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Persistence of MemoryA Katharine Frost Production
Chapter One
There was nothing left of Freya Crescent's kingdom, and it seemed she was now – by bittersweet default – its sole protector. The ruins were eerily quiet as she picked through them, and she could not help but remember how it should have been, how the streets should have been filled with merchants and children and workers. Her steps echoed hollowly in the the empty, rainy streets; Burmecia was as damp as it had always been, and that consistency was almost comforting. Even when the rest of her people had filled the city, even when there had been laughter and joy – even then, it had always rained.
The worst bit about going through the debris was seeing things she recognized. The arm of a statue that had once stood in the town square. The turned-over apple cart of the old rat who had lived a few doors away. The apples still visible in the ground, long-rotten from the rain. She wasn't sure why she had come. It seemed like everyone else had somebody, something to go back to. Even Vivi had the other black mages, even Eiko had her tribe of Moogles. She felt as though she were extinct, as much a destroyed relic as the things that surrounded her. Queen Garnet had been kind enough to let her stay in Alexandria whenever she wished, and she had been staying in Alexandria Castle for months, but Freya knew that welcomes could only last for a finite amount of time.
There was, of course, an internal desire to rebuild everything, to sway her people back from Lindblum, but it wasn't time for that yet. The wounds were still too new. It was difficult to admit it, but she needed to grieve, and she was at once disgusted, for it was foolish for one as supposedly stoic as a dragoon to wallow in pain. But, then again, she reflected, she had never been especially good at letting go of pain.
Though she was only half-conscious of it, her feet were drawing her towards the palace, now in shambles. Freya could see it from where she presently stood, near the armoury, and when she paused to simply gaze for a moment, she heard footsteps catching up to her. It wasn't necessary to turn around to see who was there. Fratley, following her like a loyal puppy, bound to her merely by a lack of memory. It hurt her to see him, every time she looked at him, even though she would never say it aloud. The image of his face was like a cruel pastiche of someone she had once known and once loved, a child's drawing, or almost like a faded picture rendered into a real creature.
"Freya." Fratley's voice behind her, tinny and uncertain and completely unlike how his voice was supposed to be. "Is something the matter?"
She pulled her hat over her eyes, and closed them momentarily before walking again. "No, Fratley." They were at the entrance of the palace now, by the once-guarded gates. "I thought I asked you to wait for me at the city gates."
"I am sorry. I wanted to come with you this time."
She let it pass. The inside of the throne room of the ruined palace, the walls of which had formerly gleamed gold and ivory, was wet and dusty and miserable, a shadow of forgotten elegance. Unexpectedly, Freya thought of the first time she had stepped into the grand hall, on the day she had finally been knighted, on her seventeenth birthday. She had been barely able to breathe as she'd knelt before the king and felt his spear touch either shoulder. She remembered how the women of the court, the dancers and musicians, had whispered furiously to each other as if scandalised – Freya, after all, was the first and only female Dragon Knight of Burmecia. But the criticism, the outrage, none of it had mattered, because Fratley had been there watching her, and she had blushed and curtsied and he'd bowed to her in return and they had danced – and she had loved him so much.
You would dare to dance with the scandal of the kingdom, Sir Fratley? I would dance with the scandal of the world a thousand times, if only she were you, Lady Freya.And now he remembered none of it. She shook her head, to get the memory out before it brought tears to her eyes. She ran a claw over the battered throne. The floors were spattered and speckled with dark-coloured and dried blood, and she realised with a start that some of it was likely her own, from the first time they had fought the General Beatrix, from the first time she had ever laid eyes on Kuja. She sighed, clamped down the surge of anger that was threatening to boil over within her, and wondered if it was ever possible to have things go back to the same.
"What are you doing?"
It was, abruptly, too much. "I want—" she began, and briefly it seemed as though she would be unable to choke the words out, "I want to leave here. I thought I could come. I cannot be here, not now, not when—" Not when I have the pain of you, too.
He was behind her then, carefully placing one claw on her shoulder. He left it unmoving, as if truly afraid to touch her. That was wrong, too, because the true Fratley knew that she was tough and knew that she need not be treated like a china doll – that she hated it. He didn't say anything, only breathed in and out and waited for her own silence to end.
