"The Third Sorceress War, Act III: Terra Rossa"
Author's Note: Finally, we come to the last installment of a series that started from a single fic meant to bring together Squall and Selphie. But, for information purposes: the preludes of the Third Sorceress War are, in reading order: Estranged, Cold Metal, The Few Remaining Strands. The first act of war was the story titled Ashes. And "Terra Rossa" is the final installment of the Third Sorceress War. Please be kind and review.
Prologue
(City Lights.)
There were pale, glowing halos in the distance, cluttering the horizon with luminous, irregular spots. From where he was standing, they seemed to blink, as if winking at him, inviting him down. He put his hands on the balcony railing and felt the cold metal bite into his palms, just for a second. The tiles under his feet were cold, clinging to his soles. The air felt like a lover's hand across his scalp, running through the small bits of hair growing. His body felt stiff, his breathing even, and his thoughts in a screaming mess.
It all felt so soft, so rounded that it was all too sharp, too rough. The world around him seemed to be in a hallucinatory haze, and he was standing wide awake in it – like a well-drawn figure sticking out in a poorly-rendered background, detached and out of place.
The week and a half that had passed after waking up didn't feel like it had passed at all.
A soft, thick length of cloth was draped over his shoulders and it covered him as the hands manipulating it reached around his torso and united. He jumped, his entire body growing stiff. Her toes found his ankles and stayed there. Her closeness was enough to reduce him to tears, but he clenched his teeth and held back.
"It's cold." She said, "Why don't you come back inside?"
"In a minute."
"Owkay."
She remained, wrapped around him, along with the quilt. A part of him felt relief, felt safe, felt warm. Another part of him shivered, felt wary of her, of her presence, her proximity. These two parts clashed in his mind as he shivered, finally, to the cold. He turned without a word and she released him. He went back inside, to the dark room. Selphie followed, her eyes watching his every move. Aware of her surveillance and guessing, painfully, the sentiment behind it, Squall sat down at the foot of the bed. He remained there, unmoving, hands holding the quilt in place.
Looking at him, Selphie remembered how he was before the Second War, how well he had barricaded himself behind his walls – only this time, she feared it wasn't quite his choice.
She decided to try the same thing she had tried before, to level with him. Maybe this would break his silence, break through his wall. So she stripped. She took the second quilt and wrapped it around herself, and sat down next to him on the bed. His eyes darted to her, lingered only for a second, and then he looked away. Selphie put her head on his shoulder and felt him breathe.
They didn't speak. Selphie decided to try the other route.
"Wanna get a bite to eat?"
"I'm not hungry."
"You have barely eaten anything since we got back."
"Not hungry."
"Drink?"
"Not thirsty either."
"Squall..."
"Just stop."
Selphie's thoughts came to a grinding halt. Squall stood up and fumbled around for his underwear. Once he found his boxer shorts, he slipped into them and walked out of the room without another word.
Selphie wrapped herself in the quilt and laid down. She curled up and held her hands to her quivering lips. She closed her eyes. Something ached in her chest, something that couldn't be eased by crying or screaming or drinking. She felt that he was punishing her for something, punishing her for not letting go in that hospital room, or maybe for pulling him out of whatever nightmare Rinoa had plunged him into. Selphie shuddered at the second possibility, and it's sister, that he might have actually been happy where Rinoa had put him, and that she had torn him from that happiness.
She didn't know why. She didn't think he did, either.
For himself, Squall was outside the door, beginning what he knew would be a pointless stroll through the halls of the Presidential Palace, into and out of rooms and places he vaguely remembered. It wasn't that walking helped, because nothing helped. He couldn't breathe in this place, the halls were too narrow, the ceilings too low, even open spaces felt choked by their own spatial limitations. The lights were too oppressively bright wherever he went.
Every room seemed to be burning. It was too hot, every single place he wandered into. Through his walk, he was sweating profusely, trying to catch his breath.
But it was all bearable if he was simply away from Selphie. Every night, he laid down next to her, felt her warmth, felt her arms around him, and pretended to sleep until she drifted off. Then he went to the balcony, his thoughts hell-bent on jumping, and the only thing giving him pause long enough for her to catch him every time, was the remote possibility that this wasn't just another iteration, that she was really there.
And if she was, it only made things worse.
Squall felt exhaustion catch up with him during his second walk through the sleeping quarters. He stopped by a door. His mind registered the number but proved itself too tired to make a connection. Fuck it. Whoever it was, was going to give him a place to sleep. He knocked three times and waited. When nothing happened, he knocked again, but this time, he didn't stop until he got an answer.
The door opened and revealed a very sleepy Brea. She took a moment to recognize him.
"S-sir?"
"Can I sleep here?" he asked.
Brea yawned.
"Y-yes, sir. Come in."
Squall followed Brea into the room, and then, into the bed. He slid in, put his head to the pillow and fell asleep. Brea, slightly perturbed by the presence of another in her bed, much less that of her almost-naked General, tried to relax. She sought refuge in the little piece of pride she could generate in having played her part.
What she had done to get to him kept her awake for the rest of the night, awake as he slept uneasily beside.
