out of the labyrinth of the dead is short-lived.
Having no further direction, she walks straight ahead.
She passes through lands exotic to her – a colorful kingdom protected by loyal knights who speak an archaic dialect; frozen mountain ranges that seem to go on forever; a snow-saturated mining city hiding strange and docile creatures in its caves. She wonders if these are the places Locke would dreamily tell her about late into the night by the fireside. He'd always had so many stories, so intricately detailed – she only wishes she could remember them all now that she was finally out in the world.
She skirts around the perimeters of any forest she comes across, never daring to walk through even the smallest cluster of trees for fear that they might conceal more sinister things in the shadows beneath their boughs.
Eventually a familiar expanse of desert appears in the distance. Kohlingen is quiet as she approaches; only a few have yet stirred in the early light of dawn. The town is decorated for the autumn harvest now, but the air is a tenuous mix of excitement and apprehension. She waits and watches her neighbors as they wake and prepare for the events of the day – ah, the main celebration is tonight, she realizes with a bittersweet smile. She slowly makes her way to her father's house.
But she finds it closed and dark. Flowers and herbs are carefully arranged about the front door, and a sudden dread overwhelms her. She sinks to her knees and hours pass by, numb and unnoticed, until the sound of footsteps breaks through to her senses. An elderly woman shuffles past her, an offering in hand, and places it among the other gifts at the doorstep. She bows and mutters a prayer, then turns to leave a moment later, shaking her head in pity.
Rachel wills her limbs to move, and she drags herself closer to the house. She reads her family name upon a ribbon tied around the stems of a dozen lilies, and she falls to tears. She knows the flowers are not just for her.
At the cemetery, the most recently disturbed patch of earth is marked by a stone bearing her father's name. He lies next to her mother for the first time in seven years.
It takes her a moment to realize that there is no grave for her.
She wants to scream but she is too addled with emotions – terror, sorrow, confusion – and a shred of doubt begins to form in her mind. Did I never exist? Are all these memories false?She tears at the roots of her hair and falls to the ground, body writhing over the graves as she weeps and wails terrible sounds that no one hears.
The sun begins to set before she finds the strength to stand and distance herself from the awful graveyard. Halfheartedly, she heads back to the town square where she finds a crowd gathering for the harvest celebrations, but the usual mirth that accompanies this time of year is noticeably subdued. Nobody speaks too loudly, and smiles leave faces when it's thought that no one is looking.
The town deacon announces the commencement of the festival and bows his head in prayer. He delivers a mass eulogy for the recent deaths of so many of their neighbors, compliments the strength and unity of the community, and recites the names of those fallen in memorial. She hears neither her own nor her father's given names, but as with the gifts at their house he mentions only their family name.
With no brothers, uncles or cousins, her family's dwindling bloodline has come to an end.
The deacon concludes his prayer with a blessing for the townsfolk to enjoy themselves despite this painful time, as the harvest has been bountiful nonetheless. The musicians crash into song and the mood immediately lightens.
Rachel drifts through the crowd and nearly wishes she hadn't come back – but what choice did I have, she thinks bitterly. All I had to look forward to was centuries of wandering that phantom forest until the skin rotted off my bones.
But perhaps if she'd stayed, she would've seen her father one last time before he boarded the train. As it is, her final memories are of a weak-willed man who begged instead of fought, who'd shielded her from the truth that had been clouded by her old injury, who'd taken their family name to the grave without dignity. Perhaps she could've replaced this image with a happier one if she'd been able to see him to the platform and wave him off.
Or perhaps she still would've been angry. Furious that he'd been given the seat on the train that she was denied, even though she'd faced her damnation with pride while he cowered in the dirt. Distraught that she still had no explanation as to why.
Her thoughts are interrupted when her eyes pick a familiar face out of the crowd. She nearly cries aloud as she breaks into a sprint toward Locke, who wears his festival garb but stands off to the side, not interacting with the others as he normally would. His expression is blank; disinterested, practically lifeless. She stands before him and cannot hold herself back. She sobs and throws her arms around his neck, but quickly finds herself upon the ground in shock. As she twists her head around, she sees that her legs disappear around his feet. She swings them around; they pass through him like an illusion.
"Locke..." she says, her voice wavering. "Can you see me? Hear me? ...Anything at all?" Her nerve breaks as she pulls herself up to her knees and she begins to shout in desperation. "Why am I still here? Why am I alone?" She pounds the earth with a scream. "Why are there no answers?"
Her love, unaware, walks away to queue for the first festival dance.
People step through her spectral body as the crowd begins to shift, causing her to shiver with nausea. A claustrophobic sensation rushes over her, so she crawls out into the clearing where the dancers have taken their positions, waiting for the music to start. To her surprise, she finds Locke unpartnered. It appears the audience has taken notice as well, as some whisper in their neighbors' ears as they blatantly stare in his direction.
The song begins; the youths take their first steps. It's an old dance that she and Locke have performed together many times at harvests past, and an ache fills her heart more visceral than even the pinch of steel through her muscles. The murmur among the crowd grows more audible as the dance progresses and others notice the young man going through the motions as though Rachel were opposite him. It's almost a grotesque sight – color drains from faces as people begin to understand the bold statement he is making in a culture where acquiescence is traditionally a virtue.