Instead of speaking, Freya turned and offered him a weak, watery smile. She felt suddenly guilty, seeing the gentle and wary concern in his eyes; he was childlike in spite of his broad and imposing frame. She had tried, again and again, to be kind with him, to be patient, but she was not good at it and wound up treating him like a baby a lot of the time. "I have forgotten you, too," she whispered, and placed her claw over his own.
"You are the only one who remembers—"
"No," she cut him off. "Don't forgive me. I haven't helped you at all. I've tried to make you be there for me, tried to use you as what you were, and that hasn't been working, and I'm letting it – letting – let me help you first, Fratley." Every word was like an exhalation. "We need to solve you first."
He moved back from her, confused. "What do you mean?"
"I mean we've got to find a way to get your memory back." She dropped her eyes and studied her claws, feeling somehow ashamed. Was she doing this for herself, to have him back? No, no, she insisted, it was for him because of course he'd want to remember all the wonderful bittersweet things she did. He'd want to remember Burmecia, and her. "We – we could leave here for a while, again. Put off the restoration and go back to Alexandria with Garnet and Zidane. If you want to," she added hastily.
A little smile curved his lips, for the first time in weeks. He took a short look around, and Freya could nearly read his thoughts. She knew he wanted out of the ruins and destruction, too. Their surroundings were too sad. He turned back to her, lifted her claw and politely kissed the back of it, for the briefest of moments. "Yes. I want to."
*
The thick, lazy smoke in the small and dingy basement bar made it nearly impossible for Amarant Coral to see his current opponent. It wasn't like it mattered, though; every man in the bar save him was completely inebriated. He chuckled to himself from his hiding-spot behind his hair, and glanced quickly at the pile of gil at his right hat had, throughout the night, quadrupled. He had not lost yet, and every idiot in the bar had wanted a shot at him. Making money in Alexandria, he mused, much like any other city, was just a matter of knowing where to go.
His opponent, who was discernible through smoke as a mean-looking blob of man, flipped a Mandragora and laughed loudly, as if he had already won. Amarant watched coolly as his cards changed colour, paused a minute to let his opponent, then flipped all of the cards back with an Abadon. He couldn't quite see the look of surprise on his opponent's face, not with the haze in the way, but he could hear the swift uptake of breath from across the table.
"Better luck next time," Amarant said snidely, pulling the man's gil towards him by sweeping over it with one arm. He was about to open his money pouch and settle up for the evening when he was abruptly yanked out of his chair by his opponent – he could tell it was his opponent by the smell of the man. It was like an assault on Amarant's too-keen senses, all whiskey and nicotine and sweat. Behind him were the dusty-brown shadows of the other people in the bar.
"I think we've got ourselves a filthy subber cheat."
Amarant's eyes narrowed behind his hair. Subber was a despicable word, racist and degrading, meaning subhuman and used by the ignorant to describe demi-human creatures of all kinds. He bared his teeth ferally, even though the drunken man still held him by the collar. "What did you call me?" he enunciated slowly, dangerously.
"I said – I called you dirtysubbercheat," the man said quickly and sulkily, as if realising he'd gone too far. "Shouldn't have expected any better," he added with a sneer. "Look, just give me back my money and we'll call it even."
In a flash, Amarant pushed the man away and had his claws out and ready. "I won't give you a single gil. I won fair and square, and you know it." He felt numb and he knew that was bad, because he honestly didn't care if he had the money or not, if he got the shit beaten out of him or not. He didn't even care about the name. It was like – going through the motions. It had been somehow better when he'd been a wanted man, with bounties on his own head, with Lani always nagging him and him always wanting to deck her one even if she was a bloody girl. Now he'd been cleared and everything exhilarating was gone. "You think you can take it from me?" he growled lowly, drawing himself up.
Whether it was drunknessness or stupidity that caused the other man to not back down, Amarant didn't know. "I think I can take you, you dirty cheat." The men behind him murmured in agreement, and, before Amarant knew it, there was an angry mob on his hands.
*
Zidane Tribal was having a hard time trying to keep a straight face. He was sitting with Garnet in his friend Ruby's theatre – they were in the "royal" box, which consisted of the front table in the small room with a tablecloth thrown over it and a lit candle atop it – watching the premiere of Ruby's newest play, which she had been quite proud to announce that she had penned herself. It was by no means a bad play, but the material was suspiciously familiar, and the sight of Lowell playing a sneaky thief after a beautiful princess' heart – in the actor's customary overblown style, no less – was almost painfully hilarious. Zidane smirked knowingly at Garnet and put his hand over hers at the table, and both stifled a giggle.
The final scene ended with a cloaked Lowell tossing off his disguise to reveal himself to a shocked Ruby. The audience was snickering appreciatively; all of them knew the story as well. The cast came out to take a bow, Cinna-as-Steiner looking very uncomfortable under a mountain of clanking armour, and Garnet and Zidane stood up to clap along with everyone else. Zidane stamped his feet and whistled.
While Lowell was still bowing onstage with gusto (and while his numerous admirers were gathered in a throng around him), Ruby ran up to them, looking flushed and happy. "What did ya think?" she asked breathlessly. "I know that Lowell's a bit of a silly git, but if that's what draws in the crowds, he's good enough, I s'pose."
"It was very entertaining," Garnet said politely.
"Yeah," Zidane nodded emphatically. "It was. But – ah – Ruby, did you think of that story all on your own? No outside inspiration?"
"Sure did!" Ruby grinned widely.
Zidane smiled back, equally as wide. "That's what I thought. We'd best be going, though – Garnet has to get up early to meet with the Regent Cid and his wife, and it's already pretty late."
"Right. But – ah – Zidane?" Ruby pressed on.
"Uh-huh?"
She was blunt. "You tell that Blank, if you run into him, to come and see me sometimes." Briefly, a sad expression flitted through the blue-haired woman's eyes, but she turned away before Zidane could say anything more and went to another table to inquire about their reactions to her piece. Zidane shook his head and watched his friend admiringly, and wondered when Blank would wise up.
Garnet was tugging lightly on his sleeve. "Come on, Zidane. We've got to get going."
His head snapped around in a heartbeat, and, suddenly struck for the millionth time at how beautiful she was even in the low light of the playhouse, bent down to brush a kiss across her lips. "All right," he murmured warmly.
They left the theatre hand-in-hand. Zidane was thinking about possibly steering Garnet to the edge of the docks, where the stars would be coming out. Surely Cid wouldn't come too early in the morning? He looked at her sideways, she was smiling and waving at the people walking by. At first it had stunned the people of Alexandria, so accustomed to the detached Brahne, to see their queen walking among them, but now they were used to it and greeted Garnet in kind whenever she came by.
Alexandria itself was much better. The castle has been rebuilt, and though parts of it were still crumbled and unadorned, it was almost like it had been before everything. Most of the shops were re-opened, and some shopkeepers had even expanded their businesses. The only problem was that the kingdom's revived nature had attracted some less-than-savoury types, thieves and drunks and bounty hunters. Zidane was admiring just how much work had been done on the city when a group of men came running out of the alleyway just after Ruby's theatre, nearly knocking him and Garnet over. He stepped in front of her and was astounded see a man with a familiar shock of flame-red hair scrambling away from the group. Amarant.
"Bloody cheat!" screamed one man.
"I'll teach ya, rotten subber!" shouted another.
The name made Zidane's blood boil, having not-quite-escaped it for most of his own life. Another angry man ran half-drunk into Zidane, and Zidane pushed him aside, roughly, and leapt into the fray. He wouldn't allow his friend to be hurt, and, besides, Garnet was watching. Girls were always impressed when men fought well. He raised his fists in a challenge. "You'll have to fight me, too!"
If Amarant wasn't familiar to the men, Zidane certainly was. Even drunk, no Alexandrian man would dare hit the man who was likely to be their king, even if he was only a demi-human. Amarant slowed and stopped beside Zidane, his face ever-impassive.
The men poked and whispered to each other, none willing to step forward, and then mumbled discontentedly. "We'll let 'er her go this time," one said roughly, with a half-hearted snarl. "This time. But ya better not show yer dirty face around us again. Ya got a lot to fear if ya do."
"I'll be sure to remember that," Amarant replied sardonically, looking decidedly unimpressed.
"Yeah, well, ya do that," the man said lamely, and the motley posse retreated. A few others shook their fists angrily, but the twin threat of Amarant and Zidane was enough to send them all away.
When the streets were clear, Amarant turned to Zidane. "You didn't need to do that," he said gruffly, brushing himself off. "But thanks anyway, Tribal. Good to see you haven't changed a bit. I'd have hated to have to kill them all."