Memories flash before her eyes, rapid-fire, as though Locke were not right there, dancing before her. A flash of teeth as he grins, leaning against her doorframe, figure tired and somewhat worn as he returns from a long journey. The trail of scarves behind him and a backwards wave as he leaves to go on another. Their relationship had centered around a series of greetings and good-byes. It saddens her to realize that their last farewell had been when – mind clouded by amnesia – she'd brusquely closed the door on him with a warning never to return.
And he'd followed that order.
She stands to join him now. She falls into step easily, fluidly, following his familiar movements and becoming the other half to their whole once more. She manages to keep the pace despite not feeling Locke's usual weight against her body. For a moment she catches his gaze – their eyes meeting – but she knows, painfully, that he doesn't see her. She wants to apologize – to assure him she doesn't blame him for her lost year, to express that her love and gratitude still remains – but the words, knowing they will go unheard, wither before they're ever spoken. Rachel and Locke continue their dance in funeral silence, lips pursed and chests heaving in effort to keep their thoughts and emotions from bursting out.
The music's tempo gradually quickens till its frantic climax. And as all the performers freeze in finality, an uncomfortable hush falls over the town square. The dancers, disconcerted, take their bow and leave the center circle. No one says a word to Locke. He immediately distances himself from the festivities.
She follows him to the outskirts of town. He leads them both down an overgrown path to a rickety shack amongst a smattering of crooked trees. She hesitates before stepping onto the property, but then discovers something familiar about the place. As she slips through the doorway, she is greeted by far-off memories of uncouth herbology lessons – lectures on ancient recipes for tinctures and tonics, salves and balms – introductions to seeds and leaves from distant lands with seemingly magical properties. A sweet yet rotten odor reaches her nostrils as she settles into the anteroom and watches Locke peering around corners suspiciously. A curious scent – though nothing out of the ordinary for the old herbalist.
She begins to tremble slightly, not daring to guess why Locke has any reason for coming here, but sensing that the answer carries an ominous weight.
"Locke! Is that you, boy?" calls a haggard voice from the basement. Locke's muscles relax in response and he hurries down the steps, Rachel close at his heels.
"Good to see you again before you head out," says the old man, nodding absently. His shoulders tic as he gingerly rises from his seat in the corner. He lights a hand-lamp and squints up at Locke's flushed face in the dim light. "Have you any leads?"
"Not yet. But I won'tfind any if I stick around here forever."
"Three years." The old man's voice is jarringly loud. "I can guarantee you no more than three years, and even that's pushing the limits of my ability."
Locke winces just slightly. "I'll return before then."
The herbalist brandishes a gruesome smile. "You'll accrue a hefty debt if you don't."
Rachel reluctantly searches for explanation in Locke's somber expression to no avail. The air is thick with a sinister secrecy.
"I've given you everything I have right now. You know I'm a man of my word. I'll pay whatever I owe, just... keep doing everything you possibly can till I find it."
A gritty laugh rattles from the herbalist's throat. "Young men have sought immortality since the dawn of time. It's not until they grow old that they realize death is something to be revered."
"Don't–" Locke's chest visibly tightens. "Don't patronize me," he rasps.
"I mean not to disrespect either of you," says the old man with a sudden sobriety and a wave of his hand. "But you'll do well to heed my words, when you're ready to embrace them. Now," he gestures toward the back of the room, "bid her farewell, for the time being."
The lamplight spills onto a raised altar near the far wall. The heady perfume of potted flowers is meant to mask the mixture of preserving spices and oils that surely bathe the object of this crude shrine, thinks Rachel as she takes a breathless step closer.
"Three years," the man repeats as Locke bows over the altar. "After that, I can't guarantee she'll remain as you knew her."
Another step. Her vision racks into focus, pupils dilating against the insufficient light as she wills her eyes to remain steadily upon the lifeless flesh stretched out before them.
And then she nearly collapses at the sight of her own face.
Her own hair, draped gracefully about her shoulders – her head, uncovered before this man! – her arms, limp at her sides – hands clasped over her belly, fingers entwined around a bundle of fresh flowers. The skirts of her white dress – the one she'd been saving for graduation – fall in waves over the sides of the altar. She looks down toward her feet at the folds of pale orange she's worn since her death and shudders at the thought of someone – who? – redressing her body.
Her features contort. Tears spill from her eyes and the fatal wound in her shoulder reopens at the violence of this revelation, seeping blood into the silks about her breast. She finds her voice and wails and screams at the horror of it all, this circus-display of death and the weakness of the human spirit.
"How could you?" she shrieks, clawing at the air that should be Locke's tangible form. "How could you do something so vulgar?"
As always, her voice falls on deaf ears. Locke bends to kiss the back of her rigid, corporeal hand before turning to leave.
"Take care of her," he chokes almost silently, then walks swiftly back up the stairs and out of sight.
Rachel watches, wide-eyed and frozen, as the herbalist tics and nods errantly like a marionette before extinguishing the candle-light.