"Are you insane?" Zidane scoffed with emphatic disbelief. Sometimes Amarant was too arrogant for his own good. "You're skilled, but that was twenty on one! They'd have killed you if they'd wanted to!"
"Whatever you say," Amarant said loftily. "See you around, Tribal. Garnet." He tipped his head slightly to the queen, as was customary, and started to walk away, seemingly more slouched than normal.
"Wait!" Garnet called. "You haven't even been here in Alexandria since – since Zidane came back! And that was months ago! Where were you, in Madain Sari the whole time? In Treno? And now you show up unexplained, chased by an angry mob no less, and you're just going to leave without a spare word?"
"What was that all about, anyway?" Zidane wanted to know.
Amarant shrugged dismissively. "I won all their money at cards. They didn't like that much, me being an outsider and all, so they accused me of cheating and started after me. No big deal. When they sober up, they won't even remember it."
"Stay with us for a while," Garnet urged kindly. "You can't just show up for a few seconds and leave."
"Really," Amarant said dryly. His back was still to them; all Zidane could see was an unnatural expanse of shoulders and tangles of red hair. He frowned slightly. Amarant really did look a mess, with slight mats in his strange hair and little rips and tears in the fabric of his clothes.
Garnet frowned. "Don't be sarcastic," she admonished. "I'll not let you start brawls in the street like a criminal. Come on. I know you don't have anywhere else to stay in Alexandria, and it's too late now to be on the roads. You can leave in the morning if our company is completely unbearable." She smiled a little.
"Yeah," Zidane added. "Will you stay?"
Amarant appeared to think for a minute, and then his face softened as much as a countenance like his possibly could. "All right," he conceded. "Free place to crash and all. But only for tonight. Got some bounties in Treno that I should be looking into."
*
It was well past midnight when Freya and Fratley made it back to Alexandria. They were the sole interruptors of the night, which was otherwise calm, and peaceful, and almost blindingly starry. The knights guarding the gates of Alexandria wordlessly helped them rope in their chocobos, but, apart from that short encounter, the journey had been nothing but silence between Freya and Fratley. There had been nothing to say.
As they walked towards the castle, through the empty streets, Freya was thinking to herself, not really aware of Fratley. Since defeating Kuja, she had gone to Burmecia a total of four times, and it became no less painful with each visit. The idea of Burmecia was always there, in the back of her mind, as something that needed to be Dealt With Soon, but she never could bring herself to stay there. It was easier to not think about it. She needed healing, too, before she could heal her empire.
She glanced sideways at Fratley, walking beside him, and laced her claws neatly together, trying and failing to remain impassive-looking.
"Are you all right?" Fratley asked timidly.
"Yes. I only wanted to see my home city again. I should have known…"
"Was it sad for you?"
Freya saw no reason to lie. "Yes." She gritted her teeth. It hadn't been sad for him. why should it have been? He didn't even remember Burmecia as it had once been, all of it was dissolved into memory for Fratley. She felt oddly betrayed.
Fratley was nodding. "That is understandable." He walked on, silent and ever-respectable, but Freya could sense a question hanging unspoken between them, like thick air. "What are we going to do now?"
It must be hard for him, she realised, being led about blindly. Especially by her. "I told you. We're going to concentrate on you. To – to help you remember. I want you to remember, before I want anything else to happen." She knew as she said it that it wasn't a lie. "There's a scientist in Treno, maybe …" She let herself trail off. There were no other goals. She needed someone else with a recollection of Burmecia, and of beauty, of all the things that had once been good.
He smiled slightly, but it was a sad expression nonetheless. "We do not even know why I have no memory in the first place. You – you told me yourself, you do not know how it was lost, how I became this way."
Freya looked at him fully. He was biting his lip, childishly, and again there was that inherent wrongness to his stature and to his features. He looked ready to cry, and her heart flipped over with half-guilt and half-worry. "I know, Fratley," she whispered, and took his face in her claws, "I know."
"I'm sorry," he choked.
Always apologising, she noted. Always sorry. And then he was crying, not loudly but nobly, and Freya watched two lone iridescent tears fall over his cheeks, leaving two thin wet streaks on his furry face. She took his claws in hers, and, since that gesture seemed insufficient, guided his head to rest against her own. He was silent, and for a while they stood in dead-quiet tableau, each hearing nothing but the breathing of the other.
"I loved you once," she said, barely audible. "I can do it again."
*